The softest face amongst the anxious crowd looked like the moon upturned against the blazing hot afternoon sky; one streaked with a blue so strong it hurt your eyes to stare at it for too long. Margaux stared.
Her irises swept across the woman’s pale plump cheeks, rounded like a child’s yet she must have been at least fifty years old. Her dark hair was tied up with a blue silk scarf. She was so cool, calm amidst the shifting crowd getting increasingly restless as the ferry took longer and longer to arrive.
Hydra was a small island and Margaux sensed that some tourists felt tired, perhaps even trapped, having bitten off too-much vacation time than they could chew. There was a screaming child, there were some dogs panting, a donkey braying behind the masses. A pleasant mess, made very human by the absence of engines or machines.
When she had first arrived on the island two weeks ago, the lack of honking or engines had set her on edge. Every sound one made rang out across the port, the town, pinging between homes and pricking the ears of every cat - so present and perversely embarrassing. But now she was used to it, diving into its auditory expanse with open arms, the steely silence reigned making the crowd accumulating at the stone dock’s end an anomaly. Striking up odd chords.
They were all noisy, some would say even to the same extent. But Margaux knew there was only a few she would listen to, a few people she would speak to for long, share secrets with at all.
The only people that never tired her were the people she had yet to meet. They fascinated her endlessly, all tan skin and orange eyes, men speaking their syllables so softly, other girls, her age, with swinging gaits and no friends, linking their arms with hers at the first word. And the ultimate intrigue, the pearl among the people - women older than her.
Margaux could never help but smile and think hello the moment she saw a women who looked at all like she was approaching her mother’s age. And could you blame her? Here were the humans, Margaux knew she could trust. The ones who would watch her moving through the crowds, rushing off of ferries and onto other boats, with worry in their eyes. Leaning over to help her with her broken luggage, the wheel of which had snapped off somewhere around Piraeus, or her basket, which at times and in moments of toughness bulged awkwardly from its swinging place on her wrist.
These were the people that would care for her, if she ever needed it. Which, she knew, might be sooner rather than later.
She hadn’t fixed anything, she hadn’t repaired anything. Nothing had been mended nor made better. She saw no problem in letting it all collect cracks and dust; letting it hit the road, the rocks, the dirt. Letting it drag half of dry Greece along with her. Over ports and ferry doors, across the thresholds of hotels, pensions and homes. ‘Organized’ was a principle of extra time that she didn’t have, nothing to spend, nothing to waste.
Perhaps this is what the women caught on in her. They knew she had no mother with her. That she herself was not close - and perhaps never would be - to being a mother yet. That the dust was seen as soft on her skin by the strangers who stared at her, fitting for the unknown and inhospitable. While a mother, the women, all those caring figures, wanted to wash and wipe away what which was inorganic, clouding her, letting her walk away clean and fresh, pure.
They had all been there. Margaux knew it. She knew no skill was natural, everything learned; made and mended. They had no natural impulse against the dust. They too had once dragged their baggage through the mud, through the town, letting those who proffered help carry or steal. Happy to walk on too hot or too sharp stones to get where they were going. They saw her and saw themselves past. Just as she saw them and simultaneously saw her soon-to-be self. It was a trade of time, but it was a fair trade. The kind of give and take that could only happen when each party only wanted to give. Give, give, give. Nothing material of course. Never money, never matter. That was solely the providence of men, who gave in substance for they knew they took in substance too. Vulgar, some would say. Yet that is the line men walk, one which you could not pay Margaux to follow.
No, she preferred the giving of immaterial care and watch.
These women were Margaux’s favorite people. Of course they were, for she loved herself and could not help but love what she assumed, with enough time and along a path still so confused, she would one day become.
Hydra was only an hour or so ferry ride from Athens, but it felt like a world apart.
She hadn’t thought this through very well, what it would be like actually leaving. When she had received the text from Alex inviting her to come stay at his family house on Ios for a week, along with a few friends, Margaux hadn’t truly imagined leaving in and of itself.
She had imagined arriving, she had even imagined being on the journey between here and there. But she hadn’t thought of actually leaving Hydra, of parting when she was not yet full of it.
It was unfortunate Hydra was Hydra. It had of course been the source of great delight and incredible luck that Hydra was Hydra when Margaux had been stretching out her limbs in the sun, expecting her days to stretch on with no end in sight. But now things had changed. She sensed a small scarcity creep up her spine with the impending departure. She was not a graceful loser, she never wanted to leave a place until she had been there for so long, absorbed so much of it that she wanted to leave and never return. It made her difficult for others and life difficult for herself. Every ticket was one-way and few hotels were pre-booked. She often ended up sleeping in poor beds and paying too much, but it was a trade-off that she had tried and failed to shake; one of the only things she knew for certain was to never say goodbye until you surely wanted to leave.
The ferry was an hour late, bordering on two. She had hoped to arrive before the sky grew dark, but that was impossible now. Some couples were muttering their impatience, the respective husbands and boyfriends were growing more agitated with every passing moment as the wives and girlfriends grew more passive, seemingly retreating into an inner place where they weren’t sunburnt and their lovers were much sweeter.
Like an army who had breached a mountain face and decided to decamp, suitcases started hitting the ground as travelers began to sit on top of their bags or else squat above the hot stones, tearing out peaches and plums that had been bought with the expectation to be enjoyed on the sea. Spotifys began softly streaming a bleary mix of music and the conversations never ceased.
Margaux picked her way through the crowd until she stood next to the moon-faced woman from before. She wanted to, she thought, so she did.
“Do you know when the ferry’s supposed to arrive?” The woman asked, turning to her so sharply that she nearly smacked Margaux with her hair scarf. “If no one asks the port authority it will run on even later”
A slight joy spread in Margaux’s chest at being addressed, sometimes she felt all that was needed to make her happy were words.
“I don’t know sorry, I haven’t asked.” Margaux began, timidly at first before picking up speed. “I imagine it’ll be here any minute though, it’s two hours late already.”
“It’ll likely be longer now that it’s already late, we Greeks tend to like to double-down. I’ll go ask them.”
The woman left her luggage, small dog and husband behind her as she moved through the crowd. At first, trying to cut through the center then, when faced with the press of people, double-backed and went out and around the group.
Margaux looked back at the woman’s husband. He was silent and staring off somewhere behind his sunglasses; he was probably considered attractive for an older man. The two of them were likely seen as a well-matched pair. But he was too sullen for the moment, she wondered if they had had a fight. It must be terrible to fight.
The woman returned, bracing the minefield of suitcases between them by brazenly jumping over them.
“Apparently it’ll be here in thirty minutes, but they made sure I knew they were not sure and it was only their best guess. They told me no one knew when it would arrive, not even the ship’s captain, because the winds are strong and the seas are bad, even though it all looks very calm from here.” She took a moment to breathe strongly out of her nose, her husband still staring off.
The woman turned again to face Margaux and tilted her chin down as if to tell her a secret. Margaux loved stranger’s secrets.
“Do you believe them?” The woman asked her wrly
“Not by much, are you in a rush?”
The woman smiled and looked pleased to be asked. “Usually no, not at this time of year. But we’ve been forced to cut our time here short.”
She gestured to their little white curly-haired dog who was lying down on one of their bags, its small body rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. “He’s been sick for the last few days. Won’t eat anything we give him and has been whining constantly in the rare moments he’s awake. I wanted to leave immediately but Stavros,” She nodded to her husband, “Thought it would pass. It’s been too long now and even he is worried, so we’re going to Santorini. It’s much farther than Athens but it has a good vet and we didn’t want to end our vacation completely yet. We still have a month left.”
She paused, glancing at her husband to confirm he was still not listening. “Besides, this island is not so great anyways. We came here because some friends opened an art gallery and wanted us to join. We’re both Greek but neither of us had been to Hydra before so it felt like a good opportunity to go. There’s enough talk about it that it’d been on our list for ages but every time we come back home all we want to do is go to the places we used to go to when we were young. The things that remind us of home. But it’s underwhelming here, no? The people are not so nice and the food is not so good. It’s sad so many people come here and are so happy with it. Have you ever been to Koufonisia? It’s beautiful there, the beaches are perfect. Here it is just rock, there is no sand on the whole of the island. No, it is not very nice.” She shook her head as if dismissing the whole island she was standing on, wiping it off of the map in a single gesture.
Margaux liked it here, but she was also not Greek and wasn’t sure whether she could, or should, defend it.
“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been to as many islands as you, but I think it’s beautiful here.”
It was true. She did think it was beautiful here and now that she was pushed to think about it, she was certain it was not only beautiful but also special. It was a fragile conviction, one which she sheltered in her heart lest this lovely women tried to break it.
The woman’s thick brows stitched together. Margaux wanted to ask her her name.
“I might be jaded.” The woman said after a pause. “It’s nice to talk to a traveller. You can see my country clearer than I can, though I might be able to see it more honestly than you.”
Margaux let her breath rush out of her, forming some semblance of a soft laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Alexandra. My husband over there is Stavros and our poor sick puppy is Gigi. What’s your name?”
“Margaux.”
“You’re American, no?”
“Yes, but I’ve been living in London for the past few years.”
“We live in London!” She exclaimed and threw her excitement at her husband, who started, as if suddenly catching onto the conversation.
“You live in London too?” He asked, rising out of his stupor at the possibility of a shared talking point.
“I have been, yeah, but I’m not sure if I’m going to go back this year. I graduated two months ago so there’s nothing holding me there.”
Alexandra’s eyes shined knowingly.
“Yes but it’s good for business and everything works so well. It’s so easy to live there.” Stavros stated his opinion slowly, as if they had been waiting for him to come up with the conversation’s conclusion. His statement fell onto their words heavy and disconnected, he was either not listening, not caring or he simply thought he knew some far-off truth.
“It’s a low place sometimes, it’s always so grey and rainy and cold and the people are so repressed.” Margaux said. A chorus of agreement echoed out.
“Their drinking…” Alexandra shook her head. “It’s ridiculous, they hide all their emotions and thoughts then drink to let it finally come out.”
“So vulgar.” Stavros murmured, nodding his reluctant assent with downcast eyes.
The ferry arrived and the couple drifted away. The crowd moved too fast too slow, jerking their bags and their thumbs to remind each other why they had been waiting in the first place. In swift movements, the ship’s staff threw a great rope overboard, aiming for the dockmen below. Perhaps a hundred, perhaps a thousand people waited to board. The sun’s rays suddenly felt hotter, as if ensuring everyone’s backs would be burnt before leaving. Anticipation and anxiety took hold and the crowd began moving, elbows out at right degree angles, shuffling to get further ahead.
It is rare these days to see a human balk. No fear. If one is in a car, one knows how to drive it, capable. This thought, and her inability to drive a car, fled out of Margaux’s mind the moment the ship backed up against the dock, the sound of metal hitting rock ringing out across the port, reaching every eager ear like an encroaching army’s trumpets. The ship’s orange painted exterior was decorated with serial numbers and scrapes, different ways to recognize what you were getting into.
Descending from its lower hinges, the maw opened so slowly. The crowd, sweating and slightly nervous under the high afternoon sun, stopped jostling for a second. Silence encroached over the crying children and laughing teenagers. Spotifys were shut off.
A single person, young and alone, has only a single heart. In that moment, what Margaux felt, fluttering in the tips of her fingers and in the pit of her gut, was fear. She did not know how to see awe while feeling fear. Neither did anyone else she knew. But the crowd, the great crushing sweating heap all around, both pushing her forward and pulling her back, hoping to get closer, go first, have more; it knew.
It had many hearts; of all ages, sizes and shapes. The crowd was afraid, the crowd was in awe, the crowd was anxious, the crowd was calm. The crowd was moving forward, yet the center was always still. Too locked in were the legs that held it up for too little was their movement.
She wanted to leave. Hydra had held her fast in its grip until now; now she could see the next step.
She will rush onto the ship. It will be cool and dark. Crew members will shout the names of islands; they will grow very quiet and speak soft Greek when she asks them where her island is. In which room should she put her suitcase? They will look down at it, small, black and slightly broken. She will like it when she swings up her suitcase onto one of the shelves by herself; she will like the feeling of her shoulder muscles straining. She will enjoy being alone, moving through the crowd and not having to look back, a solitary figure in a long silk dress deep in the belly of the boat. Everybody will say good-bye, everybody will board, the boat will leave.
She won’t see Alexandra again, but she’ll think of her.
The above is a short story I wrote in 2021 that inspired my upcoming debut novel “Blue Sun, Orange Rain”. I rediscovered it last week and, after a bit of editing, I wanted to share it here with all of you lovely people.
I hope you enjoyed it.
xx Jasmine
I love secrets too.....thanks for the visuals
I loved reading this considering, I just got back from Greece and felt the same way about the rock and the dust.