Finding Atlantis - 5. Chapter 5

Aleksi woke when the sun struck his face. The air was cool and dry, the whole world around him just waiting for the sun to rise. Dawn light over the hills was a clean golden colour. The young man remained lying down, his jacket covering him, a small rucksack under his head as a pillow against the stony ground, and he watched the sun creep ever higher through the olives leaves. The sun gilded his hair, turning ice blond to butter yellow briefly before the sun’s glow also went white as the flaming ball rose fully above the horizon. Aleksi Haveri sat up. Above the stunted twisted growth of the olive trees he could see all the way to the sea. The little Turkish town nestled right on the waters edge.

Yawning like a lion, Aleksi dug around in his bag to find the small parcel of food he’d bought two days previous. There was still a lump of now hard bread, an orange and some dried meats. He ate slowly, filling himself up by taking time over his meal, and got up to stretch. The sun warmed him, and he pulled his shirt off over his head, finding one which was clean but crumpled in his rucksack and pulling that on instead. He left it open, enjoying the sun on his bare skin. Carefully he disturbed the ground to make it looked like no one had slept here on the flat earth, dusted off his jeans and gathered his meagre possessions before headed off the direction of the sea.

Aleksi was Finnish. Fed up with the cold of Helsinki, the majestic depression of its people, and the dull monotonous lectures of his second year of a Philosophy degree he hadn’t even wanted to start; he’d taken a sabbatical, a year out to clear his head and have a break. That year had been up a few weeks back, and now it was nearly summer. He should have returned home already in the spring to get his summer project and advice from his course tutors. But Aleksi didn’t much feel like going home. He’d been in Turkey nearly six months, starting off in Istanbul and making his way by dolmus down into the lower country, where half the people seemed just as poor as he felt.

He’d bought a little Turkish phrase book on his first day and now carried the battered, dog eared little book everywhere, along with everything else he owned. He had now, one coat, one pair of sandals, three shirts, a pair of shorts and a single pair of jeans. He’d sold off or dumped all his other stuff along the way, not wanting to carry the things he’d left home with. Now everything he owned fitted in one small rucksack. It made for light travelling, and now that it was summer, accommodation out in the fields was free and easy and warm.

As he reached the edge of the olive grove he stopped and did up his shirt. Here, high up on the ridge, the view across the bay was fantastic, the blue water sparkling invitingly like a gem. The little Greek island not far off the shore, nestled another little white stripe of a town all its own. Aleksi had his eyes set on the island as he began his descent into the foothills. He’d wanted to go there for a while, but the tourist fee for a boat across was nearly three weeks worth of food, and he couldn’t afford it. Greece would just have to stay out of bounds until he found a job.

He’d found work in Istanbul, working as a poorly pot washer in a little restaurant just off the river. Every day for nearly five months until he’d had enough spare cash to quit and take the dolmus down south to warmer, less populated climbs. Aleksi didn’t like cities. Istanbul had been too much for him, thousands of people all moving and breathing in each other’s air. But Kas was a small town, smaller even than Kalkan, where he’d arrived and been told that, unless he was a silversmith, there was no work for him there. Chances of finding a job in Kas were slim, but he had enough to survive a good while longer. He’d thrown his phone away, sick of the calls from his mother and then his school, trying to find out where he was. He’d sold it, got a good price for a foreign mobile and skipped town with the money. Now he was out of reach of the rest of the world. It was a good feeling, he felt free like he hadn’t felt in years. He could go anywhere. And of all the anywhere’s there were to go, Aleksi had chosen here.

He was down at the town by now and spent a few lira on a bottle of water before making his way through the winding streets between the tall building and down to the harbour. Aleksi sat on the low wall on the quayside and watched the pretty ships move about on the sparkling water. Then he saw one that caught his eye. It was the little wooden fishing boat from the day before, the gold one with the blue sails and strange and attractive foreigner on board. Aleksi sat cross legged on the rough wall and watched the boat tacked around the curve of the harbour wall, dropped all but one of its sails and glided gently into its space along the jetty. The slim young man leapt out of the boat holding a rope and began to tie the boat to one of the big cast steel bollards set into the dock. Aleksi watched his quick footed movements in awe.

The man was older than he was, not having that young look that came with being a student and still living like you were twenty. Lines of corded muscle decorated the tan skin, hands rough with work tied the ship off quickly and then he looked about. Suddenly the sailor stopped, as though frozen, his amazing blue eyes fixed right on Aleksi. Aleksi stared back, feeling himself begin to blush, wanting to look away but not daring to move. The man had a powerful gaze. He stood strong and tense, barefoot on the harbour, dressed in nothing but a pair of cream slacks and a damp semi transparent cheesecloth shirt with no sleeves.

And suddenly the contact was broken as someone called out to the beautiful sailor. A dark Turk, tall and strangely dressed came up to the other blond man and they embraced quickly. Rapid fire bursts of Turkish Aleksi didn’t catch were exchanged and then the dark skinned, dark eyed man half turned to look at him, his gaze unreadable under dark brows. Then there was more bustle and two older men arrived wheeling a big blue plastic crate between them. The blond man disappeared back on the boat and then returned with a gasping fish in each hand which he presented to the men. They haggled with each other, with much gesturing and holding up of various numbers of digits, until the blond man nodded his head, satisfied. They wheeled the bin right up the edge of the boat and one man leapt aboard to throw fish to the other, who put them in the big crate. It seemed slow going until the blond man turned in his direction, shouted something in Turkish, swore and then repeated himself in clear natural English.

“Hey you! Come help us unload the fish! We’re a man down.”

Aleksi, kind of startled, got up and went over to them, his bag dropping down by his feet. Someone threw him a large, slippery, wriggling fish. He hurled it into the crate, not missing by sheer luck rather than any skill. He turned to the beautiful blond sailor. Up close, the man was even more stunning, his skin clean, his gold hair fine and wavy and long. He threw Aleksi another fish. Together, the four men unloaded the fish crate while the dark stranger wandered away to go and inspect another ship. Aleksi realised that the strangely dressed Turk could have helped unload the fish, but the beautiful blond man had asked him instead. Aleksi felt a little bit proud and just a little bit scared.

The fish finished, one of the other men handed the blond a thick wad of notes and they wheeled the fish away. The blond man ducked back into his ship and emerged a moment later with a bottle of fresh water. Aleksi held out his hands and then the blond man washed his own.

“Thank you for you help.” The blond stranger’s voice was rich and deep, like the sea, his accent was strange, un-placeable, but he didn’t speak English like the rest of the Turks did.

“It was nothing.”

“What do they call you, my foreign friend?”

“Aleksi,” he held out his hand, “Aleksi Haveri. I’m Finnish.”

The man shook his hand and Aleksi felt how smooth and un-worked his skin was compared to the rough texture of the other man’s.

“My name is Krilla, this is my ship, La Belle Mere.”

A moment of easy silence passed between them as Krilla looked him up and down.

“And what do you do Aleksi Haveri?”

“I try not to get in anyone’s way.”

Krilla laughed, and his eyes shone.

“What?” Aleksi was a bit put out; he did not like to be laughed at.

“Sorry,” Krilla was still smiling, and it seemed to Aleksi that his smile lit up the world, “You sound like me, like I did years ago.” His tone dropped a level, serious suddenly, “Are you like me, Aleksi?”

Oh god I hope so, Aleksi thought. He nodded.

“Have you ever been on a proper fishing boat before?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see?”

*

And so Krilla showed him around La Belle Mere. Aleksi was fascinated by all the immeasurable beautiful, numerous and valuable things Krilla had in his boat. All things he’d found in the sea, so he said. The sunlight glinted and refracted through the round fishing floats, pouring out light that was glassy green like the sunlight on the deep waters. They sat on deck, Aleksi fiddling with things all the time, and he told Krilla his story.

He’d grown up, the only son of proud middle class parents, in a little town called Hyvinkaa, north of Helsinki by some seventy miles. More than a day’s journey to the sea. The town was largely unremarkable, with a church made of modern pointy architecture and home to the philosopher of medium fame. That was why his mother had made him take the degree. He hadn’t known what else to do; his interests lay solidly in books and a life of fantasy. As a child Aleksi had been unusually pale, small and rather intrinsic and inward looking.

His mother had put it down to being shy and tried to force him into sports and after showing good skills but no interest in all manner of cold weather sports she had left him to his books. Aleksi didn’t make a lot of friends as a kid, and he’d realised, about age thirteen, that the rest of the boys he knew were not really anything like him. Aleksi said this with a deep blush under his slightly freckly tan, staring at the floorboards.

So he’d gone to school like a good boy, and unknowing of what he wanted to do with his life, took a degree in philosophy, boring and dull. Helsinki felt big and unnerving, cold, grey and populated with some of the most depressed people Aleksi had ever met. He’d saved up all the money he could working, filled out the right forms, got a loan, just in case, and left the country with practically nothing but an old rucksack filled with clothes and three books. These had all been left behind in Istanbul, too bulky and heavy for easy carrying.

“And what about you?” Aleksi asked of his new companion. Krilla was laying out bread and olives and honey and sun dried tomatoes onto two tin plates. He’d also brought up from below a big blue glass jug of water. But no cups. Aleksi watched Krilla’s throat as he tilted his face up and swallowed, the movement of muscles under deep tan skin doing inspiring things to his anatomy. He handed the jar over. Aleksi drank, closing his eyes, but he knew he was being watched.

“There isn’t so much to tell,” Krilla said in his rich watery voice, “I left home pretty much as soon as I turned eighteen and came here; sold everything I had to buy a boat.” He stroked the wood of the deck lovingly, “She was a wreck when I bought her, no sails and the main mast was split right down the middle. I had to bind the whole thing up with twine to go out and get the first catch, which got me just enough to repair the mast. After that, I got a loan from Tamil, that’s the harbour master, for the sail money and went and caught fish. It’s been what I’ve doing for the last seven years.”

“You’ve been here seven years?”

“Yup.”

“That explains it then.” Aleksi said, knowingly.

Krilla blew up his floppy half fringe up out of his eyes.

“Explains what?”

“That everyone treats you like a native. And you look like one, apart from your hair. And your eyes.”

“I do live here.”

“In Kas?”

“Yeah,” Krilla laughed and handed Aleksi a plate, “I live right here in the harbour, right on the boat. No point renting someplace else.”

Aleksi looked around the harbour.

“Isn’t sleeping on a boat a little strange?”

“No,” Krilla smiled, his lips tasty looking and bewitching, “I’m a creature of the sea, for me it seems like the most natural thing in the world.”

“Where are you from Krilla?”

“Here.”

Aleksi grinned.

“I mean originally.”

“Oh,” Krilla frowned, “England, on the coast.” He’d once been to England, swum up to the coast and watched the people of the big seaside city moving around. He’d gone ashore there, but the damp and grey had depressed him, and the sea was the wrong colour. And full of junk.

“Did you like it?”

“No. I don’t like to see the sea abused.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly there was a cry from the dock. Krilla whipped around to face the quayside and shouted out a greeting in Turkish. He switched to English.

“Aziz, come on in. Alek,” and Aleksi grinned as his name was shortened, “This is Aziz,” he motioned to the newcomer, who was the tall dark man from earlier, “He’s Tamil’s eldest son, and happens to be my greatest ally, even if he is a little absent minded.”

“Hey…” Aziz frowned at Krilla and snapped something in Turkish, then turned to Aleksi, “Ah, the fish boy,” then he frowned, “You were the foreigner in Kalkan! You waved to us from the wall.”

Aleksi smiled.

“I like to watch the boats, it’s free.”

“You’ll do well hanging around this one,” he jerked a thumb at Krilla, “Never buys anything really. Pays his harbour tax and sometimes buys food.”

“You’re just the same,” Krilla said. He turned to Aleksi, “After all, when you’re a fisherman, the fish is free.”

“You fish too?”

“Not really,” Aziz said, sitting down lightly, “Father keeps a boat and we take the tourists out in season, either out swimming or to Meis.”

Aleksi’s pale green eyes went wide and round as saucers.

“You go to Greece?” his voice was hopeful.

“Yeah, well, I mean, my mother’s from there. Our boat is name after her. The Aikaterine.”

“That’s a good name.”

“Indeed, and what is yours?”

Krilla stepped in.

“Alek.”

Aleksi grinned.

“It is now I suppose.”

“Aziz Shad, nice to meet you.”

*

Aziz had decided that Alek and Krilla had to come to dinner. And after a short conversation with both his parents, they had decided to hold dinner for eight on the Aikaterine. Yusuf and Murat, fresh back from school, were sent up and down to the house to fetch various things, and Aslan helped his mother in the galley. Aziz, Krilla and Alek made themselves scarce, walking into town to one of the many little cafes in which they sat and drank tea and talked about the sea.

Eventually they were fetched by Yusuf, who greeted Alek with a friendly smile and a handshake. He led them back down to the dock, arguing genially with his oldest sibling. The smells wafting from the Aikaterine were enough to make them all pick up their pace. The three practiced boys jumped the distance to the boat, landing with sure footed thuds and immediately taking of their shoes. Krilla stopped, turned back, and offered his hand out to Alek, who stepped hesitantly upon board, as though expecting to be shouted at. Krilla took the foreign boy’s sandals from him, rubbing the worn leather with his thumb as he carried them to the shoe box down below.

The long wooden table was set for eight, the boat practically motionless in the stillness of the harbour waters. The sky was dark now and the moon, a sliver just coming up over the mountains, glowed silver and beautiful. Out at sea, the water was nearly black and Krilla’s eyes were coloured to match. Steam rose from several covered dishes on the table and Aika was shouting from below for people to be seated, just as Aslan appeared at the top of the companionway holding a big tray nearly overloaded with steaming fish. Aika was right behind her son, huge copper pot and ladle in hand.

Everyone sat and Tamil poured the wine and handed glasses around while all the dishes were uncovered. It was one of those help yourself to everything meals that Aika was so good at. There were grilled vegetables, a great dish of hot moussaka, a half a side of carefully braised tuna with lemon, pepper and various herbs each, kofte, a root vegetable stew flavoured with the meat juices from the kofte and a giant dish of bean salad in the middle surrounded by rice and fresh fruit.

Alek was shocked by the amount of food presented to them, and even more shocked to be giving first picking. Nervous he slid a piece of fish and some beans onto his plate, at which point everyone started to help themselves. Dinner was a noisy affair. Pass this, pass that, oh Yusuf will you be quiet, it’s coming, and is there any sour cream, more water please. And so on and so on until Alek felt exactly at ease eating with these people. Aika kept pressing more food on him, saying that he was too thin and asking what he’d been eating the last few days. Alek conceded that he’d been surviving off bread and olives, and more food miraculously appeared on his plate. One thing was for sure, Aika was a good cook. Murat and Aziz fought over the last meatball and Alek and Krilla split between them the last serving of the deliciously cooked tuna. Krilla’s smile was small and bright and secret and, Alek felt, just for him. Under the table, he shifted his leg slightly and felt Krilla’s foot touch his own and rest there. Alek smiled to himself and blushed into his plate.

Dessert was served. Huge platters of fresh fruit, oranges, ripe mango, figs splitting with their fullness, passion fruit with its sweet and sour seeds and pulp, little black plums, great ice red slices of watermelon, and a pile of blood red cherries as shiny as jewels. Krilla locked eyes with him as he bit into a cherry, his pale pink lips suddenly red with juice and Alek blushed the same colour and had to hide his face in his fruit. Aziz saw and kicked his friend under the table for being too obvious, and a bit mean. The wine flowed freely.

Afterwards when everyone was full and even the cicadas were sleepy and every member of the Shad family and Krilla had, at some point, vanished and reappeared again to go do a little bit of the washing up, there by getting it all done, they decided to turn in. Krilla shook hands with Tamil and embraced Aika, with many praises, on the quayside, and he watched the Shad family, with waves and calls for the next day, make their way up the hill. Alek smiled at him.

“I should go, it’s a long walk back.”

“No where in town is a long walk,” Krilla said amiably, “Where are you going?”

“To the olive fields,” Alek gestured up the mountain, “I sleep there.”

“Alek it’s nearly midnight. Come on, you can grab a bunk on La Belle Mere.”

“No really I couldn’t.”

Krilla grabbed his arm with a strong warm hand.

“Of course you can.”

In the cabin he cleared the floor of sail sheet material and found the blankets in a storage box. Carefully he made up one of the lower bunks for Alek.

“See,” he patted the bunk, “Comfy. Well, I’m off to bed.” He turned and began to ascent the stairs.

Suddenly scared to be left alone Alek called out to him.

“Where’re you going?”

“Amidships,” Krilla replied, “I never sleep below deck in the summer. Goodnight Alek.”

Slightly disappointed, Alek stripped gratefully out of too worn clothes and flopped onto the bunk. After so many nights of the ground it was indeed very comfortable. He woke with a start, realising he must have drifted off and took a peak at his little analogue watch. Nearly three am. Alek stared at the wooden ceiling above him and tried to go back to sleep. The boat’s slight creaking and tender rocking was more noticeable now that he wasn’t bone tired. Getting up carefully, he worked the blanket into a sort of sarong and went up on deck. The moonlight was just bright enough to see by, although it tinted everything silver and steel. There was a hammock hanging on deck that hadn’t been there when he last was up here. Krilla was in it. He was half covered by a thin sheet that he’d draped over his lower half, and he was peacefully stretched out in the hammock. He made a snuffling noise like a sleepy kitten and shifted his pose while Alek watched him.

Krilla looked different asleep, more vulnerable maybe. After all he was so bright and confident and lively when he was awake. His hair pooled in lovely swirls in the curve of his neck and collar bone, and inviting shadows nestled between his open lips. Alek remembered the shapes those lips had made, saying his name. The thought sent delicious chills up his spine. For the first time Alek noticed that Krilla had long eyelashes, long slender fingers, a thin frame that was belied by his confidence and easy gait. His skin shone where the moon highlighted him. Under his lids his eyes flickered, dreams making him chase distracted patterns across an unseen world. Alek longed to reach out to him, to touch that fine long hair that looked as soft and smooth as silk. He didn’t dare. Slowly, carefully so as to make no noise, he crept back down below and fell gratefully asleep in his bunk.