Because of her beauty, Amanda was much talked about in town. Some
people were angry because she wouldn't go out with them or be their
friend, others were scathing about her and made up stories just because
they were jealous; they thought they knew about things they could know
nothing about. She became an easy target for the gossipmongers. But
Amanda paid no attention to the gossip. In fact she was barely conscious
of it. Her only concern was to work hard to support her lazy family.
She was the only one in the house who could get a job. Her good looks
helped, since at every interview the interviewer, male or female,
instantly fell in love with her, but she was also courteous,
professional and eager to do the job. It was not her beauty that made
Amanda special, but her desire to please. She saw only people's needs
and she had a fierce desire to satisfy them: if they needed a
receptionist, she would do it; if they needed a cleaner, she would do
that too; if they needed someone to help an incontinent old man, she
would be the first to volunteer. She would wrap a headscarf around her
golden locks, roll up her sleeves and get to work.
The truth was that despite her beauty, which might have made her vain and proud, Amanda was happy to do mundane jobs for very little money and never stopped working. At the end of every day she returned to her home exhausted. Her mother would be watching TV, her father drunk, her elder sister preparing herself for her next date, her middle sister engrossed in a fashionable novel, and her brother, sullen, idle, swinging his legs over the arm of the couch. His eyes would be the first to catch hers as she walked in. She was always angry at home, because she was exhausted while the rest of them idled away the hours.
"Did they pay you?" her mother would ask.
"Yes," she would reply, her blue eyes flashing with reproach, and she would throw her wages down onto the table. It would be enough to top up the electricity and the gas, or the shopping, or a part of the rent, and the next day she would be out again to earn more. She kept the whole family. But she never complained. She showed them her anger and frustration, but she also showed them her love and offered them undying support; she worked till she was ready to drop, but she never complained.
Then one day she got a call. She was in the middle of doing Mrs Marshall's laundry. The voice at the other end was unfamiliar. It was the voice of a gentle old man who turned out to be the owner of the Mill View Hotel. She knew the Mill View. It was a rundown old establishment located by the rushing waters of the river that ran through her town. She didn't think anybody stayed there anymore, but the old man informed her that he had a job vacancy and that he wanted her to come for an interview. She could hear the urgency in his voice and discerned his need. Instantly she wanted to help him. "Of course," she replied, and arranged a suitable time.
She arrived at the hotel the next day, just after lunch, and for a few moments stood before it gripped by a growing terror at the sight of the dilapidated and neglected old building before her. There were two turrets, one at each end, and a big old sloping roof that had most of its tiles missing. The countless windows stared back at her like angry eyes, their tired frames blistered by years of unsympathetic weather. Her first instinct was to return to the main gate and leave. But she was not a quitter. She had promised to turn up for an interview and she would not be put off. Conjuring up fake enthusiasm, she made her way confidently to the entrance steps. Though a chill rushed through her veins as she entered the big wooden front door, which had been left ajar, and though every muscle in her body was ready to turn and run, she forced herself to step gingerly toward the reception desk which she could just make out in the gloom, covered in a delicate array of cobwebs and dust.
On the desk, next to an antiquated computer, was a bell. She picked up the bell and shook it. As the sound of the bell died away in a haunted echo which ran up and down a worn out wooden staircase that began in the corner of the lobby and disappeared high up above her head, she heard the approach of someone, not footsteps, but the squeak of wheels.
"Welcome to my hotel," said an old man in a wheelchair.
He was even older than she had imagined. His body was lost inside a baggy old suit and his face had more wrinkles than a baby rhino. His eyes were dim lights wrapped in sagging cloaks of skin, red and raw with the years. He approached Amanda out of the darkness and stopped when he was little more than a yard away from her. The thin light from the windows of the lobby rested on his face and revealed an expression of anxious hope. It was not an unkind face, Amanda thought, and was at least relieved to be in the presence of another human being.
"Thank you for coming," he said. His voice was as thin as he was but he forced it out with the determination of a young bull.
"Not at all," she replied politely, doing her best not to show any concern.
"Many don't even show up for the interview, you know. I can't understand why."
"I wouldn't let you down, sir," Amanda said.
"I know that."
There was a moment of silence between them as he studied her.
"You are more beautiful even than the reports suggest."
"Reports?"
"Oh you know. The rumours. Everyone in town gossips of course. This time, they were not wrong."
Amanda thought this was a strange way to begin an interview, but not wishing to cause offence, she smiled and thanked the old man for his compliment.
"My name is Andrew Constantinou. I am Greek. I hail from a small island in the Aegean. My ancestors were heroes of the Trojan War, you know, no doubt related to the great hero Paris himself."
Amanda had not heard of the Trojan War or Paris and waited patiently for the old man to get to the point.
"But where are my manners? Let us go through into the lounge and Demetria can fetch us some tea. Ring the bell again would you?"
Amanda obliged, rang the bell, and waited with Andrew Constantinou until a miserable looking hag who must have been in her seventies arrived in a slow shuffle. She was dressed in black from head to toe and made no attempt to greet Amanda, even though Amanda put on her friendliest smile.
"This is my daughter, Demetria," the old man explained. "She has been part of this esteemed establishment all her life. In fact she was born here just weeks after I bought the place. Demetria, fetch us some tea. Bring it through to the lounge where I shall be conducting an interview with this delightful young lady."
Demetria nodded and shuffled off. The old man pushed the wheelchair off and led Amanda through into the lounge. The lounge too, it appeared, had seen better days. The old leather couches were ripped, the bookcases which lined the walls were so dusty you could not read the book covers. The carpet, which once must have been a pleasure to walk on, was now sticky with grime and its once intricate pattern was all but faded to nothing.
"Please, Mr. Constant... "
"Call me Andrew, please."
"A-Andrew."
"Yes my dear?"
"I understand that you have a position vacant here?"
"I do."
"Yet, forgive me for saying so, you do not appear to have any guests."
"You are bright as well as beautiful," said the old man. "I can understand how, arriving in the middle of the day as you have, you might get that impression. But you are mistaken. We have several very important guests, some of them regular customers who have been coming here for years. They are discerning people and expect the highest standards."
"Really?" Amanda asked, looking around once more at the general disorder.
"Are you surprised?"
"Yes," she said.
"But why so? Don't you know that we have a reputation for excellence known right around the world?"
"But... "
"Shall we proceed with the interview?"
Amanda considered her position. She had never walked away from an interview before in her life and never turned down any jobs that she had been offered; it went against her nature to do so. But as she looked at the old man and the drab hotel which had been his life's work, as she thought about poor decrepit Demetria who even now was shuffling back toward them carrying a silver tray seemingly finding even that simple task a burden, and as she surveyed her decayed surroundings, she could not help thinking that something was amiss.
Before Amanda could respond, Demetria placed the tray of cups of tea on the antique coffee table between them.
"Please be seated," commanded the old man, and Amanda obliged. "Demetria, leave us."
After another moment of silence, during which Amanda continued to look around the room and the old man watched her with an ever-more intrusive glare, she made up her mind to leave. The old man stopped her by grabbing her hand as she tried to pass.
"Please," he said. "I can see how this must all seem quite strange to you. But wait at least until you have heard what it is the job entails."
"I think I already know. I can see you need a cleaner. But to be honest, Mr Constant... er Andrew, I think you would need a whole team of professionals to get this place looking right again."
"I'm not looking for a cleaner."
"Well then, if you need someone to look after you, I would be quite happy to do that, but I don't think it would be very hygienic to be a carer in this environment. You would have to get the place cleaned up first."
"I don't need a carer."
"Well, I can cook for you and your guests, but I daren't look in the kitchen because if the rest of the hotel is anything to go by I would imagine the kitchen is a health hazard."
"Demetria does all the cooking."
"Then it must be a painter and decorator you need. Or someone to fix the roof. I'm not qualified to do any of those jobs!"
"Please listen, Amanda."
"Yes. Of course."
She settled herself back down again. Now that she had got those few things off her chest she felt a little happier. She could see no reason for not at least waiting to see what the job was that needed to be done, just as the old man had requested.
"Do you know the story of Paris and the Trojan War?"
"No not really. I wasn't very good at history."
"No matter. When I said we were descended from Paris that was my little joke. But there is a sad truth behind the whimsicality of my statement. Upstairs in one of the rooms sits a young man indeed called Paris. He is Demetria's grandson, and my great-grandson. He has been in that room for nearly twenty years and never comes out. Needless to say he suffers from a difficult mental condition. His mother, Demetria's daughter, was called Helen, after the beautiful Helen of Troy, so she named her son Paris after the man who abducted the original Helen, stealing her from her husband Menelaus and causing the Trojan War. Many thought that Helen naming her son Paris was an ill-advised move, a bad omen if you like, and so it has proved to be. Little Paris was a bright and curious young boy who loved nothing more than to spend all day in his room reading. His favourite book was the Iliad, by Homer, but he loved everything about Greek mythology. Since he was named Paris, he doted on the myths surrounding the original Paris and perhaps even, in his young mind, identified himself with the great demi-god.
"When our Paris was ten years old, his mother Helen, a very beautiful woman in her own right and quite deserving of her name, was killed in a car accident. His father, an inconstant man, paralysed with grief, left us and has never been seen or heard of since. Paris never recovered from the shock. He locked himself away in that room upstairs and has lived every minute of his life there. Demetria tends to his every need as she has done for every single day of the last twenty years. We have consulted doctors and physicians in every country. Since money is no object we have had access to some of the best medical brains in the world. None could come up with a solution. Until now.
"A much-respected German psychologist, Doctor Hausmann, has suggested a possible cure. He has come up with a theory concerning Paris' condition. So filled with myths and legends was our little boy's head, the doctor declared, that he had substituted his own life for the life of the real Paris. He interpreted the loss of his parents in this way: he believed his father to be King Menelaus, the husband of Helen of Troy, and put the disappearance of his poor mother down to the fact that Menelaus had returned to reclaim his abducted bride. In this way Paris has been able to deny the reality of his mother's death but believes that one day she will return. Until that day comes he has imposed this cruel incarceration upon himself, both physically and mentally. If this is indeed the case, then Doctor Hausmann's solution is a simple one. We must find the most beautiful woman in the county and introduce her to Paris as the returning Helen. Only in this way, by reconnecting with the original myth, by getting inside the fairy tale land that exists inside my young great-grandson's head, will he be able to mend his thinking and return to the real world once more."
Amanda listened very carefully while the old man told his story. She managed to follow most of it but missed the significance of the last sentence.
"And how will you find this person to be Helen?" she asked, with a charming combination of modesty and naivety.
"Why my dear, we have found her. She is you!"
Amanda had truly never thought of herself as beautiful. Of course she had all her life been aware of the attention others gave her, but did not for one minute put this down to the enchanting quality of her smile or the brilliant sparkle of her eyes or the smooth milky complexion of her skin. Her family had never made a fuss about such things. In fact none of them had ever called her beautiful, happy to let her make the most of her skills as a cleaner, a carer and a cook to earn money for them so they could idle their time away.
So when Andrew Constantinou suggested she might be the solution to his great grandson's problem, it took a while for it to sink in. When it finally did, she shook her head and made a panic-stricken fuss, saying they had made a big mistake. She knew nothing about the Trojan War or how it started and didn't see how she could help a weirdo who had locked himself away for twenty years. Yes, she was desperate to help but this was far, far beyond anything she had come across before and she did not think she was the right person for the job.
The old man listened to her tirade, but refused to let her leave, grabbing her hand again as she tried to pass.
"Please, be patient. Don't rush to any hasty conclusions. All you have to do is introduce yourself to Paris. If you get no response, you can leave and no more will be said about it. But I will give you a hundred pounds for your time. It will take no more than ten minutes. Please."
Finally, she was indeed persuaded to go and meet Paris, but it was not the money that did it. There was something in the old man's pleading eyes that moved her. She was always willing to help, and it dawned on her at last that she was this sad and anxious man's only hope so help she must.
She braced herself for whatever she was likely to find in that closed bedroom, whatever freak of nature had evolved there in that fearfully enclosed space over the last twenty years, and nodded her assent. The old man smiled happily and called Demetria again.
Accompanied by Demetria, shuffling up ahead, Amanda took the stairs to the first floor of the old building. On the way they passed a smartly dressed gentleman wearing a monocle coming down the other way, another senior citizen, who took off his hat in cheerful greeting. He said it was a charming day for a walk and that he looked forward to Demetria's meal which was to be served later that evening. Amanda was surprised to find that there really were guests there, living in those awfully shoddy conditions. She wondered why none of them complained, about the grime on the window panes and the cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling, or the smell that rose up from the uncleaned carpet. Perhaps, she thought, they had grown used to it and didn't know any better.
They went up a second flight. It took a while because the old hag Demetria was so slow. All the way, she had a doleful face and did not speak to Amanda at all. Amanda didn't mind. She knew in life you were bound to meet people who refused to be cheerful, who in the past had suffered some calamity or loss, and perhaps Demetria had suffered more than most.
On the second floor there were fewer rooms and hardly any lighting. Demetria stopped outside a door at the bottom of the corridor. She beckoned Amanda to go in. Amanda took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no reply. Demetria nudged her, egging her on to open the door. Amanda took a firm grip of a big brass knob and turned it. The door clicked open.
Inside it was very dark, much darker than the rest of the building. It was so dark Amanda could only see shapes; the shape of a bed, the shape of a dresser, the shape of a chair. And sitting on the bed looking at the drawn curtains of a window seemed to be the shape of a man. He had his back to them and didn't move. Demetria walked in and went to stand beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and did her best to hold back her sobs as she said:
"Paris, mou, my handsome young boy. You have a visitor." She spoke to him as though she was speaking to a small boy, not a grown man. He did not respond, so she threw open the curtains, saying: "Don't you want to see who has come to visit?"
As light flooded into the room, Paris turned to see who his visitor might be. The sun came out from behind a cloud just at that moment and illuminated Amanda's face giving it a golden glow. Paris took a while to adjust to this play of light, and for a moment he just stared at Amanda without a reaction. Amanda stared back. She was shocked. It was as though she had been asleep all her life and had suddenly been jogged awake. Something rose inside her from the region of her stomach and made her feel sick. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks and she blushed fiercely. She stared awkwardly at the man's face. He was so handsome he took her breath away. He was slight in build and in his manner he displayed a gentleness that could only be associated with someone who was extremely kind. This was not what she was expecting. He looked pale and drawn, but otherwise showed no outward sign of his lifelong incarceration, no anger, no bitterness, no regret. She felt awkward because she did not know what to do with herself. She was suddenly alive to a whole lot of new sensations that she had never experienced before.
"I'm... I'm Amanda," she stuttered, feeling she had to say something to break the silence.
"Helen?" Paris said. "You're back?"
His voice had the quality of a great singer, sure and confident. This too was a surprise. He suddenly looked so excited and happy that Amanda didn't feel it was right to disappoint him.
"Yes," she said. "I'm back."
"Oh Helen! I've been waiting so long for you."
Amanda could only reply in this way: "And I have been waiting for you."
In a way she had. It was as though she had been waiting all her life for this moment. Demetria as she watched them, felt a smile creep up on her. She could not remember the last time she had smiled. As she studied the look of joy on her grandson's face and the look of love that had overtaken Amanda's, she realized she was beginning to feel a smidgeon of happiness, something she had not felt since that tragic day of her daughter's death. The doctor had been right. This was just what Paris needed. Paris had not shown emotion since that tragic day too. Now he was filled to the brim with emotion. Tears cascaded down his cheeks and he felt moved to get up and go to his visitor. He took her hands and looked at her with unbounded joy.
"My life. My hope. My dream. You are back."
Amanda too struggled to control her feelings. He was taller than he had appeared while seated and as his eyes drilled through her, studying every inch of her, she felt the power of his presence like a magnificent charm. It was as though she had discovered her purpose for living. She let herself be pulled into his arms and there she was happy to stay. She did not question the wisdom of pretending to be someone she was not, nor ask what would happen when Paris' hypnotic state had been broken. All she could see was the wonder of being part of the beautiful myth of Paris and Helen reunited and happy forevermore.
As Demetria passed them, content to leave them alone for a while, she spoke her first words to Amanda.
"This hotel, you know, is part of the dowry for the girl who marries my grandson."
At these words Amanda discovered something else about herself. She was ambitious. All the hours of hard work had been leading up to something. Perhaps deep inside she had believed it would lead to something like this. She was confident now that she could change everything and make it exactly the way she wanted.
That night, Amanda skipped home with a new song in her heart.
"How did the interview go for the job at the hotel?" her brother asked.
"Good news!" she cried and they all looked up. "You've all got jobs at the hotel. Dad, you'll be working behind the bar. Mum, you'll be serving food. And you guys... " she turned to her two sisters and brother who looked up at her with unreserved fear. "You shall be responsible for the refurbishment."
The truth was that despite her beauty, which might have made her vain and proud, Amanda was happy to do mundane jobs for very little money and never stopped working. At the end of every day she returned to her home exhausted. Her mother would be watching TV, her father drunk, her elder sister preparing herself for her next date, her middle sister engrossed in a fashionable novel, and her brother, sullen, idle, swinging his legs over the arm of the couch. His eyes would be the first to catch hers as she walked in. She was always angry at home, because she was exhausted while the rest of them idled away the hours.
"Did they pay you?" her mother would ask.
"Yes," she would reply, her blue eyes flashing with reproach, and she would throw her wages down onto the table. It would be enough to top up the electricity and the gas, or the shopping, or a part of the rent, and the next day she would be out again to earn more. She kept the whole family. But she never complained. She showed them her anger and frustration, but she also showed them her love and offered them undying support; she worked till she was ready to drop, but she never complained.
Then one day she got a call. She was in the middle of doing Mrs Marshall's laundry. The voice at the other end was unfamiliar. It was the voice of a gentle old man who turned out to be the owner of the Mill View Hotel. She knew the Mill View. It was a rundown old establishment located by the rushing waters of the river that ran through her town. She didn't think anybody stayed there anymore, but the old man informed her that he had a job vacancy and that he wanted her to come for an interview. She could hear the urgency in his voice and discerned his need. Instantly she wanted to help him. "Of course," she replied, and arranged a suitable time.
She arrived at the hotel the next day, just after lunch, and for a few moments stood before it gripped by a growing terror at the sight of the dilapidated and neglected old building before her. There were two turrets, one at each end, and a big old sloping roof that had most of its tiles missing. The countless windows stared back at her like angry eyes, their tired frames blistered by years of unsympathetic weather. Her first instinct was to return to the main gate and leave. But she was not a quitter. She had promised to turn up for an interview and she would not be put off. Conjuring up fake enthusiasm, she made her way confidently to the entrance steps. Though a chill rushed through her veins as she entered the big wooden front door, which had been left ajar, and though every muscle in her body was ready to turn and run, she forced herself to step gingerly toward the reception desk which she could just make out in the gloom, covered in a delicate array of cobwebs and dust.
On the desk, next to an antiquated computer, was a bell. She picked up the bell and shook it. As the sound of the bell died away in a haunted echo which ran up and down a worn out wooden staircase that began in the corner of the lobby and disappeared high up above her head, she heard the approach of someone, not footsteps, but the squeak of wheels.
"Welcome to my hotel," said an old man in a wheelchair.
He was even older than she had imagined. His body was lost inside a baggy old suit and his face had more wrinkles than a baby rhino. His eyes were dim lights wrapped in sagging cloaks of skin, red and raw with the years. He approached Amanda out of the darkness and stopped when he was little more than a yard away from her. The thin light from the windows of the lobby rested on his face and revealed an expression of anxious hope. It was not an unkind face, Amanda thought, and was at least relieved to be in the presence of another human being.
"Thank you for coming," he said. His voice was as thin as he was but he forced it out with the determination of a young bull.
"Not at all," she replied politely, doing her best not to show any concern.
"Many don't even show up for the interview, you know. I can't understand why."
"I wouldn't let you down, sir," Amanda said.
"I know that."
There was a moment of silence between them as he studied her.
"You are more beautiful even than the reports suggest."
"Reports?"
"Oh you know. The rumours. Everyone in town gossips of course. This time, they were not wrong."
Amanda thought this was a strange way to begin an interview, but not wishing to cause offence, she smiled and thanked the old man for his compliment.
"My name is Andrew Constantinou. I am Greek. I hail from a small island in the Aegean. My ancestors were heroes of the Trojan War, you know, no doubt related to the great hero Paris himself."
Amanda had not heard of the Trojan War or Paris and waited patiently for the old man to get to the point.
"But where are my manners? Let us go through into the lounge and Demetria can fetch us some tea. Ring the bell again would you?"
Amanda obliged, rang the bell, and waited with Andrew Constantinou until a miserable looking hag who must have been in her seventies arrived in a slow shuffle. She was dressed in black from head to toe and made no attempt to greet Amanda, even though Amanda put on her friendliest smile.
"This is my daughter, Demetria," the old man explained. "She has been part of this esteemed establishment all her life. In fact she was born here just weeks after I bought the place. Demetria, fetch us some tea. Bring it through to the lounge where I shall be conducting an interview with this delightful young lady."
Demetria nodded and shuffled off. The old man pushed the wheelchair off and led Amanda through into the lounge. The lounge too, it appeared, had seen better days. The old leather couches were ripped, the bookcases which lined the walls were so dusty you could not read the book covers. The carpet, which once must have been a pleasure to walk on, was now sticky with grime and its once intricate pattern was all but faded to nothing.
"Please, Mr. Constant... "
"Call me Andrew, please."
"A-Andrew."
"Yes my dear?"
"I understand that you have a position vacant here?"
"I do."
"Yet, forgive me for saying so, you do not appear to have any guests."
"You are bright as well as beautiful," said the old man. "I can understand how, arriving in the middle of the day as you have, you might get that impression. But you are mistaken. We have several very important guests, some of them regular customers who have been coming here for years. They are discerning people and expect the highest standards."
"Really?" Amanda asked, looking around once more at the general disorder.
"Are you surprised?"
"Yes," she said.
"But why so? Don't you know that we have a reputation for excellence known right around the world?"
"But... "
"Shall we proceed with the interview?"
Amanda considered her position. She had never walked away from an interview before in her life and never turned down any jobs that she had been offered; it went against her nature to do so. But as she looked at the old man and the drab hotel which had been his life's work, as she thought about poor decrepit Demetria who even now was shuffling back toward them carrying a silver tray seemingly finding even that simple task a burden, and as she surveyed her decayed surroundings, she could not help thinking that something was amiss.
Before Amanda could respond, Demetria placed the tray of cups of tea on the antique coffee table between them.
"Please be seated," commanded the old man, and Amanda obliged. "Demetria, leave us."
After another moment of silence, during which Amanda continued to look around the room and the old man watched her with an ever-more intrusive glare, she made up her mind to leave. The old man stopped her by grabbing her hand as she tried to pass.
"Please," he said. "I can see how this must all seem quite strange to you. But wait at least until you have heard what it is the job entails."
"I think I already know. I can see you need a cleaner. But to be honest, Mr Constant... er Andrew, I think you would need a whole team of professionals to get this place looking right again."
"I'm not looking for a cleaner."
"Well then, if you need someone to look after you, I would be quite happy to do that, but I don't think it would be very hygienic to be a carer in this environment. You would have to get the place cleaned up first."
"I don't need a carer."
"Well, I can cook for you and your guests, but I daren't look in the kitchen because if the rest of the hotel is anything to go by I would imagine the kitchen is a health hazard."
"Demetria does all the cooking."
"Then it must be a painter and decorator you need. Or someone to fix the roof. I'm not qualified to do any of those jobs!"
"Please listen, Amanda."
"Yes. Of course."
She settled herself back down again. Now that she had got those few things off her chest she felt a little happier. She could see no reason for not at least waiting to see what the job was that needed to be done, just as the old man had requested.
"Do you know the story of Paris and the Trojan War?"
"No not really. I wasn't very good at history."
"No matter. When I said we were descended from Paris that was my little joke. But there is a sad truth behind the whimsicality of my statement. Upstairs in one of the rooms sits a young man indeed called Paris. He is Demetria's grandson, and my great-grandson. He has been in that room for nearly twenty years and never comes out. Needless to say he suffers from a difficult mental condition. His mother, Demetria's daughter, was called Helen, after the beautiful Helen of Troy, so she named her son Paris after the man who abducted the original Helen, stealing her from her husband Menelaus and causing the Trojan War. Many thought that Helen naming her son Paris was an ill-advised move, a bad omen if you like, and so it has proved to be. Little Paris was a bright and curious young boy who loved nothing more than to spend all day in his room reading. His favourite book was the Iliad, by Homer, but he loved everything about Greek mythology. Since he was named Paris, he doted on the myths surrounding the original Paris and perhaps even, in his young mind, identified himself with the great demi-god.
"When our Paris was ten years old, his mother Helen, a very beautiful woman in her own right and quite deserving of her name, was killed in a car accident. His father, an inconstant man, paralysed with grief, left us and has never been seen or heard of since. Paris never recovered from the shock. He locked himself away in that room upstairs and has lived every minute of his life there. Demetria tends to his every need as she has done for every single day of the last twenty years. We have consulted doctors and physicians in every country. Since money is no object we have had access to some of the best medical brains in the world. None could come up with a solution. Until now.
"A much-respected German psychologist, Doctor Hausmann, has suggested a possible cure. He has come up with a theory concerning Paris' condition. So filled with myths and legends was our little boy's head, the doctor declared, that he had substituted his own life for the life of the real Paris. He interpreted the loss of his parents in this way: he believed his father to be King Menelaus, the husband of Helen of Troy, and put the disappearance of his poor mother down to the fact that Menelaus had returned to reclaim his abducted bride. In this way Paris has been able to deny the reality of his mother's death but believes that one day she will return. Until that day comes he has imposed this cruel incarceration upon himself, both physically and mentally. If this is indeed the case, then Doctor Hausmann's solution is a simple one. We must find the most beautiful woman in the county and introduce her to Paris as the returning Helen. Only in this way, by reconnecting with the original myth, by getting inside the fairy tale land that exists inside my young great-grandson's head, will he be able to mend his thinking and return to the real world once more."
Amanda listened very carefully while the old man told his story. She managed to follow most of it but missed the significance of the last sentence.
"And how will you find this person to be Helen?" she asked, with a charming combination of modesty and naivety.
"Why my dear, we have found her. She is you!"
Amanda had truly never thought of herself as beautiful. Of course she had all her life been aware of the attention others gave her, but did not for one minute put this down to the enchanting quality of her smile or the brilliant sparkle of her eyes or the smooth milky complexion of her skin. Her family had never made a fuss about such things. In fact none of them had ever called her beautiful, happy to let her make the most of her skills as a cleaner, a carer and a cook to earn money for them so they could idle their time away.
So when Andrew Constantinou suggested she might be the solution to his great grandson's problem, it took a while for it to sink in. When it finally did, she shook her head and made a panic-stricken fuss, saying they had made a big mistake. She knew nothing about the Trojan War or how it started and didn't see how she could help a weirdo who had locked himself away for twenty years. Yes, she was desperate to help but this was far, far beyond anything she had come across before and she did not think she was the right person for the job.
The old man listened to her tirade, but refused to let her leave, grabbing her hand again as she tried to pass.
"Please, be patient. Don't rush to any hasty conclusions. All you have to do is introduce yourself to Paris. If you get no response, you can leave and no more will be said about it. But I will give you a hundred pounds for your time. It will take no more than ten minutes. Please."
Finally, she was indeed persuaded to go and meet Paris, but it was not the money that did it. There was something in the old man's pleading eyes that moved her. She was always willing to help, and it dawned on her at last that she was this sad and anxious man's only hope so help she must.
She braced herself for whatever she was likely to find in that closed bedroom, whatever freak of nature had evolved there in that fearfully enclosed space over the last twenty years, and nodded her assent. The old man smiled happily and called Demetria again.
Accompanied by Demetria, shuffling up ahead, Amanda took the stairs to the first floor of the old building. On the way they passed a smartly dressed gentleman wearing a monocle coming down the other way, another senior citizen, who took off his hat in cheerful greeting. He said it was a charming day for a walk and that he looked forward to Demetria's meal which was to be served later that evening. Amanda was surprised to find that there really were guests there, living in those awfully shoddy conditions. She wondered why none of them complained, about the grime on the window panes and the cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling, or the smell that rose up from the uncleaned carpet. Perhaps, she thought, they had grown used to it and didn't know any better.
They went up a second flight. It took a while because the old hag Demetria was so slow. All the way, she had a doleful face and did not speak to Amanda at all. Amanda didn't mind. She knew in life you were bound to meet people who refused to be cheerful, who in the past had suffered some calamity or loss, and perhaps Demetria had suffered more than most.
On the second floor there were fewer rooms and hardly any lighting. Demetria stopped outside a door at the bottom of the corridor. She beckoned Amanda to go in. Amanda took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no reply. Demetria nudged her, egging her on to open the door. Amanda took a firm grip of a big brass knob and turned it. The door clicked open.
Inside it was very dark, much darker than the rest of the building. It was so dark Amanda could only see shapes; the shape of a bed, the shape of a dresser, the shape of a chair. And sitting on the bed looking at the drawn curtains of a window seemed to be the shape of a man. He had his back to them and didn't move. Demetria walked in and went to stand beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and did her best to hold back her sobs as she said:
"Paris, mou, my handsome young boy. You have a visitor." She spoke to him as though she was speaking to a small boy, not a grown man. He did not respond, so she threw open the curtains, saying: "Don't you want to see who has come to visit?"
As light flooded into the room, Paris turned to see who his visitor might be. The sun came out from behind a cloud just at that moment and illuminated Amanda's face giving it a golden glow. Paris took a while to adjust to this play of light, and for a moment he just stared at Amanda without a reaction. Amanda stared back. She was shocked. It was as though she had been asleep all her life and had suddenly been jogged awake. Something rose inside her from the region of her stomach and made her feel sick. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks and she blushed fiercely. She stared awkwardly at the man's face. He was so handsome he took her breath away. He was slight in build and in his manner he displayed a gentleness that could only be associated with someone who was extremely kind. This was not what she was expecting. He looked pale and drawn, but otherwise showed no outward sign of his lifelong incarceration, no anger, no bitterness, no regret. She felt awkward because she did not know what to do with herself. She was suddenly alive to a whole lot of new sensations that she had never experienced before.
"I'm... I'm Amanda," she stuttered, feeling she had to say something to break the silence.
"Helen?" Paris said. "You're back?"
His voice had the quality of a great singer, sure and confident. This too was a surprise. He suddenly looked so excited and happy that Amanda didn't feel it was right to disappoint him.
"Yes," she said. "I'm back."
"Oh Helen! I've been waiting so long for you."
Amanda could only reply in this way: "And I have been waiting for you."
In a way she had. It was as though she had been waiting all her life for this moment. Demetria as she watched them, felt a smile creep up on her. She could not remember the last time she had smiled. As she studied the look of joy on her grandson's face and the look of love that had overtaken Amanda's, she realized she was beginning to feel a smidgeon of happiness, something she had not felt since that tragic day of her daughter's death. The doctor had been right. This was just what Paris needed. Paris had not shown emotion since that tragic day too. Now he was filled to the brim with emotion. Tears cascaded down his cheeks and he felt moved to get up and go to his visitor. He took her hands and looked at her with unbounded joy.
"My life. My hope. My dream. You are back."
Amanda too struggled to control her feelings. He was taller than he had appeared while seated and as his eyes drilled through her, studying every inch of her, she felt the power of his presence like a magnificent charm. It was as though she had discovered her purpose for living. She let herself be pulled into his arms and there she was happy to stay. She did not question the wisdom of pretending to be someone she was not, nor ask what would happen when Paris' hypnotic state had been broken. All she could see was the wonder of being part of the beautiful myth of Paris and Helen reunited and happy forevermore.
As Demetria passed them, content to leave them alone for a while, she spoke her first words to Amanda.
"This hotel, you know, is part of the dowry for the girl who marries my grandson."
At these words Amanda discovered something else about herself. She was ambitious. All the hours of hard work had been leading up to something. Perhaps deep inside she had believed it would lead to something like this. She was confident now that she could change everything and make it exactly the way she wanted.
That night, Amanda skipped home with a new song in her heart.
"How did the interview go for the job at the hotel?" her brother asked.
"Good news!" she cried and they all looked up. "You've all got jobs at the hotel. Dad, you'll be working behind the bar. Mum, you'll be serving food. And you guys... " she turned to her two sisters and brother who looked up at her with unreserved fear. "You shall be responsible for the refurbishment."
Milton Johanides is author of the Papayiannis series of novels,
including The Astounding Adventures of Artemis Papayiannis and The True
Loves of Olympia Papayiannis. http://www.moderngreektales.com
https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=milton+johanides&type=
Milton now lives in Scotland with his wife and writes full time.
https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=milton+johanides&type=
Milton now lives in Scotland with his wife and writes full time.
