“Pirates again?” Skye said, recalling what he’d told her about the church above Chora. “What was it about this island that kept them coming back?”
“Perhaps it was the same for them as it was for me,” he said, sliding his fist back around the tiller. “I cannot be the only person who believes that Folegandros is special.”
“No,” Skye agreed, smiling to herself. “I don’t think you can.”
It took them a further half hour to reach the port hamlet of Karavostasis. The first and only time Skye had seen it was the day she’d arrived on the slow ferry from Athens, mildly alarmed when the vast vessel had aborted its mooring several times. She asked Andreas about this as he neatly slipped his own small boat into place along a narrow concrete jetty.
“The wind,” he told her. “It can make things very difficult, even for the large vessels.”
Karavostasis was certainly exposed to the elements, sitting as it did on the southeastern tip of the island. Skye had to clampdown her skirt as they walked, passing a flat-roofed building with a rudimentary “Bus Station” sign fixed to the wall and several plastic chairs outside. It was possible to walk along either the road or the beach, and they chose the latter, Skye pausing to admire a set of blue-painted benches, arranged below the laden branches of a tree. There was far more life here than up in her sleepy village, and every person they encountered seemed to know Andreas. Cheerful cries of “kaliméra” were exchanged, along with other words that she did not yet know though understood to be friendly.
“The only problem with living on a small island,” Andreas confided, “is that everybody wants to know your business all the time.” Breaking away from her, he called, “Éla.” An elderly man had shuffled into view ahead of them, a bristly dog trotting along by his side.
“Geiá sou, Karolo.”
The man squinted toward Andreas from his stooped position, then rattled off a stream of jovial-sounding Greek. They talked for a few minutes, Andreas turning to usher Skye forward. When he introduced her, the man, Karolos, nodded and smiled.
“I’ve been trying to convince him to allow me access to his house,” Andreas explained. “It needs some work—a lot of work.”
Karolos grinned, showing off more gaps than teeth, and began gesticulating over his shoulder. Andreas shook his head in mock despair.
“He says the house has survived many wars and much bad weather and that it will be here for many more years after we are all dead.”
Skye considered.
“He’s probably right,” she said, and Andreas laughed.
“Do not encourage him.”
The dog let out a short, sharp bark, and Skye crouched to stroke its straggly gray head. It looked like every dog and no dog,a classic mongrel blend of hardy breeds, with wise brown eyes, an upright curled tail, and a lolling tongue.
“What’s her name?” she asked, and Andreas translated the question.
“Filiá,” Karolos said warmly.
“It means ‘friendship,’ ” Andreas told her. “A very nice name.”
Skye stood with a smile.
“I’ll remember that one.”
Karolos went on his way, though not before Andreas had extracted a promise from the old man that he would at least consider the offer of renovation.
“I am worried about the structure,” he confided to Skye as they continued along the stony beach. “Some newer houses have been built very close to his, and the work has damaged the foundations. There are holes in the wall that I can fit my boot through.”
Skye grimaced.
“That sounds even worse than mine.”
“Your house will be perfect,” he said. “I will make sure of that.”
She followed him to the end of a row of whitewashed two-story dwellings. Skye wondered how many of the locals would be speculating on who she was and why she was going into Andreas’s house. If there was one thing she’d learned during her time on Folegandros, it was that the answer was probably all of them. Not that it mattered. She and Andreas were friends, nothing more.
His house was the neatest she’d seen in Karavostasis. It was gleaming white, with shutters and a balcony rail painted in the palest blue. The corner house was also larger than its neighbors and had clearly been extended at some point. A pot of herbs sat on each of the four steps that led up to the front door, the peppery sweetness of basil competing with the woodier sage—a scent so prevalent with the island that it could have been its signature.
The small patio at the top was empty save for a mosaic-toppedtable, two foldable chairs, and the familiar bulk of an air-conditioning unit tucked into a high corner. Andreas slipped his hand beneath a blue-and-white mat and extracted a key.
“I used to carry this with me,” he said, holding it up, “but I lost it many times. There are about twenty-five of them at the bottom of the sea.”
