Read Online The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12) by Sara Alexi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara Alexi
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interest, which he feels very strongly that it is better to conceal. If he stares hard enough, the shiny new car will appear to be the focus of his attention.
‘He died under the greatest sin of them all, in a bid to cover his other sins,’ she finally says. Then there is a deliberate pause before, with a great deal of air, she expels a single word: ‘Suicide.’
Savvas closes his eyes, bites his lower lip, and tries to maintain his calm exterior. On opening them again, he turns to face her.
‘I think you have said enough.’ The tightness in his voice matches a constriction in his throat.
‘I found him. I thought he was sleeping. His cassock was pulled up above his knees and his legs were bright red. It was a scene no God-fearing woman should have to see. I was about to leave him to his slumbers but something made me stay. I pulled down his cassock and I shook his sleeve to rouse him, but his head rolled in a way that was not natural.’
‘You’ve said enough, Kyria Maria.’
‘Carbon monoxide poisoning. He had stuffed clothes up the chimney. My clothes, that he had taken from the washing line, and then he had burnt charcoal in a pan. And I will tell you something else. There was a bottle too, an empty bottle of Metaxa brandy. And sleeping pills. I took the empty packet so they weren’t found, along with the bottle, and burnt my clothes.’
‘Kyria Maria, I forbid you to say anything more.’ She is colluding with him. She is telling him she performed a cover-up. Maria will not be silenced.
‘It was her.’ She glances towards the balcony. There is no Nefeli there now, but Savvas knows who she means.
‘Kyria Maria, I do not know what you are trying to say and nor do I want to know. It is not your place to say these things or to judge.’ The words fall one after the other but guilt is creeping all over him, consuming him. He has lusted after Nefeli too and Maria’s confession, her admission of her cover-up, isn’t that her way of pointing out his future path if he continues on the same route?
‘She might not have actually lit the charcoal but if she didn’t, she may as well have done it,’ Maria whispers.
‘Kyria Maria, I will hear no more!’ And with these words, he strides away from her toward the church with such a pace, he can feel his cassock slap against his calves as he walks.
‘Kick it back, Papas,’ a boy shouts as his ball heads towards Savvas’ feet, but he is in no mood for games. Going straight into the church, locking the door behind him, down the aisle he kneels and cries for his freedom, his loneliness, and his mama to be there.
The car drives well. It has such power, he can be in Saros in less than five minutes if needed. After his emotional moment in the church, he jumped behind the wheel and, once out of the village, his foot was heavy on the accelerator, topping a hundred kilometres an hour on the straight sections with no effort. The smell of the new leather lifted his senses, the plastic dashboard adding to the aroma. By the time he arrived in Saros, pulling up outside the first café he came to, he felt almost like his old self again. The coffee was good and his freshly baked croissant tingled the hairs in his nose. The second croissant satiated his hunger and the third, which was filled with chocolate, was a delightful indulgence. Sitting there, wiping crumbs from his thin beard, looking out across the sparkling blue sea where a small fishing boat putters out of the harbour, it occurs to him that he just isn’t a country person. Now that he is in town, his soul feels soothed, his senses satiated. In the village, there is nothing to distract him: no shop windows, no cafés worth sitting in, no men in suits, women in their finery. His village work isn’t life, it is just existence. He might think again about asking the bishop to reposition him.
With a certain reluctance, he drives slowly back to the village. He is somewhat revived by his brief sojourn in the town but
‘He died under the greatest sin of them all, in a bid to cover his other sins,’ she finally says. Then there is a deliberate pause before, with a great deal of air, she expels a single word: ‘Suicide.’
Savvas closes his eyes, bites his lower lip, and tries to maintain his calm exterior. On opening them again, he turns to face her.
‘I think you have said enough.’ The tightness in his voice matches a constriction in his throat.
‘I found him. I thought he was sleeping. His cassock was pulled up above his knees and his legs were bright red. It was a scene no God-fearing woman should have to see. I was about to leave him to his slumbers but something made me stay. I pulled down his cassock and I shook his sleeve to rouse him, but his head rolled in a way that was not natural.’
‘You’ve said enough, Kyria Maria.’
‘Carbon monoxide poisoning. He had stuffed clothes up the chimney. My clothes, that he had taken from the washing line, and then he had burnt charcoal in a pan. And I will tell you something else. There was a bottle too, an empty bottle of Metaxa brandy. And sleeping pills. I took the empty packet so they weren’t found, along with the bottle, and burnt my clothes.’
‘Kyria Maria, I forbid you to say anything more.’ She is colluding with him. She is telling him she performed a cover-up. Maria will not be silenced.
‘It was her.’ She glances towards the balcony. There is no Nefeli there now, but Savvas knows who she means.
‘Kyria Maria, I do not know what you are trying to say and nor do I want to know. It is not your place to say these things or to judge.’ The words fall one after the other but guilt is creeping all over him, consuming him. He has lusted after Nefeli too and Maria’s confession, her admission of her cover-up, isn’t that her way of pointing out his future path if he continues on the same route?
‘She might not have actually lit the charcoal but if she didn’t, she may as well have done it,’ Maria whispers.
‘Kyria Maria, I will hear no more!’ And with these words, he strides away from her toward the church with such a pace, he can feel his cassock slap against his calves as he walks.
‘Kick it back, Papas,’ a boy shouts as his ball heads towards Savvas’ feet, but he is in no mood for games. Going straight into the church, locking the door behind him, down the aisle he kneels and cries for his freedom, his loneliness, and his mama to be there.
The car drives well. It has such power, he can be in Saros in less than five minutes if needed. After his emotional moment in the church, he jumped behind the wheel and, once out of the village, his foot was heavy on the accelerator, topping a hundred kilometres an hour on the straight sections with no effort. The smell of the new leather lifted his senses, the plastic dashboard adding to the aroma. By the time he arrived in Saros, pulling up outside the first café he came to, he felt almost like his old self again. The coffee was good and his freshly baked croissant tingled the hairs in his nose. The second croissant satiated his hunger and the third, which was filled with chocolate, was a delightful indulgence. Sitting there, wiping crumbs from his thin beard, looking out across the sparkling blue sea where a small fishing boat putters out of the harbour, it occurs to him that he just isn’t a country person. Now that he is in town, his soul feels soothed, his senses satiated. In the village, there is nothing to distract him: no shop windows, no cafés worth sitting in, no men in suits, women in their finery. His village work isn’t life, it is just existence. He might think again about asking the bishop to reposition him.
With a certain reluctance, he drives slowly back to the village. He is somewhat revived by his brief sojourn in the town but
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