The group who stood ready to plunge into the sea that January morning had been carefully selected. They were members of the town’s water-polo squad and, for several of them, it was their tenth year of taking part. A position in the squad gave them more status in the town than even being a member of the town council or police force. The chance to take part in the Theophania ritual, to dive for the cross the priest would soon throw into the sea, was just one of the privileges. But for Giorgos Ziras, the team’s newest member, it was difficult to enjoy the prestige when the rest of the squad resented his arrival. He had been training with them for a long time, but once the coach had started picking him for key games last season, their dislike of him had become evident.
The joining of a new member usually meant the imminent departure of an existing one and, a few days before, Mihalis Nikopoulos had been told that he would not be needed that season. For a decade, he had been the backbone of the team, its highest-ever goal-scorer, and now he had been given the news of his dismissal. Without any sense of tact, the coach told him that he could have one last go at retrieving the cross but that, this coming summer, his ten years as captain of the team were over. Mihalis was a tough character, but the coach even more so. Mihalis betrayed no emotion, but a bomb inside him began to tick.
Giorgos Ziras’s speed and agility in the water were much admired by the coach, and had won him the place in the team. Mihalis had the power of a small speedboat, but he was losing too many points for fouls and had become a liability to the team.
Palm fronds had been erected in an arch on the swimmers’ platform, and the contenders stood beneath it. Giorgos was smaller and younger than the rest. Most of the others jostled about, having mock-fights, easy and familiar with one another. Many of them had been together in the team for several years. The majority were impressively well built, with powerful torsos that were the result of physical training or recent army service. Giorgos knew that he would never look like them. Even though he swam every day in the summer, any physical training just made him skinnier. Despite his grandmother’s insistence that he was like a swordfish, the only sea creature he really resembled was a sea-snake, an eel-like creature that Giorgos had once seen in local waters.
Giorgos noticed Mihalis staring down into the water and not joining in with the joshing. Suddenly, he looked up and fixed Giorgos with a penetrating stare.
The younger man had never felt the power of such hatred and looked away immediately. He shivered, feeling his body temperature drop a few degrees, and drew his towel more tightly around him.
At the front of the ever-swelling crowd stood Margerita Ziras, holding her son’s clothes. Giorgos glanced across at her, needing his mother’s reassurance, but he could see that she was as nervous as him, her face taut and tense. She managed a half-wave.
Everyone was out in the streets that day: more than a thousand people dressed in their best, some almost in wedding finery, coiffured, perfumed, on parade. This was a social occasion as well as a religious one. Sunlight fell dazzlingly on the water, and the spectators who lined the water’s edge put up a hand to shield their eyes. Some even donned a pair of fashionable sunglasses that made the men look mafioso (something they did not mind) and the women a little more Jackie O. For a few, the opportunity to greet each other and to calculate the cost of a neighbour’s jewellery was enough to bring them out on to the street.
They heard the town band coming closer, as the priests, their attendants, the mayor and other municipality dignitaries processed from the church. There were local representatives from the army and navy, too. Anyone who had a uniform put it on that day, and wore it proudly.
Giorgos looked around and, over the heads of the crowd, he could see the top of a priest’s hat and the flash of brass instruments behind. The column of people finally appeared and continued down towards the sea. With great difficulty, encumbered by the weight and volume of their robes, the clergy climbed into a small fishing boat. There were gasps of consternation as one of the priests, who weighed nearly two hundred kilos, tipped the boat almost to the point of capsize.
The youths on the platform knew that their moment was coming. Soon, the most senior priest would throw the cross into the water and the contenders would dive in, racing to be the one to retrieve it. The winner would be specially blessed but, more importantly, would achieve a hero’s status in the town. For ten years, Mihalis had been that winner, effortlessly lapping through the icy water to find the cross.
The friendly pushing and shoving on the swimmers’ platform had stopped now. Towels were dropped to the ground, goggles pulled down over their eyes. The boys watched as the little motorboat, dangerously low in the water, with its holy cargo and the fisherman at the helm, made its way across the sea.
Finally, the boat came to rest. The priest stood and began to speak. It was nearly time. Giorgos felt his heart pounding with nerves, with fear, with anticipation of the cold. He also felt a sharp stab in his back. It was one of the swimmers elbowing him out of the way. Everyone was jostling for a position at the front. He felt himself being nudged towards the side. Jumping into the water early would mean instant disqualification, and his toes gripped desperately on to the edge of the platform.
The priest held up the cross, and the crowd fell silent. All eyes were focused on the glint of gold. The priestly incantations continued, almost drowned out by the spluttering of the boat’s engine. The cross was attached to a long ribbon and the priest hurled it into the water, then pulled it up again. Once. Twice. On the third immersion, he released the ribbon and the cross flew free. This was the signal. Giorgos felt another firm shove in his side that pushed him off the side of the platform. His leg grazed against the splintering wood as he fell clumsily into the sea.
Even as he swam, he felt a foot in his stomach and another in his face. His goggles were slipping off his head and into the water, and he felt the salty sting in his eyes and realised that he had lost them. The sea was opaque, green, and with the froth of a dozen swimmers around him it was impossible to see. He came gasping to the surface, coughing, foolish, blind.
Ahead of him, towards the priest, there was an eddy of water. All the swimmers must have dived beneath the surface now, so he took a lungful of air and went under. With small movements of his feet, he glided towards the blurred outline of the group that he could make out beneath the water. It was a mass of pale flesh apparently joined into one body, a many-legged monster beneath the waves. The youths must be somewhere close to the cross.
He had heard rumours that the ‘winner’ of the cross was always prearranged, but he dismissed the idea, knowing that he was the fastest swimmer and had to be in with a chance. By now, the other swimmers were running out of breath and, one by one, they were making their way to the surface. Giorgos continued to dive. He saw a glint, the corner of the cross. There was another swimmer still down there. A broad body, with a gold chain around the neck. Mihalis. As Giorgos approached, he swam off, displaying the row of dolphins that were tattooed up his back and neck, visible even in the murky, underwater light.
He must be going up for air, Giorgos thought. Now was his opportunity. He had only a second or two left. This was his chance.
The cross was held captive, wedged beneath a rock. What the other swimmers had not done was try to shift the rock. They had just pulled at the cross. Giorgos stood on the floor of the sea and leaned. The rock rolled, and he nudged the cross with his toe. It came free. In one swift movement, he took the ribbon and jerked it upwards. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs, a roar in his ears and a sudden claustrophobia. He kicked his way to the surface, holding the precious cross above his head so that it would appear first, so that the crowd would see it. He came up, gasping, inside the circle of a dozen or so swimmers.
Some embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks to acknowledge his victory, but he could sense the half-heartedness of their response. He had not been expected to win.
It was impossible to see their expressions behind g
oggles, but a break appeared in the circle so he swam towards the little boat. The priest leaned down to receive the cross.
Then Giorgos made his way back towards dry land. By the time he reached the platform, the other swimmers were all standing there. A hand reached out. It belonged to his schoolfriend Leonidas. Exhausted and weak, he struggled out of the water. His mother was standing there, offering him his towel.
As he rubbed himself dry and looked around, he realised that someone was missing from the platform. Suddenly, he was aware that a name was being repeated all around him.
‘Where is Mihalis?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Was he down there?’
Questions came flying at him from all directions.
‘He was … I saw him …’
Nobody was listening.
Three or four swimmers dived back into the water and swam towards the area where the cross had been found. One of the swimmers swam across to the boat to alert the priest. By now, a few other boats were circling, and everyone in them peered down into the water.
People were exclaiming and shouting and pointing. A wave of consternation passed through the spectators, too. Giorgos heard the inconsolable wails of Mihalis’s mother and sisters. Soon, a message was being sent to a diver in a nearby town.
Giorgos searched the surface of the waves, his eyes replaying those last moments when he had seen Mihalis. He remembered how he had swum off just as he approached, and it had not been towards him but away from him.
People were crowding around him again.
‘Was he there?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘What happened down there?’
‘Did he have the cross?’
‘Did he get it first?’
With a sickening sense of fear and panic, Giorgos could feel the rumours already beginning to circulate. It was well known that he and Mihalis were rivals in the team and that he had displaced the stronger, older man. Mihalis had successfully turned the rest of the team against him, and this was obvious both when they were in the water and when they were out of it. It was something more than rivalry. It was bitter acrimony, especially after the previous season, when Giorgos had outshone the more experienced player’s goal performance. Now they were looking for Mihalis’s body, and they knew that he must have been the last one to see him.
For three days they searched. Teams of residents patrolled the shores of nearby beaches in case he’d been washed up on one. Prevailing currents meant that he might be found further north, on one of the stretches of sand. Nothing. So there was no funeral, no finality to the story, and Mihalis’s father made it clear to everyone in the kafenion on whom the suspicion fell.
The police talked to everyone, and to Giorgos last of all. By this time, they had built a picture of the relationship between the two men. In spite of the gossip that Mihalis had been involved in various local crimes, no one wanted to believe ill of their sporting hero. They ignored the armed robbery in mid-December in which two men had been killed. Mihalis’s brother and uncle had been caught in the act and would soon be on trial for murder. Witnesses had all mentioned a third man and some had been expecting Mihalis’s arrest. Giorgos had never been in any sort of trouble, but no one cared about that. Instead, they painted an image of him as a ruthless competitor who was capable of doing anything in order to win. With no body and no evidence, he could not be arrested or formally charged, but the community had made up its mind who was to blame.
Giorgos could not leave town. It would have been an admission of guilt to flee like a fugitive, and to arrive somewhere else, without family, friends or past. Nobody did that unless they had something to hide. He even began to wonder himself if he was guilty in some way.
‘What people don’t want to hear, they won’t listen to,’ said his friend Leonidas.
The coach apologised to Giorgos when he told him he would have to drop him, but without the full support of his fellow team members they could not cohere as a team. His former team-mates went on to great glory in the national championships, and three of the players took part in the next Olympic Games.
Giorgos got himself a job an hour’s drive away in a company that packed and exported feta cheese. He continued to live with his mother but never showed his face in the centre of town. From April to October, he would stop on his way home to swim alone on a deserted and inaccessible beach, but in the winter months he went straight home.
Three years after the ‘death’ of Mihalis, a service was held at the church. The congregation matched the Theophania crowd for size.
For nearly forty years Giorgos had lived in this way, like a shadow. He existed, but had no presence. Perhaps the most painful part had been to watch the decline of his mother. They never spoke of the event, but Giorgos knew that she felt the weight of her son’s unprovable innocence and the stigma that had surrounded the family since that January morning. It had affected her everyday life, too.
Coming to the Theophania was his way of reinforcing his innocence. It was the only day when it mattered to him to hold his head high. The swimmers were now the children and grandchildren of his own generation, but many of the spectators were the same.
He could not ask one of these robed clerics to forgive him, as there was nothing to forgive. In order to seek absolution, you had first to offer the sin. Four decades on, he still stood alone, feeling simultaneously guilty and innocent. A criminal without a crime.
This year, as always, Giorgos looked about at the people in the crowd to ensure he was not uncomfortably close to anyone who knew him. He particularly avoided the men who had swum on the day of Mihalis’s disappearance.
As he looked to his left, something caught his eye. It was the back of a man’s neck. Peeking out above the collar of a cheap leather jacket, he saw the snout of a dolphin. The owner was virtually bald, so it was particularly noticeable. Tattoos had become more popular than ever in recent years, but it was less usual to see one on a man this age.
A strong sense of ill-ease swept over Giorgos and he felt a sweat break out on his back. The man in front of him was wearing semi-opaque sunglasses and a dark blue cap, and his features were obscured by its brim. He stood on the edge of the crowd. Could it be him? Could it really be Mihalis Nikopoulos, after all these years? In height he seemed the same, but his bulk seemed a little reduced.
Whether or not it was the man who had invisibly destroyed his life, Giorgos’s instinct was to create a distance between them. His shaking legs slowed him down in his attempt to get away. As he walked, he encountered one of the few people with whom he still communicated. It was his loyal schoolfriend Leonidas, who had never once doubted Giorgos’s innocence.
‘Giorgos … ti kaneis?’ he asked. ‘How are you?’
Leonidas studied his friend with concern. Giorgos’s face was drained of all colour.
‘Are you all right?’ he persisted, touching Giorgos’s elbow.
‘You know …’ Giorgos replied, his voice quivering. ‘The same as ever. And you? The children? The grandchildren?’
‘Ola kala,’ said his friend. ‘All’s well.’
The cross had just been thrown into the water and the crowd surged forward slightly to watch the frothing water. The turnout was bigger than ever this year and, these days, the words of the priests were amplified. A voice boomed out across the water and Leonidas had to shout to make himself heard above it.
‘Did you hear?’
‘Hear what?’ shouted Giorgos cupping his hand.
‘About old Markos Nikopoulos. Died yesterday.’
It gave Giorgos a jolt to hear the name. He had glimpsed Mihalis’s father from time to time but had always managed to avoid coming face to face with him.
‘His funeral is—’
‘Today?’
‘This afternoon. I just saw the notice.’
So the son had returned for his father’s funeral. It made sense. It was the only event that would bring a man back under such circumstances, eve
n if he discreetly remained in the shadows on his visit so that nobody else was aware of his presence, except perhaps close family. Giorgos knew beyond doubt that the man he had seen was Mihalis Nikopoulos. He knew he was alive.
The tears rolled down his face.
Leonidas was baffled. Why was his friend showing such grief at the death of the Nikopoulos father? It did not quite make sense.
The relief almost tore Giorgos apart. Exoneration. Vindication. Absolution. The words circled in his mind.
He was sobbing uncontrollably now, and Leonidas held him in his arms to support him.
Therefore with joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation.
Let us beseech the Lord for this water that it may be sanctified by the power and virtue and descent of the Holy Ghost …
Like a mighty tidal wave, the words of the priest rang out over the sea.
The ritual of the Theophania was so dramatic, so bold, so unexpected. To see people in the sea on a January day was surreal, and it left a deep impression on me. The sheer physicality of the athletes, performing with an accompaniment of music and chanting, made me wish that the traditions of the Church of England were more colourful.
Even the back of Giorgos’s head, which I saw only in the distance, seemed to speak of his years of continual, silent suffering. All those decades of existing in the shadow of a bad memory and an unspoken accusation must have taken an enormous toll. He had lost more than half his life living in the twilight, but the reappearance of Mihalis Nikopoulos gave him the opportunity for renewal, a second baptism.
There was a moment as I was listening to this story when I told myself that I must not let the years drift by, that I must seize life and start again – and with conviction. During these warm, early days of January, I felt myself begin to thaw. The ‘halcyon days’ really are intoxicating, and Leonidas told me why they are so called. According to Ovid, Alcyone, the daughter of Aeolus, who ruled the winds, hurled herself into the sea when her husband drowned. The couple were transformed into kingfishers (halcyons) and when Alcyone made her nest on the beach, her father calmed the seas in order to protect her eggs. These days of winter serenity are said to be for these nesting birds, and I admit that they gave me a wonderful sense of peace, too. I stayed on in Preveza to enjoy them, eating each night with Leonidas and Dora. Dora, as her husband had boasted, was a great cook, and she was determined to fatten me up. I had lost several kilos in the weeks after your non-appearance and my clothes were hanging off me, but by the time I left Preveza I was beginning to look healthy again.