‘What is in the box papa?’
‘Hush Dimitris, let me read in peace.’
‘Is it for my name day?’
‘Go and help your mother on the terrace boy. Quickly now. It is very important business that I have here.’

Dimitris was not interested in helping his mother but he could see that his father was getting angry. He tutted petulantly as he shuffled outside into the sunlight where his mother was doing something boring with plants. It would be his name day in less than a week and there was still no sign of any gifts.

When the mysterious package had arrived that morning, delivered by one of his father’s merchant ships, he had been convinced that it was for him. A large parcel wrapped in brown paper and sent from Venice. Dimitris had been sure that it was some new and exciting book for him to read. Maybe some new music for him to practice, maybe even an instrument. He had collected the package from the ship’s captain and carried it all the way around the harbour, panting under its weight. Some of the sponge workers who greeted him respectfully had enquired about it. Some had suggested that it was a bible, judging by its weight and size, and others had mumbled sarcastically that it was Christos Panandreas’ latest bank ledger. Dimitris had ignored all the comments as he dodged the piles of filthy sponges and people unloading them from the boats. He was too keen to get home and unwrap the mysterious delivery.

But that delight had fallen to his father who now sat alone in the salon reading the letter that had been inside the wrapping. Dimitris had seen no more than an envelope and a large, metal box before his father had ordered him outside.

The servants of the Panandreas household had begun preparing cakes and biscuits for the name day festival and now his mother was trimming plants for the garlands. Out on the terrace, overlooking the harbour, there was no sign of anything wrapped in shiny material that might suggest a gift for him; nothing remotely interesting to an impatient nine year old; only cakes, flowers and incense.

‘What can I do to help mama?’ Dimitris asked, hoping that there was nothing to be done.
‘If you want to help me, go inside and practice your music,’ his mother replied without looking up from the rosemary bush.

Dimitris felt his heart sink. ‘But I practised for three hours this morning,’ he protested.
‘Well I don’t know. You are a clever boy, Dimitri, you decide what you do. Just keep out of our way. And don’t disturb your father again. He has too much on his plate already.’

Dimitris lent on the balustrade, looked down at the harbour and decided to practice his numbers and his languages. He counted his father’s ships, in English, and then again in French. When he had done that he counted the number of people he could see working on the quayside, in Greek. His parents were always telling him that no matter who said they owned their island, it was and would always remain, Greek. The children may have had to learn the Ottoman language and speak it in schools, but at home they spoke in Greek. Because of certain noble people on the island, and his father in particular, Symi was allowed to keep a fair amount of independence from its Ottoman government and Dimitris had been taught that the way forward for his generation was to remain loyal to their heritage as one day the island would be part of their country again. It would be part of Greece. And, according to Dimitris’ father who was very wise, the best thing Dimitris could do with his childhood was learn as many languages as possible, study his music, and never forget that Symi was a Greek island.

His mind had wandered by the time he had reached ninety and so he began counting again.

The boats had started coming back that morning and the sound of their arrival had interrupted his harpsichord practice. All day the church bells had rung, flags had been flown from their masts and people had gathered in the harbour to await news of their seafaring relatives. Dimitris could see the huge piles of black sponges being dumped on the quayside and he counted the number of people gathered around each boat. So far only six of his father’s fleet had returned, the rest would arrive over the next few days and Yialos would become a teaming mass of people all keen to learn how much money they had made, who had collected the most sponges and who had died.

As his father sat inside reading his letter, Dimitris counted the number of bodies being carried from the boats. He was too high up to see exactly who the grieving families were, but he could make out the shapes of bodies wrapped in blankets as they were passed ashore. He was bored with counting them when he reached fifty and so turned to look at his mother again. She, too, was gazing down to the activity below with her delicate hands pressed to her mouth.

‘Is that why people hate us?’ the boy asked. ‘The boys at school say that if you work for father you die. Is that true mama?’
‘Of course not Dimitri,’ his mother replied. ‘Their work is dangerous, it always has been. That is all.’
‘But they say that father’s suit is to blame. Do they mean the one he wears to church? Why does father’s suit kill people?’
‘You ask too many questions boy.’

Dimitris’ father had appeared on the terrace holding the mysterious metal box in his arms. As he put it on the balustrade and opened the lid Dimitris noticed that it had an unusual, combination lock.

‘Who is it from?’ the mother asked, returning sadly to her herbs.
‘From our friend in Venice,’ Christos replied.
‘Is it the money he owes us at last?’

Dimitris wondered why his mother was so keen to receive money when they had so much of it already.

‘No Maria,’ his father said quietly. ‘He is dying.’
‘Before he pays us what he owes?’
‘He may be dead already.’ Christos sounded sad but he pulled himself together and clapped his hands. ‘Now then, we must prepare for our portrait. Masarakis will be coming soon to start the painting.’

Maria Panandreas paused for a moment while she considered this. ‘Masarakis can wait. What has been sent to us in place of a debt?’ she said harshly. Dimitris often wondered if it was actually his mother who ran the family empire rather than his father.

Christos placed the letter in the metal box. Beneath it Dimitris caught a glimpse of something wrapped in a fine cloth before his father closed the lid.

‘Christos,’ Maria was glaring at her husband now, her youthful face suddenly older and wrinkled with annoyance. ‘What did he send us?’

‘He has sent us a priceless thing, a piece of history,’ said Christos and span the combination, locking away the secret.