The rest of the pages in the diary were blank. Naomi closed it and realised she was crying again. She lifted the ornament from the shelf and placed it beside the figurine of the shepherd boy.
The funeral parlour brought Pandora Cohen and Papas Yiannis home for burial the following morning. As was the Orthodox tradition, the priest’s ornate coffin lid stood outside the house, telling everyone they could come and pay their last respects to the deceased.
Naomi walked across the road and asked Marina if she could have a moment alone with the priest, before she let his parishioners in.
‘Of course. It’s the least I can do,’ Marina said. ‘I’ll close the door and stand outside until you leave. Take as long as you want.’
In his coffin, on a trestle in the centre of the living room, Papas Yiannis Voskos, shepherd, freedom fighter, father and friend, lay in a bed of white chrysanthemums. Only his face and hands visible in the sea of flowers. Naomi went to his side. It seemed the priest was about to smile.
‘Dear Papas,’ she said shakily. ‘I don’t know your beliefs, but I hope your soul lingers until after the funeral and you are here in this room, able to hear me.’ She glanced around. ‘My grandmother loved you. She never loved another man. I believe you knew that. I would have buried you together, but although religion unites us, it also divides us. Besides, your place is with your wife and daughter. Thank you for being a wonderful grandfather. Rest in peace, Papas Yiannis Voskos. Rest in peace, Giovanni Pastore.’
Naomi reached into her bag, pulled out the ornament of the singing girl, and tucked it deep under the white carnations. They would, in a way, be buried together. She left the priest’s house, bowed her head, and walked past his congregation who stood in a line that reached down the street, ready to file into the room and pay their respects. Mourners would kiss the icon of Saint John that lay on the priest’s chest before leaving the house and gathering in groups on the street.
Across the road, in respect for Bubba’s religion, Naomi had placed boiled eggs and small dishes of cooked lentils and chickpeas on the table around a large dish of apples and oranges. All ‘round’ food, in keeping with Jewish tradition – symbolising that life is a circle.
Later that afternoon, Naomi and her family stood at Bubba’s graveside with her friends and some of Costa’s relations. She placed the china shepherd boy in Bubba’s grave, followed by a branch from the cinnamon tree and a handful of earth.
‘Rest in peace, Pandora Cohen, freedom fighter, daughter, sister, mother, lover, friend, grandmother, and great-grandmother,’ Naomi said quietly. On the horizon the sun slipped into the sea, and overhead a brilliant explosion of fireworks lit up the dusk sky.
*
A little more than two months later, Rebecca and Fritz returned to Rhodes. The cruising season had finished, and Fritz enjoyed helping Costa with the olive harvest, coming back exhausted and satisfied with the manual labour. Rebecca made use of Naomi’s creams, rubbing balm into her husband’s tired arms, before he massaged cream to fight stretch marks on her belly.
‘Shall we go for a walk up Filerimos tomorrow, Naomi?’ Rebecca asked.
Naomi nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
They left the men with the harvest and drove to the top of Filerimos. After walking the stations of the cross between tall pines and strutting peacocks, they came to the imposing crucifix, a landmark that was visible for many kilometres. They gazed down over Paradissi and out to sea, each recalling parts of the diaries.
‘Let’s go around the other side of the monastery, and see if we can see any signs of the hut, or the cinnamon tree,’ Naomi suggested.
They walked for over half an hour, but found nothing relevant and eventually sat on an ancient log in a small clearing. ‘I wonder where Irini is,’ Naomi whispered, glancing at the lush ground dotted with wild orchids.
‘I was just thinking . . . could this possibly be the log, you know, outside the hut?’
‘I’d like to think so but who knows!? Shall we go back to the car?’
They passed closer to the convent on their way back, and Naomi spotted a flash of white. She stopped and touched her sister’s arm.
‘Look, roses.’ They both glanced around. ‘Irini must be near. Let’s scatter a few petals for her.’ They did, careful not to step on the wild flowers. Satisfied, they stood perfectly still in the shade of the building and observed a minute of silence in memory of the young woman whom Dora loved.
Naomi’s eyes widened and she slipped her hand into her sister’s. They stared at a small bundle of grey feathers. The bird with bright red eyes flicked its wings at them, before trilling its heart out.
‘Little bird, big voice, remember?’ Naomi said quietly.
‘Do you think it’s . . . near Irini’s . . . no, it’s impossible. I don’t believe in that stuff, do you?’ Rebecca whispered, and although her words were dismissive, she turned to Naomi with her eyes brimming. ‘I wish . . .’
And Naomi heard Jacob’s voice in her head. ‘No point in wishing.’ Her phone rang, and Costa asked where they were.
‘Will you meet us at the harbour taverna, Naomi? I could murder a moussaka and a cold beer. We’ve finished at the olive factory, delighted we’ll have a hundred litres of prime olive oil!’
Naomi hung up and told Rebecca what the men planned. ‘Why don’t we take some petals down to the port, for Bubba’s family while we’re there,’ she said.
The sisters filled their handbags before returning to the car.
They found Costa and Fritz with a beer at an al fresco table, and Rebecca told them what they planned to do.
‘Let’s walk over together,’ Costa suggested, ‘I was fond of the old girl.’
Fritz stood tall and squared his shoulders. ‘I admired her more than anyone I know. She was a most remarkable person.’
The sisters smiled at each other. They stood on the quayside, both wondering if that was where the rusty ships had moored. Together, they threw the rose petals on the turquoise water. A moment later, Rebecca began to sob, her knees buckling.
Fritz caught his wife, who was staring vacantly in the mid-distance, and Naomi suddenly realised what was going on.
Her face broke into a wide smile as she took her brother-in-law’s hand and placed it on Rebecca’s tummy.
Rebecca covered her husband’s hand and found her voice. She whispered, ‘It’s our children moving, Fritz.’ They gazed at each other, their happiness blatant.
Costa slipped his arm around Naomi, and as they watched the petals float away, he mischievously muttered, ‘Have those two lovebirds ever experienced a sleepless night? Because I still remember ours.’
‘I love you,’ Naomi said.
*
In the maternity ward, five months later, a nurse placed a baby boy, John Phoenix, in his father’s arms, while Rebecca held Pandora Sonia. She smiled across at her darling Fritz.
‘Are you all right with our son, Dad?’ she quipped.
‘I’m doing okay. How are you coping, Mum?’ he replied, his grin as wide as it had ever been.