Langstreet extracted his business card from his wallet and handed it ceremoniously to the priest.
The quiet town of Paleohora exhibited signs of life when tourists, returning from the beaches, sought a midday meal. Still Langstreet’s hired yacht lay moored on the quayside of the main harbour. Along the eastern beach, where shops and tavernas grew more modest, stood a shop selling ethnic wares, including a number of ikons. Langstreet and his wife entered the crowded little room, to be greeted by numerous representations of the good and bearded.
A corpulent woman of middle age emerged from behind a counter at the rear and asked them if they would like to buy some local silverware. She clasped her hands before her, over a worn brown dress.
Langstreet was inspecting the ikons. All were modern reproductions, and garishly coloured.
He asked the woman where her ikons came from. She told him they were manufactured in Athens, at a workshop in the Plaka, a centre for tourist activities.
‘But a real ikon painter? Are there any in Crete?’
‘Not a real painter, no.’ She nodded her head, before adding, ‘But is old monk who does such things. He lives in the gorge.’
‘What gorge is that?’ Kathi asked. ‘The Samaria Gorge?’
‘No, no. I show you.’ She retreated to the rear of the shop, and they followed meekly behind her broad back.
The woman fished up a biro and a paper bag from under her counter. On the bag she drew a rough line to indicate the south coast of the island. Marking the position of Paleohora with a cross, she drew a ragged line to the east of it, from the coast inland.
‘Here is Gorge Mesovrahi.’ As she drew another cross halfway up the gorge, she said, ‘Here is Church of Agios Ioannis. Here you will find the Monaché Kostas. He will show his ikons. Is very old.’ She handed the bag to Kathi.
‘Can we get there by road?’
‘Is no road. Only by sea you get there.’
Langstreet and his wife exchanged glances. He asked the woman, ‘Are you sure this Kostas is still alive? There’s a village, is there?’
‘No village. Is church. Kostas is still living. I know it. He is my relation. His name is now Christodoulas – “He who serves Christ”.’
Thanking the woman, clutching the paper bag, they left the shop. It meant sailing back the way they had come, and so probably returning the Southern Warrior late to the rental firm in Piraeus.
‘Why not? It sounds amusing,’ said Langstreet. The remark was an uncharacteristic one, as her glance at him indicated.
‘And maybe something more than that.’
They sat in a taverna with Cliff, drinking frappé and consulting a nautical map. The mouth of the Mesovrahi Gorge was only some nine nautical miles from Paleohora, an easy sail. Cliff said he did not wish to come.
‘Oh, come on, darling, it’ll be a bit of an adventure.’
He smiled at her. ‘I’m having my adventure here, Kathi. If you’re away overnight, I can stay with Vibe… Yes, in her hotel room… Oh, don’t look so old-fashioned, father! The hotel won’t care. You can pick me up when you come back.’
‘Do come with us, Cliff,’ his father said. ‘You should not sleep with a woman so easily. Besides which, it’s safer if we’re together.’
‘Safer?’ He shook his head with affected weariness. ‘What danger is there here?’
Langstreet shrugged. ‘You never know.’
So far so good. I get the impression that Archie Langstreet is a decent, serious man. Quite a different character from me. Perhaps there is an echo of my son in Cliff. On second thoughts, no, not really.
I have said very little about Boris. I call him my son, but he is not a blood relation. At one time I was living with a decent woman called Polly Pointer. My life was then sane and orderly.
Polly was superintendent of a home for unwanted children, and that was where she picked up Boris. His parents had beaten and abandoned him. She brought him home one day, a small sad mite of a boy who said nothing for two or three weeks. Tell me I have no sense of responsibility, but Boris was not popular with me.
Polly and I quarrelled over the boy. I said she should have consulted me before bringing him home. The bad feeling between us was not improved by the child’s filthy habits, which were slow to improve.
Not that bad feelings got in the way of our fascination for each other. Here was a woman who accepted responsibility, who cared for a number of people with horrible habits. And Polly did care – in a calm, deep way. What did she see in me? I was an independent spirit; I did not have to answer to a board, as she did. Also, at that time I was immensely popular and successful. I appeared frequently on TV chat shows. I was on the Literature Panel of the Arts Council, dishing out money to those less fortunate than myself (you notice that the money has run out, just when I’m broke). My novel, Whom the Gods Hate, was short-listed for the Booker Prize. All this success faded when Polly died.
There was more truth than I had bargained for in my epigram, adopted from the Greek, ‘Whom the gods hate, they first make famous’.
It seems as if, looking back, I was earning enough money to iron out our differences and live and love in some style.
As circumstances eased, Boris improved. Polly was applying to have him officially adopted. Then the home where she worked rang one day to say that Polly was injured. I left the lad with a neighbour and drove to the hospital in Bournemouth where she lay.
She had been run over in the driveway of the home. A client making an angry retreat had hit her as she ran to pick up a child who had fallen over. She died two days later, without regaining consciousness.
After the funeral, I was stunned by grief. Only then did I fully realise what a good woman she was, and how much I loved her. And how I had often quarrelled with her unnecessarily.
Poor dear Polly! I had taken her for granted. What do you expect? That’s life, as they say. She had been so joyous; without that joy, I was one of the walking dead.
For Polly’s sake I did not get rid of Boris. He was by now a lonely and still oddly behaved little boy. I tried to talk to him about Polly.
‘She didn’t love me,’ he said. He was merely responding to the pattern of his life.
‘Yes she did, she loved you very much. Polly chose you of all the children in the home.’
‘She didn’t love me, or else why did she die?’
How often I cried over that very question; it was one I could not help asking myself. How self-centred I was, crying more for myself than for her.
Now I think of it, I remember ringing my literary agent at that time, about something or other, and telling him that only women were capable of real joy. Not men. Men hid their incapacity in obsessions, such as writing. Real joy was granted only to women.
‘And how do you make that out?’ he had asked.
‘It’s
