The Holiday (35 page)

He soon returned with a tray of civilising tea and a plate of custard creams, as well as a list of thought-provoking questions for each of them to consider for when they met the following day. ‘What we’ll need to address,’ he said, dunking a biscuit into his tea and crossing one of his stumpy little legs over the other, ‘is the concern that every parent feels in these situations. Where did we go wrong? My job is to convince you that you didn’t.’

‘But... but we should have done more,’ Mark’s father said, sounding as if he was having to squeeze the words through a throat that was tightly bunched. ‘We should never have given up on him. I ... I blame myself. If I had — ’

Bones jumped on him from a great height.

‘Fault is not being apportioned,’ he said firmly, ‘not today, tomorrow or any other day. Mark and I haven’t invited you here to point the finger of blame at you, or accuse you of negligence. You’re here because you have a shared history that, as painful as it is, needs explaining. Nobody, and I can’t stress this enough, nobody is to blame. It is extremely important to remember that each of you was presented with an impossible no-win situation. You all did what came naturally to you. As parents you tried your best to help and understand him, but couldn’t. He was beyond your reach. There’s no shame in admitting that. No shame in admitting that you couldn’t stop your son from hitting the self-destruct button. It was an impossible situation that you all dealt with in the only way you knew how.’ He paused to offer them a second cup of tea. ‘You know, the life we want,’ he went on, tinkling his teaspoon against his cup, ‘is rarely the life we have. All we can ever do is bridge the gap to the Promised Land.’

After that they were at least able to communicate with each other on a new, improved level. The resentment, bitterness and mutual fear he and his father had felt for each other gave way to tolerance and understanding, a glimmer of hope that life could be better.

And all these years on, they were still working at that bridge Bones had spoken of. Mark was a part of his parents’ lives once again, and he suspected that they were just a little bit proud of him. His father, who normally didn’t have time to read, never failed to get hold of his latest book the moment it was out — he always refused a free copy, saying that he wanted the pleasure of walking into their local bookshop and asking for his son’s latest novel.

As for his brothers, Peter and Hugh — the clever bastards, he had always called them — he now had two sisters-in-law as well as three nieces and a nephew. He was a constant source of amusement to the children. They knew that their uncle Mark wasn’t like other uncles. Last Christmas, his youngest niece had climbed on to his lap and asked him if all families had a skeleton like theirs hidden away in a cupboard. He had laughed and instantly made up a spine-tingling story about the one kept in the attic of his parents’ house where they were all staying. He described how it came out of its box on the stroke of midnight and wandered around the house. The next morning, Peter had had a go at him for scaring Susie half to death and keeping her awake all night.

But there was one thing for which he was especially grateful to his brothers, and that was their enthusiasm for running the family business now that their father had retired: a business that had been in the family for three generations.

And what exactly was the family business?

It was, of all things, a brewery.

As Theo would say, ‘How is that for a nice touch of your typically English irony?’

They were the last to leave the restaurant. Thanos and Christiana Vlamakis, along with the elderly relatives from Thessaloniki, took a taxi to the airport to catch their flights home, the priest went off in a haze of Metaxá to the Esplanade to watch a cricket match and Theo and Mark helped Thomas Zika back to his apartment on Kapodistriou Street. They had only a short distance to cover, but by the time Mark had pushed the old man’s wheelchair through the busy tourist-filled streets, he was hot and perspiring.

Home for Mr Zika was on the fourth floor of a tall, thin building that backed on to a maze of shadowy little streets and tiny shops. From the front it looked out across to the old fortress and the turquoise sea beyond. Originally built for the old aristocracy of the town, the Venetian-style house, with its elegant proportions, wrought-iron balconies and shuttered windows must have been a beautiful and impressive home in its glory days; now it was just another example of faded grandeur. Its yellow paintwork was dirty and peeling, its stonework crumbling like blocks of salt. Split into goodness knows how many apartments, it still had only one lift and they had to wait patiently for it to descend to their level. It was of the ancient metal-cage variety and clanked and juddered slowly and disconcertingly, up to the fourth floor. Taking Mr Zika’s key Theo let them in. The first thing that struck Mark as they entered the apartment was the cool temperature. After the searing heat in the street, it came as a welcome relief. He had read once that all old people’s houses feel cold; it was the seeping away of the owner’s lifeblood that made them like that. It was not the cheeriest theory.

Theo led the way, manoeuvring the wheelchair down a dim passage that was only just wide enough for it. They came to a high-ceilinged drawing room that smelt strongly of age and polish — years and years of polish that must have been assiduously applied to the delicate pieces of furniture that took up most of the available space in the large rectangular room. Burnished to a high gloss, tables, writing-desks, glass-fronted cabinets all vied for their own bit of space. Oriental rugs, some overlapping in places, covered the floor, marble-based lamps illuminated gloomy corners, and soft light bounced off glowing bronze statues and porcelain vases. A tapestry drooped on one of the walls, its colours muted, its silk surround ripped and sagging. It partially disguised a worrying crack in the plaster that had carved itself a forty-five-degree groove right up to the ornate cornice of the ceiling where a dusty chandelier hung. Faded drapes framed the tall, narrow windows and sunlight fought to penetrate the barrier of discoloured netting that looked as though it might turn to dust at a touch. The steady ticking of an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece added to the clutter of a room that made Mark feel uncomfortably on edge. But, then, turning to his right, he saw something that made him feel instantly at home.

Covering an entire wall, from floor to ceiling, were rows of leatherbound books. There were as many English titles as there were Greek ones and his hands twitched to reach out and touch them. ‘You’re a man after my own heart, Mr Zika,’ he said, indicating the tightly packed shelves.

‘Please, call me Thomas,’ the old man said, as Theo helped him into a wing-backed armchair, where beside him was a small table with a chessboard on it; it looked as if a game was in progress. ‘I think you have earned that right, after all the assistance you have given me. And go ahead, acquaint yourself with a few of my oldest friends.’ He sank back into the seat and sighed deeply, a long, painful wheeze. He looked tired, as though he were only hanging on to life by a gossamer thread of strained will. ‘If you would care to wait, Eleni, my housekeeper, will be here shortly and we could ask her to make us some coffee. But perhaps you are eager to be on your way.’

Stooping to tuck a blanket around the old man’s legs, Theo murmured something that Mark didn’t catch, but the gist of which became apparent when Theo went to make the coffee himself. While he was out of the room, Mark helped himself to a book from one of the shelves. The dusty smell of the mould-spotted leather reminded him of a thousand old bookshops in which he had browsed. He sat next to Thomas, showed him what he had picked out and fingered the pages with the greatest of care. After a while he sensed that tiredness was making Thomas vague and distracted. The lucid man with whom he had chatted in the restaurant was gone. Now he was murmuring indistinctly to himself, his eyelids drooping, his hands lying inert on his lap. It wasn’t long before faint snoring added to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Quietly replacing the book on the shelf, Mark went in search of Theo. ‘I don’t think Thomas will be wanting any coffee,’ he said. ‘He’s asleep.’

The kitchen was small and dingy, with a free-standing cupboard against one wall and a fridge that vibrated noisily against the leg of a cumbersome old gas cooker. A pale blue Formica-topped table with chrome legs held an assortment of papers, unopened envelopes and a tin of pens and pencils. Above this was a thin shelf, on which a set of old pans was stacked. The poky room made a sharp contrast with the cluttered but opulent drawing room.

‘I will make him some anyway,’ Theo said, turning off the tap and looking for a cloth to dry the cups he had just washed. ‘He never sleeps for long.’

‘How old is he?’

‘At the last count he was ninety-five. He does well for his age, eh?’

‘Extraordinarily well. I can’t imagine either of us still being around at that age. I’m not sure I’d want to go on for that long. What would be the point?’

‘Ah, my friend, I would relish the thought that one day you would be as wise and as content as dear old Thomas, a man who needs only to play himself at chess and read his beloved books to be happy.’

‘To hell with that, you’d just enjoy seeing me helpless.’

Theo narrowed his eyes and passed him a delicate bone-china cup of coffee, the gold line of its rim almost rubbed away. ‘It was very kind what you did for Thomas over lunch,’ he said. ‘It isn’t everyone who would have done that, and with such courteous compassion.’

‘I suspect it was harder for Thomas to ask for my help than for me to give it.’

‘But that is always the case. You of all people know that to be true.’

 

When they returned to Áyios Nikólaos, they found the party invitation that had been left for them on the terrace.

‘And what excuse do you expect me to give my friends this time?’ asked Theo, coming out from the house where he had changed to go for a swim. ‘That you have a headache?’

Mark followed him to the pool. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I know you so well. You would rather stay here and bury yourself in the violent make-believe land of your imagination than show your face at a fancy-dress party and risk enjoying yourself in the real world.’

Watching Theo dive into the water and swim a length before coming up for air, Mark thought of Thomas Zika and how they had left him to the company of his books and the ticking of his clock, which cruelly echoed the long-drawn-out loneliness of what remained of his life. He said, ‘Well, just to prove how wrong you are, Theodore Know-It-All Vlamakis, I will go.’

Theo turned over on to his back and laughed. ‘Now this I have to see. Mark St James dressed up as a Greek god. Ha, ha, ha!’

His laughter continued long after Mark had left him to gloat over such an improbable notion.

As it turned out Theo was denied a laugh at Mark’s expense. On the morning of the party he received a phone call that had him changing his plans for the following week. Leaving his study, he went to look for Mark. He found him working on the terrace in the shade, his head bent over an A4 pad of paper, his hand moving steadily across the page. Reluctant to interrupt, Theo stood for a moment, marvelling at the creative process in which his friend was so absorbed. It was something he could never do. His brain was too restless to apply itself to just one task. He didn’t have the single-minded determination, or the patience, to sit still long enough to be a writer. He bored easily and needed a variety of challenges if his attention was to be held.

Which was why he had spent most of life diversifying in the way that he had. When asked what he did for a living he usually said he did nothing more than dabble in property. But there were plenty of other things he got up to. He could never go anywhere without noticing a potential investment. It didn’t matter how big or small it was, or how improbable; if he thought he could do something with it, he would immediately make enquiries and put forward an appropriate offer. Whether it was a run-down petrol station, a struggling taverna, or a large chain of shops that had lost its direction, he would bring in his own hand-picked management team and turn the business round. Once it was up and running, he would be looking for the next project to occupy him. And if he acted quickly, his next project was within his grasp.

Back in Athens a whisper of a rumour had started. It was in connection with the chain of hotels owned by the Karabourniotis family and, according to the word that had reached his office, the family was looking for an investor to help ease their growing financial difficulties. But Theo wasn’t interested in putting money into anything that he didn’t own outright, not when he knew he would have to stand back and watch his investment thrown away on yet more bad decisions and rising debts. If his fingers were going to delve into this particular pie, it would only be through a straight buy-out.

Not for a split second had it entered his head to leave it to his legal boys and accountants to meet with the Karabourniotis family, not when he believed in the personal approach. Besides, he knew them well, and knew just how proud old man Yiannis Karabourniotis was. Seeking help from outside his family was the last thing he would have wanted; it would have been his last desperate resort. Theo suspected that his greedy sons had driven him to this point, that they had been frittering away the profits on themselves rather than reinvesting in the hotels by modernising and expanding. This was another reason why Theo wanted to deal directly with Yiannis. Yiannis would never publicly criticise his sons, so the whole business would need careful handling and Theo trusted only himself to do that.

‘How much longer are you going to stand there distracting me?’ asked Mark, jolting him out of his thoughts.

‘You will be relieved to know that I need to be in Athens again. I leave after lunch.’