of James. In Constantinople was erected a church dedicated to Anna by Emperor Justinian. Is getting dark, sir.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting.’ Langstreet placed a thousand drachma note in the cubby-hole, extinguished the candle, and followed the monk out into the open. Staring down at his boots, he said, ‘I find it wonderful. A revelation.’
The monk closed the door firmly. ‘Only one more such painting exists in all the world, sir. They tell it is in Romania or Bulgaria, or thereabouts.’
Once they were in the car, the monk said, ‘I am only poor man, with no education. So I must live in Kyriotisa for all my life. You must speak to the priest for more better information, sir.’
‘Thank you. You have been very helpful to me. Perhaps I may be permitted to buy you a bottle of wine when we get back to Kyriotisa.’
The monk waved a hand with nicotine-stained fingers in a rough but courteous gesture. ‘Sir, is not necessary. I am glad to help you, as British helped us in the war.’
Langstreet drove the Punto back across the mountains to Paleohora. The road twisted and turned as it sought a way to the sea. He encountered no other traffic on the way. At one point, he drew into the side of the road, climbed out and walked a short distance to sample the loneliness. Stars shone overhead. The moon had yet to rise. This place was unaltered from earliest times; he stood as if on a shore marking the boundary between bygone and modern worlds.
The sky overhead still retained some light, whereas the gloom of night had already settled over the land, emphasising its antiquity. In the distance, a line of land had been raised to resemble a giant hip, teasing Langstreet’s fancy into imagining that he had trespassed on the sleeping body of some ancient being. He had stepped momentarily back from the ages of a Christian God into a time where women gave gods suck.
Hunching his shoulders, he walked briskly back to the car and the present day. He slammed the Punto door. Accelerating at once, he headed for the isolated lights of Paleohora.
Going down to breakfast next morning, I did my best not to limp. Out on the balcony, at the far table, smoking over a cup of coffee, sat Ingrid. She was alone, looking spruce and calm. I recalled that her daughter did not eat breakfast.
She gave me her usual smile, cynical yet warm, acknowledging, accepting, the follies of the world.
‘Were you disturbed by the burglar in the night?’
‘I thought I heard something.’
‘I guess it frightened you off coming to see me.’
‘Crete is known to be a violent country.’
‘And England not so?’
‘We’re just a little country with a big language.’
‘You should visit Denmark. We’re a little country with a big hospitality.’
‘I should like to enjoy your big hospitality, Ingrid.’
‘Let me give you my address. Lisa and I must leave this morning.’
‘I’ll come and visit you, if I may.’
‘I hope your leg will be better then.’
After breakfast, I sat in my room and began to write notes for my novel, until Boris came and suggested that we swam. When I returned to the foyer, I found that Ingrid and her daughter had already left.
Well, it was not important – just a mild flirtation, in which much or little had been said. That seemed to be about all I was capable of these days. What do you expect?
Nevertheless, I found myself dwelling with some tenderness on her features: the narrow temples and mild almond eyes, with the cheeks broadening out to accommodate a generous mouth. And her hair, dyed no doubt, swept back in good fashion, leaving a wing of fine quality over each ear. Inevitably, I then slipped into speculating on other parts of her body, of the snug exchequer tucked between her thighs, warm and resilient, ready for tenancy. But, alas, it was farewell to Planet Genitalia, at least for a while.
I could not help seeing myself as Dr Johnson’s Rasselas, whose ‘chief amusement was to picture to himself that world which he had never seen; to place himself in various conditions: to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in wild adventures…’
For eleven years I had lived with an actress; a lady calling herself Diana Coventry, real name Doreen Stephens. Not particularly successful on the boards or even in TV commercials, but a pleasant woman, given to all those highs and lows with which the legendary leading actresses are assailed. In the dark, Diana might have been Vivien Leigh.
Doreen was as interested in the male sexual organ as I in the female. We never tired of looking as well as doing. There are men I know, men heterosexual to a fault, who admit to disliking the look and aroma of a woman’s genitals. I am not one of them.
I have a memory from early boyhood. I was in a cinema in Manila. A documentary was showing which employed a method of stop-motion photography on plants. From a bud of a flower, the sepals curled back and the whole flower slowly opened. Its interior revealed intricate details, while the petals, brightly coloured, unfurled, lined with marks to guide the bees to the honey at the heart of the blossom.
It was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I experienced an erection, entirely spontaneously. I was puzzled by the tiny disturbance in my shorts. From then on, I associated a flower-like beauty with the female organ.
Unfortunately, Doreen’s and my years together were to end rather unexpectedly. I have always regretted our parting and, looking back, wonder if she has not later regretted it too.
Doreen secured a role in a soap. She played Viv Baker, a woman who ran a clothes shop in the West End. It upset our comfortable arrangements. She became the part. And when Viv Baker was required to indulge in amorous activities with the local crooked landlord, played by Larry Wingate, my Diana became more interested in Wingate than in me. Before I knew what was what, a note was on the fridge door, pinned there by a magnetic model of a London double-decker bus, saying Adios! (in so few words); and Diana was away to the suburb of Wimbledon with Wingate.
And so I was free to stew in my own juice. I have been rather at a loss ever since. Rather too prone to attend the racecourse.
It must have been nostalgia that prompted me at that point to pick up the phone, dial international, and try to speak to Doreen again.
A choked voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Doreen, is that you?’
‘This is Diana Coventry here. What do you want? I’m about to put the phone down.’
‘Hang on, Doreen. It’s me, your lost love, remember? I’m in Crete. I was just ringing to see how you were.’
‘I’m utterly miserable, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Are you missing me?’
‘What makes you think that? I’ve just heard that poor Jav has died.’ Jav was her brother. I had admired him. Jav was all that I was not: a man with good causes ever close to his heart, perennially adopting African tribes or giving starving Albanians holidays
