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The proprietor of the cafe, a smiling stocky Corfiot, brought out a menu card
and while they studied it he busied himself with a white tea towel, flicking
imaginary crumbs off an equally white tablecloth.
'We'll have fish, please, Spyros,' Vidas told him after consulting Judi. 'And
the rest we shall leave to you.'
'Good; I give you excellent lunch!'
'Why are so many of your men called Spyros?' Judi wanted to know, her
curious gaze following the man as he went inside the building. 'Everywhere
we go we seem to find someone with the name.'
'In every household you will find a Spyros, because the patron saint of the
island is St. Spyridon. Parents invariably wish to have a son called after the
saint, and that is the very simple explanation of the numerous Spyroses we
have here.' He lapsed into silence then and Judi spent a moment or two
taking in her surroundings. As usual, the tables were outside the cafe
building, and for shade the vine had been trained along an overhead trellis; it
grew thickly and just a few bright rays of the sun were able to penetrate
where a small gap occurred. Flowers abounded in the gardens surrounding
the cafe. Bougainvillaeas grew up the sides of the building and up the thick
supports of the verandahs. A pomegranate tree thrust its crimson blooms
towards the sunlight; oleanders flared, pink and dazzlingly white, and all
along the far edge of the garden cypresses and lemon trees provided a darker
green backcloth and also sheltered the garden from the breeze that blew in
from the west. Perfumes filled the air and the incessant whirring of cicadas
intruded into the deep hush that lay over the whole breathtaking scene.
'Tell me about St. Spyridon.' Judi spoke at last and her husband gave her his
attention. How very handsome he was! So dark and arresting, with that
prominent jawline and those grey metallic eyes. His forehead was smooth,
unlined, his skin clear and taut. She found her heart turning over, as it
invariably did when she gave him an examination such as this, which was
quiteoften. As her thoughts inevitably brought the colour into her cheeks she
saw her husband's straight brows lift a fraction in a gesture of interrogation.
Judi averted her head and repeated her request to be told more about the
island's patron saint.
'He was the bishop of Cyprus and never actually visited Corfu during his
lifetime. But his body was eventually brought here from Constantinople, and
many are the miracles attributed to him '
'After he was dead,' interrupted Judi as if to remind Vidas of his mistake in
saying the saint had never visited the island during his lifetime. To her
surprise Vidas nodded and said yes, after he was dead.
'He was supposed to have saved the island from famine, put an end to a great
plague which swept through Europe, and ' Vidas stopped and frowned in
concentration. 'Now what else?' He looked at Judi as if for the answer and
for the first time since Hannah's visit Judi saw the light of amusement enter
his eyes. 'I have an idea he saved us from the Turks at one time - ah, yes. He
brought about the defeat of the Turks. I remember now.'
'All these miracles after he was dead,' she frowned. 'The people don't really
believe that, surely?'
'Most certainly they believe it, always have. And four times a year his body
is brought out from the church and carried in a procession. His church is full
of treasures given by people who have received the saint's help in some way
or other.' Vidas's eyes were actually laughing at her expression of faint
disgust at the idea of the body, six hundred years old, being brought out and
paraded round the town.
'It sounds absolutely revolting!' she exclaimed at last, and as Spyros was
approaching with a loaded tray Vidas whispered a 'hush' to her before she
allowed her indignation to reach lengths where the smiling Corfiot would be
offended or even outraged. 'Do you believe in all these things?' she asked
when the man had gone. Vidas shook his head firmly.
'Not I. Most people do, though. Make no mistake, Judi, the saints are of
exceeding importance to the devout Greek people.' He went on to tell he
how they kissed the icons in church, starting at one end of a long row and
placing their lips to each one. With St. Spy- ridon, they actually kissed his
feet, Vidas told her, adding swiftly as he noted her horrified expression,
'Only through the glass, though.' And Vidas laughed then, his eyes seeming
for a fleeting second to hold all the old familiar tenderness she had known
prior to her stepsister's visit, a tenderness mingled with amusement and a
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