The Ferry to Naxos – Part 1: The Last Seat

The ferry from Piraeus was the last one of the evening, and it was full of people who had missed every other boat. Thea found a seat on the upper deck only because a family with three sleeping children decided to stretch out across the bench below her.

The only empty place left was beside a man with a battered guitar case on his knees and a paper bag of pistachios in his lap.

"Is this taken?" asked Thea, in Greek, and then, when he looked up in surprise, in English.

"Not any more," said Nikos, moving his bag. "Sit, please. I'm very bad company, but I'm very good at pistachios."

She sat. The engine hummed beneath them, and the lights of Athens slid away behind the stern.

Thea had been travelling alone for three weeks, and she was tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. She had quit her job at an architecture firm in London in June, sold most of her books, and booked a ticket to the islands with no return date. Her friends called it brave. Her mother called it a crisis. Thea had decided it was simply the first honest thing she had done in years.

"Where are you going?" asked Nikos.

"Naxos. I don't know why. The map looked nice."

"That's the best reason to go anywhere," said Nikos, cracking a pistachio. "I'm going home. My grandmother still lives in the village above the harbour. She thinks I'm too thin, and she's probably right."

"Are you a musician?"

"I play badly in bars for money," he said, lifting the guitar slightly. "And well for my grandmother, when she asks nicely. Mostly she asks me to stop."

Thea laughed, and the sound drifted out over the dark water.

The night deepened. The wind rose a little, and the deck grew cool. Nikos took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders without asking, and she didn't protest. The two of them talked in a mix of English and Greek, about the islands, the food, the family members who had moved to Germany and never came back, and the stars, which were bright and unbothered above the sea.

"Can I ask you something?" said Nikos, after a long silence.

"Yes."

"Why did you really leave London?"

Thea looked out at the dark water. "Because I designed a building that I hated," she said. "It was beautiful and empty, a place for people who didn't exist. I realised I'd spent six years making things that nobody would ever live in."

Nikos was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached for the guitar, very slowly, and began to play something soft and slow, the notes drifting over the deck like smoke.

"That's a song my grandmother sings," he said. "About a house by the sea that's full of voices."

"It's beautiful."

"It's badly played," said Nikos, smiling. "But I'm glad you like it."

She turned to look at him. His face was lit by the moon, serious and kind, his fingers moving carefully over the strings.

"Can I ask you something now?" said Thea.

"Anything."

"Will you let me sit closer, here, under your jacket, while you play the rest of the song? Only if you want me to."

Nikos stopped playing. His eyes met hers, dark and steady.

"Yes," he said. "And if you want me to stop playing, you tell me, and I'll stop, and we'll just watch the stars."

Thea moved closer, slowly, until her shoulder rested against his arm. He began to play again, and his voice came in low and rough, a half-sung line about a house full of voices, and the whole ferry seemed to fall silent around them.

"Green?" he asked, softly, when the song ended.

"Green," said Thea, and smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Very green. Sing the next one, please. Badly."