The Butterfly & The Blackbird

Two forms lay entwined on the coarsely textured white sheets. The moon fed its light sparingly, spoonful by spoonful onto the couple as the curtains shifted in the breeze to permit the intrusion of light. Stars slipped like tears down the black cheek of the night. A passing anxiety swept through Philip upon recognizing the sound of a distant, hooting owl: a harbinger of impending, worrisome change.

Days earlier Philip and Vanessa, newly engaged, had arrived on the island, excited to absorb their initial impressions of Corfu. She, dizzy with delightful anticipation, had quickly unpacked their bags in the modest hotel room, and had sequestered their clothing in the wardrobe provided; their toiletries she laid out in the bathroom to flank the marble washbasin. “There you are Philip,” she said. “Left side for you, right side for me!” The same she had always considered applicable to their sleeping arrangement. Vanessa thought of herself not so much as rigid, but rather as convincingly persuasive in accordance with her view of how things should be done. Philip gazed thoughtfully, silently at the sweeping view.

“Vee, please, later. Let’s just go and explore right now. We also need to find a place for lunch. Aren’t you starving as well?”

The idea for a five day holiday on the Greek island had been Vanessa’s. It was her opinion too, that they should travel late autumn. “So many bargains to be had, and far fewer people,” she stated with a jubilant confidence. Philip acquiesced.

Thanks to Vanessa’s diligent bargain hunting, the couple now found themselves emerging from their pension style hotel onto a street that was vibrant with an unfamiliar life and beautifully framed by an abundance of olive trees interspersed among pink and white blooming oleander shrubs. The white covers on restaurant tables flapped in the breeze off the Ionian Sea, beckoning to Philip and Vanessa.

One particular restaurant enticed each of them for a different reason; Vanessa, not because of the menu displayed outside, but because of the positioning of the tables and chairs on the beach sand; Philip seconded her choice, upon noticing a small group of tourists being shown the restaurant kitchen area. It was Philip’s greatest hope that on this trip he would learn how to authentically recreate some favorite Greek foods when back home.

The handsome man approaching their table was the owner of The Butterfly Restaurant, menu held deftly between his fingers. In perfect but delightfully accented English he greeted Philip and Vanessa who sat up in their chairs like eager poppies tracing the magic path of the sun.

“Welcome to Corfu. And welcome to The Butterfly!” Markos said, as he presented them with the full range of his culinary skills. The young tourists leaned forward with an unaccustomed enthusiasm to peruse the lunch menu options. Eggplant lasagna was selected: a reliable choice. They declined to drink anything other than water however. Vanessa blamed dehydration from the flight, and her fiance supported her accordingly.

That same evening the two returned to Markos’ restaurant. They had spent the afternoon in the immediate area of the bay, appraising the customs and way of life of a people descended from an ancient Mediterranean civilization. Frustration wore itself like a cloak on Vanessa’s limp shoulders; not so Philip, who had absorbed with enthusiasm all their encounters that afternoon. They approached Markos who welcomed them back like family, guiding them to a quiet table where the dominant sound was the gentle slurp of a fabled ‘wine-dark’ sea.

Emanating the passion and aura of a conductor of an orchestra, Markos provided them with a symphony of food starting with an autumn staple: bean soup and crusty bread. Philip marvelled at the mastery of Markos, watching him intently each time he approached their table. Grilled swordfish was followed by coffee, and a triangular piece of heaven disguised as honey walnut baklava for dessert. Vanessa smiled.

Back at the hotel, the island night cradled them in its arms. Early morning Philip could be seen on the balcony, alone, witnessing their first daybreak: a natural force that could be described in only mythic language. Too prematurely, the crescendo of silence was broken by the buzzing whine of Vanessa’s electric toothbrush. “Let’s rent bicycles today, ride around, and spend our time alone at a less populated beach,” she said. She wiped out the washbasin and hung up the used towels, but not before first straightening the silken bed sheets.

Philip nodded his head in assent; he would have preferred to spend part of the day in an olive grove, watching the ripe olives being manually harvested--followed by a visit to a winery that Markos had recommended the previous night. “Truly my friends,” Markos had said while clasping both their hands, “My island, my Corfu, was your choice of destination; but it is what you choose to do here what matters, and what reveals your inner self.”

Their backpacks were crammed with sufficient food and water for the day; rental bikes were mobilized and hours later they found themselves on a sandless beach and too afraid to swim safely in a sea that had grown choppy. Defeated, they turned their attention to collecting shells, sea glass and the occasional amputated crab claw. Their bike ride back, into a strong headwind, was brutal. Their consolation for what both considered an underutilized day, was to seek Markos’ attention.

Salvation for Philip came in the form of Markos approaching their table with two bowls of okra stew. Philip’s enthusiasm failed to be diminished by Vanessa’s disdain. He consumed both bowls of okra, and by way of compensation, slid a large portion of his grilled rabbit onto her plate.

Later that night upon their return from feasting at The Butterfly, a postprandial enervation settled over Vanessa and Philip. Their bodies unaccustomed to exercise and sun, failed them in their listless lovemaking.

“Philip, I want to go shopping early in the evening with some of the girls we travelled with on our flight. And guess what! They tell me there is a McDonald’s on Kapodistriou Street! So do you mind if I leave you to your own devices for a while tomorrow? Unless of course,” she added, “You care to join us.”

Philip laid down his newly acquired book of modern Hellenic poetry. His fingers stroked the pages. His pensive eyes tracked her rapid glances. “Not to worry Vee. Do you remember that Markos offered to teach me some Greek dishes if I wanted to help him, and stay on late in the restaurant? Tomorrow would be ideal for both of us.”

Breakfast found the pair sipping coffee and sampling a platter of pastries at The Butterfly. Markos was present to conduct the perfectly orchestrated event that any meal was. “Understood!” he exclaimed with a flourish of his fingers, “I will see you this evening my friend. Consider yourself on a quest in my kitchen, a quest for divine food.”

Philip and Vanessa drifted through the day in the little car they had rented to take them around the island. Conversation was desultory. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, or perhaps because it had been revealed that in this strangely unfamiliar society, they had very separate interests. When they parted physically at the end of the day to go in different directions, it seemed an inevitable but welcome extension of the past several hours.

Philip found himself drawn to The Butterfly like a child to a circus tent. Both heart and footstep were light. Markos drew him into the kitchen where Philip was handed a knife and asked to help prepare many individual salads, the basis of which were fragrant tomatoes, the island’s late harvest. As he grew increasingly confident he helped prepare and cook tiny fish, octopus and squid, as well as lamb chops. Each time that Markos entered the food preparation area Philip looked up from his task at hand with the eagerness of a needful soul.

The hours elongated and the moon rose higher to illuminate the now vacant tables and chairs on the beach. Reassuring himself that the restaurant’s interior was once again private, with a natural grace Markos plucked a bottle of wine from one of the higher wine racks in the cellar.

“Tonight Philip, this is the wine we will share. It is from the Peloponnese where I was conceived, but not born.”

The bottle of Dionysos Merlot was opened, releasing an aroma that transported Philip to simpler times spent in his boyhood kitchen: helping his mother make plummy puddings and fruit jams while his father sipped coffee at the tiny table by the window overlooking their garden.

“Merlot’” the Greek said, “Means blackbird. Our mythology cautions that blackbirds--ravens--were once white feathered messengers of the gods; until, that is, a bird returned to Apollo with news of his lover cheating. The god Apollo, in his anger scorched the raven black.” Markos smiled at Philip as he filled both glasses with a dark, almost blue liquid velvet. They toasted each other, while attempting to recall all the different ways of saying cheers in both languages: after which they fell into a brief and comfortable silence.

Markos stood as though to refill Philip’s glass, but instead kissed him on his brow where uncertainty and confusion had created a visible and near permanent commingling. The touch of Markos’ lips on Philip’s forehead and the gentle placement of loving fingers on the back of Philip’s neck propelled him to confess a secret that until that moment he had carried alone since boyhood.

“How did you know?” whispered Philip. “How did you know that this is what I have longed for? That sometimes I feel so very frightened believing that I will one day die without ever knowing how a first date should truly feel?”

Holding hands they ascended the staircase to Markos’ apartment above the restaurant. To Philip it seemed that the simple bed groaned with a profound delight upon receiving the wondrous weight of two lovers intent on consummating their passion for one another. The coarse sheets kissed their bodies in a rough, male way as each turned to face the other.

Later, as Philip dressed, it was Markos who spoke first. “Tomorrow I will wait for you.” He kissed both eyes tenderly. “ Tonight you chose to reveal yourself to another, to me. Your valour commands respect. So I will wait.”

The road back to the hotel was devoid of life. The burden of the message that he bore increased in weight with each footstep that drew him closer to Vanessa. His actions, he realized, had transformed him into a faithless fiance. And a merlot. Yet, for the first time, his heart felt light and happy.