‘This is anaskomandoura,’ said Marina, pointing. ‘It’s very traditional here. It’s been around at least since the middle of the fifteenth century. It was originally played by goat herds. The bag is made from goat or lamb hide, tied at the neck and rear.’
The guitarist stood up and started to sing. Tall and slim, he had shaggy black hair, a black, closely trimmed beard and was probably in his early to mid-forties. Cleo found his deep, sonorous voice soothing and she leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, basking in the melody.
Her eyelids soon flew open again, however, when all at once the pace picked up and there was a roar of laughter from the crowd.
‘The lyrics are quite rude,’ Marina said loudly, because she was having to compete with the noise. ‘The song is called amantinada, like one of your old English ballads. It’s about a girl and a boy from a small village in Crete who fall in love. But their parents don’t approve, so they have to sneak out of their homes at night to meet.
‘The words are taken from a famous poem, but the vocalist is improvising in places, adding his own lyrics. They’re a bit suggestive. That’s why everyone is laughing.’
Cleo glanced at Katerina, half expecting her to appear disapproving, but she was clapping her hands and tapping her feet in time to the music and smiling.
Returning to the man singing, Cleo noticed his big brown eyes and amused, lopsided smile. He was clearly enjoying himself and the audience’s enthusiasm.
He had a lean, sensitive face and something in his voice made her guess he’d be good at performing soulful songs as well as ribald ones.
‘His name is Achilles,’ Marina commented, noticing where Cleo’s gaze had fallen. ‘He’s lived in the village all his life. He married a German woman, but she got into drugs. She was a mess; many people tried to help her but no one could. Eventually she went off with someone else, leaving Achilles to bring up their two small boys.
‘It must have been so hard for him, but he never complained. He’s done a great job. His sons are teenagers now, both really good boys.’
‘Do they ever see their mother?’ Cleo asked, watching Achilles now with fresh eyes and newfound respect.
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘I don’t even know if she’s still alive.’
The waiter appeared with a tray of soft drinks Cleo and her friends had ordered earlier.
‘Would you and Katerina like something?’ Cleo asked, but Marina shook her head.
‘We’ll be leaving in a minute. Katerina has a long climb up the mountain, remember. I’ll walk her to the top of the steps, but she won’t let me go all the way with her. At least she has a torch. It’s pitch-black at this time of night.’
Cleo shivered, remembering she and her friends would have to make the same journey shortly, though Villa Ariadne was less far than Katerina’s cottage. It was a good job they had torches on their phones, as no one had thought to bring one.
Achilles stopped singing and sat down again, while the audience clapped appreciatively. He had a few sips of water from the glass at his feet and picked up his guitar once more.
After a few moments, the man with the lyra began to play a solo tune. Lively and rhythmic, it seemed to be well known to the restaurant’s Cretan customers who clapped along with him. The mandolin andaskomandourasoon joined in, followed by Achilles on his guitar.
All of a sudden, there was the sound of scraping as several customers pushed back their chairs and lifted them high over their heads before stacking them by the terrace fence.
Not long after, tables were being moved, too, until there was a space in the middle big enough for a small crowd.
While all this was going on, the waiters were dodging nimbly back and forth and round those still seated, delivering drinks and food. They were laughing and smiling as well, completely at ease, it seemed, with what was going on. Perhaps the same thing happened every weekend, Cleo thought. None of them appeared remotely surprised, anyway.
Next, about ten customers – a mixture of men and women – formed a circle, holding on to each other at their shoulders, and started to perform a slow, almost walking dance, with straight backs.
Smooth and proud-looking, they stepped to the right then left, swinging the opposite foot slowly and gently, until the music gradually built in speed and the dance became more energetic.
Now that most of the tables had gone, Cleo was able to see across to the other side of the restaurant and spotted Anthea, the Glaswegian massage lady, snuggled up close to an attractive man with short brown hair. He looked too pale to be Greek, though you could never be sure.
The couple rose and were on the point of joining the dancers when Anthea clocked Cleo and the others.
‘Come on!’ she mouthed, beckoning Cleo over and pointing exaggeratedly to the dance floor. Several of the dancers turned and unlinked themselves from their neighbours to make room for the newcomers.
Cleo felt her cheeks reddening with embarrassment and shook her head and shrugged, trying to show she couldn’t do the moves. She hated being the centre of attention and avoided performing at any costs.
Before she knew it, however, Maya and Tash were on their feet.
‘Come on! It’ll be a laugh!’ Tash shouted gaily.
It was all right for Tash, Cleo thought; she was an actress and she’d probably had dancing lessons as well. She didn’t know Cleo was super self-conscious and had two left feet.
