a face, spreading his hands in dismissal.
‘You must not think us to be unkind people. They did not gave us back our dead, did they? Or our lost limbs? Good riddance to them, I say.’
Langstreet stood up. He gave a slight bow, looking grim. ‘Thank you for the coffee. I shall return to Paleohora immediately and not come back to Kyriotisa, thank you.’
‘What’s the matter? You don’t wish to see the little chapels? Do you wish to see the war memorial?’
‘I hate all this talk of war. It was over half a century ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Not for us, no. My father they shoot him in the back. My brother remains injured and is half-mad. I myself had to carry bread up that mountain in fear of – ’
‘Yes, yes, you told me about that. I’m sorry for you.’
The monk gave a sly smile. ‘Sorry, eh? Well, you didn’t do it. I just show you one little chapel. Quite near here. Don’t be upset. You’re British, aren’t you? The British helped us in the war.’
While he was speaking, the monk was edging through the door into the street, holding Langstreet’s sleeve with one hand while gesticulating towards his car with the other.
Telling himself to be calm, to see what he had come to see, Langstreet unlocked the car door and let the monk settle himself in the front passenger seat. He started the engine.
This passage seems to reveal something of the trauma existing in the town, as well as something of Archie Langstreet’s character, without labouring the point too greatly. It is a tenet of his morality to believe that when forgiveness is sought, it should be given. Now I have to get him to see the painting of Agia Anna, where his response will be very different from mine. He is not a shallow man, not like me.
After Boris and I had seen Agia Anna, we travelled by bus back to our hotel, where we had a drink together. To be honest, we had a titter at the thought of the Virgin Mary running out of milk. After which, I hastened up to my room to have a shower, followed by plenty of talcum powder. At my age, there’s always a suspicion that you may smell unpleasant.
I made a note about a possible story. It unfolded as I wrote. My main preoccupation was to meet up again with Ingrid that evening. Ingrid was a Danish lady of uncertain age, staying in the hotel with her daughter, Lisa. The daughter, a woman in her late thirties, was recovering from some kind of nervous breakdown. My sights, however, were set upon the mother, the amusing and civilised Ingrid Gustaffsdotter.
How was it that I sensed no sexual interest in the younger woman, and plenty in her mother? I suspected this inherited detection system – a cunning mixture of pheromones and body language, for a start – must have developed many generations earlier in human history.
Boris cleared off into town, disappearing with his usual brand of glum cheer. I settled down to wait in a comfortable wicker chair for Ingrid’s return from the beach. I read a page or two of the novel I had brought on holiday with me. The novel, as if it matters to you, was by Arturo Perez-Reverte, entitled The Victor Hugo Club.
Ingrid and I had met at a nightclub the previous evening. A rather sly little friendship had developed. I loved her perfect English, spoken with that alluring accent. While I did not particularly wish Boris to know of this liaison, Ingrid seemed determined to keep it a secret from Lisa. Some recent incident, of which Ingrid would not speak, had upset this eldest daughter of hers. She also had two younger daughters in Denmark. They were safe in the care of an aunt. It was Lisa who most required her mother’s protection.
Ingrid showed up at about four-thirty, immaculate in a pale green linen suit, with a wide-brimmed white linen hat. She wore sandals; her toenails were painted green. I put my novel aside and ordered us a bottle of wine.
We had a sophisticated way of courting each other, she and I; for Ingrid was a professor of English Literature at Copenhagen University.
So it was, over our glasses of Chardonnay, I quoted to her:
Cupid’s an infernal God and underground With Pluto dwells, where gold and fire abound: Men to such gods their sacrificing coals Did not in altars lay, but pits and holes.
She was quick to respond, from that same naughty Donne:
Rich nature hath in women wisely made Two purses, and their mouths aversely laid: They then, which to the lower tribute owe, That way which that exchequer looks must go.
Such exchanges caused a stirring below the little wrought iron tabletop. As we talked, I became convinced that this lady, with her pink gums and pearly teeth, was deserving of what a lady novelist of my acquaintance genteelly calls, ‘a kiss between the legs’.
As we were growing cosier in our conversation, seeing Lisa approaching, Ingrid said hastily, ‘Climb over my balcony tonight – I’ll be in my room waiting for you. I must take care that Lisa does not know of this.’
It can be imagined with what a fever I lurked in my room later that evening. I took a shower to cleanse and cool myself. I put on shirt and trousers. Ah, my dainty dirty-minded Danish dove, I may be getting on in years, but I am inventive and know more than one way to please you and surprise you. How are you feeling now? What do you hope for? What do you expect? It is entirely ready for you.
My room was next to Lisa’s; then came Ingrid’s room. Our rooms looked out on the Libyan Sea. Each had a balcony. Since the rooms were not large, the balconies almost touched each other; there was no danger involved in climbing from one to the next. I had only to cross Lisa’s to reach Ingrid’s.
Some minutes after eleven-thirty, I judged Lisa to be asleep. High with expectation, I went onto my balcony. The sea glittered under a moon shining high behind the hotel. What a night for love! Ingrid was old and soft and affectionate. I could imagine no greater bliss than to lie in her embrace! I went to the iron railing. I lifted my leg to swing it over.
Unfortunately, my damned leg was too stiff to reach the required level. I wrenched at the stupid thing. A bone creaked. It would not go. The first inkling of cramp warned me to cease my useless efforts.
I stood there in the shadows, out of breath.
How maddening to be thwarted by one’s own limb! I had forgotten it was seventy years old. Even the independent-minded member nearby was more loyal to its master…
The furniture of the balcony consisted of a metal table and two metal chairs. As quietly as I could, I drew up one of the chairs, setting its back against the balcony rail. I climbed on to it.
The chair tipped.
I fell back. The chair toppled sideways with a clatter. With an even louder clatter, the table I struck with my shoulder capsized. I could hear the noise of it rushing down the street and out to sea, to alarm the fishermen at their nets.
Immediately, a light came on in Lisa’s room.
Fatally injured though I was, I crawled away into my room, dragging my legs behind me, concealing myself just as Lisa came rushing out on her balcony.
Lying mute on the floor, clutching my knee, I heard her call her mother. Ingrid arrived on her balcony and the two exclaimed in Danish. By the tone of Ingrid’s voice, I could tell she was soothing her daughter: ‘Not a burglar, dear, merely a cat…’
Eventually, they both went
