The Immortal (2 page)

At last we were on the plane, a two-engine prop job that I hoped had been built in the U.S. Inside, before takeoff, it was a thousand degrees, and it warmed my heart to see Silk on the verge of passing out. But the air-conditioning came on once we were in the air. I sat in the back of the plane beside Helen.

She peered out the window.

"I have always dreamed of renting a sailboat and sailing from island to island," she said, almost with a sigh. "Wouldn't that be heaven?"

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"It does sound wonderful," I said. "Maybe we can do it when we get older—and learn to sail."

"Sailing around these islands is not always that easy. There's a wind that comes up around Mykonos called the
meltimi.
One second the water is flat and calm and the next it's churning. The
meltemi
will probably kick in a time or two while we're here."

Half an hour later we were at Mykonos. We had to walk from the plane to the terminal. The airport was small; there were no pushing crowds. The surrounding terrain was rocky, hilly—what tourists thought all Greek islands were. Yet even though it was arid, it was beautiful. I liked it immediately. Athens had not been as horrible as Helen had described, but there had been a certain heaviness to the place. Mykonos was the opposite. There was a feeling of life in the air, of fun, of adventure. Indeed, I suddenly felt as if I had reached an important crossroads in my life. I knew this would be a trip to remember for a long time.

There was a gentleman waiting for us—Mr. Ghris Politopulos. At first I assumed he was a hired hand at the hotel where we were staying, but he was both the owner and the manager of the place. His face was fascinating, thick-lipped with a warm smile and the palest, coldest blue eyes I had ever seen—one of which was lazy, rolling this way and that as he scanned our luggage.

"Welcome to Mykonos," he said in heavily accented English. "You will love it here. But this"—he gestured to our bags—"you don't need so many

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clothes here. Mykonos is always warm this time of year."

"I have many of your father's things in my bags," Silk said to us, annoyed at the hired help questioning what she'd brought.

"Do our rooms have ocean views?" Helen asked Mr. Politopulos.

"One of the rooms does," he replied.

Helen flashed a glance my way and we shrugged in unison. We both knew which room would be ours, and that was fine. Helen's parents had paid for her plane ticket, but my father was shouldering the hotel bills. Helen's trip was a present from my father to me.

We boarded Mr. Politopulos's van and headed for the hotel. Mykonos was not big, only ten miles across, and soon we were bouncing our way along the outskirts of Hora—the main city on the island.

Mr. Politopulos explained the colorful history of Hora. Egyptians, Phoenicians, Cretans, and Ionians had all lived on the island in the b.c.s. Turks and an endless train of pirates had run the place later—the population would explode, then become almost extinct depending on which way the winds of war were blowing. It wasn't until the 1950s that tourism took hold and island life began to resemble what it was today. At that Mr. Politopulos laughed, saying that Mykonos was basically a big party island. He had been born on Mykonos and had lived his whole life there.

We never entered Hora, however, but turned south away from the city for the remainder of the ride to our

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hotel. It was only then I got my first good look at the sea, and I was in love. The water was a jewel blue the California coast would never know, the sand clean and uncluttered, lazily draped with brown bodies of enviable shape and elusive covering. Already I could see several pairs of male buns and knew I would have a crick in my neck long before the vacation was over.

Helen pointed to an island out at sea, perhaps five miles away. "That's Delos," she said. "The most sacred island in the Aegean Sea."

"Why is it so sacred?" I asked.

"Because Apollo and his sister Artemis were born there," she said.

The sun flashed in my eyes as I stared at the island. I had to close them briefly, and once more I had that same sense of coming home that I had had on the plane. I felt I had been to this place before.

"I want to go there soon," I whispered.

"We'll go there tomorrow," Helen said, watching me.

Our hotel was simple, with whitewashed walls built to withstand the heat and sun. It was well situated beside a beach, but close enough to town so that we could walk in at night for the party life. Mr.

Politopulos checked us in and showed us our rooms, helping us with our bags. Dad and Silk's suite was spacious and on the second story overlooking the surf. Mr. Politopulos warned us to watch the doors and windows when the wind was blowing.

"A man last week got struck on the head by a

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window and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches," he said. "The
melt€mi
—it blows fiercely when the gods are in the mood."

"The gods," I muttered. "Does anyone in Greece worship the ancient deities?"

Mr. Politopulos smiled, his lazy eye staring at my rubber sandals, his other one regarding my face. "Not worship," he said. "But many still respect them."

Our room was on the ground floor, in the back. It had a view of sorts. It overlooked a corner of the swimming pool, where, by golly, there were a lot of naked females enjoying the sun. We had narrow twin beds and a bathtub that looked as if it had been designed for a race of dwarfs. Neither of us believed we would be spending that much time in our room.

"Are you tired?" I asked Helen. Her brown eyes were bloodshot.

"A little. But if I sleep now I'll never get on the schedule here." She stowed her cheap suitcase in the corner. Her family didn't have much money, even though it seemed as if they must because their only daughter had gone to Greece twice in a year. Her parents were anxious to keep her happy—for various reasons. Of course my dad was running low on funds as well. He had to sell something soon, even if it was only a movie-of-the-week or a sitcom pilot.

"Do you want to go into town and walk around?" I asked.

"No, we can do that after the sun goes down. That's when the action starts. Let's go snorkeling, but not 15

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here. The beaches on the other side of the island are much nicer—there are Agrari and Paradise." Helen rolled her eyes. "Lots of naked bodies on those beaches."

"How do we get there?" I asked. "Can we take a bus?"

"Maybe, but we don't want to. The best way to get around is on a motorbike. We can rent them outside of town for less than fifteen bucks a day. Have you ever ridden a motorbike?"

"No, but I'm game." I had seen couples on the bikes on the way to the hotel and it looked like fun.

"You have to learn how to shift gears. No one wears a helmet here. It can be dangerous."

"If you did it, I can do it," I said.

Helen was amused at my confidence. "Well see," she said.

We changed into fresh shorts and T-shirts and bade my father and Silk goodbye. They were already half asleep. Hora was ten minutes on foot. Walking into town along a bumpy asphalt road, we passed what looked like a worthy beach. I still couldn't get over how clear the water was. But Helen reassured me that the beach was nothing compared to what we would see on our motorbikes.

The surrounding houses were all white, dazzling in the sunlight, their balconies festooned with glorious geraniums and pots of basil. Closer to the city, the houses grew thicker together, and I could see that one facade blended into the next, with narrow flagstone

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alleys winding between them. Helen stopped at a bike shop at the edge of this wonderful town.

She was familiar with the bikes, and I suspected she-had used the place on her previous trip. A pleasant young Greek woman with spotty English helped us pick out bikes—two new Hondas. She demonstrated how to shift gears, kicking successively down with the left foot. It didn't look hard, but Helen warned me that I would need practice to get the hang of it.

"Wait till you're going uphill," she said. "Then you'll have fun."

Helen's prophecy came to rapid fruition. Our bikes were low on fuel, the Greek woman warned us. We had to go straight to the gas station, and by luck the place was straight up the hill from the shop. I got the bike going well enough and was out on the road, but I quickly lost speed as the incline steepened. Helen was in front of me, pulling away, as cars and other motorbikes roared past me. I thought I was in first gear, the best one for a steep hill, but I must have been in second. I kicked the gear lever, and still I continued to slow down. The bike slowed to the point that it was in danger of falling over. Then it stalled.

I coasted over to the side and dug my sandals into the asphalt. The bike was trying to roll back down the hill.

"Damn," I said.

The scooters had kick starters. I fiddled with the gears before giving it a kick and discovered I had been in third gear. Using the heel of my left foot—the front of the foot upped the gears, the heel lowered them—I

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ground myself back to what I hoped was neutral and then, with my right foot, gave the starter pedal a good swipe. Apparently I wasn't aggressive enough. Starting a bike is a real macho thing, I realized.

Putting a slight sneer on my lips, as if I were James Dean, and gritting my teeth, I gave the pedal a real he-man slap. It roared to life.

I rode all the way up the hill in first gear. I was taking no chances on stalling out. Helen was waiting for me at the gas station, a smug expression on her face.

"Having trouble?" she asked.

"Not at all." I swung my leg off the bike, feeling cool.

Helen nodded to the pump. "One full tank will last us three days. I told you, this is the way to get around.

Just don't crack your skull on the pavement and we'll have a blast."

We gassed up and were soon on our way to Paradise Beach. Helen had decided on that one. The road continued to rise for half a mile. Soon we were treated to a glorious view of the western side of the island. Then the city was behind us and we were in the back country—if it could be called that. The silhouettes of windmills on the hills were a reminder of days gone by. There was so much gray rock, its domain broken only by the many white chapels, raised on outcrop-pings so forbidding I wouldn't have wanted to approach them on a windy day. I counted eight churches in the space of a mile. I had read a bit about them in

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Helen's travel book. Apparently prosperous sailors long ago were fond of erecting them before going on a dangerous sea voyage. The hope was to gain divine protection.

The road was bumpy and hilly, but I could have been a Hell's Angel in a past life. My mastery of the shifting gears came with a few minutes of experimentation. I do believe it was a look of shock on Helen's face when I came roaring by her at thirty-five miles an hour. The warm air and the brilliant sunlight were a delight on my face and bare arms. The blue coast of the other side of the island came into view. My laughter must have rung in Helen's ear as I passed her. Suddenly I realized I was on vacation and having the time of my life.

A few miles later a splintered wooden sign pointed the way to Paradise, to the right, off the main road.

By this time Helen had drawn abreast, warning me not to get too cocky. Together we turned onto the gravel road that led down to the beach. I wore sunglasses, as did Helen, but the rays of the sun sparkled on the water like igniting jewels, and occasionally I had to shield my eyes. It was an odd thought to have, but it was hard to believe it was the same sun in the sky that had shone on me all my life in ll.A. I remembered that in Greek mythology Apollo was associated with the sun.

We parked and locked our bikes and sauntered down to the beach. Near the sea the mass of gray rock turned to golden sand before being covered by crystal blue waters. There were no waves—who needed 19

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them? The sea was various shades of cerulean, changing color with the depth. The sand was lighter in color than the California brand, but grainier. There were beautiful people everywhere, and only half of them had bathing suits on. I liked to look—who doesn't? And I had never before had so many young men to stare at. I can honestly say, without a shred of shame, that I didn't miss Ralphy Boy one bit right then.

"We should have grown up here," Helen said.

"We should move here," I replied. "Who needs college."

"You can see why I wanted to come back."

"I can't see why you left."

We had towels that we'd borrowed from the hotel. We didn't have snorkeling equipment, however, or sunscreen. I had frequented the beach since school had let out and had a good tan. Indeed, I never burned, no matter how long I lay out. But Helen had a problem. It was a priority to get her fair skin firmly shielded behind sunblock, thirty or better.

We took care of the screen for Helen in a small store and were directed to a stand farther down the beach that was supposed to rent masks, fins, and snorkels. All at once Helen was not anxious to get in the water. She said she wanted a drink and pulled me toward the bar, located at the rear of the beach under a thatched roof.

"There was this guy from England who worked here last summer," she said. "He said he'd be back this summer."

"Is he the reason we're at this beach?"

"It's a nice beach."

"I understand," I said.

"His name's Tom Brine. We went out a couple of times." She added unnecessarily, "I liked him."

"Maybe he has a friend," I said hopefully. I wasn't looking for a quick vacation romance, I told myself.

On the other hand I wasn't swearing off one, either, which was, I thought, the best attitude.

The bar was crowded. There was no sign of Tom. A shade subdued, Helen ordered a beer, and I did likewise, after a moment's hesitation to note that they weren't asking for ID. I didn't drink a lot, even at parties, because I invariably woke up with a headache. But I had to watch Helen when it came to booze.