Naomi rubbed her eyes, surprised to find it was almost midnight. Heat rose in her cheeks after reading that last line. The fatal evening her parents left for their fishing boat came rushing back. She recalled sitting on the kerb, playing jackstones with Heleny after a game of hide-and-seek in the dry river bed. Her father came over, his smile wide and his eyes crinkling in the corners, ‘Be good for Bubba, will you? And help her with the baby.’ He pulled a twig out of her hair and absently put it in his pocket. She jumped up and hugged him, and he kissed the top of her head.
Mama appeared at his side. ‘You’re growing so fast, Naomi. We’re very proud of you. And she stooped and kissed her cheeks. ‘See you after school tomorrow. Be good, bye now.’ And they continued hand in hand down Spartili Street. Naomi closed her eyes and could see the backs of them as they walked away, the sky turning red.
All the years since Papas Yiannis told her they were lost at sea, she’d been angry that they had never said goodbye, but all the anger that came after the night of the storm had blanked out the previous evening.
They had said goodbye.
She sobbed, her tears breaking free. Why hadn’t she remembered all that when she was a child so cruelly orphaned? For a moment, her anger surged. She sensed her mind had played a cruel trick, and she understood a little of Bubba’s pain when her deeply buried memories surfaced.
She wiped her eyes, wondering if Sonia and Zorba had said goodbye to Bubba, and she guessed that they had. But perhaps the shock of their deaths had also wiped that last memory from Bubba’s mind? Naomi imagined she would come across the answer later in the diary. A diary that closed the divide between innocent sixteen-year-old Pandora and grandmother Bubba, a stalwart woman and tower of strength before the stroke.
*
Mid-morning the next day, Naomi nipped up the road for a carton of milk. Activity in the tiny shop on the corner of Spartili and the main village road drew her attention. They were moving out, hefting boxes and chairs into a van that blocked half the narrow street.
Her chest tightened with hope and excitement. How often she had dreamed of having a shop.
She stood in the village supermarket, staring at the shelves, imagining what it would be like to own business premises. That place was tiny, and right at the end of her street, perfect. At the counter, she paid for the milk and asked what they knew.
‘They’ve moved to the car showroom that’s been empty a while. Now, the Lotto’s a big posh place with sports TVs and a coffee shop of its own.’
Uplifted to hear the Lotto shop had done that well, she returned to the top of Spartili Street. When she had time, she would work out how much money she would need to get the place up and running. Then she scolded herself for having ambitions beyond her reach. But one could dream.
She peered through the dusty glass that made two walls of the three-by-four space. The removals had gone and the door was locked. Her heart thumped so hard she told herself to calm down.
The empty shop had white shelves on two walls, and a counter. She imagined her jars of cream displayed in little pyramids, with the prices painted onto pretty pebbles she’d collect from the beach. A jug on the counter stuffed with fresh wild flowers, or lavender and myrtle from her back yard. She would stand behind the counter wearing a new dress, something floral, and a touch of makeup, and she would dab her customers’ wrists with a sample of her latest scent.
She blinked the illusion away and looked again. A broken chair lay on its side, the floor was scattered with scratched tickets and torn football-coupons, and phone wires hung out of the wall. How many people had entered the betting shop with hope in their eyes and left with the dull look of disappointment. The Lotto shop had been a roaring success because get-rich-quick was the national sport of Greece.
*
Back home, Naomi wondered what a licence to sell perfume and cosmetics would cost? Although Greece was in dire financial trouble, the government did everything it could to stamp out the entrepreneurial spirit. She sighed.
‘It can’t be that bad!’ Heleny’s voice made her jump.
‘Sorry, I was daydreaming.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘That little shop on the corner.’ She nodded towards the village road. ‘I can’t get it out of my head, but I can’t come up with a way to obtain the premises on my meagre finances.’
‘Brainstorming, that’s what you need,’ Heleny said with glee. ‘Let’s do it. I’ll call Georgia, and we’ll get Bubba, Pappas Yiannis, and young Marina on it too.’
‘I don’t know . . . I’m being stupid, daydreaming. I don’t have any money, and they’ll all think I’m mad. Delusions of grandeur.’
‘Nonsense! Anyway, what harm can it do if your friends give you their honest opinion?’ Heleny dropped a huge carrier of kourabiéthes into Naomi’s lap and plopped into the chair next to her. ‘Three o’clock this afternoon okay?’
Naomi chewed her lip for a moment and then shrugged. ‘What’ve I got to lose?’ Yet she had already resigned herself to disappointment.
‘That’s the spirit.’ Heleny grinned.
‘Thanks for the shortbreads. How’s it going with Fannes?’
Heleny’s face fell. ‘He’s married . . . the bastard!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. How did you find out?’
‘Credit card under my bed. Must have fallen out of his pocket when he tore his clothes off in a mad frenzy of lust and passion.’
Naomi bit hard on her lip.
‘Same name on the card, but Mrs. It had to be the wife’s. He denied it at first. Keeps calling me. I’m not wearing the perfume again until he gives up.’
‘Look, Heleny, all things have their opposite. Why don’t I mix you a different perfume that will stop his advances?’
Heleny appeared alarmed. ‘I don’t want to smell like shit,’ she cried.
Naomi laughed. ‘You won’t, trust me.’
Heleny looked sceptical. ‘If you’re sure.’ Her grin returned. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and organise the brainstorming meeting. Brilliant! See you at three.’
Inside, Naomi made four litres of lemon tea, stacked it in the fridge, and filled all the ice-cube trays, while her hopes and dreams soared and plummeted.
Who do I think I am . . . my own shop? It will never happen.
‘Come on, Bubba, darling. Breakfast outside today while I do your room,’ she said cheerfully, manoeuvring her grandmother onto the patio and into the chair.
‘You’re very perky today. What’s going on?’ Bubba asked.
‘Brainstorming lotions and potions this afternoon. We’re having a meeting with our friends, Bubba, so please try and come up with ideas to boost the business.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she said. ‘Give me the recipe books. I might think of something useful, but don’t be disappointed if I can’t.’
Naomi stood back and looked at her. ‘Do you know, I’m seeing a huge improvement in you every day.’
Bubba frowned. ‘My mind seems good and strong after sleeping, but when I get tired, it’s as if I get jumbled . . . wires crossed. I see things from the past that have been buried for years. They come back so real that I think I’m there, living it all over again.’ She stared at the floor. ‘I’m afraid I’ll get stuck in one of those dark places, and never return.’
Naomi’s heart went out to her. ‘Oh, Bubba, you are getting better. Don’t worry.’
‘I wonder if, when my mind is stronger, I should read a little of the diaries, just a page or two, remember, and then come back to now – if you know what I mean. That way, I reckon the old grey matter would get stronger and sort itself out.’
‘Like a mental exercise?’
Bubba nodded. ‘Also, I want to say this: I don’t want to be a burden. When my time comes, Naomi, promise me you won’t let them keep my old heart going. No tubes and wires and bleeps. I want to leave with dignity, in my best nighty.’
Naomi swallowed hard. ‘You have my word. It will be difficult, because I love you so much, Pandora Cohen.’ She pulled in a shaky breath. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yes. Every Clean Monday, when the Christians celebrate the start of Lent, go up Mount Filerimos, fly your kites and remember me . . . and Giovanni, Sonia, Irini and Evangelisa. Take some rose petals down to the harbour and throw them on the water, for Papa and all my family. They never had a funeral, even that was taken from them.’
Naomi nodded, unable to speak.
‘And fireworks . . . I’d like to go out with a bang.’
*
Naomi bustled all morning. She tried to concentrate on the brainstorming session, but her mind returned to Bubba’s words again and again. There was so much she didn’t know about her grandmother. Who was Giovanni, and what other secrets from the past would come to light?
After changing Bubba’s sheets and dusting her room, Naomi settled her grandmother down for a nap and then started mixing a new perfume for her friend. She leafed through Bubba’s book, studied scents she hadn’t considered before, and came across one titled Time to Say Goodbye. She read through the ingredients.
Powdered Iris: for its lack of warmth.
Ground anis: for its antiseptic qualities.
Oil of grapefruit: for its Alpha male scent.
Aldehydes: that give No. 5 its blast of lioness-danger.
She turned the page for the recipe and found an envelope taped to the paper. Inside was a yellowing cutting from a magazine.
CHANEL No. 5
Pierre and Paul Wertheimer, brothers and directors of the Bourjois perfume house, joined with Chanel in 1924. While the new corporation name – Parfums Chanel – implied a fifty-fifty split in ownership, the Wertheimers in reality retained the rights to marketing, distribution, and – in return for full financial backing – seventy percent ownership.
With the onslaught of World War II and the seizure of all Jewish property, Coco Chanel saw an opportunity. Parfums Chanel had been operating with great financial gain, and Chanel used her Aryan heritage as leverage to petition for sole ownership. This petition was ultimately successful and cemented Coco Chanel as the sole owner of Parfums Chanel, leaving the Wertheimer brothers with nothing of the company they had built.
Naomi would never buy a bottle of Chanel again, then she realised she never had anyway. Far too expensive. She replaced the cutting and set about mixing Heleny’s perfume.
With the task completed and Bubba still sleeping, Naomi snatched ten minutes for herself. She sat outside with the diary, eager to discover if this Giovanni was the shepherd boy, and what put him in the same league as Bubba’s friend, sister, and daughter.