Gate Deadlock (2 page)

I
remember
how
Kate, overconfident about her choice of recipes,
had refused to follow my advice about not blending the discrepant
flavors that night.

‘Seriously, Emma. Oysters
are
aphrodisiac. I may not be a chef
but that much I know.’ she had told me when I questioned her
bizarre taste.

I had a natural aversion for seafood. It was the
only part of the Greek cuisine I did not like. But from that day
on, I was pretty sure that my aversion would turn to pure disgust,
because the smell of seafood had blended dangerously with that of
roast lamb, causing waves of nausea to my stomach.

‘Do you think this shrimp sauce is thick
enough?’ Kate asked me anxiously, her face red from the hot steam
coming from the pan in front of her.

It was the third time she was asking me that and
she smiled apologetically when her eyes met my glowering look.

‘Sorry, but you’re the expert.’ she smiled.

I was already on my way to check the sauce
anyway, when I heard the doorbell ring.

‘No! Don’t tell me Tony’s already here!’ Kate
panicked.

‘Relax, if it’s Tony, I’ll send him to the store
for beer.’ I reassured her, wiping my hands quickly.

I walked to the door straightening my hair,
wondering about traces of the flour war I had with her a few
minutes ago.

When I opened the door, I came before a vaguely
familiar face. It was not Tony, but a gorgeous stranger who did not
seem less surprised than I was. He was standing on the threshold,
looking at me with sparkling eyes.

‘Hi. Are you Kate?’ he asked, with a wonderful,
distracting smile.

‘No. But I’ll get her for you.’ I said smiling
back but realizing at the same moment that I was unable move at
all, as I just could not take my eyes off him.

He was tall and athletic, dressed in expensive
loose, white linen pants and a light green, brand T- shirt. His
hair, golden brown, enwreathed his wonderful face in a disheveled
hair-do and his full lips were slightly curved downwards, in the
shape of a heart.

But what was most striking on him, was the
deep blue of his large, almond shaped eyes, the most beautiful eyes
I had ever seen.
They had captured mine,
subliminally influencing my thoughts, making me struggle to
recollect a long lost memory aroused by the angelic visage before
me.

When I realized I had been
staring at him, I felt my cheeks blush with embarrassment. I turned
to get Kate, but she was already behind me.
‘Hi. I’m Kate.
What can I do for you?’ She
pushed me softly with her elbow, placing herself in front of me. I
turned to hide into the kitchen, thinking what on earth was wrong
with me. How could I have made such a fool of myself in front of
that stranger?

I heard him talk to Kate without paying
attention because something was trying for a second time to sneak
into my mind, a past memory, an obscure image I was not able to
recall, like a scene of a forgotten, nostalgic dream. It had to do
with those sparkling, deep blue eyes of his. But how could it be
possible? He was not the kind of man you would forget you have met.
But still…

‘Emma, can you come here please?’ Kate was
calling me from the living room. When I got back there, he was
standing with his back at me.

‘Emma, this is Christopher, Harry’s roommate.
Remember Harry telling us about the new tutor the other day?’ she
winked at me. Harry was Kate’s brother and member of the summer
school staff.

Christopher turned towards me with an innocent
smile, but his eyes were now slotted, as if he was estimating my
reaction.

‘Oh! ’ I said, overtly surprised. His face
had started to dazzle me again and I was at a loss for words. He
certainly did not look like a tutor but rather like a model. His
beautiful face, absolutely breathtaking, was blocking the function
of my mind. They were both looking at me with obvious mystification
now.
This is really awkward
, I
thought. I should come up with something quickly. And I picked the
wrong thing to say.

‘I just thought you would be, you
know, …older.’ Oops! I regretted saying that immediately. How could
I have said that? What was I thinking?

‘Well, may be I
am
older than you think. Let me introduce myself
properly. Christopher Auburn.’ He seemed amused by my bewildered
attitude.

But …again… His voice; how could it be so
familiar? And his smile. Once again, the same dream-like memory was
creeping into my mind. Kate was giggling now and I realized he had
his arm outstretched towards me, still waiting for a handshake.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Foolish!
A mocking voice shouted in my
head.

‘Nice to meet you, Emma.’ He looked obviously
amused by my childish reaction as he was still grinning broadly
when I touched his hand. It was warm and his grasp felt firm and
familiarly inviting to me.

‘Have we… met before?’ I asked sheepishly.

His expression changed instantly. He looked
straight into my eyes, meditatively and with some concern for a
long moment. Then he went on, smiling knowingly.

‘I doubt it. I’m sure I would have remembered
that.’

He held my hand a little longer than he should
in a normal handshake. Or was I holding his? Kate was giggling
again. He turned to her releasing my hand as his face became more
serious.

‘Thank you for the keys, Kate. I should be
going. I don’t want you to destroy your dinner over me.’

‘Oh, no!’ she shouted running to the kitchen,
alarmed by the smell of burnt food coming from it.

‘I’ll see you two
tomorrow
then.’ he said, going for the door.

‘Just let us know if you need anything else!’
Kate shouted from the kitchen.

The door closed behind him and I was
left in a daze, staring into vacancy.

When I got back to the kitchen, I found Kate
pouring some water in the pan with roast lamp, which now looked a
little darker than the one in the picture of the cookery book.

‘I KNOW!’ she shouted. ‘He looks like a Greek
god, doesn’t he? You had me worried for a minute, you know. What’s
wrong with you?’ she asked, rolling over the meat before putting it
back into the oven.

‘I’m not sure. I felt like…like I’ve seen him
before. Something about him is very familiar to me.’ She took off
her cooking gloves and looked at me musingly, leaning against the
kitchen table.

‘That’s impossible. He comes from a university
in Canada, Harry told me. It’s his first time in Greece and he’s
never been to Brantel either.’

‘What did he come here for?’ I asked.

‘He needed the keys to the apartment. Harry’s
not back from Athens yet.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He asked about
you, you know.’ she grinned. ‘That’s why I called you. He wanted to
know your name.’ she said, checking me with the corner of her
eyes.

‘Really?’ I was mystified.

‘Extremely handsome though, don’t you think? And
he was so flirting you!’ she added teasingly, scrutinizing my
expression.

I did not say anything because I knew where she
meant to lead this conversation. I decided to ignore her last
comment and started cleaning up the mess, but not before throwing a
wet towel at her. She chuckled as she got it.

‘Tony will be here in less than half an
hour. You’d better be fast.’ I reminded her. I knew Kate had been
so preoccupied with her cooking that I could easily forecast her
last minute frustration when she would realize that the kitchen was
not in a condition to
receive guests, let alone Tony
who would always tease her for being the “messiest girl he’d ever
met”. So, I started cleaning up the mess to avoid this last minute
crisis.

When Tony came, I withdrew in my bedroom with a
full dish and a glass of wine, although he and Kate had both
insisted that I should stay with them.

I knew it was their night and Kate had been
looking forward to it for so long, so I had decided to stay in my
room and watch one of my favorite thrillers. Besides, I needed a
good sleep.

I took a bite of the surprisingly delicious
roast lamb. I have always considered myself as quite experienced
when it comes to Greek cuisine. My dad used to insist that we
should stick to the Mediterranean diet even for the months we
stayed in London, and my mother did her best to please him. She
never gave up on those cooking habits even after she got married to
her second husband, another extinguished member of Brantel alumni,
Daugh. By the way, when I mention my dad I do not mean my
stepfather but my real father, Dr Dimitris Ioannou. And this is the
next strange thing I vividly remember about that evening; somehow I
had become overwhelmed with the memory of my father, provoked by
something I was not able to identify exactly, although deep inside
it felt like I knew the reason for the sudden recollection of my
father’s memory.

My late father was the only child of a Greek
rural family from southern Peloponnese, who made their living on
farming. His father had spent his whole fortune so that his son,
Dimitris, would get proper education, enough to put him in a
position to lead a better life than his.

Dimitris got his BA in History with excellent
marks and won a scholarship to continue his studies abroad. It was
then that he met Virginia, my mother, a wealthy young woman born
with a silver spoon in her mouth. He was a postgraduate student in
Brantel University where she was also studying History. They became
inseparable since then, but they did not get married until my
mother was pregnant.

My dad was a committed researcher in the field
of history. The most vivid memories I have from him come from the
moments he used to spend with me in his large study room. At
nights, shortly after dinner, I would always find him hidden behind
piles of books, often having lost track of time as he would spend
hours in there. Short before his death, he had become obsessed with
“Project-Em”, which was something I have always been proud of, as
he had named it after me. This was his last project and I’d always
thought it was related to his previous research on Sanctuaries of
Ancient Greece.

Trying to spend as much time with him
as possible, I would intrude the privacy of his office expressing
genuine interest in what he was doing. He was amused by my naive
questions but he would always answer them as explicitly as
possible. Despite my age, I had realized that whatever he was
working on had been worrying him a lot and that his friends were
trying to persuade him to drop it. And so did my mum.

One night, after an awful argument between them,
to which I had been a silent witness, my mother had accused him of
being a dreamer who wasted his time and talent on chimeras and
witch-hunt. She had left his office without noticing me hiding next
to the door, but I could see the tears flowing from her eyes. My
dad was sitting behind his huge oak desk with his head hidden
behind his hands. I ran to him and sat on his lap to comfort him.
My heart aches to the present day when I recall the bitter
expression on his face, revealing pure disillusionment and
despair.

‘Don’t worry daddy. I believe you.’ I told him.
He did not say anything, just stroked my hair and kissed my
forehead. He smiled to me and carried me back to my room to tuck me
into bed.

Two days after this, my dad was murdered. I was
only ten by then. The police never caught his killer and no one
could find a possible motive for killing a respectable university
professor. There had been a lot of rumors, of course, but the
police finally decided to close his file as one of the numerous
unsolved homicides.

I have always considered myself as lucky
because I had been the last person who had seen him alive. He was
supposed to be taking care of me as I had come down with a cold at
the last minute, changing my
mother’s
plans.

That night we had been invited to
my godfather’s for a birthday dinner. My dad had decided not to go,
as he and Don, my godfather, did not get on well for the past few
weeks. My mother had finally decided to go by herself, as my dad
reassured her that he would take care of me.

When my mother came home, she found
me alone in my bed, but there was no sign of my dad. She had waited
up for him all night but he did not show up.

The next morning, little after nine, the
doorbell rang. Feeling better, I had just joined my mother for
breakfast in the kitchen and I knew she had been crying while she
was making my milk. Listening to the doorbell, she turned so fast
that she dropped the glass of milk on the floor. I remember running
behind her and watching the policeman on the doorstep who nodded to
her. He did not need to say anything. My mother just mumbled. ‘He’s
dead, isn’t he?’

She married Daugh seven years later. He
was reasonable enough not to pretend to be a father to me. Looking
back, I never really liked him. I just put up with him for my mum’s
sake, as it was obvious that he was a comfort to her. Since my
dad’s death, I felt like I had lost my mum too, for she was always
depressed, silent and constantly abstracted, decided for years to
lead a sequestered life. She would refuse to leave the
house and she stayed away from her friends and relatives.
Thankfully, we never faced any financial problems, so she had hired
a governess, Alice, who took care of me.

After my father’s death, we never thought of
coming back to Greece. But this changed after my eighteenth
birthday, when I received a letter from my father’s lawyer, Mr.
Jackson, who requested that I paid him a visit as soon as possible
for a very important matter. We met on the following morning to
present me with a sealed envelope that my father had entrusted him
with. My father’s instructions to Mr. Jackson had been to hand over
the envelope to me when I would be at the right age. I remember
opening the red wax seal my father had so often used, with
trembling hands. In it there was a brief note: