Free Aphrodite's Island by Hilary Green Page B

the land of the lotus eaters, the island where the lotus grew and any man who tasted it immediately forgot home and family and wanted only to lie and rest and listen to the music of the place. Isn’t there apoem by Tennyson? ‘
There is sweet music here that softer falls, Than petals from blown roses on the grass
…’ Or was that Shakespeare in
The Tempest
? ‘
The isle is full of music, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not
…’ Oh, to be able to write like that! It has been my dream since childhood but so far my only successes have been a short story published in
Writers
’
News
and a couple of poems in obscure magazines.
    The blare of a horn brings me back to reality and I realize that I have allowed the car to drift perilously close to the centre of the narrow road.
‘Watch out,’
I tell myself,
‘Looks like the lotus has got you in its grip already!’
    I pass through a village or two of dusty-fronted shops, their wares crowding the pavements, and houses where small children study my passing with vast dark eyes. There are some hotels, closer to the sea, but not the solid wall of concrete that ruins so many other Mediterranean resorts, and in the spaces between them the waves break in creamy foam on a rocky shore. I pass an army barracks where a sentry sits drowsily behind a table, then more hotels, and finally come to the turning signposted Lapta.
    The road climbs and twists past white villas enclosed behind high walls. The village is spread out along several narrow lanes and for a while I drive around without any clear sense of direction. Eventually, at the highest point, where the escarpment of the mountains rises so steeply that any further building is impossible, I come to a place where a spring spouts from the rock face below a building which proclaims itself a bar and restaurant. A glance at the photograph is enough to be sure that this is not the Café Anonymou, even by another name, but I am thirsty by now, so I park the car and find a table on a terrace overlooking the village and the steep drop to the sea.
    I order a Coca-Cola from the owner, a dark, wiry man with a drooping moustache, and when he brings it I ask, ‘Is there another bar in the village, called the Café Anonymou?’
    He frowns and answers in heavily accented English, ‘No places with Greek names here.’
    ‘No, of course not,’ I correct myself hastily. ‘It used to be called that, a long time ago. Perhaps the name has been changed.’
    ‘I come here twelve years ago, from Turkey,’ he says. ‘No place like that here then. No Greeks here – not no more.’
    ‘It wasn’t Greeks who owned it,’ I tell him. ‘The owners were English – my father and mother.’
    ‘You live here then?’
    ‘Yes, but I can’t remember where it was.’
    ‘Your mother and father not remember?’
    ‘They’re both dead.’
    ‘Dead?’ His face softens a little. ‘That is sorry.’ He begins to wipe the table and it looks as if I have drawn a blank. Then he looks up, his eyes brightening. ‘English man and lady living here, in village. Old people. Maybe they remember?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps they might. Can you tell me where they live?’
    The route takes me back over a road I have already traversed but, as I draw up outside the house, I experience a shock of recognition . There are the three Moorish arches and the terrace, now empty of its tables and bright sun umbrellas. The sign above the door has gone, but I am in no doubt that this is the house in the photograph. As I walk up the path from the road, I have an uncanny sense of familiarity, almost as if I have become a small child again, wandering home after playing with friends in the village.
    My knock at the door is answered by a small, grey-haired man with a face like an elderly gnome and thin legs protruding from oversized khaki shorts.
    He greets me with a cheerful smile. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
    Suddenly I don’t know what to say. I have not given any