Chapter 4.

  How everything in the world moves continuously and tirelessly, everything changes every moment of time. It is so difficult for us to realize that there is nothing that can stand still for even the slightest fraction of a second. But at the same time, nothing dies, they simply transform, turning from one form into something else. Like these waves, one transforms into another and so on again and again ad infinitum.

  Oh, how beautifully the sea shines! The diamond sea, millions of diamonds scattered across the water! Pure radiance, how it beckons us... I think this happens because the first thing we see at birth is a bright light. And this impression is so engraved in our memory that we, like moths, are drawn to everything that shines."

  I interrupted my thoughts and looked carefully at my painting, the main features of which were already being drawn, but between the brush strokes, the boiling white gaps of a blank canvas were still visible. In this pensive, trance-like state, my hand somehow created the painting of its own from a mosaic of shades. Memories intertwined with fantasies and dreams.

  I remembered how once a visitor to one of my solo exhibitions, which took place in the summer in an ancient fortress on the island, walked around the hall for a long time, carefully examining my paintings one after another. He either walked away a little further, or, putting on glasses, approached the paintings so close, almost touching the canvases with the tip of his long humped nose. Then he came up to me and asked what seemed to me a rather absurd question: “Sorry, Miss, I admire your exhibition, but let me ask, do you really see everything as beautiful as in your paintings?” I was surprised by this question, but my answer was not long in coming because my internal thoughts always said the opposite.

  - "Oh no, Sir! Not at all! I see this world a thousand times more beautiful!" I answered without thinking.

  It has always been this way. The feeling of delight has always gone hand in hand with my suffering from the fact that it is impossible to convey in a painting everything as delightful as I see! And here on the beach, working on the study, I thought:

 - “Oh God, if I could express on canvas all the true magic of color and light! I would become the happiest person on earth! Perhaps I want too much. Even God himself took several days to create the world as it is. Do I really want to surpass the Creator and express my delight on canvas in these insignificant couple of hours? No! All I can do is try to get just a little closer, just for one hundredth of a moment to touch this incomparable world with my brush. I need to paint more, work more and work harder. And only then, maybe... maybe..."

  My mind and hand somehow merged in synchronicity, while I myself was a kind of outside observer of the whole process and thoughts.

  The brush moved quickly. From the warmth of the sun, the paint on the palette melted and became soft, like butter that was left on the dining table after a meal.
I painted terracotta houses, emphasizing the precision of the architecture with straight strokes. Green bushes growing at the foot of the houses (the exact type of which I could not identify from afar) beautifully complemented the terracotta. I suddenly thought it would be great if I added some red strokes to it, and then it would look like a rose bush.
  - “Yes, this is a great idea! The result will be a truly May painting! May is the time for roses to bloom.” I said it out loud.
I took a clean brush and dipped it in red paint. Several bright scarlet strokes in the painting created the image of blooming roses. The painting instantly began to play as if by magic! This inner joy brought a satisfied smile on my face. It was a good decision, as if I had found the missing element for some mechanism. I thought that there is no happier person than an artist who realizes that his painting was a success!
  Being completely delighted, I decided to add a few more red brush strokes. I dipped the tip of the brush into the paint again when suddenly my hand shook and the brush slid down, leaving a long red mark on my palm.

  Just as I was reaching into my backpack for a paper towel to clean my hand, I suddenly heard the words behind me:

  - " Looks beautiful!"

  I turned around and saw a tall dark silhouette in front of me. It was that driver, and now, as it turned out, the cook from the tavern. He stood against the sun, casting his shadow on me. Squinting a little at this contrast, I raised my head and looked at him. He stood in front of me, and in his hands was a tray with a dish of deep-fried squid rings. The squid was served with a lettuce leaf, on which lay several pieces of ripe tomatoes and about a dozen purple olives. Everything was drizzled with golden olive oil and sprinkled with a pinch of oregano. A tall, foggy glass glass of ice-cold orange juice towered over this tempting still life.

  - “It’s not good to sit for half a day without lunch, and even under the scorching sun. Noon in Greece is a sacred time to relax and have a snack.” He said.

  Before I had time to say anything, he confidently straightened the blanket on which I was sitting, put a tray there and sat down next to me, laying out the cutlery for me.

  - "Oh! There's no need to worry so much. I'm not hungry at all." I said, being completely surprised by his appearance.  Frankly, my words sounded unconvincing. The slight growling feeling in my empty stomach suggested otherwise. And after I saw his treat, my voice sounded much softer and more friendly than it did then in the tavern.

  - “Put down your brush and start while the squid is still hot and the juice is cold!”
He said smiling and moved the tray closer to me.
I instantly felt such warmth in my heart, such selfless care that you can only feel from your parents. This made me feel good!
  - “Thank you, this looks very appetizing!” I said, and perhaps that smile that I owed him for the olive oil appeared on my face.
  - "My name is Leonidas, what's your name?" He asked.
  - "My name is Nicole." I answered and extended my hand to him, without taking my eyes off his eyes. In his kind gaze at the same time there was something sharp. Something that somehow ran counter to the kindness in eyes. And my sharp eye as an artist immediately noticed this. 

 He extended his hand to me in response and our palms joined. His hand was strong, but at the same time soft and warm. Holding his hand in mine, time seemed to freeze for me for a moment. Although, judging by my reasoning, a couple of minutes ago this seemed impossible. I didn’t expect to feel something like that with a complete stranger to me. This alarmed me a little, and quickly opening my hand, I suddenly saw that a trace of oil paint from my hand was imprinted on his palm. Scarlet paint like blood shone on our palms. It was similar to what happens in the gypsy wedding ritual, when, according to ancient tradition, the newlyweds make cuts on their palms and connect them so that the blood on the wounds mixes and joins. From the moment of “unity of blood,” two people who were previously strangers to each other were considered relatives, and moreover, one whole.
  Seeing the paint on his hand, he smiled.
  - “Oh, sorry, that’s just the way it is with painting. Paint always ends up literally everywhere.” I said, feeling some awkwardness and handed him a napkin.
  - “Here, take it, wipe it off before you get all your clothes dirty.”

  We sat quietly on the seashore and I leisurely ate squid. On the outside they crunched pleasantly in the teeth, but on the inside they were hot and soft. The sea splashed quietly, and a honey aroma came from the pine forest.

  He sat next to me on my left and, occasionally glancing at him, I managed to see his face. It was outlined by wide cheekbones, which looked very harmonious with his strong physique. Light green, almond-shaped eyes glowed from behind wide black eyebrows. A beautiful straight nose with a barely noticeable hump on the bridge of the nose. The slight stubble did not look unpleasant; on the contrary it looked very well-groomed. The tan beautifully set off his straight, dark walnut-colored hair, and some of the sun-bleached curls turned golden on the top of his head. Two moles on his right cheek were set very close to each other and involuntarily caught my eye from time to time. On his right shoulder, from under the short sleeve of a T-shirt, a tattoo crawled onto his forearm. I noticed only the very edge; it looked like fishing nets, but overall I couldn’t make out what exactly it was depicting.

  Leonidas turned to me, as if he had caught my scrutinizing gaze on him, and said: “You see, I’m not that crazy,” and smiled.

  He continued: “Perhaps I should apologize for what happened on the road. I was informed that my new tavern employee, a novice cook, inadvertently spilled hot oil on himself. And I drove as fast as I could to help him and call a doctor as soon as possible. So please accept my apologies for scaring you then."

  - “So that’s the thing! I guess that explains everything. Ok. I don’t hold a grudge against you. Moreover, after such a delicious lunch it’s impossible.” I said, threading another squid ring onto my fork.

  - "So this is your tavern?" I asked.

  - “Yes, I can say that. In general, this is a family tavern. The woman who serves dishes to visitors is my aunt. She is also my godmother. That’s what I call her Νονά (Nona. Godmother). She is only my godmother, but something like that It’s a tradition that everyone around her calls her Nona, so you can call her too, she will only be pleased. My father is in charge of purchasing groceries, fresh fish, vegetables, everything needed for the tavern. Since everyone works in the tavern, my mother takes care of the house, she is a wonderful housewife, her shrimp pasta is impossible to tear yourself away from, and her apple pie is the stuff of legends in the village. And I also have a brother. My brother, he... "

  Here he suddenly interrupted and his previously cheerful expression on his face was replaced by some kind of annoyance.

  - “Well, eat, don’t get distracted. I probably talk too much about my family,” he said.

  I picked up the ice glass, which was covered with small crystal droplets, like dew, and took several full sips of the sweet, bright orange drink. And in an instant I half emptied the glass.

  Leonidas turned and began to thoughtfully examine my painting. He looked first at the canvas, then into the distance at the terracotta houses with bushes. And suddenly he said. "You see more than this landscape says!"

This sounded somehow incomprehensible.

  - "What do you mean?" I asked.

  - "Flowers... you painted red roses, but they aren't really there.." He said, perplexed.

  - "Yes, I thought it would be beautiful if there were red roses blooming there. Don't you think so?" I said.

  - “When I saw them in the painting, it surprised me. Do you know that these bushes in the distance are really roses? But they haven’t bloomed for many years.” He continued...

  - “In our village there is a legend, beautiful, but very sad. More precisely, this actually happened about thirty years ago. And this quite real story has managed to acquire various tales over the years.” He told.

  Hearing about roses, I suddenly remembered my strange dream, which  I had last night. This coincidence excited me. Then I felt a slight trembling run through my body. A cold bead of sweat rolled from my chest down. My breathing quickened, I took a deep breath and said: "Tell me the story, I want to know!"   Leonidas continued: “Many years ago, when I was still a very small child, there lived a girl in our village. She was completely special. As the old people say, she was absolutely beautiful! She had long thick hair the color of a raging flame and pale porcelain skin. But she was not special only with her amazing and unusual beauty for Greece. The locals called her the muse of Halkidiki, so to speak, the guardian of the peninsula. She was as if one with this land. She knew how to talk to trees, the sea, and stones, and they answered her. (look how it was) She saw the future, healed people. People from all over the world came to our village to meet her and came for help. Everything blossomed and flourished around her! People came here, built houses, hotels, restaurants. There was life around her! Her name was Maria. And she planted these roses near her house more than thirty years ago. It was so beautiful! Imagine, the edge of the beach in spring was dotted with scarlet buds. The locals admired and appreciated this place. But then something happened that no one expected. A tragedy has occurred. Under unexplained circumstances, Maria drowned at sea. Immediately after her death, the grief-stricken father cut off all the rosebuds and scattered them across the sea in memory of his daughter, of the miracle that God gave him so briefly and so suddenly took him to heaven. These rose bushes continued to grow, but since then they have never bloomed, not a single bud has appeared on them in all these thirty years. And now I was surprised when I saw the bright blooming rosebuds in your painting."

  He paused and looked at me. My eyes were filled with tears. I listened to his story, looked at the sea and seemed to see it all before my eyes. I've never been overly sentimental, but something about this stirred my soul.

He suddenly saw my tears and a little timidly put his palm on mine.

  - "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I couldn't even think..." He said, wanting to calm me down. It seemed that he already regretted starting his story.

  - "This is such an unusual story." I said sobbing and wiping my eyelashes, wet and sticky from tears, with a napkin.

  - “And her parents, do they still live here?” I asked.

  Leonidas continued: “After this misfortune, they could not stay here, everything in the village reminded them of their daughter and caused unbearable pain. They quickly sold their house and moved far away, as they said, to another part of Greece. In general, in fact, there is a lot of incomprehensible things in this legend There were also rumors about some treasures..."

  - "Treasures?" I asked again.

  - "Yes, some incredible wealth that were allegedly given to Maria by a certain rich man as a sign of gratitude for her help. But I don't know all the details. I was still a boy then and it didn’t bother me much. However, my aunt knew Maria well. They were the same age as her and even seemed to be friends. If you want, she'd better tell you this story. She likes to retell it. Talk to her and show her your painting with roses. She'll be surprised! " He said holding my hand.

  I felt his tenderness and care. It was so strange, because just a couple of hours ago he almost hit me on the road and my first impression of Leonidos was, to put it mildly, unpleasant. And now we are sitting next to each other and I feel his care. “Oh, why did I allow myself to show my tears in front of a person I barely knew?” I thought. My unexpected sentimentality made me feel terribly awkward. And I wanted to run away.

  I jumped up sharply and said.

  - “Thank you for lunch, Leonidas, it was very tasty! However, it’s time for me to go. The painting is finished. And I still have to go to the post office. The messenger who brought me the notice said that it is located in the main square.”
  - “Yes, it’s on the next parallel street. Around the turn.” He stood up from the blanket he was sitting on and pointed in the direction of the road with his hand.
  - “I can take you there,” he said.
  - "No, thank you. I'll find it. It's impossible to get lost in Greek villages. The main thing is to always keep to the sea." I answered.
I handed him the tray, put all the art tools in the backpack and began hastily packing the blanket in there.
 - “Well, all the best to you,” I said.
  - “Be careful on the road,” Leonidas shouted after me, while I quickly walked along the beach and kicked up the sand with my soles. Because of this, large grains of sand fell into my sneakers and scraped my feet, but the desire to quickly disappear was too great to calm my step. Some kind of understatement hanging in the air between us made me want to look back and maybe exchange a couple more phrases. But I restrained myself.

  Not even a minute had passed before I had already saddled my bike and disappeared behind the houses on the embankment.  Behind them there was a sharp turn, after which I saw a small village square, the center of which was headed by a beautiful fountain. I stopped to take a closer look. The central composition of the fountain was carved from a single piece of natural snow-white marble, in the rock of which some inclusions sparkled when exposed to sunlight. I once saw such boiling white marble on one of the beaches of island Thassos. The spectacle was truly impressive and even surreal! The snow-white marble pebbles with wich was strewn the entire shore glowed in the sun and created a bright, somewhat painful contrast for the eyes, in which on a clear day the sea seemed dark emerald, and the sky even somehow violet. I once read in a magazine that this type of marble is considered one of the most expensive in the world and several of the most beautiful and rich mosques in Saudi Arabia are decorated with it.
  The sculpture of the village fountain artfully depicted the scene of the biblical story of Noah's Ark. It was made in exquisite, laconic forms without excessive elaboration of details. The composition stood on the same marble rectangular base, where the inscription “With boundless gratitude as a gift to the village” was engraved in capital letters and below was the signature of Dionysios Theodorakis.
The fountain's reservoir was empty.
“Rare beauty!” I thought. “I can imagine how this ark, white as an iceberg, would look in the streams of crystal flowing water. It's a pity that it is not working right now."

  With difficulty tearing my admiring gaze away from the fountain, I looked around and saw a yellow and blue sign “ΕΛΤΑ. Ταχυδρομείο.” (National Greek Post).

  The national post office was a stone's throw away. I leaned the bike against the bench by the fountain and, taking my passport and notice out of my backpack pocket, I went to the post office. It was cool in the tiny room of the post office; an old air conditioner was working above the door and making terrible gurgling sounds.

  As soon as I entered the hall, I heard a voice from somewhere: “We are closing” I walked closer to the cash register, when suddenly the same nimble messenger jumped out.

  - "Hello, I've come to pick up a parcel." I said.

  - “Ah, it’s you. You barely made it. Give me your passport and notification.” He said and in addition muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

   Upon closer inspection, I noticed that under his shaggy mustache he hides a large, fleshy upper lip, the size of which makes his speech somewhat slurred. He took my notification and, without getting up from his chair, stretched almost double. Showing almost acrobatic feats, he reached out with his hand to a pile of different boxes that stood near the door to the utility room. He took the package that was on top of this entire mail pile and gave it to me. I looked at it from all sides to find the name of the sender. It looked like an ordinary cardboard box the size of a shoe box and was covered up and down with all sorts of stamps and stickers. It was difficult to make out anything at first glance and there was no time to do this at the post office. Moreover, the messenger already clearly hinted to me about this, as soon as I managed to cross the threshold. I stuffed the package into my backpack and decided to open it at home in a quiet environment where nothing would distract me...

 Read Chapter 5 ➔