AUTUMNAL storms are spectacular in Kerkyra (Corfu). They start with a mild, refreshing wind, which is welcomed by everyone in the humid heat of the season. Slowly and steadily they build momentum.
First the sky turns a pale silver-grey, then it deepens and darkens. The branches of the trees sway and the open window shutters start banging. At any moment they might come unhinged. This seldom happens, at least not because of the storms.
Once, in the autumn of 1943, the shutters and the buildings to which they were attached did crash to the ground. For 10 days the Germans bombarded the island. They caused such extensive damage and devastation that it took years to put everything right. Where the old buildings once stood, open craters formed, filled with their own sad ruins of dirt and rubble. Pepper trees grew and blossomed, and children played hide-and-seek there. The inhabitants still lament this senseless destruction and hate Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy for causing it.
Like other places in the world, the Old Town of Kerkyra didn't escape the ravages of World War II, yet some elements of its ancient Venetian style remain and are resilient in the face of all weathers. Ferocious storms, regular earthquakes, blistering sun and damp heat, even snow have failed to spoil this magical little town. The buildings that the war didn't touch, buildings as old as the history of Europe, still stand tall and brave.
Unfortunately, nobody spends money or time on maintaining them. There have always been other priorities. In countries where health and education are luxury commodities, who will plan the careful redecoration of a building that can't really suffer from the lack of social services? Three, four and five-storey houses appear wobbly and hazardous, with the odd tile or brick hanging precariously.
But since nobody's head has been crushed by a falling tile, and since the cost of maintaining these buildings is otherwise minimal, people aren't at all anxious about them. If anything, the old buildings are regarded like precious if neglected members of a large extended family.
On the whole, the inhabitants of Kerkyra hate spending time indoors. They see no point in it. Instead, they make full use of the elegant town squares that act as lavish communal sitting rooms. There the servants -- that is, the waiters -- carry trays of delicacies back and forth.
People can stretch out and read the newspapers, hear all the gossip and see their acquaintances casually, without any obligations or long-term commitments to reciprocal hospitality, and without having to clean or tidy up afterwards.
The cafe armchairs in the squares are the best and most effective psychiatrists' couches the world has to offer. Under the shade of the lime trees, family problems tend to find their solutions. For hours on end hardships are discussed among friends until they have spilled right out, leaving everyone's chests lighter and happier. Thanks to such philosophical discussions, and with the aid of strong coffee, double ouzos, freshly squeezed orange juice and much more, problems come to seem trivial. They can often become the subject of jokes.
Houses are merely places to sleep in, places where one can have a bath or go to the lavatory, places to protect the occupants from the darkness of the night and the bad moods of the weather, places in which to make love in private or where possessions can be stored.
The buildings of Kerkyra remain unrepaired, unpainted, rickety, flaking, but still charming and precious. Everybody looks at them with adoration and the only time they turn their backs and run away in fear is when the giant Enceladus, buried by the goddess Athena, struggles to break out, shaking the island mercilessly. When Aeolus, the ruler of the winds, blows with all his might, with or without torrents of grey rain, everyone runs to find shelter under the arches of the buildings, laughing and enjoying the experience. They know that the island will not sink into the depths of the Ionian Sea.
In September, winds arrive with graceful might. The cafe armchairs and the sun umbrellas blow away. The trees have no choice but to turn and bow in the direction in which the strong, warm winds are forcing them. Sometimes the trees break and collapse, unable to resist the insistent power of the winds. Lightning flashes in the sky; there are bombardments of thunder.
The drinking of coffee, ouzo and orange juice is disrupted; drivers are afraid that the wind and rain will blow their cars off course, yet they carry on with their journeys. These downpours are not just heavy rain. Billions of leaves also fall from the trees, not all of them autumnal copper-yellow. Many are still green and fresh, since autumn always arrives suddenly. There is no time for a slow metamorphosis. Children scream among the tumult of leaves and adults run to protect their sons and daughters.
Such commotion focuses as much energy as the wind that creates it. Then the rain falls fast, heavy and thick. The storms are not tropical but they are similar and often worse. Their force seems to thrust in from all directions. The blue sea turns a dark frothy grey.
Ferries remain tied up in the disturbed harbour as business slows down. Every year the municipality is taken by surprise and is unprepared. Half the drains are blocked with leaves and rubbish. The other half have been blocked intentionally.
During the summer, pieces of cardboard are placed tightly on top of these square holes, to stop the distinctive smell of Kerkyra's drains escaping into the streets. The town always floods.
Nobody minds; every year it's the same. Bored by the endless hours of summer swimming, the island's people welcome the new season. A change of routine invigorates them; it gives new direction to their interests and makes them less lethargic.
At the time of the first storms, the schools reopen. Children, some more eager than others, turn up with new schoolbags. The swallows have not yet flown south, and the cheese-pie sellers are looking forward to providing plenty of snacks at breaks, to boost their meagre incomes.
The storms last four days at the most. Then summer reappears. It is hot, humid and wonderful again. The cicadas become noisier than ever. The swallows shriek louder. The empty beaches are slowly invaded again. The sea, gleaming in the orange sun, becomes light blue and lukewarm, making swimmers feel completely comfortable and secure. They do not swim purposefully as in the summer months; they just take dips and float, looking up and around in awe at the tall, pinkish, rocky mountains. It seems as if Albania could be reached just by stretching out a hand.
This is an edited extract from The Cat of Portovecchio by Maria Strani-Potts (Brandl & Schlesinger, $26.95).
