For love of a pagan, p.12
For Love of a Pagan, page 12
‘Are you up?’ The voice of her husband made her turn, a ready smile upon her lips.
‘Yes; it’s beautiful——It was beautiful, but you’ve missed it.’
‘Missed what?’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
‘You look nice with your hair ruffled,’ she said, her back to the window.
‘Pass me a comb. Tidying one’s hair is the first thing one should do on waking—for one’s own self-respect and to keep the respect of others.’
Tina picked up a comb and took it to the bed. Paul caught her wrist and pulled her down so that she lay across him.
‘You look like a little girl with your hair ruffled,’ he teased, ruffling it a lot more.
‘Are you working all day today?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, yes, I’m afraid so.’ He combed his hair. Tina sat up and moved to her side of the bed, tucking her feet beneath her.
‘Do you mind if I go into Heraklion? I want to buy some shoes and a few other things.’
‘Do I mind?’ he repeated, frowning. ‘What a question? Why should I mind?’
‘I thought I’d ask, that’s all.’
She went immediately after breakfast, driving the car herself. She parked it near Comarou Square and walked leisurely to the shops. The city bristled with life, with traffic, people and noise. It was so different from the quietness surrounding her home and yet she was enjoying the change, being interested in all that was going on around her. Young girls in short dresses and spiky heels walked briskly past the older women who, dressed in black or other sombre colours, went far more slowly, their sun-bitten faces wrinkled, their eyes dull and half-closed, as if their owners were almost tired of living, of carrying on the struggle which their way of life imposed upon them.
‘We in the West don’t know how lucky we are,’ Tina murmured as she strolled along, her eyes darting suddenly to another sight. A young girl in very modern dress was clinging possessively to the arm of a smartly- clad young man and, in incongruous contrast behind them, came a shepherd type man in vraga and heavy boots, his eyes fringed by matted black hair, his wife, dressed in dull grey homespuns, following a few respectful paces behind him, her head sunk down so that her chin rested on the frayed collar of her jacket. Tina’s heart went out to her. What had her life been through the long weary years? She’d probably brought numerous children into the world ... a slave to the primitive passions of the man walking in front of her. Where were those children now? The sons might or might not be dead—killed as victims of the vendetta.
Depressed suddenly, Tina decided to go into an hotel and have some coffee. She had only just ordered when a voice at her side came softly to her, bringing a swift dark frown to her brow.
‘So we meet again ...’ Dora’s narrowed eyes glinted
with something akin to venom. Her voice was silky-smooth though, as she asked if she could sit down at Tina’s table.
Tina nodded, thinking that it was ill luck that she had chosen this hotel in which to have her coffee, seeing that there were so many other hotels in Heraklion which she could have gone into.
‘Of course.’
The girl took a seat, and clapped her hands to fetch a waiter. She ordered coffee and cakes, then leant back in her chair, her eyes fixed on Tina’s face.
‘Paul’s not with you?’ she said softly.
‘No, he has work to do.’ Tina had no desire to be civil, even, and yet there was really no excuse for being otherwise.
‘I’m puzzled about you and Paul,’ Dora said without any attempt at tact. ‘He and I had practically reached an arrangement. Then he went to England on business—’ The soft voice trailed away to a bitter silence, and the venom returned to the dark, thickly-fringed eyes. The girl was beautiful, admitted Tina, looking from the eyes to the clear wide forehead, the unblemished skin, the impressive classical features, the long dark hair that shone like silk. ‘He met you in England, and although I can understand his wanting you, since he has a reputation for seeking out certain women, what I cannot understand is his offering you marriage.’ A pause, but of course Tina made no comment. The girl could continue if she wanted to, but at this particular moment Tina was determined not to be drawn into something which must assuredly end up in open hostility.
‘He had a grudge against me,’ continued Dora, speaking softly as if to herself. ‘And he did say once that he would punish me one day ... but marriage to an English girl, when he knows how his mother hates them ...’ Another pause, but still Tina remained silent. ‘If he had asked you to be his pillow-friend I could more readily have understood it.’ Her eyes had moved from the contemplation of the vine-covered bamboo trellis in front of her and now she was looking at Tina—which was unfortunate for Tina because the girl’s words had brought the colour into her cheeks. Dora’s eyes had widened, slowly; they were riveted on Tina’s face and it did not need the perceptive quality in her voice to tell Tina that the girl had hit upon the truth. ‘Pillow-friend ... It would have been more like him to have insisted on your being that, and nothing more.’
It was the word ‘insisted’ that loosened Tina’s tongue at last. Her colour deepened, but with anger this time.
‘You appear to assume that Paul could have forced me to be his—er—pillow-friend, as you call it.’
‘Don’t act as if you’ve never heard the expression before,’ snapped Dora. ‘Your face just now gave you away. Paul did ask you to be his pillow-friend.’ It was a statement, which Tina made no attempt to deny. Her mind was in conflict, because although she disliked the girl intensely, she was also sorry for her. She believed—though with extreme reluctance—that Paul had led Dora to assume he would marry her, perhaps not soon, but one day, when he had had a little more of his fling. Suddenly it mattered to Tina that he had this reputation. Before, it had seemed unimportant simply because she felt reasonably confident that her husband would never be unfaithful to her, that he would never have anyone else while he and she were together.
But now she was not so sure—
The doubts hurt, since she would rather feel she had full trust in her husband. Mingling with the doubts was a return of her fear of him, of the uncertainty as to how he would eventually turn out. She knew so little about him, about his inner nature, about the traits he had inherited from those pagan Bacchants of his tribe who still worshipped one of the ancient gods of Olympus, offering up sacrifices, dancing on hot coals in pursuance of their orgiastic rites. His mother was one of them, closer by far than her son, who had been educated, who had in the course of this education absorbed some of the best of the Western culture. But as she had said to herself before, genetics were far more potent than environment. Paul was what his ancestors had made him, not a new product of the environment in which he now lived. Fear grew, even though she tried to shake it off. This girl sitting here had somehow awakened that fear, and Tina knew instinctively that she would not so easily shake it off this time as she had before.
Dora was speaking and Tina brought her mind back, listening intently as the girl said,
‘You must have been clever to hold out against him, and in the end to have managed a proposal of marriage; he must have wanted you badly.’ She paused, and it did seem that there was the hint of a tear in her eye. Again Tina’s pity arose, and she bit back the angry retort which she was on the point of uttering. The girl went on slowly, ‘He’ll never be faithful, you need not fool yourself that he could ever be that. I was resigned, fully expecting him to have others, one after another, as he has always done. It’s his nature—’ She broke off, the bitterness in her eyes again, but the venom too. ‘You should know what his nature’s like. And you should know too that he’s had numberless women before you. His finesse, the particular art he has of love-making, wasn’t gained in the clumsy tumblings of youthful experiment. He’s gained his art by practice—a great deal of practice.’
Tina’s colour heightened as the girl spoke. She had wanted to halt the words, to make a wrathful protest but, to her amazement, she wanted to hear more. She was learning something about her husband. Not that she could learn anything about his lovemaking. It was as Dora had stated: he’d had plenty of practice ... and that practice had made him the perfect lover ...
The waiter came along with the coffee and cakes. ‘Anything else?’ He spoke in English; Dora answered him in Greek, shaking her head at the same time. The man departed and Dora spoke again.
‘Have you met Paul’s mother?’
‘Yes, he took me to see her at her home in Patmos.’ Tina poured herself some coffee and put milk into it, absently picking up the spoon to stir it even though she had forgotten to put the sugar in.
‘She wanted him to marry me.’
Tina looked at her.
‘You had the chance of marrying him, but you chose someone else. I don’t believe that Paul would ever forgive a slight like that. He’s too proud.’
‘He has forgiven it. He was intending to marry me—before he went to England and met you!’ The girl’s nostrils flared; she dropped sugar into her cup so angrily that the liquid splashed up and stained the cloth. ‘Aren’t you troubled that he married you only because he couldn’t have you as his pillow-friend?’ she demanded after a pause.
‘I am not willing to talk about my husband any more,’ answered Tina coldly.
‘You do realise that I have been his pillow-friend?’
Tina nodded.
‘I gathered that,’ she replied grimly, her thoughts flying to the way the girl had spoken about Paul’s love-making. Again the hurt, agonising this time. It was crucifying to think of Paul making love to this girl, giving her all he was now giving his wife ... carrying her on wings of ecstasy to the very heights of bliss. And yet why be hurt? It was an undeniable fact that he had had dozens before. But Tina realised that they could not hurt simply because she did not know them, nor would she ever know them. This girl sitting here was known to her; she could speak of intimacies with Paul, could own with a certain degree of pride that she had had Paul as her lover. Tina added, as the thought occurred to her, ‘I have been told that Greek men never marry their pillow-friends.’
‘Normally they don’t, but with Paul and me it is different. We’ve been close for many years—before my marriage and since I was widowed.’ Her accent became a little more pronounced as she spoke the last few words, but there was no emotion in her voice, not the merest hint that she had been upset on being widowed. Tina felt she was hard, and yet at the same time she knew without any doubts at all that the girl felt something for Paul, that her interest in him was by no means entirely mercenary. ‘What did you think of his mother?’ enquired Dora. ‘I expect she treated you with some considerable hostility?’
‘I just said I don’t want to talk about my husband—and that includes his mother.’
‘She has taken it very much to heart,’ said Dora, ignoring Tina’s protest. ‘You have caused an estrangement between mother and son. She needs him; he’s her only child.’
What was the girl trying to do? wondered Tina. What was her object? She must know, surely, that there was little closeness between Paul and his mother.
‘She doesn’t like me, but I don’t think it affects her relationship with Paul.’ Tina picked up her cup, sipped the coffee and then put it down again, reaching for the sugar.
‘Paul will come to me in the end.’ Softly-spoken words, but oh, what confidence was contained in them!
Tina felt her fear become so real that it was a physical experience flooding her whole being. To lose him, to this girl ... The fear of Paul himself seemed insignificant in comparison. ‘He wanted you as his pillow-friend, and that in itself proves that he’ll never be faithful, for if you had agreed to be his pillow-friend he’d have tired of you eventually, you don’t need me to tell you that.’
No, she did not, agreed Tina, but mentally. Paul had said the same thing, but in different words.
Tina drank her coffee and prepared to rise, glancing around for the waiter at the same time. Dora said, in that softly familiar voice,
‘He married you only because he couldn’t get you any other way.’ It was a statement, but Tina found herself nodding automatically, as if she considered it to be a question. Dora went on triumphantly, ‘It was just his way of getting what he wants—and so like him! He’ll not hesitate to cast you off when he tires of the marriage arrangement.’
Tina looked at her; she had not risen from her chair and she leant back in it, watching Dora sipping her coffee, her dark eyes bright now as if the depression, and the bitterness were erased. She had managed to prove to herself that Paul had married Tina only because he wanted her physically—which was true, of course. And now she was willing to play the waiting game, confident that Paul would one day come back to her.
Tina got up at last, her eyes smarting because there were tears behind them, tears of fear and gradually dying hope.
Yes, she realised only at this moment that she had been cherishing the hope that her husband would fall in love with her. The revelation staggered her, since she had never consciously speculated on the possibility of Paul’s being in love with her. It was too improbable a dream ever to come true. Even in her most optimistic moments the picture she drew was that of holding her husband by the physical attraction she undoubtedly had for him at this time, holding him for ever. She now saw that such optimism as that was just a pipe dream, indulged in to prevent her from brooding on what might one day come to pass: the request by Paul for a divorce. Divorce was easy, his mother had said. Tina knew this to be true, as her aunt had already told her how simple divorce was to obtain in Greece.
The waiter came over after she had beckoned; she paid him and, with a curt nod to the girl sitting there, she left the restaurant, wishing with all her heart that she had never entered it in the first place.
Paul wanted to know what she had bought. She showed him a blouse and skirt and some embroidered handkerchiefs. She was very quiet, her mind still filled with the conversation she had had with Paul’s old flame. The girl had confidence and Tina admitted that it was not misplaced. One day Paul would go to her, ask her to be his wife. She would marry him, and give him those sons which his mother had spoken about.
It was much later that Paul said, an edge of puzzlement in his tone,
‘What’s wrong, Tina? You’ve been very quiet since returning from town.’
‘Nothing.’ But her voice was dull, and faintly hostile. ‘Surely I can be quiet if I want to?’
He gave a slight start.
‘You’re touchy, aren’t you? I only asked, because you don’t seem too happy.’
‘I’m happy enough,’ she almost snapped.
She left him and went to their room, but after pacing about for ten minutes or so she went out into the garden and wandered away from the villa and the grounds, away into the peace and tranquillity offered by the silent loneliness of the hills. Only a donkey and a couple of goats for company, and a lizard that had stiffened on its sun-warmed block of stone. She sat down and it shot away; the air was pine-scented, the earth smelled freshly of rain, which had fallen in the night. Trees—carobs and olives and lemons with their shiny leaves—swayed slightly in the slow caress of the breeze drifting down from the pine-clad hills. The sky was an endless canopy of sapphire; the sun, lowering gradually towards the crest of the mountain, was pale yellow and gently warm—very different from when she had first come to Greece, in the hottest part of the year.
She moved at length, reluctant to return to the villa and yet forced to do so, simply because there was nowhere else to go. It was hurtful, feeling like this, with not an atom of enthusiasm for the presence of her husband. And suddenly she knew she had no desire for him any more. The idea of sleeping with him was—astoundingly—abhorrent to her. The revelation staggered her, sweeping over her with a tide of emotion that shook her to the very depths. For this was the situation in reverse! It was not Paul who had no desire for her, but she who had no desire for him!
She walked slowly, retracing her steps, trying almost frantically to convince herself that this feeling was, at worst, only temporary, but it was to no avail.
The bald truth was that she no longer wanted her husband as a lover.
It was inevitable that he should again mention her quiet, brooding attitude. At dinner she scarcely spoke, answering in monosyllables if he should ask a question. She was short with him, or even hostile. She saw his eyes narrow on several occasions, his mouth compress, and a warning would force itself into her consciousness, telling her to beware. She ignored it. She could think only of what his mother had said, and of what Dora had said. Added to this was her fear of the man himself, the pagan she had married without even knowing what kind of man he really was. Oh, yes, she had known he had a reputation where women were concerned, and that his people were still among the few Greeks who held on to heathen worship, but, strangely, she had known no actual fear ... not until recently, when she had begun to dwell, broodingly, because of words uttered by other people—his mother and his old flame.
She did not ask herself if she still loved him. She had always known that there would be only one man in her life whom she would love. Paul was that man, and she would love him till she died, but that did not mean that she was willing to make a complete slave of herself, a slave to his passions, to the primitive desires that were all that held her to him. She recalled with a sudden flush of humiliation her admission that he was her master ... after he had coerced her, ordered her to admit it, his manner being threatening almost. She knew he would have made her admit it. Well, she had known she would be angry later and she was angry!
