Short Stories, Tall Stories

By Clive Cooke

Stirring the Pot
In the three stories: “Atlantis”, “Password Cleopatra” and “Minotaur”, the Captain runs a tourist business out of his re-modelled fishing vessel. He is a flawed character who does not relate well to other people. He becomes embroiled in various adventures which have an underlying element of fantasy.
“Celebrity Chef”. You’ve seen his series on TV. He is arrogant and offensive and he’s not particularly good at cooking. Now you have a chance to look behind the scenes to see what really goes on while making his TV shows.
“Technophobe”. You know you are old when you find that modern technology is too much to cope with. The story is partly based on fact, namely, the writer made a simple mistake filling out his income tax form on-line and was credited with seventeen million by the Tax Man. Thank you very much. By the way, I am writing this from jail.
The three “How to Murder” stories continue the theme from the previous collections. No-one actually gets murdered; this is pure fun. The story entitled “How to Murder Aunt Agatha” is my version of PG Wodehouse who parodied the idle rich of his day. Here we have Bertie Wooster up against his formidable Aunt Agatha. The lady holds the purse strings and she holds them very tightly.
“Oh Henry” is a tribute to the famous early 20th century American short-story writer, pen-name O Henry, real name Porter. Many of his favourite characters are villains and down-and-outs. His use of language and the originality of his images have seldom been surpassed.
Heard it on the Grapevine
“Emma” is a modern version of the famous novel by Jane Austen.
“Fake” is about falling in love with a crook. But, which one is the “good guy” and which one the “bad guy”? It seems that both the art dealer and the art restorer have shady backgrounds.
“Neighbours” is a warning not to get involved with those people next door. They might be social climbers. They might be leeches and they probably aren’t your type anyway. Your home is your castle.
The proverb is: “Hell Hath no Fury as a Woman Scorned”. When emotions get out of control, people can do some really dreadful things. This is a story of jealousy, revenge and murder.
The three humorous stories about divorce are set in different countries: “Divorce Australian Style, French Style and South African Style”.
Big Companies for Dummies
“Executive Rat” is the name given to the person in charge of the factory. He is less powerful than you might think. All he can do is to sit in his office pushing paper and worrying about the next disaster about to befall the factory.
“The Best of Enemies” should really be “the best of friends”. However, when it comes to career, power and money, even the best friendships can founder on the rocks of ambition.
“The Perfect Manager” is a modern version of Mary Shelley’s famous novel: “Frankenstein”.
“The Outsider” is about office politics. When joining a group, the rules of the game are that the newcomer should be humble. If he or she is not, we can expect repercussions.
It Never Rains in Paddafontein
In “Constable Piet at Your Service” the village policeman assists a pair of criminals escaping from the scene of the crime. Constable Piet is not all that bright.
In “how to Bury a Donkey” we learn (not how to bury a donkey) but how to make excuses. Jasper, a vagrant, is an excellent teacher. He has perfected the art of excuse-making to a high level. Constable Piet redeems himself by catching the robbers.
“Love in a Hot Climate” is inspired by Nancy Mitford’s novel. Only, the Karoo is a bit warmer compared to the United Kingdom.
In “Twins” we have a serious look at prejudice. One’s view of one’s self and one’s position in society can be destroyed when one produces a child that does not fit in with society’s norms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Cooke
• Release date: May 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005216511

Clive Cooke

Worked for thirty years in the petrochemical industry in production and marketing, recently retired. Published nine books. Intends to devote more time to writing and to travelling.Specializes in small-scale dramas rather than in epics. A shrewd observer of the complexities of human behavior. Loves contradictions and uncertainties. Health warning: there are several unexploded land mines buried in my writing. The reader is advised to tread warily.Traveled extensively in Europe, North, Central and South America. Speaks four languages. Photograph: I'm the one on the left wearing the hat.

Book preview

Short Stories, Tall Stories

By Clive Cooke

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Published by Clive Cooke at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 Clive Cooke

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Cover Design by Jo Naylor

Courtesy CanStockPhoto

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This collection of short stories continues the themes begun in previous volumes, namely: Heard it on the Grapevine, Stirring the Pot, Big Companies for Dummies and It Never Rains in Paddafontein. You might meet old friends from the previous volumes. Some of the stories are humorous and some are serious. Please enjoy!

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold. It may be reproduced, copied or given away to other people provided that it remains in its original form. Thank you for downloading the book. Please enjoy!

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Contents

Stirring the Pot

Atlantis Rising

Celebrity Chef

Password Cleopatra

Technophobe

Minotaur

A Five-Minute Job

Healing Hands

How to Murder Aunt Agatha

How to Murder Uncle Bob

How to Murder Your Boss

Cricket, Butterflies and Rugby

Cleaning the Swimming Pool

Rhino

Oh Henry!

Heard It on the Grapevine

Emma

Fake

Neighbours

The Cat

Hell Hath no Fury

Divorce Australian Style

Divorce French Style

Divorce South African Style

Big Companies for Dummies

Executive Rat

The Best of Enemies

The Perfect Manager

The Project

The Outsider

It Never Rains in Paddafontein

Prologue

Constable Piet at Your Service

How to Bury a Donkey

Love in a Hot Climate

The Peace Treaty

Twins

Stirring the Pot

Atlantis Rising

It was unusually hot for May. Farmers on the island were already reaping their wheat and the grass was brown and dry. Dust blew in little eddies along the footpaths. Old men of the village sat in the shade of the olive trees in front of the café playing backgammon and talking politics. Everyone was an expert in politics. By the middle of summer, the heat would be unbearable. But, the heat had nothing to do with the Captain’s bad mood. He had just lost his temper with the Greek Orthodox priest.

‘You coward,’ shouted the Captain. ‘Gamisu!’

This was the worst swearword the Captain knew in Greek. He could swear in eleven different languages, learnt in bars and strip joints from Naples to Beirut and from Bangkok to Yokohama.

No-one ever used bad language in the presence of Father Nikólaos Sifakis out of respect for his age, out of respect for his office and out of fear of the Lord. And never in all his seventy-six years had anyone told him to "gamisu". His mouth opened and shut repeatedly like a fish on dry land.

‘May God forgive you, Englishman.’

The priest fumbled with a string of dark coloured beads. Mrs Kornaros crossed herself and frowned at the Captain. He might well have saved her life, but he was a sinner, a foreigner and disrespectful to their culture.

The refugees stood around on the quay in the hot sun not knowing what to do or where to go. The Captain had off-loaded them an hour ago, but there was no-one there to meet them. The authorities in Heraklion had been contacted well in advance and told to find shelter and food for sixty-five refugees. This wasn’t the Captain’s problem. His job was to get people off the island to a place of safety. The refugees were hungry. Some of them had not eaten for days. He had ordered food for the next batch of refugees he was to pick up. The supplier was waiting for him at Heraklion harbour, but the man had trebled his prices. Supply and demand, he said with a smile on his face and a shrug of his shoulders. The Captain lost his temper. He did not bargain with rogues. He would have liked to have hit the man, but had to content himself with using his favourite swearword again. The Captain was a violent man when the drink got to him, six foot seven inches tall and built like a brick privy, so his ex-colleagues in the merchant navy said of him.

The Captain pulled the gangplank back onto the deck and started the boat’s engines. The boat was named: the Atlantis after the Greek legend. Heraklion harbour was small and pretty. At the end of the pier was a fort built by the Venetians in the sixteenth century. The Captain did not have time for pretty things. It would be twelve hours’ sailing to reach the island of Santorini where he would collect another load of refugees and he was tired. He switched on the radio hoping for an update on the volcano. Perhaps, this was only a minor incident and everyone was panicking for nothing. The previous eruption was sixty-five years ago. The volcano rumbled discontentedly, spat its poison into the air and then went back to sleep again. Damage was minimal and the evacuees were able to return to the island after a few months. The latest event might prove to be exactly the same, although, one could never be sure. The big one had happened more than three and a half thousand years ago and judged by the experts to be the biggest eruption the world had experienced in historical times, far bigger than Krakatoa in Indonesia whose explosion echoed around the world. The big one produced so much ash and dust as to affect the earth’s climate for three successive years. It was even recorded by Chinese chroniclers. It would happen again. It must happen again.

Past the Venetian fort: blue against blue, sky against sea. The Captain increased the boat’s speed. The mere thought of the orthodox priest made him angry. Father Sifakis was a coward. The risks in returning to Santorini were minimal. The big eruption, thousands of years ago, had been preceded by several months’ warning. The residents who had fled the initial earthquakes had actually returned to re-establish themselves. Months later, they had to flee again. According to the archaeologists, no skeletons had been found in the ruins at Akrotiri, unlike the other famous eruption at Pompeii in AD 79. The conclusion drawn was that no-one on Santorini had been killed. In which case, Father Sifakis had no valid reason to refuse to help organize the evacuation. The priest had been useful in controlling the panic-stricken residents during the first voyage. It was his idea to sort everyone into families before allowing them on board. Missing family members would create unnecessary anxiety amongst the refugees. On board, he held prayers and they sang hymns which had a calming effect on everyone. This time, the Captain would be alone and he did not speak Greek.

There was nothing on the radio about the volcano. The Captain tried different channels. After the initial announcement, the news stations seem to have lost interest. Presumably, the earth tremors had died down. It was not an emergency after all and a few hours’ sleep would be possible. The Captain did not like sailing at night due to reduced visibility, although in an emergency, he might have to. He tried the international news services on the television in the saloon. There was nothing. He changed to a shipping channel. It was in Arabic. He could swear in Arabic which he did as it gave him pleasure, but there was no-one around to admire his linguistic skills.

The Captain’s boat was a thirty-five-year-old fishing vessel, modified to take tourists. After leaving the merchant navy, fired for brawling and insubordination, he tried his hand at fishing. Soon, he discovered that there were not enough fish in the sea to make a decent living. Tourism was far better paid. His boat could do eight and a half knots. Seven was enough to get to Santorini. The last thing he needed was a blown head gasket in the middle of the Mediterranean. Of course, if the volcano was bad-tempered, he would try to do ten. His biggest danger would be a cloud of hot, poisonous gas. The neighbouring islands could expect tsunamis. He wondered if the authorities on these islands had emergency plans. They probably did, but it was likely that no-one had looked at them for years.

After abandoning his career as a fisherman, the Captain became a tour operator. He did not like tourists, but they paid well. Some tourists were enormously demanding, ordering him around like a servant. He had to remain polite and charming to his guests, a hugely difficult task for him. One day, he would explode without warning like the Santorini volcano. Other tourists made a mess and expected him to clean up afterwards and worst of all they threw plastic into the sea. He would have liked to have told them off, but had to restrain himself. This reminded him: he must clean up the mess left by the previous load of refugees.

Not all tourists were badly behaved. Some were generous when it came to tipping and then there was this gorgeous French girl…. the Captain stroked the tattoo of a naked mermaid on his arm. Afterwards, he wrote to her, but she never replied. Perhaps it was better for both of them.

The Captain’s tours were flexible. The passengers decided where they wanted to go and which islands to see. They paid a set price per day. Others wanted to spend most of the time diving. The Captain had done the advanced diving course and was now a registered instructor. Last year, he had hosted a group of treasure hunters diving for wrecks. Even mundane things like clay amphorae for transporting olive oil or wine were worth something if genuinely old. The leader of the group gave him a piece of broken pottery with the painting of a dolphin on it as a souvenir. He kept it in his cabin.

Evening was approaching. Instead of sailing through the night, he would sleep. This meant he would be in Santorini by early-afternoon. He passed a pod of dolphins. There must be fish in the sea for these animals to survive. Dolphins and whales were mammals, not fish. He had read somewhere that millions of years ago they inhabited the land and then returned to the sea. He must read up about it again. He left the bridge and went down to the engine room to check temperatures and oil levels. Everything was in order. He swopped oil filters and cleaned the casing of the pump. One of the pipes was dripping oil, so he tightened the leaking joint. He needed to check the radio again. He yawned. He was desperate for a few hours’ sleep.

It was the faint smell of sulphur that woke the Captain. His first thought was for the engine, however, this was not the smell of burning. He switched on the light in his cabin. Ten past four. He might as well get up. There was still nothing on the radio about the volcano. But, the smell of sulphur was ominous. As dawn broke, he passed several fishing vessels crowded with refugees. They reminded him of the armada of boats evacuating the British army from Dunkirk in World War Two. He was close enough to one of the fishing boats to see the owner. The man waved at him. He blew the boat’s horn in greeting.

Shortly after mid-day, a brown smudge was visible on the horizon. This would be the bad-tempered volcano. The Captain adjusted the boat’s course. Three more hours. He wondered what the central government in Athens was doing about the evacuation. They probably did not regard it as urgent. Radio and television had stopped reporting on it. The ferries were on strike, so they would not help. It was up to the government and private individuals like himself. He had been conducting a party of tourists around the Cyclades Islands when news about the eruption came through. The Captain explained to his passengers that he had to respond to calls for help as this was the code of honour amongst mariners and that the tour was cancelled. He promised to refund them the full amount of the tour. The tourists were understanding. Actually, they had little choice in the matter.

The smell of sulphur was stronger now and the wind was blowing directly towards the boat. A thin, hard line on the horizon was in sight, reminding him of a Right Whale letting off steam. One hour to go. The Captain wiped dust and ash off a handrail.

‘Not good,’ he said out aloud.

Santorini bay was almost perfectly circular surrounded by steep cliffs. This was the volcano’s caldera. The big one three and a half thousand years ago, had formed a huge crater which then collapsed in upon itself, forming the caldera. In the middle of the bay there were two flat islands. The one island was relatively new, having formed during the last eruption sixty-five years ago. This one was the source of ash and sulphur. He passed a few dead fish floating in the water.

‘Not good.’

The quay was deserted. It seemed that the residents were sheltering from the ash fall-out in their houses. The Captain blew his horn in Morse Code. Would anyone understand? A person was running up the steep road to the village. A child? The Captain continued sounding the horn in short bursts. People started appearing: a boy on a bicycle, women carrying bundles of possessions.

By the time the boat tied up, a crowd had gathered on the quay, talking, gesticulating, pushing. The Captain lowered the gangplank and was nearly knocked over by the rush of people trying to get past him. He shouted at them.

‘Hey you…. hey…. no pushing…. wait…. wait…. one at a time. Does anyone here speak English? Kali mera. Now listen everybody, listen to me, quiet please. I am taking you to Crete, Kriti. Do you understand? Stop pushing. I can take sixty to seventy people on board….’

Either the crowd did not understand English, or they were in no mood to obey instructions. An elderly man had come all the way from his village on his donkey. Did he expect the Captain to take the animal on board?

‘No luggage, Madam…. Madam…. Oxi…. oxi.’ The Captain waved a large forefinger at the woman. ‘No bicycle Sir, I am sorry. There’s only room for people.’

A young man slipped on the deck. People trampled over him in their haste. If only Father Sifakis had been there to help. The coward. Sifakis spoke good English. The islanders respected him, obeyed him. The women kissed his hand.

‘No more people. Sorry Sir, we are full. Get off the gangplank, Sir. Please, get off. I shall return. There is nothing to worry about. To-morrow. Do you understand? To-morrow.’

The Captain disliked refugees. Twelve more hours and he would be rid of them. The children and the elderly had priority use of the cabins. They would have to share the beds. Someone must be able to speak English. He needed a spokesperson. The heads on the boat were different from Greek toilets. Someone must explain to the refugees how to use them. The last group had made such a mess. He needed volunteers to clean the boat.

‘Does anyone speak English?’

The spokesman’s name was Michael, twenty-seven years of age and an electrician by profession. He had spent some years in Canada and had returned in order to marry a local girl. His marriage plans had been temporarily shelved. His fiancée and her family were not on board. He had gone around to their house, but they had already left. The place was boarded up to deter looters. He presumed that they had escaped on another boat, but he was still worried. Why had Elena not contacted him? Perhaps she had tried to.

The Captain radioed the authorities in Heraklion and Michael conducted the negotiations. Food, water and accommodation for the refugees. They would be there in eight hours. Drinking water and fuel for the boat. And toilet paper, lots of toilet paper. The Captain was tired. He would rest in Crete before returning to Santorini.

It was early morning when the boat rounded the Venetian fort. A lone figure dressed in a black cassock was walking up and down the quay as if waiting for someone.

‘It can’t be,’ said the Captain. ‘I never thought I would see him again. I don’t want to see him again, the coward.’

Father Sifakis, long flowing beard and silver pectoral cross, was fingering a string of worry beads as he walked up and down the pier. Young Michael jumped onto the quay and caught the rope that the Captain threw overboard.

‘What is the priest doing here? There’s going to be another confrontation. The best thing is to ignore him. I’ll pretend to be busy.’

The first batch of refugees had gone which was a good sign.

‘Good day, Englishman.’

‘Sifakis.’

The priest stood waiting as the refugees disembarked; a reception committee of one. The people gathered around the old man, talking and asking questions. The priest spoke in an authoritative voice. The Captain did not understand, but it was obviously information about where they would be taken, food and accommodation and other practical matters. But, why was the priest organizing this and not the Cretan authorities? The Captain watched in silence. Maybe there would not be a confrontation after all. The man had actually done something useful during his absence.

‘Where are the representatives of the local government?’ asked the Captain. The orthodox priest made a gesture with his hands. ‘Who is looking after these people?’

‘The Church. His Eminence, the Archbishop, is a friend of mine.’

‘The local government?’

‘No, not the government. The authorities say there is no money.’

‘You have done well Mr Sifakis….’

‘Mr Englishman, Captain, I come to apologize. I was a coward. It is true what you say. I was only thinking of my own safety.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I was hasty…. short-tempered…. the heat…. I was tired.’

‘Now, I am making a decision, atonement you may call it. I come back to Santorini with you. These are my people. I must help them.’

‘If you come, it means one less place on the boat for a refugee.’

‘Yes, I come.’

‘I must apologize too. I swore at you.’

‘Apology accepted, Mr Captain, very bad to swear, very bad. It is an insult to God. Now, I come on board if you don’t mind.’

The Captain did not get his rest in Crete as planned. There would be an opportunity during the night. He fiddled with the radio. There was nothing on any of the channels about the volcano.

The priest joined the Captain on the bridge. There was a notice on the door: Authorized Personnel Only which Sifakis ignored. The first half hour passed in silence. The Captain was quite content with silence. Some people felt obliged to fill the void with words. He was not one of them. If you asked him a direct question, he gave you a direct reply. It might be polite, it might not. A full hour passed in silence. Every now and again the Captain glanced at the man in black wandering around the bridge examining the dials and instruments. What did he think he was doing? He had better not touch anything. He would certainly not understand what he was looking at and the Captain was not prepared to explain it to him simply to make conversation. He could smell the priest’s body odour and hear his breathing whenever he passed nearby. Sifakis scratched his chin underneath his beard. He blew his nose. Why did he not go down to the saloon? It was more comfortable there and he could watch television. The very presence of the man annoyed him. This was an intrusion into his domain.

‘Look: dolphins,’ said the priest.

‘Yes, I know,’ replied the Captain. ‘They have been following us for the last half hour.’

‘In Greek culture, to have dolphins following the boat is good luck.’

‘We need good luck.’

‘What for dolphins?’

‘Bottlenose. They used to be very common. Their numbers have declined drastically in recent years.’

‘The Greeks have a romance with the dolphin, since ancient times.’

‘Yes, I know. They feature in many legends.’

‘Dolphins were supposed to be the messengers of Poseidon.’

Yes, I know. Arion, the poet, was saved from drowning by a dolphin. Coins from that time show a boy sitting on a dolphin.’

‘How you know this?’

‘I read about it. By the way, dolphins and whales are not fish. They are mammals. Millions of years ago, they lived on the land and then returned to the sea.’

‘That is not so.’

‘It is so. Female whales have mammary glands. They feed their young with milk. Fish don’t do that. How do you explain this?’

‘God made them so.’

‘Skeletons of whales show they still have fingers inside their flippers….’

‘God made them so.’

‘Fish don’t have fingers. You only need fingers if you live on the land.’

‘God made all the different species. It says so in the bible.’

‘And God also made fools!’

Father Sifakis stared at the floor for a moment, made a grunting noise and then went below to his cabin. An hour later, he returned to the bridge.

‘Mr Englishman, Captain. We must talk. This is now the second time you have been rude to me. If you don’t like me, that is unfortunate. There is nothing I can do about it.’ The old man was visibly upset. ‘My request is that you try to be polite. That is the least you can do. We are both on this boat together. The refugees must be our only concern. You are making co-operation difficult.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Sifakis. I apologize. It just came out.’

‘I am not as well-educated as you. I studied Ancient Greek, Latin and Hebrew. There was no time for science and modern subjects like politics and economics.’

‘I am not well-educated Mr Sifakis. I am self-taught. I left school at fourteen.’

‘Self-taught is education.’

‘How old are you, Mr Sifakis?’

‘Seventy-six. And you?’

‘I’ll be fifty-one next month. Seventy-six is not too late to start with your self-education.’

‘We were talking about whales and dolphins.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I was saying that whales and dolphins are mammals not fish. Fossils of the ancestors of these animals show that they originally had four legs. They lived a semi-aquatic life and then, as they adopted a wholly marine life, their bodies changed. Their hind legs became smaller and smaller over time and eventually disappeared. Their hands became flippers. They breathe air like other mammals. They don’t have gills like fish. Their closest living relative is the hippopotamus….’

‘Hippopotamus is Greek.’

‘Yes, I know. It means river horse.’

‘How you know.’

‘Self-taught.’

‘And the Greek legends?’

‘I have time to read. There is not much else to do on a boat. I have often wondered about myths and legends. I believe there may be a foundation of truth underlying them. Take the legend of Arion. It could have happened. Dolphins are highly intelligent. They show empathy. They have been reported to co-operate with human beings. Hey, let me show you something.’ The Captain pulled up his shirt sleeve to reveal the tattoo of a naked mermaid on his bicep. He flexed the muscle making the lady dance, whistling a lively tune to accompany the dance. He laughed. Sifakis looked away quickly. ‘Now here is a famous legend. I have wondered if these sailors’ stories about mermaids and mermen also have a foundation of truth: a race of humans on some isolated island whose culture is semi-aquatic.’

‘Oh, I noticed your boat is called Atlantis.’

‘Plato’s legend. It’s not a legend. It is a distant memory of the destruction caused by the eruption of the Santorini volcano three and a half thousand years ago.’

‘I agree with you, Mr Captain. It is not a myth. It is a fact and is had to have happened in the Greek world.’

Sifakis was intrigued by this crude sailor who drank and swore and had tattoos of naked women on his arm. He knew Greek mythology and zoology. Some of his theories might be wild and implausible, but he was a thinking man.

Supper was spaghetti with a meat sauce. The Captain apologized for his lack of expertise. He said he was tired. He took a lot of trouble with his tourists, but on his own he made the simplest meal possible.

‘Wine, beer, Mr Sifakis?’

‘I don’t think so. Yes, actually yes. I hardly ever drink. Let us toast our new partnership.’

‘Let’s do that.’

After supper, father Sifakis sat in the saloon watching television. The sitting room was luxuriously furnished with soft leather settees, wood panelling and a bar with a polished granite counter and sparkling glassware. The priest had always lived frugally. Luxury embarrassed him. He switched on the television and searched for the Greek channel.

‘Captain, they are showing the debates on television.’

‘The Greek parliament?’

‘The politicians are arguing, fighting. Real fighting, fists, what you call a punch-up. It is disgraceful.’

‘And the volcano?’

‘Yes, they are discussing the Santorini volcano. It is all about money, money, money and blame, blame, blame. The government says there is no money because the previous administration spent it all. The opposition says there is no money because the present government is corrupt. They are attacking the nephew of the Prime Minister who was awarded a huge government contract. There is no evacuation plan. These Greeks! They make me ashamed to be Greek.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Sifakis. This happens in every country in the world. People are people.’

‘The ferries are on strike. They interviewed the union leader on television. The union refuses to travel to Santorini because it is unsafe. They want danger money. How danger money can make the volcano safe is not to understanding for me. The union blames management. Management say the union is holding them to ransom.’

‘Why doesn’t the government send the navy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They probably will, if the situation deteriorates.’

‘Who can say? I was eleven years old during the last eruption. I don’t remember much except for my father carrying me down to the boat. It was at night. I remember the smell. My family originally came from Paros.’

‘I took a group of tourists there some years ago.’

‘You know Paros? I shall be buried there.’

‘They will bury me at sea.’

‘Now, you are tour operator.’

‘That’s right. I have been at sea all my life. I started in the merchant navy. I ran away to sea. Signed on, lied about my age, travelled the world, been everywhere. I speak a little Thai, a few phrases of Japanese, Arabic: not the kind of words you would use.’

‘I know. I heard you. I teach you good Greek.’

‘Then I was sacked, so I took up commercial fishing. This did not work out so I had my boat refitted for tourism. I am doing okay. And you: have you always been a priest?’

‘My path was set out for me since I am thirteen or fourteen. There are not many opportunities on the islands.’

‘Are you married?’

‘I was married. My dear wife died young. Twenty-four years. It is difficult for priests to marry.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t earn much.’

‘I know what you mean. My first wife and I were married for seven years. There were always arguments about money. My second wife tried to reform me. She gave up after three months, said I was not made for married life. I think she was right. I prefer short liaisons.’

‘Liaisons are the road to perdition.’

The Captain stroked the tattoo of the naked mermaid on his bicep. He had plans to give her a mate, a merman, on his other arm.

‘Children, Mr Sifakis?’

‘None. And you?’

‘I have two daughters by my first wife.’

‘What they do?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen them or heard from them in twenty-five years.’

‘Oh, Captain, lypiménos. I am sorry. The seaman’s life is not right for wife and family.’

‘It suits me.’

‘Does it really? Be honest with me.’

The Captain gave a snort of impatience.

‘This isn’t a confessional.’

‘After to-morrow we will never see each other again.’

‘All right. I do have regrets. Sometimes I have visions of settling down in a village in the English countryside in a thatched cottage, a dog, grandchildren, a vegetable garden. It won’t happen.’

‘I have regrets too. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not become a priest. The furthest I have been away from the islands was the seminary in Thessaloniki. My mother wanted me to become a priest.’

‘And you obeyed her? The dutiful son.’

Sifakis did not answer.

Dawn crept up on Father Sifakis, slumped on the couch in the saloon, the television set still on. He had forgotten to say his office the previous day. The smell of cooking came through from the galley. Sifakis looked at the news headlines and then went to investigate breakfast.

‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘Very well.’

‘We’ll be there in about an hour,’ said the Captain. ‘We hit a large swell during the night. This indicates an under-water earthquake. Out here, it is not a problem. Closer to shore, it could be. Waves build up as the sea becomes shallower. I am going to contact the authorities in the nearest islands. You can talk to them. They must be warned about abnormally large waves.’

‘Anafi is the closest island.’

‘We’ll contact all the major ones, Sikinos, Folegandros, Milos. They can spread the warning.’

‘Paros?’

‘Yes, Paros, too.’

The sky was dirtier than the previous day. The Captain wondered if the central government was now taking the incident seriously. A helicopter passed overhead. Sifakis said it was an army helicopter. The Captain thought it might be a television crew. He sent Father Sifakis to check the news service.

Inside Santorini Bay, the sea was murky from gas and ash. Dead seagulls and fish were floating in the water. The boat passed close to the half-submerged body of a dead seal. Then, the Captain saw legs of a human being which appeared to be part of the animal. He did not know what it was. It was either a seal or a human. Three fishing vessels were tied up at the quay and a fourth one was leaving, packed with refugees. There was no sign of the ferries. The Captain blew his boat’s horn in Morse Code.

‘This could be the last trip, Mr Sifakis.’

The old man stroked his beard.

‘I will pray.’

When their turn came at the quayside, there was a rush to get on board. Sifakis tried in vain to keep order. Several people saw they were in danger of being left behind and tried to jump across the gap.

‘Tell them we are going to Crete.’

Father Sifakis tried to sort everyone into families. The Captain waited. There was a commotion in the saloon when it was discovered that old Mrs Latsis was missing. Her daughter insisted they go back to Fira to fetch her. The other passengers shouted their opposition. Everyone wanted to get away as quickly as possible. The priest appealed for calm, offering to go and look for the grandmother.

‘What is going on, Sifakis?’

‘Someone is missing. I will go and fetch her.’

‘No…. no…. the family members must go.’

However, none of the family members wanted to leave the boat thinking it would depart without them.

‘What’s happening now?’

‘They don’t want to go back to the village.’

‘Tell them I’ll go. The boat cannot leave without me. I must have a member of the family with me.’

After a lengthy discussion, the Latsis grandson agreed to go with the Captain. The road up the side of the cliff was steep and covered in rocks from a recent earth tremor. The boy ran ahead leaving the Captain behind. Suddenly, he felt the ground move and a shower of small stones rained down from the cliff. The tremor was a warning not to stay too long. The Captain started to run. At the first house, he stopped and looked back at the quay. He was unfit and breathing heavily. The Atlantis was rocking violently, but there was no imminent danger. He could hear his passengers shouting.

The Latsis house was down a side street. Several of the houses in the street had cracks in the walls. The roof of one of them had collapsed. The front door of the Latsis house was locked. The boy called his grandmother’s name several times. An upstairs window opened and a woman leaned out. A long conversation followed.

‘What is she saying?’

‘My grandmother does not want to leave without her cat.’

The captain insulted the old woman in Thai and in Turkish.

‘Where is her cat?’

‘Disappeared.’

‘Tell her to come down here. I want to talk to her.’

It was a case of kidnapping. The Captain grabbed the old woman, lifted her onto his shoulder and carried her bodily back down the road to the quay, struggling and protesting.

During the Captain’s absence, more refugees had climbed aboard. He let them stay. They were now underway, through the circular bay of the caldera and out into the open sea. The wind changed direction, bringing sweet relief to the boat and its passengers. Sifakis went from person to person talking, encouraging and comforting. The Captain was on the bridge. He could not see the deck, but he could hear a noise. People were shouting. The noise became louder. He put the boat onto autopilot and went to investigate.

‘What is going on? Where is Sifakis?’

There was nothing unusual. The volcano had not suddenly become violent. Ash was pouring out in small, regular bursts, just as it had been doing over the last three days. The sea was choppy, but not unusually so. There was no abnormally large swell.

‘What is going on?’

A young woman with tears streaming down her face pointed to the boat’s stern, the area which had been modified as a swimming platform for tourists. Grasping the platform was a flipper, grey in colour and slimy. Something was trying to get on board. Attached to the flipper was an arm, like a normal human arm. The body of the creature was still in the water and its head was visible, human but not fully human. Sifakis was down on his knees holding his silver crucifix out towards the creature. The animal pulled itself up onto the diving platform. A woman screamed. The creature’s body was now fully visible. It was male, almost human with flippers for hands and feet. The Captain had never seen anything like this in his life. He let out an oath.

‘Sifakis, get away from there.’

The orthodox priest carried on praying aloud and holding out his crucifix.

‘For God’s sake get back, Sifakis.’

The creature was ugly. It was something out of one’s worst nightmares. But, this was daylight and the Captain was wide awake. He looked around for a weapon. He remembered the boathook, stowed somewhere next to the gunwales.

‘Out of my way!’

The Captain pushed his way through the throng, treading on someone sitting on the deck. He found the boathook.

‘Mind out!’

The creature was standing full height, a little over five feet tall. Its legs were small and under-developed. It seemed completely unperturbed by the commotion it had caused. The Captain, now armed with the boathook, advanced. The creature did not try to defend itself. Clearly, it did not understand what was about to happen.

The eyes of the Captain and the creature met. There seemed to be signs of intelligence in the animal’s yellow eyes. Some sort of understanding passed between them. The Captain stopped advancing on the animal and put down the boathook. The creature was hairless and without external ears. Instead of hands and feet, it had flippers. Its nose was like that of a seal which opened and shut. It was an air-breathing mammal. In all other respects it appeared to be human.

‘I don’t think it is dangerous,’ said the captain.

Clearly, the creature lived in the seas around Santorini. The Captain wondered how many of these animals existed. Was this another example of a land mammal returning to the sea millions of years ago? The volcano must have had something to do with the creature’s appearance. The sea around the caldera was turbid, bubbling with gas. Fish had been poisoned. Life in the sea around Santorini was under threat.

‘The mariners’ legend…. my God…. it’s a merman!’

Father Sifakis was still on his knees. The Captain grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

‘Get up, Sifakis! I want you to go to the galley and fetch the fish I caught yesterday. This man is hungry.’

‘It is the Devil.’

‘It is an amphibian. You could call it a merman.’

‘It is the Devil.’

‘Don’t argue. Do as I say.’

‘I have seen the Devil, face to face.’

‘Go, Sifakis, go.’

The priest went to the galley and brought back three fishes. He threw one of them at the creature. The animal grabbed it and devoured it.

‘The merman is hungry. I thought so.’ The Captain noticed that it had sharp teeth. A second head appeared in the boat’s wake. ‘There’s another one. Give me the fish.’

The Captain threw a fish at the second head and gave the creature on board, the last one. It looked at the Captain as if requesting more, but there wasn’t any more. After a while, the creature slid off the platform and disappeared under the waves.

Epilogue

Deposition by Vasilios Stamatis, age thirty-six, of Athinios, Santorini. Translated by Demetrius Papademos.

I was in the May 27th group being evacuated from Santorini on board the Atlantis. The Captain is an Englishman. I do not know his name. We had left Santorini bay and were in the open sea when the incident occurred. I was standing at the back of the boat, watching the volcano giving off smoke and ash when I noticed what I thought was a seal. The creature grabbed onto the platform where I was standing with a flipper. Then, an arm and head appeared. It was a human head, ugly, grey in colour. I was shocked. I attach a sketch I later made of the creature to this report.

The reason for my deposition is because my grandfather, Stavros Stamatis, a fisherman by profession, claimed to have caught such a creature in his nets. The people of the island ridiculed him. They said he was drunk. Some said he was a liar. My grandfather never spoke about the incident again, but he never went fishing off Cape Akrotiri again.

Signed: V. Stamatis.

Deposition by William Smith, Professor of Zoology, London University.

I have examined the various sketches made by the refugees from Santorini Island. For several reasons, a firm conclusion cannot be reached. The most obvious reason is that no creature like this is known to science. The sketches differ from each other in many important aspects which casts doubt on the accuracy of the sightings. One sketch in particular is clearly a seal. I must therefore come down on the side of caution. In my professional opinion, the most likely explanation is that of misidentification. The animal is probably a seal.

Signed: W. Smith.

Deposition by Eugene A Bouchard, Professor of Marine Biology, University of Toulouse.

The sketches of the purported sea monster seen off Santorini Island were passed to me by my colleague, Professor Smith of London University, for comment. I have to concur with the professor that there is considerable doubt as to the existence of such a creature. None of the so-called witnesses has been interviewed by a scientist and apart from the crude sketches, there is no hard evidence to back up their claims. Bearing in mind the psychological state of the refugees fleeing from the volcano, I would say that this is most likely a case of mass hysteria.

Signed: E.A. Bouchard.

Deposition by Loukas Markides, National Archaeology Museum, Athens.

I am a trained archaeologist working at the National Museum in Athens, specializing in bronze-age cultures in the Mediterranean.

I have had the opportunity to examine drawings of the creature seen off Santorini in May last year and have a few observations to make. I note that there are similarities between the sketches and the sea creatures depicted in Minoan wall paintings discovered at Akrotiri on Santorini Island. The paintings are extremely old, dated to about 1600 BCE, and many are in a poor condition making the identification of details difficult. The techniques used by the artists vary from true frescoes to painting on dry plaster. The pigments used were mineral in composition. What is notable is that the men in these paintings are painted in dark brown, the women in light tones and sea creatures, swimming amongst dolphins, in grey-blue. Thus, the artist makes it clear that these creatures are not humans. The figures correspond reasonably closely to the sketches provided by the eye-witnesses, namely human bodies with flippers instead of hands and feet. Most interpretations assume that these creatures are mythical. In my professional opinion, this is the most plausible explanation until stronger evidence is obtained. I would recommend that a well-equipped scientific expedition be undertaken in the waters surrounding Santorini to search for such evidence.

Signed: L. Markides.

Deposition by Father Nikólaos Sifakis, of Fira, Santorini.

I was present on two of the voyages of the Atlantis to collect refugees from Santorini Island. The Captain is an Englishman. I do not know his name. On the second voyage, we were threatened by the Devil. I have seen the Devil’s face. It was only by praying to the Holy Virgin and by the grace of God that we escaped unharmed. The Captain called it a merman. That is incorrect. It was the Devil.

I do not know what happened to the Captain. We never saw him again. I did not go with him on the fourth voyage because of age and exhaustion. The Captain might not have reached Santorini, judging it to be too dangerous. Although, from the little I know of him, danger would not have stopped him. I heard that the ferries were running again. In which case, he would no longer have been needed in the evacuation of the island.

The Captain is a difficult man. There were problems in his background, but with God’s grace he will be saved. He is well-educated, a thinking man. During our limited time together, I learnt several things from him. Even at seventy-six, one is not too old to learn. I wish him well.

Signed: Father N. Sifakis.

******

Celebrity Chef

‘A Michelangelo of the culinary art, a feast for the senses, an explosion of flavour, a symphony of subtle aromas…’

‘Cut…. cut…. cut!’ yelled the director.

The film crew let out a collective groan. This was the twentieth take that morning and they were falling behind schedule.

‘Now what’s wrong, Harry?’ asked the star of the show.

‘Mick,’ replied the director, ‘my unhealed ulcer, the monster of my nightmares, my pounding migraine, the stone in my shoe….’

‘Don’t use my name in vain, Harry.’

‘Mr Stone…. Mick, there is a huge mismatch between your words and your facial expression. It goes to your credibility. You are supposed to like what you do. Fake it boy, fake it.’

‘Do you want me to tell the truth?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then, what do you want?’

‘Try a little less hype next time. I just want your face and your words to be consistent.’

‘Consistently good or consistently bad?’

‘Just tone it down a little.’

The television documentary was being shot in a country restaurant in France. The crew was surrounded by food, but none of them had had anything to eat since five o’clock that morning barring one greasy croissant and a cup of coffee that was strong enough to take the enamel off your teeth. Mick Stone, the star of the show, the food guru, the epicure, the celebrity chef was the only member of the film crew eating. He was now on his twentieth plate of cuisses de grenouille and his tenth glass of gevrey chambertin.

The unfinished plate of cuisses de grenouille went back to the kitchen for resuscitation.

‘Don’t throw it away,’ pleaded the cameraman. ‘I’ll eat it.’

Under normal circumstances, the cameraman would blanch at the idea of eating cuisses de grenouille or, frogs’ legs in everyday parlance. However, the noises emanating from his stomach overruled his natural conservatism.

‘No, you will not eat his food,’ said the director. ‘The food is a movie prop, paid for by the studio and I am already over budget. Now, get back to your box of tricks. We are going to do take number twenty-one. Are you ready? Camera, lights, sound….?’ The star of the show was fiddling with the reconstituted movie prop when he should rather have been getting ready to eat it. ‘Mick, I am talking to you. Are you ready?’

The star let out a loud burp. The sound engineer recorded the noise and played it back, amplified ten-fold.

‘No, Harry,’ said Mick. ‘I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I can’t eat this garbage anymore.’ He pointed to the orange mess on the plate in front of him. ‘It makes my stomach turn.’

‘You make my stomach turn. Take five, everyone.’

The cameraman climbed down from his chair and went outside for a smoke. The sound engineer whispered an expletive loud enough for the director to hear and followed his colleague into the street. Harry was no smooth diplomat. He did not indulge in the massaging of egos. He gave it to his team straight.

‘Mick, the thorn in my side, the itch I cannot scratch, my bleeding haemorrhoids, my root-canal abscess: the reason why we have to do multiple takes is because you are screwing up.’

‘You would too if you had to eat twenty plates of frogs’ legs.’

‘It’s your job.’

‘I hate my job.’

‘And I hate celebrities.’

‘Why can’t it be twenty plates of fillet steak?’

‘Because the series is on French cooking. You ought to know that. You wrote the series.’

‘I didn’t write that it had to be frogs’ legs.’

‘If it carries on like this, you are going to eat a hundred plates of frogs’ legs. Now, get your act together.’

From the start, things had gone badly. They had chosen to film in a traditional restaurant in the beautiful medieval town of Vézelay in Burgundy. Mick Stone was a celebrity chef with a huge following on television. He had his own five-star restaurant in St Ives and was supposed to know everything there was to know about French cuisine. The waiter had been coached on his role in the production, the chef suitably flattered and the restaurant manager’s palm greased.

‘Right: take number twenty-one. Camera, lights, sound…. action!’

The waiter welcomed Mick to La Grosse Oie with smiles, bows and Gallic charm and said how honoured he was to have such a famous television personality visit their restaurant. Mick replied how much he was looking forward to sampling the delights La Grosse Oie renowned for its traditional cuisine far beyond the borders of Burgundy. So far, so good. After the initial pleasantries, they were expected to ad-lib as there was no script. Mick asked the waiter what was good on the menu and received a surly reply to the effect that everything in the restaurant was good. Clearly, this Englishman was implying that some of the dishes were bad, an insult to his restaurant in particular and to French cuisine in general. The waiter shrugged his shoulders, turned his back on his customer and walked off the set. Celebrities are not used to being treated like this. Mick’s double chin quivered like an emotional blancmange. He responded by cursing the entire tribe of rude French waiters and the director had to run after the retreating figure to apologize.

‘I’m not eating any more frogs’ legs.’

‘Don’t call them that,’ corrected the film director. ‘They are: cuisses de grenouille.’

‘You can give the dish a fancy French name if you like, but they are still frogs’ legs.’

‘And you can be thankful they aren’t snails.’

The television series was the culmination of Mick Stone’s career in food. The series was designed to showcase regional French cooking, famous for its diversity and for its emphasis on locally sourced ingredients. Mick had not only written the show, but was also the star.

‘Just pretend to like it, Mick. You are an actor.’

‘No, I’m not. I am a celebrity chef.’

‘Then, just be yourself.’

Being himself was, perhaps, not the best advice in the world. The star wolfed down his food like a greedy schoolboy and talked with his mouth full. The stains on the front of his shirt bore witness to Mick’s haste in shovelling food from the plate down his throat.

The director tried to explain to Mick that hogging his food destroyed the mystique of five-star cuisine. This wasn’t a race. This wasn’t punishment, although, some people might regard cuisses de grenouille in that light. And he wasn’t supposed to wash down the wine as if swilling his mouth out with disinfectant after having had his teeth drilled.

‘Do your Uncle Harry a favour, Mick. Empty your mouth before you talk and don’t gobble your food. Eat slowly. Savour every mouthful. Camera, lights, sound… action!’

The star made a gesture of impatience. His hand accidentally caught the plate of food, sweeping it off the table and onto the floor. Frogs’ legs in an orange sauce spattered all over the director’s trousers. He stepped forward and trod in the mess.

‘Cut…. cut…. cut.’

The cameraman giggled. The sound engineer’s face turned a paler shade of cuisses de grenouille and went outside for a breath of fresh air. The gofer prodded the