come to me in a vision on Patmos. Makes it seem like the real thing, huh?’
Andreas paused, as if waiting for an answer.
‘I need a sign, or else I’m going to chalk it up to the
tzatziki
. Make me believe in family, make me believe I won’t mess things up as badly as you did. Go ahead, I dare you!’
Andreas stared into his own eyes. ‘See, I knew you’d let me down. Again.’
He turned off the light and crawled into bed. He was back to staring at the ceiling when he heard a faint beep.
There was a text message on his phone:
I’ M AWAKE, AND THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE, TOO. J UST WANTED YOU TO KNOW JUNIOR AND I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH. L.
Andreas tried not to cry. He tried very hard not to cry.
5
There was a knock on Andreas’ door at seven in the morning. ‘Sir, a taxi driver just delivered an envelope for you. He said he’d wait for you.’
Andreas had been up for an hour. But he wasn’t expecting a taxi.
‘Slide it under the door.’
It was a plain white envelope marked ‘Room 228.’ Inside was scribbled,
Tell the driver Lampi. See you soon
. He recognized the handwriting.
Ten minutes later Kouros and Andreas were in the taxi on their way to a beach called Lampi. It was a beautiful morning, almost no one else on the road. The taxi headed north through the old port, past harborside tavernas peppered with locals sharing coffee and gossip, and on through the new port edged by shops and places catering to the daily needs of island residents: car repair, hardware,furniture, clothing, electronics, cell phones, and pizza. As the road climbed out of Skala, eucalyptus replaced shops and the view turned to open land, marked by ancient walls, tiny villages, green and brown fields, and random homes and churches scattered across the hills among pines, cypresses, tamarisks, and pomegranates.
At a sign marked KAMBOS the driver slowed down to pass through a crossroads paved in rough-cut stone. ‘We’re almost there. This is Kambos town. Kambos beach is up ahead.’
Andreas had heard of Kambos beach. It was Patmos’ most popular, the one where rich kids from around the world summering in their parents’ homes and local kids in search of friends from a larger world grew up together. How well those friendships wore into adulthood largely depended on how well each appreciated the other’s likely future: the rich would go on to assume their parents’ lives and the locals would just go on.
‘How much farther?’ asked Kouros.
‘About five minutes. We take a left just past the beach and it’s on the other side of those hills.’ He nodded straight ahead. ‘Ever been to Lampi?’
‘No,’ said Kouros.
‘It’s different than it used to be.’
Why does every local, everywhere in Greece, say the same thing? thought Andreas.
‘What do you mean?’ said Kouros.
‘The shiny colored pebbles that cover the beach. Many of them are gone. Too many tourists - and locals - take them, thinking they look better on a table somewhere orstuck in some mosaic. Damn shame how people destroy a place just to show they were there. Crazy how people think.’
Yeah, crazy, thought Andreas, like the British and the Marbles from the Parthenon.
A bit later the driver nodded his head to the right. ‘There it is, over there.’ The road coiled down toward a long beach surrounded by unspoiled hills. Andreas could make out a taverna in the middle, under some trees. Or maybe there were two tavernas. A rented, blue Fiat Punto and a beat-up maroon Toyota pickup were parked at the edge of the beach. The driver turned the taxi around before stopping next to the Fiat. ‘Should I wait?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ said Andreas, paying him.
The driver nodded. ‘Damn shame about the pebbles. Do me a favor, don’t take any,’ and drove off before Andreas could reply.
Andreas smiled. The guy was right to say it.
‘Over here.’ The voice came from the near taverna. It was about fifty yards down the beach.
‘Wouldn’t it have been
Andreas paused, as if waiting for an answer.
‘I need a sign, or else I’m going to chalk it up to the
tzatziki
. Make me believe in family, make me believe I won’t mess things up as badly as you did. Go ahead, I dare you!’
Andreas stared into his own eyes. ‘See, I knew you’d let me down. Again.’
He turned off the light and crawled into bed. He was back to staring at the ceiling when he heard a faint beep.
There was a text message on his phone:
I’ M AWAKE, AND THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE, TOO. J UST WANTED YOU TO KNOW JUNIOR AND I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH. L.
Andreas tried not to cry. He tried very hard not to cry.
5
There was a knock on Andreas’ door at seven in the morning. ‘Sir, a taxi driver just delivered an envelope for you. He said he’d wait for you.’
Andreas had been up for an hour. But he wasn’t expecting a taxi.
‘Slide it under the door.’
It was a plain white envelope marked ‘Room 228.’ Inside was scribbled,
Tell the driver Lampi. See you soon
. He recognized the handwriting.
Ten minutes later Kouros and Andreas were in the taxi on their way to a beach called Lampi. It was a beautiful morning, almost no one else on the road. The taxi headed north through the old port, past harborside tavernas peppered with locals sharing coffee and gossip, and on through the new port edged by shops and places catering to the daily needs of island residents: car repair, hardware,furniture, clothing, electronics, cell phones, and pizza. As the road climbed out of Skala, eucalyptus replaced shops and the view turned to open land, marked by ancient walls, tiny villages, green and brown fields, and random homes and churches scattered across the hills among pines, cypresses, tamarisks, and pomegranates.
At a sign marked KAMBOS the driver slowed down to pass through a crossroads paved in rough-cut stone. ‘We’re almost there. This is Kambos town. Kambos beach is up ahead.’
Andreas had heard of Kambos beach. It was Patmos’ most popular, the one where rich kids from around the world summering in their parents’ homes and local kids in search of friends from a larger world grew up together. How well those friendships wore into adulthood largely depended on how well each appreciated the other’s likely future: the rich would go on to assume their parents’ lives and the locals would just go on.
‘How much farther?’ asked Kouros.
‘About five minutes. We take a left just past the beach and it’s on the other side of those hills.’ He nodded straight ahead. ‘Ever been to Lampi?’
‘No,’ said Kouros.
‘It’s different than it used to be.’
Why does every local, everywhere in Greece, say the same thing? thought Andreas.
‘What do you mean?’ said Kouros.
‘The shiny colored pebbles that cover the beach. Many of them are gone. Too many tourists - and locals - take them, thinking they look better on a table somewhere orstuck in some mosaic. Damn shame how people destroy a place just to show they were there. Crazy how people think.’
Yeah, crazy, thought Andreas, like the British and the Marbles from the Parthenon.
A bit later the driver nodded his head to the right. ‘There it is, over there.’ The road coiled down toward a long beach surrounded by unspoiled hills. Andreas could make out a taverna in the middle, under some trees. Or maybe there were two tavernas. A rented, blue Fiat Punto and a beat-up maroon Toyota pickup were parked at the edge of the beach. The driver turned the taxi around before stopping next to the Fiat. ‘Should I wait?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ said Andreas, paying him.
The driver nodded. ‘Damn shame about the pebbles. Do me a favor, don’t take any,’ and drove off before Andreas could reply.
Andreas smiled. The guy was right to say it.
‘Over here.’ The voice came from the near taverna. It was about fifty yards down the beach.
‘Wouldn’t it have been
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