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Or
perhaps
"
good
weather
"
was
a
hint
that
he
knew
about
my
meetings
with
Julie
…
and
that
bad
weather
was
soon
to
come
.
I
couldn
’
t
believe
that
he
would
keep
her
from
me
for
another
week
.
He
must
know
that
I
should
rush
over
to
Bourani
whether
he
was
there
or
not
.
I
decided
that
it
was
his
way
of
saying
,
Your
move
.
So
I
would
move
.
Soon
after
two
o
’
clock
on
Saturday
,
I
was
on
my
way
up
into
the
hills
.
At
three
,
I
entered
the
clump
of
tamarisk
.
In
the
blazing
heat
—
the
weather
remained
windless
,
stagnant
—
it
was
difficult
to
believe
that
what
I
had
seen
had
happened
.
But
there
were
two
or
three
recently
broken
twigs
and
branches
;
and
where
the
"
prisoner
"
had
dived
away
there
were
several
overturned
stones
,
their
bottoms
stained
ruddy
from
the
island
earth
;
and
more
broken
sprays
of
tamarisk
.
A
little
higher
I
picked
up
several
screwed
-
out
cigarette
ends
.
One
was
only
half
-
smoked
and
had
the
beginnings
of
the
same
phrase
:
Leipzig
da
—
I
stood
on
the
bluff
looking
down
over
the
other
side
of
the
island
.
A
long
way
to
the
south
I
could
see
a
big
caïque
of
the
kind
that
must
have
brought
the
"
soldiers
"
to
the
island
;
there
was
nothing
unusual
in
seeing
it
.
Such
caIques
passed
through
the
straits
facing
the
school
several
times
a
week
.
But
it
reminded
me
how
easy
it
was
for
Conchis
’
s
cast
to
get
on
and
off
the
island
without
my
knowing
.
I
stood
some
time
on
the
bluff
,
because
if
anyone
was
watching
I
wanted
them
to
know
I
was
on
my
way
.
I
had
already
told
Demetriades
I
was
going
out
for
a
long
walk
;
and
made
sure
that
old
Barba
Vassili
saw
me
going
through
the
school
gates
,
so
that
the
information
could
be
,
if
it
usually
was
,
wirelessed
across
.
I
arrived
at
the
gate
and
walked
straight
to
the
house
.
It
lay
with
the
cottage
in
the
sun
,
closed
and
deserted
.
I
rattled
the
French
window
shutters
hard
,
and
tried
the
others
.
But
none
of
them
gave
.
All
the
time
I
kept
looking
around
,
not
because
I
actually
felt
I
was
being
watched
so
much
as
because
I
felt
I
ought
to
be
feeling
it
.
I
must
be
meant
to
meet
Lily
again
.
They
must
be
watching
me
;
might
even
be
inside
the
house
,
smiling
in
the
darkness
just
behind
the
shutters
,
only
four
of
five
feet
away
.
I
went
and
gazed
down
at
the
private
beach
.
It
lay
in
the
heat
;
the
jetty
,
the
pumphouse
,
the
old
balk
,
the
shadowed
mouth
of
the
little
cave
;
but
no
boat
.
Then
to
the
Poseidon
statue
.
Silent
statue
,
silent
trees
.
To
the
cliff
,
to
where
I
had
sat
with
Lily
the
Sunday
before
.
The
lifeless
sea
was
ruffled
here
and
there
by
a
lost
zephyr
,
by
a
stippling
shoal
of
sardines
,
dark
ash
-
blue
lines
that
snaked
,
broad
then
narrow
,
in
slow
motion
across
the
shimmering
mirageous
surface
,
as
if
the
water
was
breeding
corruption
.
I
began
to
walk
along
towards
the
bay
with
the
three
cottages
.
The
landscape
to
the
east
came
into
view
,
and
then
I
came
on
the
boundary
wire
of
Bourani
.
As
everywhere
else
it
was
rusty
,
a
token
barrier
,
not
a
real
one
;
shortly
beyond
it
the
inland
cliff
fell
sixty
or
seventy
feet
to
lower
ground
.
I
bent
through
the
wire
and
walked
inland
along
the
edge
.
There
were
one
or
two
places
where
one
could
clamber
down
;
but
at
the
bottom
there
was
an
impenetrable
jungle
of
scrub
and
thorn
ivy
.
I
came
to
where
the
fence
turned
west
towards
the
gate
.
There
were
no
telltale
overturned
stones
,
no
obvious
gaps
in
the
wire
.
Following
the
cliff
to
where
it
leveled
out
,
I
eventually
came
on
the
seldom
used
path
I
had
taken
on
my
previous
visit
to
the
cottages
.
Shortly
afterwards
I
was
walking
through
the
small
olive
orchard
that
surrounded
them
.
I
watched
the
three
whitewashed
houses
as
I
approached
through
the
trees
.
Strange
that
there
was
not
even
a
chicken
or
a
donkey
.
Or
a
dog
.
There
had
been
two
or
three
dogs
before
.
Two
of
the
one
-
story
cottages
were
adjoining
.
Both
front
doors
were
bolted
,
with
bolt
handles
padlocked
down
.
The
third
looked
more
openable
,
but
it
gave
only
an
inch
before
coming
up
hard
.
There
was
a
wooden
bar
inside
.
I
went
round
the
back
.
The
door
there
was
also
padlocked
.
But
on
the
last
side
I
came
to
,
over
a
hencoop
,
I
found
two
of
the
shutters
were
loose
.
I
peered
in
through
the
dirty
windows
.
An
old
brass
bed
,
a
cube
of
folded
bedclothes
in
the
middle
of
it
.
A
wall
of
photographs
and
ikons
.
Two
canebottomed
wooden
chairs
,
a
cot
beneath
the
window
,
an
old
trunk
.
On
the
windowsill
in
front
of
me
was
a
brown
candle
in
a
retsina
bottle
,
a
broken
garland
of
immortelles
,
a
rusty
sprocket
-
wheel
from
some
bit
of
machinery
,
and
a
month
of
dust
.
I
closed
the
shutters
.
The
second
cottage
had
another
padlocked
bolt
on
its
back
door
;
but
though
the
last
one
had
the
bolt
,
it
was
simply
tied
down
with
a
piece
of
fishing
twine
.
I
struck
a
match
.
Half
a
minute
later
I
was
standing
inside
the
cottage
,
in
another
bedroom
.
Nothing
in
the
darkened
room
looked
in
the
least
suspicious
.
I
went
through
to
the
kitchen
and
living
room
in
front
.
From
it
a
door
led
straight
through
into
the
cottage
next
door
;
another
kitchen
;
beyond
it
,
another
musty
bedroom
.
I
opened
one
or
two
drawers
,
a
cupboard
.
The
cottages
were
,
beyond
any
possibility
of
faking
,
typical
impoverished
islanders
’
homes
.
The
one
strange
thing
was
that
they
were
empty
.
I
came
out
and
fastened
the
bolt
handle
with
a
bit
of
wire
.
Fifty
yards
or
so
away
among
the
olives
I
saw
a
whitewashed
privy
.
I
went
over
to
it
.
A
spider
’
s
web
stretched
across
the
hole
in
the
ground
.
A
collection
of
torn
squares
of
yellowing
Greek
newspaper
hung
from
a
rusty
nail
.
Defeat
.
I
went
to
the
cistern
beside
the
double
cottage
,
took
off
the
wooden
lid
and
let
down
an
old
bucket
on
a
rope
that
stood
beside
the
whitewashed
neck
.
Cool
air
rushed
up
,
like
an
imprisoned
snake
.
I
sat
on
the
neck
and
swallowed
great
mouthfuls
of
the
water
.
It
had
that
living
,
stony
freshness
of
cistern
water
,
so
incomparably
sweeter
than
the
neutral
flavor
of
tap
water
.
A
brilliant
red
and
black
jumping
spider
edged
along
the
puteal
towards
me
.
I
laid
my
hand
in
its
path
and
it
jumped
onto
it
;
holding
it
up
close
I
could
see
its
minute
black
eyes
,
like
giglamps
.
It
swiveled
its
massive
square
head
from
side
to
side
in
an
arachnoidal
parody
of
Conchis
’
s
quizzing
;
and
once
again
,
as
with
the
owl
,
I
had
an
uncanny
apprehension
of
a
reality
of
witchcraft
;
Conchis
’
s
haunting
,
brooding
omnipresence
.
I
flicked
the
spider
onto
the
ground
and
looked
up
towards
the
distant
central
ridge
.
I
was
sure
there
were
no
buildings
between
it
and
where
I
was
;
that
left
only
one
alternative
.
Where
they
waited
was
somewhere
in
the
pine
forest
;
and
why
not
?
They
might
put
up
tents
,
a
kind
of
ad
hoc
camp
,
as
needed
;
so
that
I
was
looking
,
that
afternoon
,
for
nothing
.
I
caught
myself
thinking
of
Alison
.
I
almost
wished
she
was
there
,
beside
me
,
for
companionship
.
To
talk
to
,
nothing
more
,
like
a
man
friend
…
though
that
was
ingenuous
.
My
mind
slid
to
that
empty
bed
in
the
shuttered
cottage
room
.
I
had
hardly
given
Alison
a
thought
for
days
.
Events
had
swept
her
into
the
past
.
But
I
remembered
those
moments
on
Parnassus
:
the
sound
of
the
waterfall
,
the
sun
on
my
back
,
her
closed
eyes
,
her
neck
stiffened
back
,
her
whole
body
arched
to
have
me
deeper
—
and
that
dream
of
two
complementary
,
compliant
women
floated
back
through
me
.
Both
,
both
.
But
I
stood
up
then
and
screwed
my
randiness
out
with
my
cigarette
.
All
that
was
spilt
milk
.
Or
spilt
semen
.
I
spent
all
the
rest
of
that
afternoon
searching
the
south
coast
of
the
island
eastward
beyond
the
three
cottages
,
then
back
past
them
and
into
Bourani
again
,
nicely
timed
for
tea
under
the
colonnade
;
but
the
colonnade
was
as
deserted
as
ever
.
An
hour
searching
for
a
note
,
a
sign
,
anything
;
it
became
like
the
idiot
ransacking
of
a
drawer
already
ten
times
searched
.
At
six
I
returned
to
the
school
,
with
nothing
but
a
useless
rage
of
disappointment
.
With
Conchis
;
with
Julie
;
with
everything
.
On
the
far
side
of
the
village
there
was
another
harbor
,
used
exelusively
by
the
local
fishermen
.
It
was
avoided
by
everyone
from
the
school
,
and
by
everyone
with
any
claim
to
social
ton
in
the
village
.
Many
of
the
houses
had
been
ruthlessly
dilapidated
.
Some
were
no
more
than
the
carious
stumps
of
walls
;
and
the
ones
that
still
stood
along
the
broken
quays
had
corrugated
iron
roofs
,
concrete
patches
and
other
unsightly
evidences
of
frequent
mending
.
There
were
three
tavernas
,
but
only
one
was
of
any
size
.
It
had
a
few
rough
wooden
tables
outside
its
doors
.
Once
before
,
coming
back
from
one
of
my
solitary
winter
walks
,
I
had
gone
there
for
a
drink
;
I
remembered
the
taverna
keeper
was
loquacious
and
comparatively
easy
to
understand
.
By
island
standards
,
and
perhaps
because
he
was
Anatolian
by
birth
,
conversable
.
His
name
was
Georgiou
;
rather
foxy
-
faced
,
with
a
lick
of
gray
-
black
hair
and
a
small
moustache
that
gave
him
a
comic
resemblance
to
Hitler
.
On
Sunday
morning
I
sat
under
a
catalpa
and
he
came
up
,
obsequiously
delighted
to
have
caught
a
rich
customer
.
Yes
,
he
said
,
of
course
he
would
be
honored
to
have
an
ouzo
with
me
.
He
called
one
of
his
children
to
serve
us
…
the
best
ouzo
,
the
best
olives
.
Did
things
go
well
at
the
school
,
did
I
like
Greece
…
I
let
him
ask
the
usual
questions
.
Then
I
set
to
work
.
Twelve
or
so
faded
carmine
and
green
caIques
floated
in
the
still
blue
water
in
front
of
us
.
I
pointed
to
them
.
"
It
’
s
a
pity
you
do
not
have
any
foreign
tourists
here
.
Yachts
.
"
"
Ech
.
"
He
spat
out
an
olivestone
.
"
Phraxos
is
dead
.
"
"
I
thought
Mr
.
Conchis
from
Bourani
kept
his
yacht
over
here
sometimes
.
"
"
That
man
.
"
I
knew
at
once
that
Georgiou
was
one
of
the
village
enemies
of
Conchis
.
"
You
have
met
him
?
"
I
said
,
no
,
but
I
was
thinking
of
visiting
him
.
He
did
have
a
yacht
then
?
Georgiou
had
heard
so
.
But
it
never
came
to
the
island
.
Had
he
ever
met
Conchis
?
"
Ochi
.
"
No
.
"
Does
he
have
houses
in
the
village
?
"
Only
the
one
where
Hermes
lived
.
It
was
near
a
church
called
St
.
Elias
,
at
the
back
of
the
village
.
As
if
changing
the
subject
I
asked
idly
about
the
three
cottages
near
Bourani
.
Where
had
the
families
gone
?
He
shook
his
hand
to
the
south
.
"
To
the
mainland
.
For
the
summer
.
"
He
explained
that
a
minority
of
the
island
fishermen
were
seminomadic
.
In
winter
they
fished
in
the
protected
waters
off
Phraxos
;
but
in
summer
,
taking
their
families
with
them
,
they
wandered
round
the
Peloponnesus
,
even
as
far
as
Crete
,
in
search
of
better
fishing
.
He
returned
to
the
cottages
.
He
pointed
down
and
then
made
drinking
gestures
.
"
The
cisterns
are
bad
.
No
good
water
in
summer
.
"
"
Really
—
no
good
water
?
"
"
No
.
"
"
What
a
shame
.
"
"
It
is
his
fault
.
He
of
Bourani
.
He
could
make
better
cisterns
.
But
he
is
too
mean
.
"
"
He
owns
the
cottages
then
?
"
"
Vevaios
.
"
Of
course
.
"
On
that
side
of
the
island
,
all
is
his
.
"
"
All
the
land
?
"
He
ticked
off
his
stubby
fingers
:
Korbi
,
Stremi
,
Bourani
,
Moutsa
,
Pigadi
,
Zastena
…
all
names
of
bays
and
caps
around
Bourani
;
and
apparently
this
was
another
complaint
against
Conchis
.
Various
Athenians
,
"
rich
people
,
"
would
have
liked
to
build
villas
over
there
.
But
Conchis
refused
to
sell
one
meter
;
deprived
the
island
of
badly
needed
wealth
.
A
donkey
loaded
with
wood
tripped
down
the
quay
towards
us
;
rubbing
its
legs
together
,
picking
its
fastidious
way
like
a
model
.
This
news
proved
Demetriades
’
s
complicity
.
It
must
have
been
common
gossip
.
"
I
suppose
you
see
his
guests
in
the
village
?
"
He
raised
his
head
,
negatively
,
uninterestedly
;
it
was
nothing
to
him
whether
there
were
guests
or
not
.
I
persisted
.
Did
he
know
if
there
were
foreigners
staying
over
there
?
But
he
shrugged
.
"
Isos
.
"
Perhaps
.
He
did
not
know
.
Then
I
had
a
piece
of
luck
.
A
little
old
man
appeared
from
a
side
alley
and
came
behind
Georgiou
’
s
back
;
a
battered
old
seaman
’
s
cap
,
a
blue
canvas
suit
so
faded
with
washing
that
it
was
almost
white
in
the
sunlight
.
Georgiou
threw
him
a
glance
as
he
passed
our
tabib
,
then
called
.
"
Eh
,
Barba
Dimitraki
!
Ela
.
"
Come
.
Come
and
speak
with
the
English
professor
.
The
old
man
stopped
.
He
must
have
been
about
eighty
;
very
shaky
,
unshaven
,
but
not
totally
senile
.
Georgiou
turned
to
me
.
"
Before
the
war
.
He
was
the
same
as
Hermes
.
He
took
the
mail
to
Bourani
.
"
I
pressed
the
old
man
to
take
a
seat
,
ordered
more
ouzo
and
another
mezé
.
"
You
know
Bourani
well
?
"
He
waved
his
old
hand
;
he
meant
,
very
well
,
more
than
he
could
express
.
He
said
something
I
didn
’
t
understand
.
Georgiou
,
who
had
some
linguistic
resourcefulness
,
piled
our
cigarette
boxes
and
matches
together
like
bricks
.
Building
.
"
I
understand
.
In
1929
?
"
The
old
man
nodded
.
"
Did
Mr
.
Conchis
have
many
guests
before
the
war
?
"
"
Many
many
guests
.
"
This
surprised
Georgiou
;
he
even
repeated
my
question
,
and
got
the
same
answer
.
"
Foreigners
?
"
"
Many
foreigners
.
Frenchmen
,
Englishmen
,
all
.
"
"
What
about
the
English
masters
at
the
school
?
Did
they
go
there
?
"
"
Ne
,
ne
.
Oloi
.
"
Yes
,
all
of
them
.
"
You
can
’
t
remember
their
names
?
"
He
smiled
at
the
ridiculousness
of
the
question
.
He
couldn
’
t
even
remember
what
they
looked
like
.
Except
one
who
was
very
tall
.
"
Did
you
meet
them
in
the
village
?
"
"
Sometimes
.
Sometimes
.
"
"
What
did
they
do
at
Bourani
,
before
the
war
?
"
"
They
were
foreigners
.
"
Georgiou
was
impatient
at
this
exhibition
of
village
logic
.
"
Ne
,
Barba
.
Xenoi
.
Ma
ti
ekanon
?
"
"
Music
.
Singing
.
Dancing
.
"
Once
again
Georgiou
didn
’
t
believe
him
;
he
winked
at
me
,
as
if
to
say
,
the
old
man
is
soft
in
the
head
.
But
I
knew
he
wasn
’
t
;
and
that
Georgiou
had
not
come
to
the
island
till
1946
.
"
What
kind
of
singing
and
dancing
?
"
He
didn
’
t
know
;
his
rheumy
eyes
seemed
to
search
for
the
past
,
and
lose
it
.
But
he
said
,
"
And
other
things
.
They
acted
in
plays
.
"
Georgiou
laughed
out
loud
,
but
the
old
man
shrugged
and
said
indifferently
,
"
It
is
true
.
"
Georgiou
leant
forward
with
a
grin
.
"
And
what
were
you
,
Barba
Dimitraki
?
Karayozis
?
"
He
was
talking
about
the
Greek
shadowplay
Punch
.
I
made
the
old
man
see
I
believed
him
.
"
What
kind
of
plays
?
"
But
his
face
said
he
didn
’
t
know
.
"
There
was
a
theatre
in
the
garden
.
"
"
Where
in
the
garden
?
"
"
Behind
the
house
.
With
curtains
.
A
real
theatre
.
"
"
You
know
Maria
?
"
But
it
seemed
that
before
the
war
it
had
been
another
housekeeper
,
called
Soula
,
now
dead
.
"
When
were
you
last
there
?
"
"
Many
years
.
Before
the
war
.
"
"
Do
you
still
like
Mr
.
Conchis
?
"
The
old
man
nodded
,
but
it
was
a
brief
,
qualified
nod
.
Georgiou
chipped
in
.
"
His
eldest
son
was
killed
in
the
execution
.
"
"
Ah
.
I
am
very
sorry
.
Very
sorry
.
"
The
old
man
shrugged
;
kismet
.
He
said
,
"
He
is
not
a
bad
man
.
"
"
Did
he
work
with
the
Germans
in
the
Occupation
?
"
The
old
man
raised
his
head
,
a
firm
no
.
Georgiou
made
a
hawk
of
violent
disagreement
.
They
began
to
argue
,
talking
so
fast
that
I
couldn
’
t
follow
them
.
But
I
heard
the
old
man
say
,
"
I
was
here
.
You
were
not
here
.
"
Georgiou
turned
to
me
and
whispered
,
"
He
has
given
the
old
man
a
house
.
And
money
every
year
.
The
old
man
cannot
say
what
he
really
thinks
.
"
"
Does
he
do
that
for
the
other
relatives
?
"
"
Bah
.
One
or
two
.
The
old
ones
.
Why
not
.
He
has
millions
.
"
He
made
the
corruption
gesture
,
meaning
conscience
money
.
Suddenly
the
old
man
said
to
me
,
"
Mia
phora
…
once
there
was
a
big
pane
yiri
with
many
lights
and
music
and
fireworks
.
Many
fireworks
and
many
guests
.
"
I
had
an
absurd
vision
of
a
garden
party
;
hundreds
of
elegant
women
,
and
men
in
morning
dress
.
"
When
was
that
?
"
"
Three
,
five
years
before
the
war
.
"
"
Why
was
this
celebration
?
"
But
he
didn
’
t
know
.
"
Were
you
there
?
"
"
I
was
with
my
son
.
We
were
fishing
.
We
saw
it
up
in
Bourani
.
