Hey, it's all got wonderfully fulfilling. I am not sure when we last spoke. Did I tell you that I came to Athens solo? We were meant to leave Corfu on Thursday. At 17:30 we'd be catching the boat to Igoumenitsa, and from there we'd catch the 20:30 bus to get us into Athens at 02:30. There was an earlier bus at 12:00, which could potentially lead us into Athens at 18:00, but I didn't trust me and her coordinating at 07:30 in the morning without my turning murderer.
So on Thursday, before Sharon had slipped in her obligatory leopard swimming outfit ready to get to her favourite chaise long, one which she had very skilfully blagged from the old but still energetic owner of that unmistakably teenage British boozer, all set with my Bose speaker and her fine collection of Caribbean and African R&B tunes, we'd agreed that we'd check on each other at around 15:00 and start moving. I had to hand the moped back, evacuate my room and find us a taxi to the port. Anyway, I wanted to be there a bit early.
Rather, by 16:00, after a series of unanswered messages to Sharon which led me to finally go to find her, I'd finished packing, had got rid of the moped, and evacuated the room. What I needed now was to find a taxi and somehow commit Sharon to leaving the seaside mosquito netted little palace of hers and the “headfucker” cocktails*, getting ready and miraculously appearing standing next to her luggage whilst a taxi smoothly rolled its way to us.
In fact, thanks to her genius, an arrangement was made with our hosts to give us a lift instead. At their suggestion we'd leave at 17:00 after all, since the journey to the port was only 10 minutes, and we didn't really see why time to get our act together, check passports, location forms and other trivial stuff over a pint in the cafe at the port was time well spent. Still, perhaps owing to my untravelled nature, I was a bit stressed, and so I managed to somehow come up with a modified plot. I suggested that Nikos was overworked, tired and busy, which he clearly was, and maybe Irene could take us there. Happily Irene could indeed give us a lift, but only there and then as she still needed to take the two families kids to the pool. For he record, there and then was 16:45 now.
Eventually we made it to the port at exactly 17:00. As a native speaker I should go to the ticket booth to sort everything out, whilst Sharon would remain with Irene and some of the kids in the small little car, which now also served as a pizza oven owing to the lovely afternoon sun and temperatures.
It was when I started filling in the forms for both, perhaps unsurprisingly, that I found out that those of us who are unvaccinated needed to possess a valid rapid test. Sadly, we couldn't get one just at that time of the day. However, there was still a glimpse of hope since it was possible that no one really checked those on the boat, but that was something one could only find out by going through the whole process and embarking. As a general and possibly unrelated note, this is perhaps easier done when one has a bit of extra time.
Sharon's immediare, crisp and clear response was a “we are not travelling today,” which felt not unlike a cannon that had just fired. I therefore shot back fast and sharp that I AM travelling, and that it's up to her to see what she's doing next. She immediately retorted "that's shit brov," and "if we were in Africa and I left you here like that" it "would be a disgrace." I didn't feel prepared to respond in kind, saying for instance "but this is definitely not Africa, sis." Instead, I cried that I had to see my dad, a visit which surely was one of the top reasons for my coming to Greece, another being us having such a great time.
So I got on the boat and sure nobody checked anything. One simply had to drop the signed form in a box and show their tickets. I found that out by 17:12, so even though they'd just left the port by then with her fuming, there might still be some time, if Irene or someone else could perhaps bring her back. Deep inside me I wished that she wouldn't get a lift, but the possibility was still there.
It's Sunday now. Many a protagonist has graced this soap opera with their appearance, one of them Sakis, a Greek anarchist around my age. I have had no contact with Sharon since that amazing Thursday, but I received a series of messages on my phone yesterday from him. The messages were rather weird, as they had a format that resembled mini reports, and they drew a picture of Sharon having spent days in beautiful Kavos in a manner of now you see me, now you don't. Don't get me wrong, but there was a certain whiff of said messages being dictated by this formidable woman on the spot, even that they were perhaps designed to elicit some kindness and sympathy and togetherness from me. Could it be that Sakis was acting as her typist, using his phone, I wondered.
They then drifted towards the direction "I don't know where she is, perhaps I am in her black books because I didn't always respond to her straight away,” and "from what I've heard, she's leaving tomorrow (Sunday)." I then asked whether he knew where she was leaving to, to which he answered "Athens, I think." At that point I said “that's great, we'll have a wicked time,” and that perhaps I can leave my keys with her and get back to England. Bearing in mind that I have had a few drinks and anarchist conversations with said Sakis before, and that I'd lent him my camera to do a photo shoot of Nikos's burgers, I then proceeded to ask him whether he was typing these messages with Sharon. Alamingly, he didn't reply.
That was then followed up by one last message of mine asking him whether I'd upset him, especially as an anarchist, with the suggestion that he was acting as a proxy or even typist, and swore to him that the only reason for my insinuation was that the texts themselves read nothing like his and a lot like Sharon's.
So, here I am this early Sunday morning, with no response from Sakis and no sign of her. There are only two possibilities then. Either these were his messages, and therefore Sharon will simply turn up, in which case I don't know which strategy to employ. Or that the messages were dictated, and therefore Sharon knows that I know that. Although typically that should mean that Sharon wouldn't have the stomach or desire to come over here, a very sad other possibility scares me. Sharon may well come here knowing that I know, but pretending that she doesn't.
Sharon has told me at length how’s she's being entangled in messed up friendships and relationships. One positive outcome of that though is that Sharon has got her self a book, a manual if you wish, which explains everything there is to know about Narcissistic Personality Disorder, a condition which she’s more or less an expert of now. In fact, we spent a few evenings with her kindly analysing to me behaviours of certain people through this very lens. It was fascinating, I must say. I don’t know how this fits in here, but there have been another two instances where Sharon made up conversations I apparently had with other people. I would have got very worried indeed about the state of my mind, if it wasn’t for the fact that luckily I hadn’t spoken to said people at all. I fear that she’s delusional, or that perhaps she was throwing her nets in empty to check if they come back out full - as a Greek fishermen proverb goes. If the latter, then one could find descriptions of such tactics in the DSM, under headings that pertain to manipulation, psycho- and sociopathy. Then again, as I am sure you would guess, my late dear mother and I had at some point come to the conclusion that at times psychopath is simply another word for “arsehole.”
* They are not to be confused with cocktails. They are vile.
Mario Barrel-Barrel.