The Port

He once dreamed of me and wanted to write me into his dreams...

Photo by Mauricio Muñoz on Unsplash

The path led to a house situated by itself. From the house, the path cut sharply up a steep hill and ran to the chapel on top. It was one the few houses on the island that existed in semi-isolation. A laundry line had been secured between the two porch posts. Bright colored swimsuits fluttered in the wind. How oddly beautiful they looked. She listened to the swimsuits flapping. She passed quietly, not wanting to upset whatever magic was conjured there. She continued up the hill. There were places where the path had been carved like steps into the stone. She reached the hilltop and saw that the chapel was small, smaller than she had expected. The building looked like it had been shaped from the dust and fitted with a tin roof. There were but three windows, and they were barred with iron rods. She calculated the structure to be 15’ by 20’ with a 7’ ceiling. The door was closed and padlocked. There was only one door that she could see. She figured that an average sized man would need to stoop to fit under it. She tried the padlock, but it was secure. She then looked through each window. The walls were crowded with icons. There were hooks where smocks were hung. There were elaborate candelabras crowned with unlit candles. The benches looked heavy and old. She cupped her hands around her eyes to see better, but there was nothing more to see. She thought she could smell the dust and darkness in the room. It was quiet. All was quiet.

She checked to see if there were shoe prints from others who might have visited the chapel, but she didn’t see any. She knew it was possible that people came to the chapel only three or four times a year, sometimes less. Hardly anything grew on the hill. Weed patches, short, sharp bushes, and sharp stones rimmed the hilltop. She brushed off a flat stone within a few feet of the chapel door and sat down and took out her notebook. She began to sketch the chapel. The sketch was loosely made. She rubbed a bit of dirt into the picture to color the walls and wetted her finger with saliva and blended the ink into shadows and shade. She penned a name for the chapel, calling it simply “Hilltop.” Then she wrote the date in small, cursive print at the bottom of the page. When she had finished the sketch, she set the notebook down and noticed where her hand had sweated onto the paper. She pulled a bottle of water out from her rucksack and took a long drink and afterwards put the bottle back into the bag. Inside the ruck, the water would stay cooler longer. It had been necessary for her to learn these things. How to sketch. How to smudge ink. How to keep water cool.

The chapel was not ancient, though there could have been another chapel or altar buried beneath its foundation. It is not uncommon for chapels to have been built at the site of other chapels or for altars to have been built upon altars. Believers will claim the holy places of other believers. Old gods are banished for new gods. Poseidon had been usurped by Saint Nikolaos and Helios by the Prophet Elias. Humans have walked with gods before they could name them. Eleanor stood up and brushed back her hair. She felt harbored by the blue of the sky. She saw the main port. She saw the mountains on the southern tip of the Mani. White clouds rose and faded between the peaks. She saw islands eastward and south in the Aegean. Here was the world of old beliefs and believers. Within in it, gods had commanded the sea, the sky, the shape of the earth. Here the gods had travelled upon winds. The people who had built the chapel believed this, and so did those who came before them. She thought about this. When we see the places where people worship then we might understand something more about why they worship. Where does the sun rise in relationship to a temple? Where does the sun set and what constellations story through the night sky? Is there a nearby river or a grove of ancient trees? Can we see approaching storms or the arrival of winds? We worship in place. Where a door opens onto a river may determine a soul’s eternity. If we do not open our windows then our beloved may not leave our dwelling or have peace in the everafter.

When the founding members of the camp meeting had moved their tents from the river to the pine barren, it had been because of the Civil War. The trail that followed the river had existed for centuries. The Cherokee had used the trail until they had been killed or forced from their lands. It was a way through the river bottom, and people, even the people who came before the Cherrokee, had known about the way. During the war, soldiers from both armies used the trail. But members of the church community didn’t feel safe in sight of either army. They decided to reset their camp in a pine region about five miles from the river. There they cut down the few standing trees from the natural clearing. They circled their tents around the edge of the forest that protected the clearing. The forest was dense with black walnut, oak, sweetgum trees, and maples, which had been her favorite trees since she had been a little girl. The people were not hidden there, but they felt removed from the war. In time, they built cabins, but in later years the cabins were called tents to remember the days when they had abandoned the river. In the clearing they built a pavilion where they held worship services. A tin roof covered the pavilion. It was noisy when it rained, but people loved the sound of the rain. Eleanor had loved it, too. After a couple of generations no tents were added to the camp, and no tent could be sold until it had been offered to someone within the family of the original family who had owned it. The people kept the grounds, kept the tents, and held their services. In the evening, the sun set in full view of their hopes and prayers. There was even a pause, a hush then that entered the congregation as evening and sunset came. The people quieted and looked towards the sun and some of them, she remembered, began to hum “How Great Thou Art.” Some of those people sung the words, and she had listened to the words and remembered them. Oh, Lord my God when I, in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds Thy hands have made. There the congregation entered the holiness of the hour. They knew the ground upon which they stood. Now, she stood in the land of older gods.

She tied up her rucksack and walked around the chapel a last time. She then took up the rucksack and started down the hill. As she went she spoke words that were foreign to her but that she had learned. Arnaki, lamb. Efharisto, thank you. Kalimera, good morning. Kalispera, good evening. Parakalo, please. Yassou, casual hello. Yassas, respectful hello. Thalassa, the sea. She repeated the words and in her mind found pictures for them. Mama never spoke a word of another language. Not a word. She stayed on the trail, but instead of walking back to the ruined church, she found a route to the port.

It was true, too. Her mother had never spoken a single word of another language. The same was true for her father, though her father had spent nearly all of his childhood in France. Her grandfather, her father’s father, had served in the U.S. Army. Their family had stayed in France after the war. Her father’s father had worked in communications, and they had lived in a large chateau filled with giant wardrobes and gilded mirrors. There was a large garden on the property, as well, where someone, though no one in his family, had planted carrots, onions, lettuces, and rutabaga. There were fields of rutabaga surrounding the chateau. But they never ate any of those vegetables. Eleanor’s father had attended most of elementary school, all of middle school, and part of high school in France before he returned to the U.S. He went to live with an uncle in Iowa until he started university. He began working towards a degree in music that he never completed. And that was it. His parents moved to Georgia after their service in France, and they never spoke about their lives there. And he never spoke a word of French. Yet even as a little girl Eleanor had collected words and phrases from other languages. She wrote them in notebooks. She gave “hello” and “thank you” priority. She memorized her list of words when she went for walks. She recalled some of the words:

Tashi Delek, de che, Tibetan.

Namaste, shukriya, Hindi

Konnishewa, arigatou Japan

Hola, gracias, Spanish

Hallo, danke, German.

Jo reggert, koszonom, Hungarian

Dzien dobry, dziekuje, Polish

As a child, she had occasionally tried these “hellos” and “thank yous” on her parents. Her mother would bring her a glass of water at dinner. “Arigatou.” Her father would pick her up after school. “Namaste, Papa. Shukriya!” What followed these moments, coming from both of her parents, was a gentle nod and smile. Eventually, there was a “Hello to you, too!” or “You are most welcome.” Their eccentric little girl, with her sticker-covered notebooks and her lists of words, they were proud of her.

She reached the port through a series of alleys and stairways that traversed a near labyrinth, leading past boutique hotels, restaurants with their pale blue shutters, cabinet makers and the odor of freshly sawed wood. The closer she got to the port, the more people she saw. There were young men, men not native to the island, who hauled suitcases and bags up the stairs. Behind them were their wives or girlfriends who were careful to look at themselves in the reflection of windows, as well as where they walked when they climbed the stairs. She scented their perfumes and scrunched her nose at those cloying odors. She reached the port and saw wave after wave of white and tan awnings almost covering the waterfront. They looked like ship sails, the awnings. In the direction of the museum was the point where boats stopped to drop off and reclaim travelers. Already the cafés were crowded. Not far from where the boats and ferries docked was the busiest section of the port. This was the place where mules stood tethered in front of the water. Here, too, was where tons of commercial supplies were dropped—thousands of bottles of water, sacks of flour, bottles of oil, crates of fruits. Essentially all the food for the island arrived here. The shipping boats came from Athens. They were smaller boats but held plenty. The dock workers unloaded the boats and met the mule drivers at dawn. Then the goods were divided and loaded into panniers and onto the mules and then carried over the island.

The morning was already hot, and people were drinking under the shade of awnings, including some of the mule drivers. There was constant movement at the port, constant swags of colors and clothing and blown hair. There was shouting and the chattering of people at the cafés. There were people shopping. There were people walking about more slowly, and she could see that they were trying to picture themselves here. There were young people on their phones in search of friends. There were locals returning from the mainland, carrying their own bags and refusing to glance at anyone they did not know. Eleanor took joy in all of them. She found joy in being with the sun and the sea and all of the people and with the life they brought forth. She selected a café where the seats were nearest the water. She sat down and set her pack in the chair next to her. She took out the manuscript that the man had sent her and set it on the table, though she didn’t open it yet.

“Hello,” the waitress said, “will you have coffee?”

She placed the menu in front of Eleanor.

“Hello. Coffee, yes. I’ll have coffee.”

“Hot or cold coffee?”

“Ummm,” she read the menu, “I will have a hot coffee.”

“Which hot coffee would you like?”

“I think I will have…a double cortado.”

“A double cortado.” The waitress scribbled the words on a pad. “With two shots of espresso, yes?”

“Yes. Two shots.”

“A double cortado with two shots of espresso.”

“Perfect.”

The waitress turned and went back to the café.

She was a lovely, the waitress. She was very lovely. Her jawline was well defined and fine boned. Her hair was tied in a ponytail and it hung to the middle of her back. It was sun streaked, and with her hair tied back, her attractiveness showed full in her face. She was beautiful. She was more beautiful because she seemed to be unaware of her beauty.

Eleanor took out her notebook and studied the sketch of the chapel. It was good enough to recall the chapel later if she needed to remember it. She scribbled a couple of lines at the bottom of the drawing and then set the notebook on the table with the cover left open.

The waitress returned.

“One cortado.”

“Thank you.”

“With two shots of espresso.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The waitress looked at the sketch of the chapel.

“Where are you from?”

“Right now I am from the U.S.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“You mean you are sometimes from someplace else?”

“Yes. Sometimes. Where are you from?”

“I am from here.”

“From the island?”

“Yes. My family is from here. My father owns the grocery store, the one at the corner, with all the fruit and vegetables outside. Everyone who comes to the island shops there.”

“I know the store, yes! And you make coffee?”

“I sometimes make coffee, but not today.”

Eleanor takes a sip of the coffee.

“Not today?”

“Not today, no. I typically work in my father’s store, but today I am helping a friend. The coffee is good?”

“It’s very good.”

“Why are you laughing? Is the coffee not good?” The waitressed smiled as she asked.

“No, no. The coffee is good. I am laughing because this is the second conversation I’ve had about coffee in two days.”

“What was the first?”

“The first was with the lady who owns the house where I’m staying. Elani? Her name is Elani.”

“Ahhhh…Elani. She is a very nice woman.”

“She is. She is going to show me some of the chapels while I am here.”

“The chapels?”

“Where people keep icons and candles, where they pray. I’m sorry I don’t know the word in Greek.”

“The chapels…the chapels. Yes, yes, I know the chapels. Elani knows all the chapels here. She will take you to the best chapels.”

“I feel lucky to see any of them.”

“Elani will show you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will. But I must work now.”

“Of course. And thank you for the conversation.”

“I like your drawing.”

“This is nothing. It is a sketch.”

“I like it. It is a good drawing. I must work now.”

“Good luck. Sell lots of coffee.”

She headed back to the café but turned around and shouted, “I will!”

More tourists strolled along the quay. Nearly all the women wore long dresses which cradled their bodies like wind made visible. The men, some of them, wore white shirts and khakis and sunglasses. Everyone did their best to appear comfortable and in place, but she saw some of them pretending comfort rather than experiencing comfort, and it was fine. They were fine. They are people. They are on the island to be in another life, even when this life is their only life. This is us. We go from island to island to be released into a life we already possess. It is us all along. It is this life all along.

She opened the envelope with the manuscript. There was a handwritten note:

Eleanor. I wrote this for you. Tell me what you think. You are the best reader I know.

This is not flattery. She sipped her coffee. Maybe some flattery. She read the beginning:

I ask myself whether there are people

Who still sit in rooms dreaming over maps—

Maps on paper, I mean. For some people,

Such moments may be the extent of their travels.

She read the beginning again. People who dream over maps. Maps on paper. He dreamed of places. He rarely had patience for maps, but he could dream of other people who did have this patience. He could dream of himself dreaming over maps.

An oak desk, a white porcelain cup, fountain pens

With golden nibs, three sharpened pencils,

A black notebook filled with paper, and a map

Of someplace that could be another world.

His world. His desk. His pens and his notebooks. Another world but his world and one he could imagine, one he could dream.

She returned the cup to the table. She heard it clink. The café was busy. People were looking for shade anywhere they could sit. They wanted to sit and rest and be out of the heat and refresh themselves with something cold, though maybe like her, with a cup of hot coffee.

She left the café and walked back to Elani’s house. She followed passages through the intentional maze of streets and lanes. The streets were once intended to befuddle pirates, and it was easy to appreciate this. The streets were crowded with tourists, with travelers, with shopkeepers. The youngest among them tended to check their phones as they went. These were mostly teenagers, boys and girls. There were people stopping, staring into shop windows and checking the wares set along the streets. There were people squeezing vegetables and fruits at stalls. People talking with lovers, with strangers, with shopkeepers. People reading posters announcing concerts and exhibits. There were locals smoking, watching people from the shade. There were couples laughing, holding hands. Older people resting on dirty steps with their bags set next to them. Others spinning, hurrying, not hurrying. They wove in and out of the streets, these crests of people.

But how to explain the gifts of icons? How to explain people’s veneration? There is no record of an apostle’s face. We do not know the face of Jesus, of Mary, of Joseph, of Elijah or any of the prophets. Yet they have been imagined, painted, re-painted, hidden then brought again into the sacred light of candles and the scent of oils and herbs. We have done this. Consider those temples where the walls have been stained by the smoke of yak butter candles, which for generations have been tended by Buddhists monks. What logic is there to joy? Her poet, her writer had retreated into the safety of his imagination. There was something in him that feared reality, and after a while he could not see me, but beauty alone does not substitute for a hand, for an embrace. He dreamed of people dreaming over maps. He once dreamed of me and wanted to write me into his dreams, this when his real hand, his real eyes would have been enough.

She walked on, and the wind followed her. She thought she could scent coffee blowing in the winds from the port. Coffee and the sea. The voices of other people sounded farther away, like people talking within rooms. Their voices amplified the silence of the passages. She went on and for a moment thought nothing of the past or of who she was or of what she wanted to discover on the island. She caught whiffs of coffee and the sea. The heat warmed through her body. But she did not think about these things, not then, and later, she did not tell anyone about them.

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Damon Falke is the author of, among other works, The Scent of a Thousand Rains, Now at the Uncertain Hour, By Way of Passing, and Koppmoll (film). He lives in northern Norway.

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