‘He’ll be sleeping off that ouzo,’ said the captain from the kitchen. He lifted the lids on the water barrels. The levels were getting low. ‘Lillis, Skafidis, you’re on water detail. Get the buckets, and get over to the well. Let’s make sure there’s water for my coffee, after siesta.’
The soldiers went unwillingly, each carrying two empty buckets. They took the path they had only recently walked, back in the direction of the deserted village.
Skafidis yawned. The wine and heat together had made him dozy, and he wanted his bed.
‘The captain’s just picking on us,’ he said. ‘This would have waited until later. It makes no sense to send us now, whilst it’s still hot.’
‘Nothing in the army makes any sense,’ said Lillis. ‘But if we fetch it now, he won’t be hammering on the door after siesta.’
They reached the well. The well bucket lay on its side in the dirt, its long rope on the ground beside it. Lillis picked it up, and brushed the dust from it as best he could.
‘The wind must have blown it off the wall,’ he said.
‘What wind?’ Skafidis looked over to the orchard, where the branches of the old trees barely stirred. ‘There’s been no wind. If there was wind, it wouldn’t be hot as hell now.’
‘Goats, then, looking for water. We should haul up a bucket for them before we go.’ Lillis dropped the bucket into the well’s opening. ‘I hate the army. I can’t wait to get home, where life is civilised.’ He let the rope run over his palm, and through the fist of the other hand. ‘Where I come from, they’ve invented something called a mains water supply. You turn on a tap, and out comes . . .’
With only a metre or two of rope run out, the bucket stopped falling. Puzzled, Lillis lifted the rope slightly, assuming it was stuck on some stony ledge, and dropped it again. The bucket fell a few centimetres, and halted.
‘What’s up?’ asked Skafidis. ‘Come on, malaka, stop messing about. At this rate, by the time I get my head down, he’ll be making us get up again.’
‘It’s blocked,’ said Lillis. ‘The bucket won’t drop.’
‘You’ve got it lodged,’ said Skafidis. ‘You haven’t dropped it straight. Here, let me.’ He snatched the rope, and hauled the bucket back up; with a twist of his wrist, he sent the bucket speeding down the well. But the result was the same. After only a couple of metres, the bucket dropped no further.
He hauled the bucket back up, and peered down into the blackness.
‘Something’s blocking it,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see what.’
‘Maybe it’s collapsed,’ said Lillis. ‘With it being so dry, maybe the sides have caved in.’
‘But it’s rock, surely?’ said Skafidis, uncertainly. ‘And it’s been here hundreds of years. Why should it collapse now?’
‘How should I know? We need lights to see what’s going on down there. Go and get a torch, and tell the captain.’
‘Why me, malaka? You go.’
Lillis sighed, and swore, and went. Skafidis sat down on the well-rim, and listened. The flies were many, and bothersome. In the orchard, the cicadas sang.
In no hurry, Lillis sauntered back to the camp, taking the time to smoke a cigarette as he went.
Captain Fanis was already half-asleep.
Lillis called to him through the closed door to his quarters.
‘What do you want?’ shouted the captain. ‘Come back at four o’clock. And when you come back, bring coffee.’
‘Captain,’ said Lillis, ‘we can’t get water. The well’s blocked.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ The captain left his bed, and opened the door. He wore nothing but a pair of undershorts. ‘Can’t I trust any of you to do anything? What’s the problem now?’
‘We can’t get to the water. The bucket won’t go down the well.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Skafidis?’
‘I left him there. We need a torch to see what’s down there. Skafidis says it’s a collapse.’
‘What do you mean, a collapse?’
‘He thinks the sides have fallen in.’
‘Panayeia mou! Is there no hope for any of you? I send you for water, you come back to ask me to hold your hands. Get a torch, and let’s go. Tell Gounaris and Kastellanos to come too. If there’s been a rock-fall, it’s you four who’ll be shifting it.’
Gathered around the well-head, they all looked over the rim. Around them, flies buzzed. The captain wafted them away.
‘Give me the torch,’ he said, and Lillis handed it to him. The captain leaned over the wall, and directed the torch-beam downwards.
‘Theé mou.’ His voice was muffled by the stones.
He straightened up, and handed the torch back to Lillis.
‘Have a look down there, and tell me what you can see.’
Lillis did so; as his eyes focused, he gave a womanish scream.
‘Feet! It’s a pair of feet!’
He leaped back from the well-head; the others peered down, in silence.
‘Those are army boots,’ said the captain, ‘so I should say this is our friend. Kastellanos, fetch a rope, and let’s see if we can get him out.’
Ten
Evening brought the people out into the cool of falling darkness, on to balconies and into courtyards whose doors stood open so as not to obstruct views of comings and goings, or impede conversation between the houses – the banalities women called to each other as if they were in the same room, rather than across the street.
As the fat man passed, they fell into silence, and covertly watched him, ready to remark and speculate when he was gone from sight; but the fat man, unconcerned by their curiosity, looked up at the balconies and in at the doors as he passed, and wished each family – grandmothers and mothers, aunts, cousins, children – kali spera.
‘Where are you going, kalé? Have you lost your way?’
The woman who called out to him received a nudge of remonstration from the woman seated by her, who, judging by the similarity in features – the peasant nose, the widow’s peak, the long limbs and lean build – might have been her sister.
The fat man stopped.
‘I don’t believe I’m lost,’ he said, politely, ‘but you ladies might save me the trouble of becoming so. I’m looking for the professor’s house – I believe you know him as such? I mean the museum’s curator.’
Intrigued by his way of speaking, the woman studied him.
‘Where’re you from, kalé?’ she asked. ‘You’re not from anywhere round here.’
‘I come from Athens,’ he said.
‘Athens.’ She nodded, in apparent wonder. ‘I suppose it’s very hot, in Athens?’
‘I suppose it is,’ he said. ‘It’s been some time since I was there.’
‘You’re on the right path for the professor’s house.’ She eased herself from her chair, and stood beside him, very close, so he could smell fish on her breath. She put one hand on his forearm, and pointed in the direction he was already heading. ‘Keep straight now, until you come to a house with dark-green shutters, a big house on a corner. Go right there, and then right again, then straight up. You can’t miss it, kalé. You can’t miss it.’ She gripped his forearm tight, then seemed to feel she had taken too great a liberty, and released him and stood back a respectful distance.
The fat man eyed her, coolly.
‘Thank you,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head. ‘Your instructions confirm the route I proposed to take. It’s all too easy to get lost in these narrow lanes.’
‘Especially in the dark,’ said the seated sister, anxiously. ‘Who knows who you’ll run into, in the dark?’
‘My sister’s seen a stranger.’ The woman moved back closer to him, fighting the urge to grasp his arm again. ‘A strange man, going through these lanes. We don’t see many strangers, up here. And one with no business with any of us, has no business being here. You should take care, kalé. My sister and I are taking extra care.’
‘Indeed,’ said the
fat man, with a small smile. ‘You are wise to be so cautious. Ladies, I wish you kali spera,’ and he moved on.
The professor’s house, when he found it, seemed so much quieter than those around it, that the fat man was not certain he had either the right house, or the right evening. In contrast to its neighbours, the courtyard door was firmly shut, and no noise, no music or chatter, came from behind it. But a light was shining at an upstairs window, and he thought he could perceive, too, the glow of a lamp in the courtyard; and so he stepped up to the door and knocked.
A solemn boy – a teenager of fifteen or sixteen – opened the door, and looked in silence at the fat man.
‘Kali spera,’ said the fat man. His own smile drew no response from the sullen face. ‘Is this the professor’s house?’
‘Who wants him?’ asked the boy.
But before the fat man could answer, his father appeared behind him, and putting his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders, steered him away from the door. The boy was then inclined to leave their company, and tried to break free of his father’s grip; but the professor held him where he stood.
‘Kalos tou, kalos irthes,’ he said, smiling broadly and standing back to admit the fat man. ‘Come in, come in. Tao, please welcome our guest in an appropriate manner. This is Kyrie Diaktoros. He comes to us all the way from Athens.’
The glowering boy said nothing.
The fat man extended his hand.
‘Yassou, Tao,’ he said. ‘Chairo poli.’
For a moment, the boy looked as if he might refuse to respond; but in the end he offered his own hand, though giving the fat man the merest touch of his fingertips.
‘Chairo poli,’ he said.
‘Bravo,’ said his father, releasing the boy and ruffling his hair. The boy scowled, and immediately reached up to smooth his short crop, making plain his objection to his father’s affectionate gesture. ‘Go and tell Mama our guest is here.’
The boy left them, and went into the house. The professor showed the fat man to a table at the corner of the courtyard. All around were objects of interest and some age – more amphorae, with the white scars of barnacles telling of time spent under the sea; several old-fashioned candle lamps; various sizes of goat-bells strung on dried-out leather. Candles burned in an antique brass candelabra, giving off the lemon scent of citronella as a deterrent to mosquitoes; but as the fat man took his seat, buzzing insects zinged. The professor slapped his forearm, looked down at it, and flicked away an insect’s gangly corpse.
‘Damned things,’ he said. ‘I do my best to keep them at bay – my son’s allergic, he gets it from my wife – but this time of year, the job’s impossible.’
‘If your family’s allergic, I may be able to help,’ said the fat man. ‘I myself use an oil I get from an acquaintance in the west. What he puts in it, I have no idea, but mosquitoes seem to hate it. I can’t say it is the smell they dislike, as it is – to my nose at least – quite odourless. I would be happy to let you have some of my supply. I have a couple of bottles, I think, aboard the yacht.’
‘That would be very kind,’ said the professor. ‘What can I get you to drink? There’s wine, or beer. My wife makes an excellent lemonade, if you’d prefer a soft drink.’
‘A glass of wine would be excellent. Red or white, I don’t mind. I leave the choice to you.’
‘Amessos.’ The professor gave a small bow in the style of a waiter, and left the fat man alone.
In the kitchen, the professor took glasses from a cupboard. His wife was slicing bread, her face sour with bad temper.
‘Why are you using those glasses?’ she asked. ‘Don’t use those. Use the good glasses, our wedding glasses.’
‘There’s no need to get them out, surely,’ said the professor, reasonably. ‘These’ll do perfectly well.’
‘You’re determined to embarrass me, aren’t you?’ There seemed the possibility of tears. ‘Only a slut would put those glasses in front of a guest.’
He opened a drawer, and rattled cutlery.
‘Where’s the corkscrew?’
The woman sighed, and slammed down her knife.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said. ‘Can’t you find anything?’
‘It’s usually in here,’ he said. ‘But it’s not here now.’
She rummaged in the drawer and found the corkscrew, and held it up close to his face.
He took it from her, and began to peel the foil from a bottle of wine.
‘Why are you opening that wine?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he asked. ‘It’s a very drinkable wine.’
She pointed to a bottle on the table.
‘I got that bottle from Petros’s. It’s supposed to be very good.’
‘Who said so?’
‘Petros.’
‘And what does Petros know about wine?’
‘Why would he recommend something that was no good?’
‘To get money out of your purse.’
‘I see.’ She snatched up the knife, and began to saw again at the loaf. ‘So I paid a lot for it, and now you’re not going to drink it. You invited him, and all the work falls on me.’
She turned her back on him. The silence between them grew. Her face was red, though not from the heat of cooking; the food was already prepared, and covered with cloths.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You win. Your glasses, your wine. Though I find it ridiculous that you’re choosing the wine, when you don’t even drink it.’
From a high cupboard he lifted down two crystal glasses, heavy and unwieldy. He put them on a tray, beside the bottle of wine she had chosen.
She watched him, arms folded.
‘Don’t forget to wipe those glasses, before you take them out there,’ she said.
The fat man seemed good-humoured, as if he had heard nothing from the kitchen. The beginnings of a headache pulsed at the professor’s temples. He unloaded glasses, wine and corkscrew on to the table, and propped the tray against its leg.
The fat man picked up one of the glasses, and held it up to the candlelight.
‘What beautiful glasses,’ he said, perhaps slightly louder than necessary. ‘Excellent quality.’
As the professor twisted the corkscrew into the bottle, his wife carried out a basket of the bread she had sliced, and a dish of black olives, shiny with oil.
‘My wife,’ said the professor. The wine cork was dry; as he withdrew it from the bottle neck, it broke into pieces. ‘Lukia.’
She was a fading woman, with winter-pale skin untouched by sunlight; scraped back into a knot, her tight-fastened hair made her features sharp. Without make-up, she had made no apparent effort for their company; her dress – a shapeless shift – was more suited to a woman twice her age.
The fat man got to his feet, and offered his hand; but when she had put down what she was carrying, she fussed a while over the table’s arrangement, so his outstretched hand became awkward, and he let it drop.
‘A delight,’ he said, anyway, ‘a pleasure to meet you. Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens. And let me thank you for welcoming me into your home. I travel a great deal, and it is a rare luxury for me to dine with a family. I’ve already met your charming son. I see now where he gets his manners.’
She spoke without looking him in the eye.
‘It was my husband who invited you,’ she said, shortly. ‘You must thank him, not me.’
‘It would be a poor guest who did not thank his hostess. I’m sure it was you, and not your husband, who has prepared the food we are about to enjoy.’
She glanced at him as if his reasonable words were worthless, and left them alone.
Professor Philipas poured the wine.
‘You’ll have to forgive my wife,’ he said. ‘She’s not a sociable woman.’
‘There are some men that would please. They live always doubting their woman’s fidelity, and the slightest contact with any male sends them wild with jealousy. I suspect that is a problem you do not have.’
They tri
ed the wine. A year or two before, it might have been excellent; now on the point of turning, it was tart and unpleasantly dry. The fat man politely drank more, whilst the professor offered no comment, but looked with some annoyance after his wife, then lowered his eyes and fell into silence before drinking down half the contents of his glass. Lukia brought out more food: aubergines baked with feta, in a tomato sauce flavoured with bay and a little honey; chicken braised with lemon and oregano; a rice pilaf with squid. She wished the men kali orexi, and turned to go.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ asked the fat man.
She gave a weary smile.
‘The heat exhausts me,’ she said, ‘so I can’t eat. You must excuse me. The time I’ve spent in that hot kitchen has given me a migraine. I shall try and sleep it off.’
Again, she left them.
‘What about your son?’ asked the fat man. ‘All this food! Surely he will come and eat something?’
‘He’s learned his mother’s habits,’ said the professor, with some bitterness. ‘He’s not a boy who enjoys company. Please, help yourself.’
The fat man filled his plate, and tried the chicken.
‘She is a good cook, at least,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the museum, how it came into being.’
‘It was my father’s project, originally,’ said Professor Philipas, ‘though only in a very small way. He collected curios, items of interest. The people here see little value in antiques, or any relics of the recent past. Some don’t value our ancient heritage much more. My father started with what people were throwing out, items he saw beauty in that they didn’t. He drove my mother mad; she suffered the shame of his hoarded rubbish, as she saw it. The neighbours thought he was deranged. But bit by bit, as his collection grew, people began to offer him things they might otherwise have thrown out. I used to go with him, all over this island, sometimes to others, if he got wind of something special. Sometimes he broke the rules, and removed pieces he perhaps shouldn’t have done. But he took care of his collection, and treasured every piece. As I do now. After he died, I took on the collection myself. It caused some difficulties with my own wife, as you can imagine.’
The Bull of Mithros Page 14
