Free White Moon Black Sea by Roberta Latow

excitement had been building for days. It had all been planned, the cooking had begun hours before and, as some of the guests dressed in their best spilled out of the vehicles, others were even now walking into the square.
    The women, with the exception of Humayun, all looked more like men acting as women dressed in black, their heads covered and tied in black scarves. Some had been bold enough to put on beautiful old embroidered waistcoats or some traditional silver Cretan jewelery. They wore no makeup, and even though some had very weathered skin, their natural beauty shone through it.
    There was much clucking and praise and some chastisement for Christos as his men unloaded the back of the Range Rover, putting things out of the hot sun onto the veranda of the village shop. These were in addition tothe endless ouzo, arrak, and retsina, plus Cretan delicacies from all three villages.
    It was a day full of vitality. From the many gathered together, opinions and arguments were expressed loudly and clearly representing the collective mind and voice and essence of the three assembled villages.
    As for the guests of honor, they loved it all. Loved this personal and intimate Crete they were privileged to be a part of. They saw it at its best up in that village that day. The villagers displayed the stubbornness the Cretans are famous for, the natural pride that they have, the supreme arrogance and elegance of people from truly poor villages. The guests were aware of the savage passions stirring in these people, made explicit in stories that made them understand that hundreds of years of sieges, battles, poverty, and famine had served to shape the unyielding, obdurate character of these people. They heard stories of famous vendettas, heroism during the Second World War and the German Occupation. There was so much spirit, so much life in such a barren, poor little village.
    It was a wonderful day. One where reality was fresh and went from impulse to impulse. Rashid, Christos, and Humayun could see that the impulses were not always praiseworthy. There was some pique, there were flashes of jealousy. And, although they saw no outburst of it, since they knew well what lust was, they saw it in some of the men’s eyes. There was a natural cunning in the Greeks: Rashid had known it from dealing with them in business, and he saw signs of it here. He saw these things as part of their character and accepted them as such.
    The three kept up with the festivities, which went on until late in the afternoon. They were moved by the passion and beauty of the tough and rugged men dancing together. Then, with much protestation, the villagers finally accepted all the provisions Christos had brought, and the guests of honor were allowed to say good-bye and leave.
    They left as they had come, in a convoy, and with the same two young men with their rifles insisting — in case of trouble on the road — they see them to their
rendez-vous
with the helicopter a few miles away. And there was trouble on the road. Halfway between the village and the
rendez-vous
point a tire on the Range Rover blew out and had to be changed.
    Humayun and Rashid struggled up a steep, stony, arid hill which sloped down to a beautiful valley and an olive grove. Both were drunk and very happy. They had agreed to return to the Range Rover in a half hour. Now they wandered among the rocks and boulders until they chose a spot, a large sheet of stone made smooth as satin by the wind and the rain, balanced precariously like a shelf from the side of the mountain. From there they could see over the valley and the mountains to a ribbon of blue in the distance, the sea.
    A warm, caressing wind rippled their clothes, and the untamed, relentless nature of the place took possession of them. Rashid kissed Humayun passionately. There was a primitive, feral sexuality about him at that moment. She recognized its possible dangers and said, “I think we must go back, darling,” knowing in her heart