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by Stanislav Dema
01/24/26
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Mood:

Gavin Luke - Nadir

I went to where the lighthouse towered over the entire island.

It was the highest point of Zmeiny, and the path to it led along a narrow trail amidst grass scorched by the sun.

Along the road, I came across boulders overgrown with yellow lichen and fragments of ancient walls—traces of antique structures that once stood here.

They breathed that very mystery that only time knows how to keep.

Gradually the path became steeper, and, having climbed to a small terrace, I unexpectedly came out onto an open platform.

At its edge, under the very sky, a man was exercising.

He stood barefoot on a rock, wearing only linen trousers, and worked with a kettlebell—lightly, measuredly, with visible pleasure.

With every movement, the muscles of his arms and back rolled under his skin like living cables.

He moved calmly, without fuss, like one for whom maintaining physical strength is not for show, but a natural part of life.

When I approached closer, the man noticed me and raised a hand.

I responded in kind, and he, lowering the kettlebell, threw a linen shirt over his shoulders.

It was a tall, muscular, tanned man of about sixty, with a handsome weathered face.

A long scar crossed his right eyebrow and cheek—old, whitened, but not disfiguring; rather, giving his face a special expression.

Not evil—rather somewhat piratical, decisive and severe, like a man who has lived through much but has not lost his dignity.

— Monsieur Duroc! — he pronounced with a wide smile, in which both cordiality and inner strength were felt. — Very glad to see you on our island. Welcome to Zmeiny! Yesterday we did not get properly acquainted.

He came closer, shook my hand firmly, and, tilting his head slightly, added:

— I invite you to have breakfast with us, and then we will calmly discuss the purpose of your visit. Zusya wrote me a letter where he detailed all the circumstances. I think Ester and I can help in your search.

He looked at his hands, dusted with talc, chuckled, and said with slight awkwardness, though quite sincerely:

— I apologize that you caught me in such a state. Give me fifteen minutes—and I will meet you properly.

Then he winked cheerfully and added:

— Meanwhile, please proceed to the summer veranda—Ester is already setting the table there.

With these words, Vasilis turned and walked with a quick, confident stride toward the house, and I, feeling a pleasant excitement, followed the stone path leading to the lighthouse keeper's estate.

I climbed onto the plateau and finally saw the lighthouse itself—tall, slender, with stone walls and the red dome of the lantern.

Not far from it stood the house—beautiful, white, as if transported from the Mediterranean coast.

Last night, tired after a long journey, I had paid almost no attention to the details, but now I could examine everything properly.

The house was single-story, with wide windows, covered with a red tiled roof.

The walls—whitewashed, with a light golden hue from the sun and moisture.

On the south side of the house, grapes grew—a thick, well-tended vine entwined a wooden lattice, forming a natural canopy over the terrace.

Beneath it stood a large oak table and several carved chairs painted light blue.

From the terrace opened a wonderful view of the sea—quiet, serene, like in a painting.

There, at the table, I noticed Ester—she was bustling about, laying out plates and cutlery.

Ester moved calmly, confidently, with that grace found only in women accustomed to creating order and comfort around themselves.

I climbed the three creaky wooden steps and, not to startle the hostess, knocked delicately on the railing.

Ester turned, and her face lit up with a smile.

— Good morning, Monsieur Duroc, — she said with a slight accent. — I am very glad to see you.

In her voice sounded softness, and at the same time—warm, sincere strength of a person who knows how to love life.

Etiquette did not allow me to shake a lady's hand, so we exchanged light, symbolic bows.

At that moment, the master of the house came out onto the veranda.

Vasilis was dressed in dark trousers and a crisp white shirt with fine embroidery on the collar. A strict dark blue tunic with shiny buttons gave him the look of an old naval officer who had preserved his bearing and inner discipline.

Ester, conversely, looked refined and homely: she wore a long linen dress the color of sea waves with a Rusyn ornament along the hem and sleeves.

Sunbeams penetrating through the grape leaves lay on her shoulders, making the picture picturesque—as if she had stepped into a canvas painted by nature itself.

Vasilis approached me, and we exchanged handshakes again—this time officially.

— Monsieur Duroc, — he said with a serious but benevolent intonation, — Ester and I are glad to welcome you as our guest. Please, have a seat. We will have breakfast together, and then discuss business. I think you will also have something to tell.

He pointed to a vacant chair at the head of the table, while he himself, with a slight smile, began helping his wife arrange the dishes.

The breakfast was simple but surprisingly delicious: boiled eggs, freshly baked bread, Greek salad with olives, tomatoes, and red onion rings, sesame sauce, a small jug of olive oil, a plate with slices of goat cheese, butter, and fruit.

Everything exuded that indescribable aroma of home food—warm, sunny, alive.

I, invigorated by the morning swim and fresh sea air, ate with appetite.

Vasilis kept pace with me—he ate with the simple pleasure of a sailor who knows how to value homemade bread and fresh fruit after a long voyage at sea.

And Ester, sitting opposite, watched us with a slight smile, from time to time adjusting the tablecloth or rearranging dishes.

From her look, I understood—like any woman who loves her home and caring for the household, she was pleased to see that the food was to the guest's taste.

During breakfast, I stole glances at my new friends.

I understood people a little—my profession and life itself had taught me—and within a few minutes, I realized: these two truly love each other.

Not with that turbulent, all-consuming passion typical of youth, when the heart beats faster at every glance, but with the mature, quiet love of people who have walked a long path together.

They did not demonstrate feelings, did not exchange words or touches, but everything was visible in the small things.

In how Ester tilted her head slightly toward him when he spoke.

In how Vasilis involuntarily moved the fruit plate toward her without asking, because he knew beforehand what she would want.

In rare short glances, in a light, almost invisible smile, in the kind silence that exists only between people who have gone through everything together—joy, troubles, long years, and storms.

It was love without words—like a sea without waves, calm, deep, reliable.

The kind that does not fade, but only becomes stronger with the years.

Finally, when we were satiated, it was time for coffee and dessert.

Vasilis brewed strong aromatic Arabic coffee—thick, slightly sour, with subtle notes of chocolate.

Ester placed a dish with warm ginger cookies on the table—a sweet-spicy aroma came from them, filling the veranda with coziness and a special home peace.

I drank coffee, tasted the cookies—and suddenly caught myself thinking that for the second time in recent days, I felt like I was in paradise.

Not because of the food—although it too was delightful—but because of this calm, this sincere benevolence radiating from my hosts.

Everything around was simple, without unnecessary words, but in this simplicity, something healing was felt.

As if with every sip of hot coffee, something inside me began to thaw.

Some old springs frozen in the depths of my soul—tensed by years of anxiety, guilt, and loneliness—began to slowly uncoil.

Valves that fear had once closed opened again, and life began to flow through my veins, through my thoughts, through my very heart—even, warm, real.

I felt the internal heaviness leave, felt that invisible tension that had shackled me from the inside for years disappear with every exhalation.

These noble people, their calmness, their kindness, the sea behind my back, and the sun overhead—all of this seemed to return me to myself.

I looked at them, at this table, at the cup in my hands—and understood: healing does not always come through a miracle.

Sometimes it comes through simple human warmth, through bread, coffee, and quiet laughter at the morning table.

And perhaps this is the main miracle.

I could no longer hold back and said, smiling:

— What a wonderful breakfast! I am impressed by your cuisine. But tell me, where do you get such amazing products on this tiny island?

The hosts exchanged glances—it was evident that my words flattered them.

Ester was slightly embarrassed, even blushed a little, and answered:

— Most of what you ate today was grown right here on the island.

She made a light gesture toward the garden behind the house.

— We have a small vegetable garden, several fruit trees, and chickens. And also goats. We buy only spices, grain, olive oil, feed for the poultry and goats. Everything else is ours, local, native.

Vasilis added, with pride in his voice:

— Although the island is small, it is generous. Everything grows here—if tended with love.

He looked at his wife, and I noticed that look again—quiet, warm, with more love in it than in a thousand words.

I nodded, not hiding my admiration.

Nature, food, these people—everything here was living confirmation that harmony is possible.

You just need to be in your place and do everything with soul.

Then I asked:

— Feed for goats? Do they not graze on the island?

Ester smiled, shook her head:

— Oh, no, Monsieur Duroc. Here that is impossible. The island is too small, and the soil is thin—limestone right under the grass. If we let the goats loose, in a month they would eat everything clean, tear out the roots, and then the land would become a desert. We realized this as soon as we moved here.

She paused, took a sip of coffee, and continued with soft pride in her voice:

— Therefore, we keep them in a pen at the foot of the lighthouse. There are only six—four milking and two young ones. We do not graze them but feed them imported hay, sometimes supplementing with fresh cut grass and dried kelp which I collect on the shore.

A shalanda brings us hay from the mainland—one bale a month, no more. That way we preserve the grass and soil.

She smiled:

— Fortunately, we are not short of funds and can afford such a luxury—transporting feed. But the goats are healthy, the milk is fresh, and we always have bryndza, butter, and yogurt. I even make cheese—I constantly treat the lads from the outpost.

I looked at her with interest:

— You seem to truly enjoy this.

— Very much, — answered Ester, and a special sparkle appeared in her eyes. — It became a real discovery for me. You see, I grew up in a lawyer's family. We lived in the city, and I never dealt with animals or the land. All this—goats, the garden, cheese, chickens—seemed alien to me.

She chuckled slightly.

— When Vasilis suggested starting a farm, I was skeptical. But I tried... and realized it is surprisingly interesting. In these simple tasks, there is a special joy. When you care for something living with your own hands, and then see the result—it gives a feeling of joy that cannot be found anywhere in city life.

She thought for a moment, then added quietly:

— After all, our family once came here "for a better life." Back then, I imagined this better life differently: with receptions, expensive dresses, conversations about painting and travel. But it turned out happiness is not there at all. It is right here, nearby. In fresh bread, in goat's milk, in Vasilis's laughter, and in the fact that every day you meet the sunrise and thank God that you breathe.

She smiled slightly embarrassed:

— I truly didn't think I would find my place in life making cheese and drying herbs, but, you know... now I wouldn't trade it for any dresses or high society life.

She fell silent for a bit, as if returning from memories, then added, calmer now:

— My father once came to the Hetmanate from Germany—fleeing pogroms. I remember that evening well... It was Good Friday. A neighbor knocked on the door—a baker. He had always been kind to us and warned: "Run. Tomorrow morning they are coming." We left immediately, not even having time to pack. That is how we were saved.

Ester smiled sadly.

— Since then, I have never seen that man again. I don't know what became of him. We never managed to thank him.

She lowered her gaze for a second, then seemed to shake herself, smoothed a fold on the tablecloth, and added quietly:

— However, I have digressed.

Raising her eyes to me, she said softer, with lively curiosity:

— Tell us a little about yourself, Monsieur Duroc. I see you speak Rusyn very well. This is quite unusual for a Frenchman.

I smiled and nodded:

— Yes, you are right. Few Frenchmen are fluent in your language.

I was silent for a while, looking at the sea behind her back, and added:

— You see, I was born and raised in Marseille. My father was an engineer—he worked in the naval design bureau. He instilled in me two passions: love for the sea and love for technology. When I was a teenager, father enrolled me in a yacht club. I learned to sail, listened to the sound of the wind in the rigging, and then for the first time understood that the sea is not just water. It is a whole element that lives by its own laws.

I smiled slightly.

— And when I turned eighteen, instead of entering university after finishing school, I went to sea—as a simple sailor.

Father, of course, was displeased, grumbling that "an engineer's son should build ships, not haul ropes." But mother said then: "You yourself once did the same. Let him know the world too." And she turned out to be right.

I paused for a second, remembering.

— For four years I worked as a sailor on a merchant vessel. It became a real school of life for me. And one of my first and best teachers was our boatswain—Stanislav Oliynyk. A stern but fair man, with a sharp mind and a kind heart. He was a Rusyn, originally from Bilykovychi. We talked often—about the sea, about people, about faith, about duty. He taught me a lot. And, among other things, it was from him that I learned your language.

— You know, I have a knack for languages. And with such a teacher, not learning would simply have been a sin. Then I started reading books in Rusyn, translating songs, poems... And gradually realized that a language is not just words. It is a whole world in which the soul of a nation lives. Since then, I treat everything related to Rusyns with respect.

I looked at Ester and added softer, almost confidentially:

— So, perhaps I was just lucky—I met the right person at the right time. And since then, wherever I am, I am always glad to hear this language. It reminds me of the sea and of people who have light living in their hearts.

— Oliynyk, you say? — Vasilis rubbed his chin thoughtfully. — A familiar surname. I had an Oliynyk in my crew once—a navigator, a good lad.

He was silent for a second, then nodded briefly, as if he had made a decision.

— However, I suggest we move to the living room. It will be more comfortable to discuss what you came here for.

I stood up, thanked the hosts for the wonderful breakfast.

Vasilis took Ester by the arm, and the three of us headed into the house.

The living room turned out to be spacious and bright. Daylight penetrated through high windows. Everything here was arranged modestly but with taste—antique furniture, bookshelves, a marine barometer in a brass frame. But most of all, my attention was drawn to the paintings.

All the walls were hung with seascapes—dozens of canvases, large and small. When I entered, it seemed to me I had walked into an art gallery.

The sea on them was different: purple at sunset, dark gray in winter, gold at dawn. Somewhere in the distance, outlines of lighthouses, sails, silhouettes of lonely fishing boats could be guessed. On one canvas, a storm raged—huge waves rose like monsters come to life, and above them—a sky split by the white fire of lightning.

I have always loved painting, especially marine, and these pictures fascinated me.

But one canvas stood out sharply among the rest.

I walked closer.

It was not a marina, not a landscape—but a battle scene.

Through dark leaden water moved a troop transport. The ship was firing from anti-aircraft guns. Tracers from shells flew into the gray sky, where a bomber with the insignia of the Moxan Khanate was diving.

I looked closer and noticed a tiny figure of the captain on the bridge. His face was covered in blood, but the man stood straight, gripping the railings and shouting commands for evasive maneuvers.

The ship was clearly damaged but held on—the skill and will of its commander were felt even through the brushstrokes.

Flame, smoke, fountains of water from bomb explosions, the gray fog of gunpowder smoke—everything was painted with such power that it seemed to me: I hear the roar of engines and the thunder of AA guns.

Ester noticed that I lingered in front of the painting and approached closer.

Her voice sounded quiet, with a tinge of sadness:

— I painted this picture for Vasilis. It is called "Transport 'Akkerman' Breaks Through to Besieged Domakha."

She hesitated slightly, looking at the canvas.

— I hate war and everything connected with it, — she said softly. — But this painting... it is very dear to Vasilis. Therefore, it hangs here, in the center of the room.

I looked at Vasilis. He stood slightly aside, looking at the painting as if he saw not strokes on canvas, but living memory.

Something heavy flashed in his gaze—a shadow of pain, but also pride.

Vasilis sighed heavily, as if taking the burden of lived years upon himself along with the air.

— Yes... that happened, — he said, looking at the painting. — We received an order then to evacuate the remnants of the Domakha garrison. I had never seen attacks like on that day. The Moxans threw their best dive-bomber squadron into battle—they clearly wanted to prevent those holding out there from escaping.

He fell silent for a second, as if seeing that day before him again—the roaring sky, smoke, flames.

— At some moment, a bomb hit us after all. The boatswain's store caught fire—paint, rags, ropes were kept there. The flame flared up instantly. From the outside, it probably looked terrible: a huge column of smoke, tongues of fire, but the damage control party localized the fire. Radio communication failed—shrapnel cut the antennas. We signaled to the escort destroyer by semaphore that we had a fire, but we were managing. And reported that radio contact was lost.

He sighed.

— On the destroyer, evidently, they decided we were perishing. The captain reported to headquarters that the transport "Akkerman" was burning and sinking. At headquarters, someone panicked—the ship was valuable, and from the shore, an order was given to return to base. They semaphored us: "Order: Return immediately."

He shook his head.

— I stood on the bridge, looked at this order, and understood: if we return, the people in Domakha will die. They were holding on there with their last strength, without food, without ammunition. And then, for the first time in my life, I disobeyed an order.

I signaled back that "weather conditions do not allow reading the message." And we went on.

A slight, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face.

— Fortunately, the destroyer did not abandon us. It sailed alongside all the way to the shore. We were under air attack the whole way, but we made it.

He lowered his gaze for a second.

— I was the detachment commander, and I took all responsibility upon myself. This voyage cost me my career and health. The staff officers never forgave my willfulness. I was demoted and dismissed with disgrace from the naval forces.

He looked straight at me—calmly, without a shadow of complaint.

— But you know, Monsieur Duroc... I am ready to bear this "disgrace" to the end of my days. Because I remember the faces of those people we brought out. Emaciated, many wounded, but alive. One sergeant said then: "Your ship is an angel that descended into hell to save us." You must agree, for such words, one can lose epaulets. And my health, thanks to Ester's care, I have already restored.

He fell silent, and a silence hung in the room—warm, filled with respect. Then Vasilis added quietly:

— Since then, I haven't been on good terms with the system. On the other hand, it doesn't stop me from living as I want. After the war, I finally took up what I had dreamed of since youth—writing. All my life I wanted to write books, but in the service, there was no time for it. But now—there is time.

He smiled slightly embarrassed, like a person revealing something personal.

— My sea stories and novellas are published in magazines. This gives a decent and stable income. And now I am working on a collection of sea tales of the world's peoples. I think it will be a good book—for both children and adults.

I listened silently, not interrupting.

Vasilis's words sounded sincere, without a shadow of pathos, and in them was felt the strength of a man who does not make excuses and does not seek sympathy. He spoke as an experienced sailor tells of a storm: calmly, as if of something mundane.

And precisely in this simplicity lay his greatness.

I wanted to say something—express respect, gratitude, but realized that any words would be superfluous.

Ester and I exchanged glances—she quietly lowered her eyes, as if she herself had relived everything standing behind this painting again.

Vasilis noticed this and, chuckling slightly, said:

— Well, enough about the past. — He pronounced this softly but decisively, as if closing a heavy door behind him. — War leaves a mark in each of us, but one must live on.

He turned to me, the confident, businesslike intonation of a captain appearing in his voice again.

— Let us talk about the present, Monsieur Duroc. I understand you came here not just to study ruins. Zusya wrote that it concerns a very unusual matter... a certain En-zi.

He paused, looking at me attentively.

— Well then, I am ready to listen to you.

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