A Terrible Beauty (6 page)

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We passed several more pleasant days in Athens before setting off for Delphi. We took the train to Corinth and then a steamer to Itéa, where we hired a dragoman and horses, the means of transit upon which one must rely when traveling in the interior of the country. As we were all excellent horsemen—and -women—this proved no obstacle. We did not require the dragoman's services as a translator, but welcomed his guidance as to route and would rely on him to find us suitable accommodations in the nearby village when we reached Delphi.

The site was fewer than nine miles from Itéa, and our chosen route took us away from the carriage road and onto a narrower path that had been traveled since antiquity. At least I chose to believe it had; I cannot be entirely confident in the accuracy of my claim, and apologize to the reader for the enthusiasm that consumes me when traveling in Greece. While there, I like to believe I am always following in the footsteps of the ancients and imagine that the path under my boots might previously have been trod by Agamemnon or Pericles or one of the great ancient playwrights. Sometimes one must give in to romanticism.

As the path grew steeper, our pace slowed. Eventually we approached the ruins of the ancient Temple of Apollo, from whence the Delphic Oracle had made her prophecies. Craggy Mount Parnassus rose up behind it, its rough surface and dramatic angles giving it the appearance of only just having been thrust from the fiery core of the earth. Leaving the horses with our dragoman, we walked along the road taken by ancient supplicants, passing the ruins of various city treasuries, and winding up the side of the mountain to the temple, where a scant six of its original fifteen Doric columns remained. Only one still reached its original height.

We paced the floor of the structure, wondering where, exactly, the inner sanctum of the oracle had been—only she, the Pythia, was allowed into the adyton, where she would enter into a trance before speaking Apollo's words. After thorough exploration of the area—I remain convinced the adyton was beneath the main level of the temple—we continued on to visit the theatre and the stadion, both used during the Pythian Games, held every four years to honor Apollo, who, when four days old, had gone to Delphi and slayed Python, the beast who had wreaked havoc on the surrounding environs for years and tormented Apollo's mother, Leto. While Colin and Margaret ran the length of the stadion's track, he graciously letting her cross the ancient marble finish line first, Jeremy and I stood in the stands on the side nearer to the edge of the mountain, looking at the expansive view before us.

“You can see why the ancients believed this was the center of the world, can't you?” I asked. In the valley below, olive groves shimmered silver all the way to the sea visible in the far-off distance. Violet-blue mountains rose, rolling above them, not nearly so jagged as Mount Parnassus. “Standing here, it feels impossible to believe there is anywhere more important.”

“It is stunning,” Jeremy said. “But I must say, Em, I'm awfully glad you weren't in charge of planning my ill-fated engagement party. You'd have brought us here and it would have been the simplest thing ever for Amity to fling me to my death. She wouldn't have had to try to shoot me.”

“You don't think Apollo would have protected you?”

He shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Hard to say. Difficult to rely on the old gods.”

“Are you all right?” I asked. He looked tired and drawn and lacked all of his usual spark.

“I despise her—obviously—but I miss her, too. We did have good times, you know.”

I scowled. “You had good times when she wasn't trying to murder you. I know you have many shortcomings, Jeremy, but not so many that you deserve such a fate. Someday, you will meet your match, and she will erase forever any warm memories you have of Amity Wells.”

“I assure you I never look back on the time with fondness, only with shame. I wonder that I could have been such a fool.”

“Love can keep us from seeing even obvious truths,” I said. “And Amity had a knack for keeping her true nature hidden.”

“I am well cured of her now.” Smoke curled from his lips. “And what about you? Here we are, in the most sacred of ancient spaces, and you have not seen your dead husband even once, have you?”

I laughed. “No, I have not.”

“Sounds to me like he's a rather lazy ghost, put off by the notion of climbing mountains. I'd say you're well rid of him, Em.”

 

Philip

Munich, 1891

The telegram to Hargreaves, which Ashton had sent requesting an immediate response, did not garner the reply he had wished. His friend's butler wired to say that his master, currently working abroad, would not receive the message until he returned to England. The butler had no way of reaching him.

“The time has come to stop being a coward,” Ashton said, accepting the strong beer Reiner pushed across the table to him. Ashton adored the city's beer gardens, with their heavy steins and hearty food; the Augustiner-Keller in Arnulfstrasse had become their second home in Munich. “We must go to London. I cannot bear to be away from Kallista a moment longer. You will adore her the moment you see her. She is a vision of loveliness and feminine perfection.”

“Her father must be a scholar to have chosen such a name,” Reiner said.

“‘Emily' is her given name. I alone call her Kallista, as I find it a far more appropriate moniker.”

“‘Kallista.' Most beautiful. She sounds more like a dream than reality,” Reiner said, a grin on his face. “Are you sure she is not a creation of your fever?”

“If so, I would never want to be well again.”

The next day, they boarded a train for Paris, where they tarried for a fortnight, Ashton's anxiety at seeing his wife growing as he came closer to England. Eventually, he could delay no longer. He comforted himself with the knowledge that even if she had lost her love for him, she was still legally his wife. He was confident he could win back her affections once they were living together again. Before setting foot on the train that would speed them to Calais, he combed jewelry stores until he found the perfect gift for his bride: a brooch depicting a single rose, exquisitely carved from ivory. For their wedding, he had given her a similar piece, an elaborate profusion of flowers rather than a solitary stem. This second gift would mark the new beginning of their life together.

No part of Ashton's journey had been easy, but he determined to be undaunted by this final leg. The channel tossed the ferry with such vehemence that hardly a passenger on board was not sick the entire trip to Dover, but Ashton stood on the deck, despite the warnings from crew members that he would be safer inside. Had he not already proved himself a survivor? He clenched the rail and strained his eyes, desperate for that first glance of the White Cliffs. When at last he stepped onto English soil, he collapsed on the ground and wept. He was home.

 

4

Delphi proved as mesmerizing as ever, worth far more than the half day Baedeker's suggests devoting to it. I could have spent weeks exploring every inch of the ruins—and had done so in years past—but recognized Jeremy would not enjoy the activity so much as I. So we returned to Athens, made leisurely visits to the museums, dined with other travelers in the Grand Bretagne, and shopped. Jeremy, we discovered, loved to haggle with local traders. He acquired three pairs of
tsarouhi
shoes—complete with woolen pom-poms—despite the insistence even of the seller that no one outside remote rural areas wore them anymore.

“They shall prove remarkably useful for fancy dress,” Jeremy said, pleased with his purchase. “You ought to throw a ball for me, Em. A masquerade. The theme can be folk costumes.”

He became rather attached to the idea. Colin told me in no uncertain terms that he would not allow it, and if I insisted, he would come dressed as a Red Indian, wearing only a breechcloth and a feather headdress. If anything, this encouraged me rather than putting me off the notion, and as a result, he refused to discuss the topic any further.

The time had come to leave the mainland and make our way to my island villa. We left the port of Piraeus on a day bright with sunshine. Colin, as was his custom, had hired a sailing yacht and its crew to bring us to Santorini. The trip would take longer than if we booked tickets on a steamer, but we had no reason to rush, and there are few activities more pleasant and relaxing than cruising on the Aegean. Each evening, we dined beneath the stars on the deck and afterward would sit out for hours over whisky (for Margaret and the gentlemen) and port (for me). Whenever we approached anything that could be considered rocky—be it island, islet, or an actual rock jutting up from the sea—Margaret and I would leap up and start to sing the Sirens' song:

Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise,

That dost so high the Grecian glory raise.

Ulysses! Stay thy ship, and that song heare

That none past ever but it bent his eare,

But left him ravishd and instructed more

By us than any ever heard before.

This display generally led Colin to threaten flinging us off the boat. I credit this not to our lack of singing ability, but to the loss of the song's original melody over the many centuries since Odysseus returned from Troy. I am certain had he heard the original version, my husband would have been charmed. Margaret returned his threat with one of her own, swearing she would tie him to a mast if he did not show better appreciation for our endeavors.

Despite our best efforts, Jeremy and I had started to burn in the hot sun, and Margaret, in addition to turning quite pink, had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that would have horrified my mother. Colin, whose skin never burned, but rather turned a deep golden shade, looked more and more like the inspiration for a Praxiteles sculpture with each passing day. His dark curls, permanently tousled by the ocean breeze, tumbled over his forehead, and when he stood on the prow of the ship, pointing to identify the islands in the distance, the sunset coloring the sky around him, I was so moved by his beauty I was forced to push dinner back three-quarters of an hour and to request his immediate assistance in our cabin.

The last morning of our voyage saw the steep cliffs of Santorini—Thera, as it was called in ancient days—rising from the ocean, puzzle-piece white and blue and buildings clinging impossibly to their sides. Because it was still spring, lush greenery covered the dark volcanic rock of the island, with yellow, white, and pink wildflowers dotting the view. We pulled into the port below the small capital city of Fira, where a well-tended group of donkeys stood ready to transport us and our baggage up the six hundred steps to the top. Mrs. Katevatis, whom I had hired as a cook on my first visit to the island, had taken on so many additional duties at the villa after her husband died some years ago that to call her “housekeeper” would not begin to encompass all she did for me. Her twenty-year-old son, Adelphos, who had tutored me in modern Greek, was in charge of the donkeys, and took exquisite care of them. From ancient times, these beasts of burden were the only reliable way to move supplies and people on the island. The jovial sound of their bells welcomed us to our Greek home.

I kissed Adelphos on both cheeks. “A
γαπητέ μου αγόρι
,
είναι τόσο καλό που σε βλέπω
,” I said in my best modern Greek—which, I must confess, is more dreadful than my worst Ancient Greek. “My dear boy, it is so good to see you.”

“You are lucky to arrive today, Lady Kallista,” he replied, using the nickname bestowed on me by Philip and used now only by my friend Cécile du Lac and Adelphos; I had not yet been able to persuade him to stop using my title. “We had terrible storms last night. You will want to get to the villa as quickly as possible. My mother is eager to speak with you.”

The sun blazed down on us as the donkeys made their way slowly up to town. Once we had reached Fira, I planned, as was my habit, to abandon the beasts to Adelphos and walk the rest of the way. The house, in the village of Imerovigli, abutted the cliff path that connected the two towns, skirting the edge of the island nearly nine hundred feet above the sea and providing spectacular views with every step. Jeremy balked, insisting he wanted a bath and a whisky, and Adelphos took my friend's side, imploring me to succumb to his request. His mother was waiting anxiously, he reminded me, and speed was of the essence.

Speed
had never before entered into any conversation in which I had taken part in on the island. If anything, on Santorini things required so much longer to be accomplished it would not have been unreasonable for one to draw the conclusion there was a mandate forbidding haste. The languid pace endeared the place to me, and Adelphos' desire to rush struck all the wrong chords.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Was the villa damaged in the storm?”

“Oh, no Lady Kallista, the villa, it is unharmed. It is simply my mother. She—”

Misunderstanding his words to mean that his mother was ill, I urged my donkey along the path without letting Adelphos complete his sentence, and worried the entire way to the house. Margaret, who had been with me on the island many times before, did her best to distract me, flinging her final salve as we approached the house.

“I do love this place,” she said.

“You have been complaining about it nonstop all morning,” I said. “What about wishing Vesuvius could have been relocated so that it had destroyed Imerovigli instead of Pompeii? And what about the Cycladic nightmare?”

“I was only goading you.” She glared at me, but her eyes danced with amusement. “You are quite entertaining when all riled up.”

The villa, like the other houses along the cliff path, all but spilled onto it. Unlike a prim and neat English home, this structure consisted of a series of rectangles and arches built one on top of the other, its walls gleaming with fresh whitewash, its shutters, doors, and all bits of roof that weren't flat painted bright blue. The main section, in the center, had a flat roof we used as a terrace, and the bedrooms—all of which faced the sea—had balconies of their own. I had renovated a few years prior and decorated them each in a manner reflecting a different historical period: Classical, Mycenaean, Etruscan, Archaic, et cetera. Philip had kept his collection of Impressionist paintings in the house. Their colors and use of light blended exquisitely with the natural beauty of the location; I had kept them there and continued to add to their number. From the windows, the incomparable view stretched across the caldera to the remains of the volcano that had radically changed the topology of the island long before the age of Pericles and to the two small islets, Palea and Nea Kameni, that had once been part of a larger whole.