The Fury(6)

And, from then on, all year round, Nikos lived alone on the island. Caretaker of the property—and unofficial gardener. There wasn’t much of a garden, initially. He was living there for a couple of years before he started growing vegetables—but when he did, it was with immediate success.

The following year, Otto, inspired by Nikos’s efforts, arranged for a small orchard to be imported from Athens—hanging on ropes, suspended from helicopters—apple, pear, peach, and cherry trees, all planted in a walled garden. They, too, thrived. Everything seemed to bloom, on this island of love.

Sounds blissful, doesn’t it? Idyllic, I know. Even now, it’s so tempting to romanticize it. No one wants reality; we all want a fairy tale—and that’s how Lana’s story seemed to the outside world. A charmed, magical life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things are seldom as they seem.

One night, years later, Lana told me the truth about her and Otto; how their fairy-tale marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Perhaps it’s inevitable; along with Otto’s larger-than-life personality, his generosity, relentless drive, and ambition came other, less attractive qualities. He was much older than Lana, for one thing, and had a paternal, even patriarchal attitude toward her. He was controlling of her actions, dictating what she ate and what she wore, relentlessly critical of any choice she might make, undermining her, bullying her—and, when drunk, emotionally and even physically abusive.

I can’t help but suspect, if they had stayed together for longer, that Lana would eventually have rebelled, as she grew older and more independent. Surely, one day, she would have left him?

We’ll never know. Only a few years into their marriage, Otto had a fatal heart attack one spring—in LAX Airport, of all places. He was on his way to meet Lana on the island, to rest, on doctor’s orders. Sadly he never made it to his destination.

Following Otto’s death, Lana kept away from the island for several years. The memories and associations were too upsetting for her. But, as time passed, she became able to remember the island, and all the good times they had shared, without too much pain. So she decided to return.

From then on, Lana visited at least twice a year, sometimes more often. Particularly once she moved to England—and needed a refuge from its climate.



* * *



Before we move on, I must tell you about the ruin. It plays an important part in our story, as you will see.

The ruin was my favorite spot on the island. A semicircle of six broken, weathered marble columns in a clearing, surrounded by olive trees. An atmospheric spot; easy to imbue with magic. A perfect spot for contemplation. I would often sit on one of the stones, just breathe, and listen to the silence.

The ruin was the remains of an ancient villa complex from over a thousand years ago. It had belonged to a wealthy Roman family. All that remained were these broken columns—which, Lana and Otto were told, had once housed an intimate theater, a small auditorium, used for private performances.

A nice story—if a little contrived, in my opinion. I couldn’t help but suspect it was invented by an overzealous real estate agent, hoping to pique Lana’s imagination. If so, it worked. Lana was instantly captivated: she always called the ruin “the theater” from then on.

For a while, she and Otto revived this ancient tradition: performing sketches and playlets at the ruin in the summer evenings, written and acted by the family and their guests. A practice that was mercifully abandoned long before I ever went to the island. The prospect of having to indulge visiting movie stars in their amateur dramatics is, frankly, more than I could bear.

Apart from the ruin, only a handful of structures were on the island—both fairly recent: a caretaker’s cottage, where Nikos resided; and the main house.

The house was in the middle of the island—a sandstone monster, over a hundred years old. It had pale yellow walls, a red terra-cotta roof, and green wooden shutters. Otto and Lana added to it, extending it, renovating the more dilapidated areas. They built a swimming pool and a guesthouse in the garden; and a stone jetty on the most accessible beach, where they kept their speedboat.

It’s hard to describe how lovely the island is—was? I’m struggling a little with my tenses here. I’m not where sure I am—the present, or the past? I know where I would be, given half a chance. I’d give anything to be back there right now.

I can picture it all so clearly. If I shut my eyes, I can be there: on the terrace at the house, a cool drink in my hand, looking out at that view. It’s pretty flat for the most part, so you can see a long way: past the olive trees, all the way down to the beaches and coves and the clear turquoise water. The water, when calm, is blue and glass-like, almost translucent. But, like most things in life, it has more than one nature. When the wind comes, which it does, frequently, the churning waves and currents stir up all the sand in the seabed, turning the water murky, dark, and dangerous.

The wind plagues that part of the world. It hits it all the year round; not continuously, though, or with the same intensity—but every so often it works itself into a rage and tears across the water, battering the islands. Agathi’s grandmother used to call the Aegean wind to menos, which means “the fury” in English.

The island also has a name, by the way.

The island was named Aura, after the Greek goddess of the “morning air” or the “breeze.” A pretty name, which belied the ferocity of the wind, and of the goddess herself.