Demon (Part 1 of 3)

When I left the station, my head was still somewhat stunned by the image of a sad farewell and the vision of the last railway wagon being swallowed by the autumn morning mist. I did not really see the person whom I bumped into, scattering a reasonable number of packages along the pavement. I hastened to help minimize the damage I had done, almost without looking at the face of the person who knelt down, at the same time, saying there was no problem, in response to my plea for apologies.

When I looked up and saw those eyes so green, I wondered if the gods decided to play their games with me, teasing me one time after the other, over and over again. I must have been staring at those emerald eyes for too long because the smile I got back, left me somewhat awkward, thinking I could have exceeded some boundary. I looked back down, with my face completely flushed and feeling my ears burning with embarrassment.

- It was no big deal. It happens... Thanks for helping me collect the packages.

- It was the least I could do to make up for the damage.

My voice sounded strange. I could hardly recognize myself. I wanted to disappear, in spite of feeling an incredible magnetism, as if I was being somewhat controlled by those eyes. The shame I felt made me feel absolutely uncomfortable. I wanted to run away from there, but something inside was fighting against that intention. In a way, I also felt that I wanted to stay. He then surprised me by asking something I never expected to hear, at that time, from a complete stranger.

- Do you want to have a cup of coffee with me?

I must have made a strange face, because he laughed loudly.

***

My eyes fell upon the bags on the chair beside him and that contained the parcels, which were scattered down the sidewalk outside the train station a few minutes before. He noticed my curiosity, but did not say anything until I asked.

- Are those gifts for your children?

- They're for my nephews ... I have no children. I'm not married.

My soul grinned. The corner of my mouth must have shown some kind of sign. He laughed and held his hand out.

- My name is Dima.

I told him mine. He made a kind of strange face at the mention of my unusual, somewhat atypical name and asked:

- What is the meaning?

- What is meaning of what?

He laughed.

- Of your name.

I never thought my name could have a meaning. Anyway, I made a quick trip in my memory and on what I knew about my origins, trying to come to any conclusions, but I came to virtually nothing. In my country and in my family, the names were always given by choice and affinity, not meanings. I was aware mine had been chosen at random, without any criterion, other than the initial, which was equal to that first letter of the name of my brothers. He then explained the reason for the question:

- My name was given in honour of Demeter, the goddess. Dmitry. Dima. I like, however, to use a pseudonym in a pun with the pronunciation: Demon. It gives me an uncommon identity...

And he laughed with the corner of his mouth, raising his right eyebrow, in a way I could never do, try as I might. That way of raising his eyebrow gave him the looks that would fit perfectly in the nickname he had chosen himself.

If life were a movie, the dramatic incidental music which anticipates a great suspense would play at that right moment. I laughed inside at that silly thought. To tell the truth, I had done the association, mentally, but I pretended to show surprise. It was just a little white lie, in order not to be too obvious or to look any clever. Sometimes it is better to pass up a silly impression and keep expectations low. And besides, I wanted him to talk more about himself.

- Demon... Interesting...

He looked straight into my eyes and smiled. An unusual thought came to my mind at that moment. A strange feeling bothered me, like the pierce of a finger on a rose thorn. Something scratched the sense of coherence in me.

How strange... That smile seemed almost impossible for me to resist . He realized a kind of embarrassment in my way of looking at him and opened his best grin ever.

- (Who is this man, anyway?)

That young paled skin demon with light eyes could easily lead me to temptation and I knew it would be difficult to dither.

- I have to go. Thanks for the company, but I have to go...

He took a paper serviette and scribbled a phone number and an email address. He handed it to me and extended his hand.

- Keep contact. Hope to see you a next time.

He got up and left without turning around. As he passed the window, he looked in and waved at me with a mischievous smile. I smiled back. My hand rested on the serviette, as if trying to keep a bit of him with me for a while longer... maybe in vain...

I shook my head, got up and left. It was time to come back to real life.

***

- I thought you were not going contact me.

- I confess that I hesitated, but finally decided... and I do not quite know what to say.

- Invite me for a coffee. You need no more than that...

I laughed. He was right. There was no reason for any excuses. It's good to be an independent adult and give no account of what one does to anyone at all.

We met at the same place as the first time. He was already sitting at a table when I came in. He greeted me with a warm and firm handshake and a broad smile. My face was burning, as if I had a fever and I felt hot, although we were in the middle of a cold winter.

- Let's get out of here and go to some quieter place. I just had an idea.

He drove us to a beach. The sea was calm and the day clean and dry, in spite of the temperature being fairly low. We walked along the sand, side by side, almost without talking, each one immersed in our own private thoughts. Sometimes we stopped to catch a shell, throw a stone into the sea, or watch the seagulls fly and the waves break and crawl to our feet.

The minutes seemed to fly away. Soon the sun started to go down and dive slowly into the horizon. We were side by side in silence feeling the cool air and the colours of the sky change into stronger shades of warm colours.

- It's beautiful.

- It is indeed...

I felt a strange emotion at that moment, when my hand touched his, almost accidentally. The beach was deserted and quiet, unlike my mind.

- Let's go back? I'm cold.

- OK.

Back in the car, I felt like rubbing my hands with energy, as I was freezing. Have it cooled too quickly or was I with the body temperature completely out of tune? Maybe there was something else behind all of that and my mind and body were showing signals of my restlessness.

- Are you that cold? Do you want me to turn the heating on?

- There’s no need for that. Thanks... Just let it be...

- Or do you want me to help you warm up some other way?

- Which other way?

He laughed again, with the corner of the mouth and with his eyebrow raised, displaying the same facial expression that he had shown the day he spoke about the unusual nickname he had chosen to use. A strange sensation messed with my stomach and I outlined a wan smile.

- I do not usually sleep with demons... nonetheless with my own ones...

He rested his hand on mine and said, seriously:

- Sleeping with your demons is far more acceptable than laying with the ones who betray your trust...

He was right. I raised my head and looked into his eyes when I heard him continue the thought.

- And some people do not need to sell their souls instead...

His pupils dilated, fixed in my eyes. My throat felt dry and I could not look away from his stare. He came closer.

I froze. A chill ran up my spine.

I seemed to have my body and mind paralyzed or magnetized, perhaps completely spellbound and unable to react against a kind of power that emanated from him. I felt the heat of his breath getting closer to my face. I shut my eyes... and my body quivered in fear...

***

Demon (Parte 1 de 3)

Eu saí da estação com a cabeça ainda um tanto atordoada pela imagem de um triste adeus e da visão do último vagão a desaparecer no meio da neblina, como se houvesse sido engolido pela mesma, naquela pálida manhã de Outono. Não vi a pessoa na qual esbarrei, derrubando uma quantidade de embrulhos pela calçada. Apressei-me a ajudar a minimizar o estrago que eu fizera, quase sem olhar para o rosto de quem agachara-se, ao mesmo tempo, dizendo que não havia problema, ante meus pedidos de desculpas. 

Quando levantei a cabeça e deparei-me com aqueles olhos tão verdes e cristalinos, pensei em como os deuses devem gostar de brincar comigo, provocando-me vezes e vezes, uma atrás da outra. Devo ter ficado por um tempo longo demais a olhar naquele par de fontes de água da cor da esmeralda, porque o sorriso que recebi, deixou-me um tanto sem jeito, ao perceber que poderia ter ultrapassado algum limite. Baixei os olhos, com a face totalmente ruborizada de vergonha, sentindo um imenso calor a subir-me, repentinamente, pelas orelhas, que deviam estar parecendo duas rodelas de tomates maduros.

- Não foi nada demais. Acontece… Obrigado por ajudar a recolher os pacotes.

- Era o mínimo que eu podia fazer, para compensar o estrago.

Minha voz soava estranha. Eu quase nem me reconhecia. Queria sumir, apesar de sentir um enorme magnetismo, como a controlar-me através aqueles olhos. A vergonha que eu sentia era grande e não deixava-me nem um pouco à vontade. O mais certo seria correr dali, mas algo lutava contra aquela intenção. Eu também sentia que desejava... e muito... ficar. Ele, então, surpreendeu-me ao fazer um convite que eu jamais esperava receber, naquela hora, de um completo estranho.

- Queres tomar um café comigo?

Devo ter feito uma cara muito estranha, porque ele riu.

***

Meus olhos pousaram nas sacolas, sobre a cadeira, que continham os embrulhos, que há poucos minutos estavam espalhados pela calçada, do lado de fora da estação. Ele notou minha curiosidade, mas não disse nada, até eu perguntar.

- São presentes para os teus filhos?

- São para meus sobrinhos... Não tenho filhos. Não sou casado.

Minha alma sorriu largamente. O canto da minha boca deve ter dado algum sinal. Ele riu e estendeu a mão.

- Meu nome é Dima.

Eu disse-lhe o meu. Ele olhou-me meio estranhamente, pela invulgaridade do nome, um tanto atípico e perguntou:

- Qual o significado?

- Do que?

Ele riu.

- Do teu nome.

Eu nunca havia pensado numa questão como aquela. Mesmo assim, fiz uma viagem rápida na memória e naquilo que conhecia sobre minhas origens, tentando chegar a alguma conclusão, mas não cheguei à praticamente nada. Na minha terra e na minha família, os nomes sempre foram dados por escolha e afinidade, não por significados. Que eu tivesse conhecimento, o meu havia sido escolhido aleatoriamente, sem critério nenhum, a não ser a inicial, que era igual àquela primeira letra do nome dos meus irmãos. Ele, então, explicou-me a razão da pergunta:

- O meu nome é uma homenagem à Deméter, a deusa. Dmitry. Dima. Eu gosto, porém, de usar um pseudônimo, em brincadeira com a pronúncia: Demon. Dá-me uma identidade pouco comum…

E riu com o canto da boca, levantando a sobrancelha direita, de uma maneira estranha, como eu não conseguiria fazer, por mais que tentasse. Aquela forma de levantar o sobrolho dava-lhe, mesmo, um aspeto que fazia jus ao codinome que escolhera. 

Se a vida fosse um filme, naquele momento, tocaria aquela dramática música incidental, que antecipa um grande suspense. Eu ri, internamente, daquele pensamento tolo. Para falar bem a verdade, já havia feito a associação, mentalmente, mas fingi sentir surpresa. Era apenas uma mentirinha branca, para não demonstrar o óbvio, nem parecer sagaz demais. Às vezes, é melhor passar-se uma impressão parva, para manter as expectativas em fogo brando. E além disso, eu queria que ele falasse mais sobre si.

- Demon… Interessante…

Ele olhou-me diretamente nos olhos e sorriu. Um pensamento invulgar ocorreu-me naquele instante e uma sensação estranha incomodou-me, como o picar de um dedo na roca de fiar ou num espinho de rosa. Algo arranhava-me o senso de coerência. 

Que estranho… Aquele sorriso pareceu-me quase impossível de resistir. Ele percebeu uma espécie de embaraço no meu jeito de olhar-lhe e voltou a abrir-me seu melhor sorriso.

- (Quem é esse homem, afinal?)

Aquele jovem demônio de pele pálida e olhos claros podia-me, facilmente, levar à tentação e eu sabia que seria difícil relutar.

- Tenho que ir. Obrigado pela companhia, mas tenho que ir…

Ele pegou um guardanapo de papel e rabiscou um número de telefone e um endereço eletrónico. Entregou-mos e estendeu a mão.

- Mantenha contacto. Até a próxima.

Levantou-se e saiu sem voltar-se. Ao passar pela janela, olhou para dentro e acenou-me, com um sorriso maroto. Eu sorri de volta. Minha mão pousava sobre o guardanapo de papel, como se tentasse manter um pedacinho dele junto de mim, ainda por um tempo… Talvez em vão…

Abanei a cabeça, levantei-me e saí. Era hora de voltar à vida.

***

- Pensei que não fosses ligar.

- Confesso que hesitei, mas resolvi, finalmente… e nem sei bem o que dizer.

- Convida-me para um café. Não precisas mais que isso…

Eu ri. Ele estava certo. Não havia motivo para usar nenhuma desculpa. É bom ser adulto e independente e não ter que dar contas do que se faz a ninguém.

Encontramo-nos no mesmo local da primeira vez. Ele já estava sentado à uma mesa, quando cheguei. Um largo sorriso e um aperto de mão receberam-me com algo mais que simpatia. Minha face ardia, como se estivesse com febre e eu sentia calor, apesar de estarmos no meio do inverno.  

- Vamos sair daqui e ir a algum lugar mais calmo. Eu tive uma ideia.

Ele conduziu-nos até uma praia. O mar estava calmo e o dia seco e limpo, apesar de a temperatura estar razoavelmente baixa. Saímos a caminhar pela areia, lado a lado, quase sem conversar, cada um mergulhado em seus próprios pensamentos. Às vezes parávamos para juntar uma concha, lançar uma pedra ao mar, ou observar as gaivotas voarem e as ondas a quebrar e arrastar-se até nossos pés. 

Os minutos pareceram voar. Logo o sol começou a descer e mergulhar lentamente na linha do horizonte. Ficamos lado a lado, em silêncio a sentir o ar esfriar e as cores do céu mudarem para os tons mais fortes das cores quentes.

- É bonito.

- Pois é…

Senti uma emoção estranha naquele momento, quando minha mão tocou na dele, quase acidentalmente. A praia estava deserta e quieta, ao contrário da minha mente.

- Vamos voltar? Estou com frio.

- OK. Vamos.

Já de volta, ao entrar no carro, esfreguei as mãos com energia. Havia arrefecido rapidamente, ou eu que estava com a temperatura do corpo completamente desregulada? Ou havia algo mais, por trás daquilo tudo, que minha mente sentia e que meu corpo indicava?

- Estás com esse frio todo? Queres que eu ligue o aquecimento?

- Não precisa… Logo passa…

- Ou queres que eu te ajude a aquecer de outra forma?

- Outra forma?

Ele riu novamente, com o canto da boca e a sobrancelha levantada, exibindo a mesma expressão facial que havia mostrado no dia que falou do invulgar pseudônimo que escolhera. Uma sensação estranha mexeu com meu estômago e eu esbocei um sorriso absolutamente sem graça.

- Não costumo deitar com demônios…menos, ainda, os meus...

Ele pousou a mão sobre a minha e disse, sério:

- Dormir com teus demónios é bem mais admissível do que deitar que com quem te trai a confiança...

Ele tinha razão. Levantei a cabeça e olhei-o nos olhos, quando ouvi-o continuar o pensamento.

- E algumas pessoas nem precisam vender a alma...

Suas pupilas dilataram, fixas no meu olhar. Minha garganta parecia ressecada e eu não conseguia desviar os olhos dos dele. Ele chegou mais perto. 

Eu gelei. Um arrepio correu-me pelo corpo. 

Eu parecia ter o corpo e a mente magnetizados e paralisados ou, então, talvez, completamente enfeitiçados e impedidos de reagir, contra uma espécie de poder, que emanava dele. Senti o calor de sua respiração na minha face. Fechei os olhos… e tremi de medo…

***

Joel's Eyes (watercolour base study)

One more from the series: "EYES".

Outro da série: "Olhos".

Diving Into the Waters of Oblivion (Watercolour Illustration)

Esta pintura foi inicialmente concebida para servir de ilustração ao poema "Oblivion".

This painting was conceived to be the illustration for the poem "Oblivion".

Blue Eyed Boy (illustration for Other Studies in Red & Blue)

This is an original concept for the short story, published last year: Other Studies in Red & Blue.

Este desenho foi originalmente produzido para os "Outros Estudos em Vermelho & Azul", que publiquei aqui, no último ano.

A Small Blue Bottle (Part 2 of 2: Ένα μικρό μπλε μπουκάλι (Éna mikró ble boukáli))

I was amazed at how much my daughter had blossomed like a rare flower over a year’s time. She was a smart kid and her beauty was admired by everyone, to my own pride. Although she was already a young woman, to me she was still that little girl who dreamed of dragons… and she meant everything to me.

We had agreed that we would come back to that same place at the beginning of the following summer. She talked about the trip almost every day of the few weeks before our departure date, always full of detailed plans... and they were not just a few.

It was not yet noon when we reached the beach. As expected, she ran barefoot towards the sea, kicking the salty and fresh water. She was back to being my little girl, who had a huge fascination with the sea. I followed her, slowly, for I had no desire to run. On the shore, what I really liked was walking very slowly. I lost sight of her when she won the curve of the bay, but I knew where she was heading to. Before long I spotted the familiar silhouette, moving slowly ahead of me. I wondered why she was walking so slowly, but I soon realized the reason.

There was a young man sitting on a log on the beach. His eyes were as blue as the sky that opened above our heads and he was staring, very seriously, at a point beyond the horizon. His black straight hair was misaligned by the wind. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his old jeans were wet up to the knees. The man, who had surely past his twenties, but was far from his thirty years of age, noticed our approaching, but did not move. My daughter clenched my hand when she realized that he was holding a small blue bottle in his left hand.

***

- Late last summer, I found it on the other side of the bay. I was hoping to find the owner, but did not know how to. I decided I should throw it back to the sea, where it belonged, anyway. I was sorry, but had no right to keep it with me. Maybe another one would be luckier than me somehow. But the poem was so beautiful, I hesitated...

- Poem?

- Yes.

I noticed the young woman’s cheeks blush as she looked away. I knew her quite well. That kind of reaction could only mean one thing. He could not disguise satisfactorily the interest he felt for her either. The conversation went on easily as if we were long-time acquaintances. We were sitting on the terrace of a small restaurant facing the sea and not far from our kitchenette, relaxing and sipping some drinks, while waiting for the food to be served. On the corner of the table, a blue bottle with an old piece of paper, rolled up inside, was the witness of that unpretentious encounter. I had invited him to have lunch with us, something I would never do if we were in a big city. There, in that small town, however, where everyone seemed to know each other, I believed that should be the most polite and harmless thing to do.

- I came back here after my University graduation. My father, a widower and old aged man, needed help and I decided to settle down around here for now, working in an office on the island. One day I will have my own, but I need experience and money to invest... This week-end we will have a Greek festival. The community maintains certain traditions. It will be fun – to say the least. You should come.

My daughter looked at me, smiling. It was evident that she had already made her decision. I smiled back. I winked and she smiled broadly. A Greek event... I thought of people dancing in the streets, broken dishes, good wine and lots of seafood...

- We will come.

He smiled in approval. She was radiant.

***

Songs by Nikos Vertis and Nikos Oikonomopoulos, Antonis Remos, Vasilis Karras, Paola, Giorgos Mazonakis, Pantelis Pantelidis, Melisses and many other Modern Greek singers played the night away in the main square speakers. The restaurants were open and the tables were placed outside. People were dressed in white and danced in the streets, which were closed to traffic. When they put Natasa Theodoridou’s most poignant song to play, the young man took my girl by the hand and asked her to dance right there in the middle of the street. Other couples did the same. I remembered that her mom loved that song.

"Να 'Σουν Θάλασσα, να μην σ'άλλαζα" (Na soun Thálassa, na min s' állaza) ... 'If you were the ocean, I would never change you'... said the singer, in a duet with Sarbel, with his deep voice and in perfect contrast with hers.

I felt a huge nostalgia and my eyes flooded with tears, remembering the last time we danced, exactly to that same song. I swallowed hard, trying to untie that knot that tightened my throat, but I could not. I sat down at an empty table, with my thoughts floating far away from there.

- They make such a beautiful couple...

I turned around to see who had spoken. A woman a little beyond her middle age, owner of one of the taverns attending the festival, was staring, dreamily, at the couples dancing in the street. Her attention was more focused on the young black haired man with tanned skin who was dancing with the pale faced brown-haired girl with the expressive green eyes.

- It is true...

I could have felt some sort of jealousy or any protective instinct, but it was not what was happening in my head at that moment. I looked at them and saw other people, from a nearly recent past. I was not delusional. It was like a strange haze that mingled nostalgia, memories, dreams and real life. In my view, she seemed to change into her mother, dancing with a man I knew very well... and he was not the same one I was watching at that moment. I had changed... and quite a lot... Basically, I was afraid that history somehow repeated itself...

In the Sirtaki, both the slow (argo) and the fast (grígoro) forms of the hassápiko are danced. The hassápiko is one of the best-known popular demonstrations in street festivals. At both ends of the long line of dancers, as they do not form a closed circle, the coryphées spin handkerchiefs in their free hands. According to the tradition, it is important not to let a hand be free, so to avoid it to be clasped by some tricky demon.

Typically, a large cluster is formed at the hottest hour of the evening, when the first chords of the Sirtaki of Zorba are heard, exactly as it was happening at that moment.

A young man with very light hair popped up from nowhere and pulled my daughter by the hand, followed by a stream of other hands, which began to form a long line of dancers in the middle of the avenue. Another string of people holding one another’s arms side by side was formed opposite to the first one. Our friend was at the end of that, but as he was a little distracted and let the handkerchief be taken by someone else, an older man hastened to take his place and the party continued as if nothing had happened. Our young friend frowned at first, but soon returned to his normal, once he was closer to the place where my girl was dancing and he apparently forgot what happened few seconds before. The crowd was rehearsing the steps popularized by Anthony Quinn, in the famous movie released in 1964. In a short time, everyone had followed perfectly, the traditional sequence, as a large group of ballet artists. Although for some of them it was the first time, for others it was another... and it was fun for both...

- Give food, drink and music to the Greeks and they will dance, happily, all night long.

- I see that is very true...

I agreed with the lady, who was still watching the crowd playing, with her eyes slightly distant, as if full of nostalgia. I wondered how much history would be hiding behind that tired and nostalgic look...

When the dance was over, my daughter dashed to meet me, panting and laughing, with her cheeks as rosy as a child’s. It was evident that she was enjoying herself so much. She sat down beside me and put her arm in mine, leaning her head on my shoulder. I rested mine over hers as we watched people passing by. Shortly after we saw the young man coming closer with two glasses of some drink in his hands. He sat down and offered one to the girl, who accepted, smiling. He also had his cheeks flushed by the heat and the dance.

- Let’s go to the Zorbás. There is live music and it is less hectic than the streets.

I was not too excited to be in a closed place, but given that my daughter was so excited to agree, I decided to join them. The Zorbás was located in one of the streets outside the hubbub of the festivity and, therefore, less crowded. I thought that would give us a momentary bit of peace. When we got in, however, the place was packed with people laughing and drinking. Some were dancing merrily, but most were only drinking and talking. There was a group on stage, playing modern music. I glanced around us trying to capture the details of the place. The décor was simple but quite interesting. Small framed pictures of landscapes and typical Greek themes hung upon the bare stone walls. Despite the low light, some strategic points over the tables and the bar, as well as on the stage, could be seen clearly enough. We were standing in the middle of the room, watching people moving about, dancing and drinking. The young man excused himself and left us. I assumed he had gone to fetch some other drink.

To my surprise, however, he, instead, sat on a tall stool in the centre of the stage and started to sing the first few bars of Thelo na me niosis. The song, originally played by Nikos Vertis, was being very well interpreted by our newest friend. I did not expect him to be so in tune and to have such a clear voice. The other musicians seemed to know him well by the way they treated him. He could not take his eyes off my daughter, while singing, as if doing it only for her.

- Να 'ξερες τα βράδια πως μισώ

Που με τιμωρούν που σε 'χω χάσει

Θέλω να σε δω το ομολογώ

Άλλη τέτοια νύχτα ας μη περάσει

*(Na 'xeres ta vrádia po̱s misó̱

Pou me timo̱roún pou se 'cho̱ chásei

Thélo̱ na se do̱ to omologó̱

Álli̱ tétoia nýchta as mi̱ perásei)*

- Do you know the meaning of those verses?

- Not really. It seems to be a very sad song, but nonetheless very beautiful and touching...

- It's a love song, stating the agony two lovers feel when they leave each other, especially when the night comes. You are right. It's romantic and sad at the same time.

- Yeah...

***

* If you knew how I hate the night

  Because I am punished for losing you

  I admit I want to see you

  And I do not want to spend another night like this...

***

Apparently she had all her attention directed to the singer and smiled, blushing lightly. I had the impression that my vacation that summer would be in some ways more solitary that it had been in years. I realized that I was not really worried when that thought formed in my mind. When the performance ended, he joined us again, smiling. My girl greeted him with a hug and, consequently, with a tender kiss. I saw that I was being one too much into that scene and decided it was my time to leave. She looked radiant and, strange as it may seem, it made me happy. I apologized and left. At the exit door, I bumped into a guy with very fair hair, who rushed in visibly drunk.

***

A few hours later, I woke up in the middle of the night, totally confused by the sounds of sirens and people outcry, outside the condominium where the kitchenette was. I only realized what was happening when my daughter came in, sobbing and with her blouse covered by a large stain of blood. I panicked immediately, but she was not hurt. The blood wasn't hers.

A policeman, who brought her in, told me what had happened, since the girl seemed to be in a complete state of shock. A young man with very light hair and visibly drunk entered the Zorbás and tried to pull the girl to dance, but she had refused, being defended by her partner at that moment. The other did not take rejection well and tried to fight with our friend, who punched him and left, before causing a worse damage. At the door, he called the security guards to take control of the situation, while the other man screamed for revenge.

When they were coming back home some hours later, the blond boy, who had followed them, unseen, pulled a knife and stabbed the back of my son-in-law to be, a couple of times. He ran away when my daughter cried, desperately, for help. The wounds were so deep, he could not resist until the arrival of the ambulance and died on the spot, with his lungs pierced by the long and sharp blade. It was all very quick. A real tragedy, on a day that was so special for the young couple. We were all absolutely horrified and disgusted.

***

- Why, Dad? Why can life be so cruel?

- I don’t know, my sweetie...I don't really know...

We both cried like two children, holding each other and getting comfort for the happenings both in the recent and the distant past. The story, which had repeated itself, had the malice of demons who take our hands when the handkerchiefs inadvertently are dropped off of them.

***

We avoided coming back to that place for more than three years after the tragic accident. At her insistence, however, we decided to go back there in the early summer of the fourth year.

As soon as I stopped the car on the beach, already known to us, the dark haired little boy, who had fair skin and eyes as blue as the sky that opened above our heads, leaped off impatiently, running barefoot on the beach, like the son of a fisherman. He was about three years old and it was his first contact with the sea. Upon reaching the edge of the water, he stopped, stepped a little backwards, turned around, looked at us and then ran towards the waves breaking nearby. He laughed happily while jumping over the waves, soaking his whole outfit without any concerns. His mother smiled, completely amused, in spite of the sad look in her eyes.

- That is definitely my son...

- Without a doubt. My grandson has a very strong affinity with the great dragon...

She smiled, but I realized that a stubborn tear slipped down her cheek, from the corner of her eye.

The boy ran around the edge of the water and disappeared in the curve of the bay. Minutes later, he came back bringing a blue bottle in one hand and an old parchment, tied with a red line, in the other. He said he had found the bottle on the beach, half buried in the sand, near a fallen log. The manuscript contained a little poem handwritten in a calligraphy we both knew very well.

"When you see me,

You will know who I am,

Just by the way I look at you.
If you hesitate
To approach me,
Think I have waited
Too long
For this meeting
And I can wait no longer
Anymore...
If you embrace me,
Make it entirely,
As if our bodies

Were just one.

And when you kiss me,
Then,

Do it as if it is a last one,
Even if it is the first,
For the first,
May well be,
Also,
The very last one. "

Uma Garrafinha Azul (Parte 2 de 2: Ένα μικρό μπλε μπουκάλι (Éna mikró ble boukáli))

Nós havíamos combinado que voltaríamos àquela mesma região, no começo do Verão seguinte. Ela começava a falar na viagem, semanas antes da data da partida, sempre cheia de planos… detalhados… e que não eram poucos.

Eu achava incrível como ela havia amadurecido naquele ano. Desabrochara como uma rara flor. Era uma miúda inteligente e tinha uma beleza reconhecida por todos, para meu orgulho. Era minha vida.

Ainda não era meio-dia, quando chegamos à praia. Como era de esperar, ela saiu correndo, descalça e a chutar a água salgada e fresca. Voltava a ser a minha menina, que tinha uma enorme fascinação pelo mar. Eu a acompanhei, a passos lentos, pois não tinha vontade de correr. À beira da água, eu gostava mesmo era de caminhar, bem devagar. Perdi-a de vista quando ela venceu a curva da baía, mas sabia para onde se dirigia. Em pouco tempo avistei a silhueta conhecida, a mover-se lentamente à minha frente. Perguntei-me o porquê de estar a caminhar tão devagar, mas logo percebi a razão.

Havia um homem jovem sentado sobre um tronco, na praia, a olhar, muito sério, um ponto além do horizonte, com olhos tão azuis quanto o céu que se estendia por sobre nós. Tinha cabelos negros e fartos, lisos, mas estavam desalinhados pelo vento. Vestia uma camisa branca, com as mangas arregaçadas até os cotovelos e as velhas calças jeans com as bainhas enroladas para cima, estavam um pouco molhadas. O rapaz, que já havia, com certeza, passado dos vinte, mas estava longe dos trinta anos de idade, percebeu nossa chegada, mas não saiu do lugar. Minha filha apertou minha mão, quando viu que ele tinha uma garrafinha azul na mão.

***

- No fim do verão passado, encontrei-a, no outro lado da baía. Tinha esperanças de encontrar a dona, mas não sabia como. Decidi que devia mandá-la de volta ao mar. Tive pena, mas não tinha direito de mantê-la comigo. Quem sabe outro tivesse mais sorte que eu. Mas o poema era tão bonito, que hesitei…

- Poema?

- Sim.

Olhei o rubor tingir a face da minha menina, agora comportando-se como uma jovem mulher. Ela desviou o olhar. Eu a conhecia bastante bem. Aquele tipo de reação só poderia significar uma coisa. Ele também não conseguia disfarçar, satisfatoriamente, o interesse que sentia. A conversa fluía, como se fôssemos conhecidos de longa data. Estávamos sentados na esplanada de um pequeno restaurante, não muito longe da nossa kitchenette, a relaxar e bebericar, enquanto a comida não era servida. Sobre a mesa, jazia uma garrafinha azul, com um velho pedaço de papel, enrolado, dentro. Eu o havia convidado para almoçar connosco, uma atitude que jamais tomaria, se estivesse numa cidade grande. Ali, naquela vila, porém, onde todos pareciam conhecer-se, acreditei que deveria ser a atitude mais educada e inofensiva a tomar.

- Voltei para cá, depois de formar-me. Meu pai, viúvo e de idade avançada, precisou de ajuda e eu resolvi estabelecer-me por cá, por enquanto. Trabalho em um consultório na ilha. Um dia terei o meu, mas preciso de experiência e dinheiro, para investir… Este fim-de-semana teremos uma festa grega. A comunidade mantém certas tradições. Vai ser divertido. Vocês deviam vir.

Minha filha olhou-me, sorrindo. Era evidente que já havia tomado a decisão dela. Eu sorri de volta. Pisquei o olho e ela sorriu, largamente. Festa grega… pensei em danças na rua, pratos quebrados, vinho tinto e muitos frutos do mar…

- Nós viremos.

Ele sorriu, em aprovação. Ela estava radiante.

***

Nikos Vertis e Nikos Oikonomopoulos, Antonis Remos, Vasilis Karras, Paola, Giorgos Mazonakis, Pantelis Pantelidis, Melisses e muitos outros cantores gregos modernos, tocavam noite adentro, nos autofalantes da praça. Os restaurantes estavam abertos e as mesas colocadas do lado de fora. As pessoas vestiam-se de branco e dançavam nas ruas, que estavam fechadas ao trânsito. Quando colocaram a canção mais pungente de Natasa Theodoridou a tocar, o rapaz tomou a mão da minha menina e convidou-a a dançar ali mesmo, no meio da rua. Outros casais faziam o mesmo. Eu lembrei que a mãe dela adorava aquela canção.

“Να 'Σουν Θάλασσα, να μην σ’άλλαζα” (Na soun thalássa, na mi̱n s’ állaza)… ‘Se tu fosses o mar, eu nunca te mudaria’… dizia a cantora, em dueto com Sarbel, com sua voz grave e em perfeito contraste com a dela.

Eu senti uma nostalgia enorme e meus olhos inundaram-se com lágrimas, ao lembrar a última vez que dançamos, exatamente aquela mesma canção. Engoli em seco, tentando desfazer aquele nó que me apertava a garganta, mas não consegui. Sentei-me à uma mesa vazia, com os pensamentos muito longe dali.

- Eles formam um casal tão bonito…

Eu virei-me, para ver quem havia falado. Uma mulher um pouco além da meia-idade, dona de uma das tabernas que participavam do festival, olhava, com ar sonhador, os casais a dançar no meio da rua. Sua atenção estava mais voltada ao jovem de cabelos muito negros e pele morena e à mocinha de cabelos castanhos, emoldurando a face de pele muito clara, decorada com expressivos olhos verdes, que dançavam bem à nossa frente.

- É verdade…

Eu poderia sentir alguma espécie de ciúme ou um instinto protetor qualquer, mas não era o que se passava na minha cabeça naquele momento. Eu os olhava e via outras pessoas, de um passado quase recente. Não era delírio. Era uma névoa que misturava nostalgia, lembranças, sonho e vida real. Na minha visão, ela parecia flutuar e transformar-se na mãe, a dançar com um homem que eu conhecia muito bem... e que já não era o mesmo que a observava, naquele momento. Eu havia mudado... e bastante… No fundo, eu tinha medo que a história, de alguma forma, se repetisse...

No sirtáki dançam-se juntas a forma lenta (argó) e a rápida (grígoro) do hassápiko, que é uma das mais conhecidas manifestações populares, nos festivais de rua. Nas extremidades, como não formam um círculo fechado, os dançarinos giram lenços nas mãos livres. Na tradição, é importante não deixar a mão livre, para não ser segura por algum demónio.

Normalmente, um grande agrupamento se forma, no ponto mais divertido da noite, quando ouvem-se os primeiros acordes do sirtáki de Zorba, como naquele momento.

Um jovem de cabelos muito claros adiantou-se e puxou minha filha pela mão, sendo seguido por uma corrente de outras mãos, que começaram a formar um cordão enorme, no meio da avenida. Um outro cordão de pessoas, com os braços dados, formou-se à frente do primeiro. Nosso amigo esteve na extremidade daquele, mas como distraiu-se e deixou o lenço que segurava ser carregado por um outro, um homem mais velho apressou-se a tomar seu lugar e a festa continuou, como se nada houvesse acontecido. O rapaz franziu o cenho, inicialmente, mas logo voltou ao normal, pois assim ficava mais próximo da posição onde a mocinha dançava e, aparentemente, esqueceu o ocorrido. A multidão ensaiava os passos popularizados por Anthony Quinn, no famoso filme de 1964. Em pouco tempo, todos já seguiam, perfeitamente, a sequência tradicional, como um grande grupo de artistas do bailado. Embora para alguns fosse a primeira vez, para outros, era mais uma… e era divertido para ambos...

- Deem, aos gregos, comida, bebida e música e eles dançarão, felizes, a noite inteira.

- Vejo que é uma grande verdade…

Eu concordava com a senhora, que ainda observava a multidão a brincar, com os olhos um pouco distantes, como se cheios de saudosismo. Quanta história haveria de estar escondida por detrás daquele olhar cansado e nostálgico …

Quando a dança acabou, minha filha correu ao meu encontro, ofegante e a rir, com as faces rosadas. Era evidente que estava a divertir-se muito. Sentou-se ao meu lado e passou o braço no meu, encostando a cabeça no meu ombro. Eu recostei a minha sobre a dela e ficamos a olhar as pessoas a passar. Pouco tempo depois vimos o rapaz aproximar-se de nós, com dois copos de bebida nas mãos. Sentou-se e ofereceu um deles à rapariga, que aceitou, sorrindo. Ele também tinha as faces afogueadas.

- Vamos ao Zorbás? Há música ao vivo e é menos agitado que a rua.

Eu não estava muito animado para ficar num lugar fechado, mas tendo em conta que ela estava tão excitada por concordar, resolvi acompanhá-los. O Zorbás ficava numa das ruas fora do rebuliço da festa e, por isso mesmo, menos movimentadas, o que nos dava um pouco de paz. Quando entramos, entretanto, o lugar estava apinhado de gente a rir e a beber. Alguns dançavam alegremente, mas a maioria somente bebia e conversava. Havia um grupo no palco, a tocar músicas modernas. Passei os olhos à nossa volta, captando os detalhes do lugar. A decoração era simples, mas bastante interessante. Pequenos quadros emoldurados de paisagens e temas típicos da Grécia estavam dependurados nas paredes de pedra nua, à nossa volta. Apesar da pouca luz, alguns pontos estratégicos por sobre as mesas e no bar, assim como no palco, podiam ser vistos com clareza suficiente. Estávamos de pé no meio do recinto, a observar o que se passava. O rapaz pediu licença e deixou-nos. Eu assumi que havia saído para buscar alguma bebida.

Só dei-me conta que ele, ao invés disso, sentara-se numa banqueta de pés altos, no centro do palco, quando começou a cantarolar os primeiros acordes de Thelo na me niosis. A canção, gravada por Nikos Vertis, estava muito bem interpretada na voz do nosso amigo mais recente. Eu não esperava que ele fosse tão afinado e tivesse a voz tão clara. Os outros músicos pareciam conhecê-lo, pela forma como o tratavam. Ele não tirava os olhos da minha filha, enquanto cantava, como se o fizesse somente para ela.

- Να 'ξερες τα βράδια πως μισώ          
  Που με τιμωρούν που σε 'χω χάσει      
  Θέλω να σε δω το ομολογώ                  
  Άλλη τέτοια νύχτα ας μη περάσει         

*(Na 'xeres ta vrádia po̱s misó̱
   Pou me timo̱roún pou se 'cho̱ chásei
  Thélo̱ na se do̱ to omologó̱
 Álli̱ tétoia nýchta as mi̱ perásei)*

- Sabes o que significa?

- Não. Parece triste, por um lado e, mesmo assim, muito bonita e tocante…

- É uma canção de amor… Fala da agonia, que a separação de dois amantes deixa, especialmente quando a noite chega. Tens razão. É romântica e triste, ao mesmo tempo.

- Pois é…

***

*Se soubesses como eu odeio a noite

  Porque sou punido por perder-te

  Eu admito que quero ver-te

  E não quero passar outra noite assim...

***

Pelo jeito que ela tinha toda a sua atenção voltada para o cantor e sorria, enrubescida, tive a impressão que minhas férias daquele verão iam ser, de alguma forma, mais solitárias que haviam sido nos últimos anos. Percebi que eu não estava realmente preocupado, quando aquele pensamento formou-se na minha mente. Quando a performance acabou, ele voltou a juntar-se a nós, sorrindo. Minha menina recebeu-o com um abraço e, consequentemente, com um terno beijo. Vi que estava sendo demais na cena e resolvi dar a noite por encerrada. Ela parecia radiante e, por mais estranho que pudesse parecer, aquilo me deixava feliz. Pedi desculpas e retirei-me. Na saída, esbarrei num rapaz de cabelos muito claros, que entrava apressado e visivelmente alcoolizado.

***

Algumas horas depois, acordei no meio da madrugada, totalmente confuso, com um tumulto de sirenes e vozerio, do lado de fora do condomínio onde ficava a kitchenette. Só dei-me conta do que acontecia, quando minha filha entrou, aos prantos, com a blusa manchada de sangue. Entrei em pânico imediatamente, mas ela não estava ferida.

Um policial, que entrou com ela,  contou-me o que acontecera, já que a menina parecia estar em completo choque. Um rapaz, de cabelos muito claros e visivelmente alcoolizado, entrara no Zorbás e tentara puxar a rapariga para dançar, mas ela recusara-se, sendo defendida pelo parceiro que estava com ela. O outro não aceitou bem a rejeição e partiu para cima do nosso amigo, que esmurrou-o e saiu, antes de causar maior dano. Na porta, chamaram os seguranças, para tomarem providências e controlar o rapaz, que gritava por vingança.

Quando estavam a chegar à casa, algumas horas depois, o rapaz loiro, que os seguira, sem ser visto, puxou uma faca e enfiou-a nas costas do meu futuro genro, um par de vezes e fugiu, quando minha filha gritou, desesperadamente, por socorro. Os ferimentos foram tão profundos, que ele não resistiu até a chegada da ambulância, falecendo no local, esvaindo-se em sangue, pelos pulmões perfurados pela longa e afiada lâmina. Foi tudo muito rápido. Uma verdadeira tragédia, num dia que havia sido tão especial para o jovem casal. Estávamos todos absolutamente horrorizados e revoltados.

***

- Por que, pai? Por que a vida é assim cruel?

- Não sei, filha...

Choramos abraçados, como duas crianças, consolando-nos pelo passado recente e pelo passado distante. A história, que se repetia, tinha a crueldade de demónios que tomam nossas mãos, quando os lenços, inadvertidamente, caem delas.

***

Evitamos voltar ao lugar nos três anos subsequentes, após o trágico acidente. Por insistência dela, porém, retornamos no começo do verão do quarto ano.

Assim que parei o carro na beira da praia, já tão conhecida nossa, o menino de cerca de três anos, com cabelos muito negros, pele clara e olhos azuis, como o céu que se estendia por sobre nós, saltou, impaciente, correndo descalço pela praia, como se fosse um filho de pescador. Ao chegar à beira da água, parou. Ele deu um passo curto e molhou as pontas dos pés. Meio passo atrás, virou-se, olhou-nos e correu na direção das ondas, que quebravam próximas, com seu som característico. Ele ria e saltava as ondas, molhando a roupa toda, sem preocupar-se. A mãe sorriu, divertida, apesar do olhar triste.

- É mesmo meu filho...

- Sem dúvida nenhuma. Meu neto tem uma afinidade muito grande com o grande dragão...

Ela sorriu, mas eu percebi que uma lágrima teimosa, caiu-lhe pelo canto do olho.

O menino correu pela beira da água, até desaparecer na curva da baía. Minutos depois, voltava com uma garrafinha azul numa das mãos e um velho pergaminho, atado com uma linha vermelha, na outra. Disse que havia encontrado a garrafa na praia, meio enterrada na areia, perto de um tronco caído. O papelzinho tinha um pequeno poema escrito.

"Quando me vires,

saberás quem sou,

pela forma como eu te olhar.

Se hesitares em chegar-te,

pensa que eu posso ter esperado

muito tempo

por este encontro

e que já não posso esperar mais.

Se me abraçares,

fá-lo por inteiro,

como se nossos corpos

fossem um só.

Quando me beijares,

então,

que seja como um último,

mesmo que seja o primeiro,

pois o primeiro,

bem pode ser,

também,

o derradeiro."

A Small Blue Bottle (Part 1 of 2)

- Tell me more about the sea. I like to hear the stories and imagine how immense it must be... maybe even scary...

- It is like an enormous lake, but its waters are always wild, even when they seem calm. It is salty, deep... and cold... In the middle of the night when all the noises disappear, you can hear its roar, like the one of a restless dragon, claiming ownership of something that had always been his, but which had been stolen by some cruel and unfair god...

- I want to go and see it… and feel it... Will you take me there one day?

She looked at me with dreamy pleading eyes, full of a strange and extremely sweet anticipation.

- ...Please?

- I will, yes. One day...

And her green eyes looked to a distant point, longing for the trip... imagining a large auburn dragon, lying on a vast sandy beach, stuck in the anxiety of an unexplained emptiness, roaring restless and helpless, tormented by dreams of freedom and always regretting a great loss.

I was born on the island, on an autumn Friday. Perhaps for this reason, I had always had a close and intimate contact with the sea and the winds, throughout my whole life. They had always been as much a part of me as the blood running through my veins. When I was a boy, the first thing I used to do in the morning was to open my window and look at the sea, to see which side the wind was blowing to. Grandson of a fisherman, I learned how to read the signs of nature and have a rough idea of the weather forecast.

My grandfather used to get up very early in the morning and go to the sea, to collect the net he had placed the night before. I recall seeing him from afar, standing on the boat and bringing the net up full of fishes, at the time they abounded in the bay calm waters. He used to send us some for lunch. I was a child but I knew we had an affinity with the sea and the fishes. My mother said his ancestors were Spaniards.

He was a tall man, but walked half bent by the weight of the years. He had a hooked nose and wore dark rimmed glasses. His bald head was almost always covered with a classic grey felt hat. He wore white shirts with rolled up sleeves and grey pants. On special days or Sundays, he used to wear a pinstriped black suit and matched hat, kept for those occasions. It was quite funny seeing my grandfather all lined up, when on most days, he seemed to wear the same old and dull clothes. He lived on the mainland, to where we moved over when I was five years old.

The island was always in our sight when we opened the windows facing east.

My father taught me how to swim in the sea. I loved spending hours in the warm waters of the bay, swimming and learning how to hold my breath under water. In the summer, the waters were always green except on days with southerly winds, when they were blurred and drab. On clear days in the winter the ocean looked like an oversized mirror. On windy days it always had the same brownish tone, with the waves breaking up, violent, against the rocks and walls of houses built too close to the tide line. I used to spend hours looking at the sea with my thoughts far away, being lulled by the distinctive sound of the waves that constantly and insistently lapped the shore. I loved to walk along the beach with my feet in the water, treading the soft white sands. The sea was my most natural element. It was where I felt more comfortable, quieter and more secure within the boundaries of the respect I had for its greatness and its untamed power.

She had never been confronted with such a powerful and misunderstood force like that dark green vastness, speckled with short white lines in the distance.

When we got to the place I loved as a child and I stopped the car, we jumped off and walked side by side, to the edge of the cliff. I could feel the apprehension and anxiety emanating from her as she tried to control the pace of her steps. She then opened a huge smile and breathed the salty air in, with both her nose and mouth. She seemed hungry for the sea and that moment was a major milestone in her life, when she would finally meet the great, restless, roaring and fearless dragon way down the cliff.

She then put her hand into her bag and rescued a small blue bottle out. There was a small rolled piece of paper tied up with a fine red thread. A small detail, however, called my attention for the exceptional refined element she remembered to implement: the cork was sealed with wax. She thought of everything, incredible as it might have seemed to me. The intention of maintaining the message protected, dry and intact with that subtle detail surprised me to the point of amusement for her cleverness. I would not have thought of that... ever...

- What have you got there?

- It's a message I wrote. My thing... it is not worth bothering yourself with it.

She flung the bottle into the sea, before I could even think on doing anything about that.

Standing at the top of the cliff, we both watched the sea roaring down there with its unrestrained fury, its arms of waves and hands of foam, welcoming and carrying away the bottle that contained an innocent secret message. She raised her hand, but stopped halfway, when she realized that I had noticed her almost involuntary gesture.

- Who were you going to greet? Neptune? Or were you going to wave goodbye to the bottle? I do not believe that at your age you still believe in sea gods and secret messages. You gotta be kidding me...

She blushed, showing an almost feigned irritation. She looked at me and murmured an expletive. Then she told me in a loud voice:

- There’s no use in talking to you about some things. You are very rational... you have no imagination. When I was young you were much more... acceptable... You know what? You lack imagination. This is why your life is so predictable and colourless.

- Well, it's true. At least I know exactly where I’m stepping on. Don’t you think it is better?

She turned away impatiently and walked back to the car. She did not have many arguments against my sad reality. I laughed out loud. My eyes followed the young woman walking away from me, while my thoughts unfurled the threads of time, trying to find a reference point. I turned back to the cliff, overlooking the vast and endless sea and said to myself, in a low voice:

- Where have I lost the ability to dream and fantasize, anyway? When have I stopped hearing the dragon roar on the sands of the beach, chained in its own fears and anxieties? When have my own problems blinded me to the beauty of imagination and my ability to dream?

- Let's go!

She was sitting at the car wheel, honking impatiently. She had an urgent need to get to the beach. She wanted to have her feet drenched in the fresh salty water. I hurried into the car beside her. She looked like a child on her birthday, rushing to the site of the party. I laughed at her. She simply drove to the end of the road and almost without ensuring that the car had stopped, she jumped out, got rid of her shoes and ran on the soft sand that squeaked at every step she took.

She stopped when she reached the edge of the water line. I watched her from afar, studying her reactions. She stepped ahead, then walked a step back, turned around, looked at me and then ran towards the waves breaking nearby. She laughed and jumped the waves, soaking her clothes without any worry. I saw the same child who used to hear the stories about dragons and the great and wide sea, facing fearlessly her initial shock and behaving as if she had always been as close to it as I had since my boyish days.

***

- Do you hear it?

- Uh-huh... It's calm... It seems like it is purring...

Lying on the couch at the porch, she had her eyes closed and her head leaning on my legs. She smiled, then she jumped up, wide-eyed, looking at me as if she had had the gleam of a brilliant idea.

- I wonder where the bottle is. Do you think anyone has found it?

- It must be on the other side of the beach. The tides usually carry the pieces of wood from one side to the other... the bottle must not be far away...

She was serious and seemed disappointed.

- Oh. I thought it was going so much further away...

- Sometimes ... it will depend on the force of the tides...

I tried to keep her hopeful, but I was not even sure of what I had said. She laid her head on my legs again and listened to the silence of the night and to the dragon snoring softly... She fell asleep right there. I took her in my arms and laid her on the bed that she had prepared, after dinner. I had to sleep in the living room because the small kitchenette that we rented for a week had one room only.

Every morning, we strode along the beach, holding each other, while we washed our feet in the water. We used to have lunch in the village and hike nearby, but the sea was our most frequent point. We used to spend hours and hours watching the waves break or the seagulls fly, feeling the stillness of life and without saying anything.

In the morning of the day we were prepared to travel back to our normal lives, I did not see her when I got up. The door was unlocked. It was still early in the morning. She had gone out for a walk... alone. I prepared a fresh coffee and waited a little, but there was no sign of her. Before I got too worried, I put a sweatshirt on and went out looking for her at the beach. I followed a track of footprints left in the sand by a pair of small feet I assumed were hers. I found her sitting on a fallen log and watching the skyline, with the dreamiest expression I had ever seen on her face.

She looked different. I got closer and sat beside her, saying nothing. We were both looking at the horizon. She sighed.

- I have never found the bottle. It must have been taken too further away from here... This is good.... I think...

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her closer to me. She leaned her head on my chest and fell silent.

- Do you wanna talk about it?

- No.

I respected her privacy and secrecy. She probably did not believe that I could understand the fantasy she created around the message which I could never come to know the content. I stood up and invited her to walk back to our quarters and eat something.

- Can we stay a day longer? I want to be sure that I will not find the bottle smashed somewhere on the beach.

I raised an eyebrow. She scowled.

- Please...

- This was not the plan but that's okay. We have to see if we can stay in the kitchenette for one night longer.

She jumped up and smiled, hugging me and kissing my cheek.

- Thank you.

I tried to be a lenient father ever since she lost her mother. There was no harm in indulging once in a while, as she was not very demanding on her requests. The sea was a separate issue, however. It was a fascination she had since childhood, when she still believed both in fantasies and in dragons.

I admitted that I did not want to come back either. I felt so good, there at the beach. She behaved definitely like a legitimate daughter, demonstrating an enormous affinity with an element with which she came into contact for the first time that summer. The sea was our natural element. It was in our blood, undoubtedly.

My grandfather would be proud of his great-granddaughter.