Hercules
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
Our arrival
was an accident as we were in the peak of the
tourist season, fleeing the island of Kos filled
with blonde Swedes.
We had hopped on the first boat we could find, a
cargo boat I think. Anyhow we landed at the
harbour where Pythorogas had come from. Hence the
name of the then undiscovered by tourists town.
I was delighted to find puzzle ceramic pots to
resell to my puzzle collector, the Industrialist
Edward Hordern. I bought several hand painted
pieces which paid for half the trip so I was in
Puzzlandia heaven.
My magical husband Martin Breese always made
himself known in every town or village by going
into the local bar for an ouzo and performing
simple magic tricks for the locals. Word would
spread and Martin would be plied with ouzo for
the entire holiday while I would learn the basics
in Greek like 'look', 'queen of hearts' or 'king
of diamonds'.
Martin would be called the Fakiris on the first
evening and everyone would know he was in town!
One evening we noticed a poster on the seafront
railings announcing Hercules, the strongman,
would be performing that Saturday night. Being in
the magic business, we were unimpressed by such
characters and performances. We had seen it all
before and imagined a very local amateur.
We ate dinner and wandered later in the evening
to the far end of the harbour where a large crowd
of spectators had gathered to watch Hercules. In
the end we watched too as it was the end of his
show.
The drums rolled and we saw a very skinny but
muscular armed man stripped to the waist. He had
straight black long hair down to his waist which
was unusual for a man clearly in his seventies.
He had an immense wooden barrel strapped to his
stomach. I didn't really understand what he was
meant to do with it. He was standing in front of
his caravans. Obviously his 'home' was the big
one but we saw an entourage around him clapping
and cheering and knew that he was travelling with
his team.
Suddenly the newsagent, one of Martin's admirers,
told Hercules that there was a Fakiris from
England in the audience and pointed at an
embarrassed Martin. The show was over and
Hercules came over to Martin and in perfect
fluent English invited him, with me tagging along,
into the inner sanctuary of his 'home'.
We entered another world. It was compact, cozy
and in good taste with pictures and trophies on
shelves and cabinets. Hercules was from Athens
and was obviously an educated man. Right away he
tore in half Martin's new pack of cards. Next an
entire local Samos telephone directory. We were
mesmerised and impressed. But the icing on the
cake was a photograph album with Hercules
standing in his glory next to King Husain of
Jordan at a reception shaking hands. Seeing is
believing. We saw and we believed!
After Martin had performed a few basic tricks and
impressed the his host, Hercules then invited us
for dinner with his friends. It was rude to
refuse even though we had just had dinner. We
agreed to have dessert and tea as it was late.
Well perhaps 11.00 pm. Late for the English to
dine. But when in Rome.... I mean Greece.....
It was at the table that Hercules asked Martin to
join his troupe. Echoes of Anthony Quinn and
Giulietta Masina in 'La Strada' came to mind. I
immediately wanted to say yes and be on the road
but Martin had a magic multimedia business to run
and had to reject his sincere spontaneous offer.
That night I was so excited I could not sleep
while Martin slept peacefully snoring. Life on
the road going to mountain villages on the
mainland for two or three months in the summer
before returning to Athens where he was based. My
imagination ran amok and I was awake fantasising
all night.
I can still see his navy and white photographic
postcard with his name written in Greek and
personal number.
Those were the days before mobiles and emails. It
was the 80s and the technological revolution had
not begun and infiltrated our lives.
Years later we revisited Pythagoria to find the
newsagent had died and his widow dressed in black
and unfriendly. We had difficulty in locating the
Captain's house where we had slept and eventually
found it further away than we remembered from the
seafront, its rooms no longer rented out to
tourists. The happy local atmosphere had gone.
Tourists were abundant and eateries overpriced.
We stayed a few hours and fled.
Never to return. No doubt Hercules had departed
this life and gone to barrelandia. Never go back.
Always go on to a new adventure. A new
destination.
I will never meet another Hercules again but he
has, 25 years later, never been forgotten.
Written
in December 2015 at Chania Venetian harbour in
the 'Crab' restaurant.
Copyright 2018
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