“Hotel,” Peter said. “The best. Very good.” The youth nodded and led them around the square.
“Apparently there is one,” Peter said.
“There better be. How long has it been?” Charlie took his hand and held it as they walked. “If it’s a national custom, we might as well take advantage of it.”
“How about that? Ten years, and we’re finally holding hands in the street.” He laughed with delight and squeezed Charlie’s hand.
They went a little way up a side street and the youth started into what was obviously an old-fashioned but adequate-looking hotel. “Fine,” Peter said. “Later.” He mimed carrying bags. “Boat now.” The youth seemed to understand. They started back to the port. They had seen nothing beautiful; on the contrary, a pall of commonplace ugliness hung over the whole place, but it had begun to exert a spell on them. In the midst of the confusion at the bank, the coffee had been a touchingly thoughtful gesture. Beneath the picturesque touches of donkeys and baggy trousers and muffled women, there was the peace of time. They held hands, reveling in the general indifference. When they came within sight of the boat, they dropped them. At the foot of the gangplank, Charlie took some Greek coins out of his pocket and offered them to the youth. He drew back with consternation.
“No, no, no,” he protested.
Charlie wondered if the coins were worthless. He tried one of the bills. The youth’s protests redoubled. “I seem to have made a faux pas,” he muttered to Peter. He turned to the youth and pointed at the boat. “Do you want to go on board? See. The boat.”
The youth broke into a happy grin. He spoke harshly to the children who were still gathered there and made gestures of shooing them away and marched proudly up the gangplank.
When the boy was gone, Jack proposed moving on later in the day. It was still only ten in the morning. “There’s an old Venetian port just across the gulf that sounds pretty good in the pilot book. We could all use a decent night’s sleep. This place looks as if it would be noisy in the morning. All these fishing boats around. It’s pretty hot and dusty, too.”
“We’d like to have a night in a hotel,” Peter said.
“That’s what I mean. Those customs guys promised to get water to us before noon. We could have lunch and go on across. It’s less than fifteen miles.”
Martha wanted to go ashore to shop for fruit and vegetables. She looked at Charlie as she proposed it. Charlie urged Peter to go with her on the valid grounds that he had had no sleep since the day before. Now that they would be stopping frequently and would be more independent of the boat, he intended to take care not to let himself get caught with her alone until he knew better what he might make of it.
They followed Jack’s program and sailed across the gulf at its narrowest point to a tiny, picturesque port with remains of Venetian fortifications. The water hadn’t been provided till midafternoon, so the sun was setting when they had finished furling the sails. A knot of children formed at the foot of the gangplank. A sailor drifted up and asked for their papers and took them away. Martha rolled the flag on its pole and stowed it. They had drinks. A few lights came on in the austere little whitewashed square that faced the port. There was a statue of a military-looking personage in the middle of it. It was almost dark when Peter stood up.
“We better go look for a hotel,” he said.
“The town’s a good deal smaller than I expected it to be,” Jack said.
The same thought had occurred to both Peter and Charlie. They agreed to come back and pick up their things when they had found a hotel; neither of them had much hope of success. As they were crossing the square, three youths emerged from the shadows and joined them.
“Hotel,” Peter said. The three conferred and then nodded and pointed and one of them took Peter’s hand. They continued across the square. “Here we go again. My Greek’s getting pretty good.”
“At least, there seems to be a hotel. I was beginning to have my doubts.”
“Me too.”
A street ran along the back of the square parallel to the shore. There were lights here, but there was nothing suggesting a hotel. They passed several dimly lighted bare-looking shops and turned into a side street leading farther into the town. They made several more turns. All the buildings were whitewashed and loomed palely in the dark. The streets were immaculate. They came to another small square with trees set about in it. Bright lights spilled from a big room with wide doors open onto it. Unpainted wooden tables and chairs were set about within and in front under a grape arbor. Voices were singing. Their escort delivered them to a gnarled old man, who struggled to his feet as they entered.
“Hotel?” Peter said hopefully.
“You American? Me American too. From Cairo, Illynoise. Where you from?” The old man held their hands and fell back into his chair, urging them down beside him. They sat. Their escort disappeared. Other old men scattered about the room edged their chairs closer and surrounded them. The old man from Cairo called for ouzo. The singing was coming from two men in the back of the room who gazed at each other intently as they produced an odd, wailing dirge. They were singing at each other. A copper tankard was set on the table and plates of olives and sliced tomatoes. The old man poured a clear liquid into small glasses with a trembling hand. “You like ouzo? Greek drink. Good.” He speared a slice of tomato and held it in front of Peter’s mouth. Peter ate it. He repeated the offering with Charlie. He clinked his glass against theirs and they all drank. Peter and Charlie had never had ouzo before. It tasted strong and sweet. The old man let loose a barrage of questions while the onlookers sat and nodded at their friend’s dazzling command of English. Where you from? Got kids? Womans? What you do here?
This seemed an appropriate opening for the business at hand. “We’re looking for a hotel,” Peter explained.
“No. No hotel here. Was hotel. Closed. Go bust. You want room? Sleep?”
“Yes. That’s the idea.”
“Me got good room. Four beds. Three left.”
“How do you mean, three left?”
“One good man sleep already. You take two beds. One left.”
Charlie and Peter looked at each other with dismay. “I’m afraid that’s not what we want,” Charlie said.
“You Americans. Want room, bath. Me know.” He chortled. “Not like that here. Never mind. You take two beds. Sleep. Sleep good.”
“Thanks a lot, but I don’t think we’ll bother. What we really wanted was a bath to get cleaned up.” Charlie looked at Peter and leaned his head toward the door. They didn’t find it easy to extricate themselves. The old man insisted that they finish the ouzo. They got slightly drunk while the old man told them about his shop in Cairo and fed them tomatoes. He had been back in Greece for twenty years, through the war and the civil war that was recently ended. Very bad. Troubles still. Government no good.
They finally managed to get to their feet. Charlie pulled out money to pay for the drinks. The old man refused indignantly. There was a rumble of protest from the others.
Charlie hastily put his money away. Money was apparently a dirty word here; so far, they hadn’t spent a drachma. They thanked the old man and nodded and smiled at the others and made their escape.
“Damn Jack,” Peter said as they went out. “I could kill him this time. I was looking forward so to tonight.”
“I know. There was no reason to leave Patras.”
“Still, I like it here. Everybody’s so damn nice.” Peter started across the square.
“We came this way,” Charlie said pointing off to the right.
“I know. But let’s go back a different way. I want to see the rest of the town. It’s amazing how whitewash lights up in the dark.”
“You go ahead, baby. You like to prowl around on your own. I’m really bushed. I’ll tell Martha we want something to eat. Don’t get lost.”
“I’ll just work my way back to the port. You’re sure you know the way back?”
“If I don’t, I’m sure ha
lf the town will turn out to show me.”
“OK. I’ll race you.” They touched and parted.
Peter crossed the square and wandered down a narrow street that turned frequently, but seemed to be headed in the general direction of the sea. Most of this part of the town appeared to be abandoned. There were many fallen roofs and broken walls. They made interesting shapes in the night. He heard footsteps near him and then there was a rush of movement and he was suddenly surrounded by dark forms. Charlie was right. Greece seemed to specialize in escorts. A light was shined in his face and quickly doused. Men spoke together in lowered voices. Were they soldiers? The police?
“I was just going—” he began.
The sound of his voice seemed to bring them to a decision. They moved in close to him and prodded him in the direction from which he had come. There was no menace in the way they handled him, only a sort of rough impatience. He tried to stop to explain that he wanted to go back to the port, but they hustled him on. He hadn’t figured out yet how many they were. Three? Four? They turned off into a street he had noticed on his way that seemed to lead out of town. They passed more ruined houses. There began to be gaps between them. Eventually, they turned into one of these and he stumbled over stones. He was so busy trying to watch his footing that he didn’t see anything else until he heard a key turn in a lock and he was pushed through a door. The door closed behind them and the flashlight snapped on. Its beam wandered and focused on a lamp on a table. Surely not the police. A match was struck and the lamp was lighted. They all began to talk at once and moved around the room, settling into it. They were wearing a sort of uniform in that they were all dressed in shabby trousers and black sweaters with round necks. Inappropriate for the season. There were only three of them.
The room was dirty and dilapidated and looked unused, with a big table in the middle and some chairs, several stripped beds against the walls with boards instead of springs and kitchen equipment at one end. Peter’s eye was caught by two guns propped against the wall. He had been too astonished to really wonder what they wanted with him. Now he began to wonder very much. He hoped they wouldn’t keep him long enough for Charlie to start worrying about him. They paid no attention to him for several minutes as they talked among themselves. He had time to sort them out. He guessed they were younger than they looked, probably a good deal younger than he. One was very good-looking in a dark, dangerous way. His fiery eyes slanted slightly, giving him an oriental look. His hard, flat cheeks made the mouth bold and voracious. The other two were quite nondescript, dark and lean and harmless-looking. They had a military air about them, as if they were camping out here during a lull in a battle, but they seemed wild and undisciplined at the same time.
The good-looking one went to the end of the room and returned with a straw-covered jug and some thick glasses, which he put on the table. He poured pale liquid into a glass and drank it. He approached Peter with a friendly smile. Peter was taller than all three of them, which gave him confidence. Everybody had been so friendly and helpful here: there was nothing to worry about. Language was the problem. He wondered if he would ever find out what they wanted. The good-looking one said a word, which Peter didn’t understand; then he said “Dollari” and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The Greek continued to smile in an almost ingratiating way. Had they simply wanted to rob him? What a stupid waste of time.
“I don’t have any,” he said. He turned the pockets of his trousers inside out. He remembered his hip pocket and turned it inside out too. He was wearing a skintight sailor’s jersey, which could conceal nothing. He held his arms out and shrugged.
The good-looking one took his arm and led him to a chair and smiled at him again. Peter smiled back and sat. Perhaps he had misunderstood. Perhaps they hadn’t wanted money. The good-looking one sat beside him and filled a glass from the jug. The others dropped into chairs across from them. The good-looking one filled another glass and handed it to Peter. He pointed at himself.
“Yanni,” he said. He pointed at the two across the table. “Costa. Stavros.” He pointed at himself again and repeated “Yanni” and then pointed at Peter.
Peter gathered that they were introducing themselves. “Peter,” he said.
“Peet—” Yanni stumbled over the name and then his face lighted with comprehension as he pronounced, “Petros.” He lifted a glass and clinked it against Peter’s. “Petros. Yanni.” He gestured to Peter to drink.
He did so. The liquid was sharp and pungent and tasted of pine, like alcoholic bath essence. He tried not to make a face as he choked it down. He supposed it was the Greek wine he had heard of called retsina. He looked at Yanni and said the word questioningly.
Its effect was sensational. Yanni laughed boisterously and repeated it, nodding. He put his arm around Peter’s shoulders and hugged him. He spoke to the others, repeating the word several more times. He dropped his hand to Peter’s knee and left it there while he refilled their glasses and said once more, “retsina.” There was more to this than hearty camaraderie. Peter was quick to detect the caress in the hand. He had suspected it before when the Greek had held his arm. Now there was no doubt of it: Yanni was as queer as they come. Perhaps all the hand-holding did mean something; perhaps he and Charlie had found their country. Peter looked into flashing eyes and smiled his recognition. The hand caressed his knee. He was aware of time passing, but with this familiar element added to the situation he felt more in control. He wasn’t going to let it turn into a party, as seemed the rule in Greece, but he could afford a few more minutes to see if the mystery would be elucidated. Meanwhile, it wasn’t disagreeable to have the caressing hand on his knee; Yanni was damned attractive. His body looked powerful and well-formed under the shabby clothes, as were his hands. His mouth had the excitingly hungry look.
The three had entered into lively conversation, during which Yanni kept looking at Peter and laughing slyly. Peter began to wonder if they knew why they had brought him here.
After a few minutes, he put his glass down with a little thump and interrupted firmly. “I have to go.” He pointed at himself, he pointed at his watch, he pointed at the door. Yanni leaned toward him and gripped his hand and twisted his wrist to see the watch better. He removed the hand from his knee and put it on his arm and openly caressed it. He spoke, touching the watch and pointing at himself. Peter shrugged uncomprehendingly. Had he never seen a watch before? He lifted Peter’s hand and unfastened the watchstrap and handed the watch across the table. Peter yanked his hand away and made a grab for it, but it was gone. That was that. They had brought him here to rob him and he had nothing else for them to rob. He stood up. At a word from Yanni, the other two were immediately upon him and forced him back into his chair. Yanni swung his chair around and faced him. The Greek eased himself back and slid his hips forward and put his hands on his thighs. The thick fabric of his trousers made a great bulge between his legs. He ran his fingers back and forth over it and said something and they all laughed.
Peter was getting angry. He cursed himself for having smiled so amiably; it had obviously been interpreted as giving consent to whatever Yanni had in mind. He wasn’t smiling now. Yanni continued the tease with his crotch, looking at Peter expectantly as if he were bound to react to it. If he was so self-confident, why didn’t he send the others away? Peter had no fears about handling him alone. He sensed suddenly that whatever they had planned for him, they were all in it together, although he had detected no caress in the others’ hands. A gang-rape? Alarm sharpened his anger. His eyes shifted as he tried to settle on the best means of escape. Yanni spoke again and Peter was seized and flung to his knees between his legs. Yanni tangled his fingers in his hair and jerked his head back. Peter’s mouth dropped open. Yanni’s was immediately on it, his tongue thrusting into it. Peter clamped his teeth together hard on it. He was released with a shout of pain. He snaked through three pairs of legs and scrambled to his feet and turned to face them, his fists ready. Yanni was almost on him, gloweri
ng with rage. He made a grab for him as if he wanted to take him in his arms. Peter sidestepped and swung his fist. He was off balance and it was a glancing blow, but Yanni staggered back with a surprised look in his face. Then the other two were on him.
He flung them off and struck out at them, but they crowded in on him, shouting and laughing, so that he had no room to maneuver. He felt a sort of idiot innocence in them; it was a sadistic schoolboy prank. Since they clung to his arms, he brought his knees into play, trying to get them in the crotch. He thought of making a break for one of the guns, but the thought went as quickly as it came. This wasn’t a movie. He didn’t want to kill anybody or get killed.
Yanni returned to the fray. He flung himself on Peter’s back and put an arm around his neck and got a lock on it. His hips ground up against his buttocks. Peter could feel the sex against him. They pulled and pushed and dragged him toward a bed against the wall, while Yanni’s hand fumbled at his crotch, apparently baffled by the pouch that held him all bunched together. None of it made any sense unless they were convinced that he was willing and was just putting up a token resistance, like a girl. Perhaps Yanni had boasted of what an easy conquest he would be and the other two still believed him. Otherwise, what did they think they could do with him on a bed? Thinking of Jeannot, he expected them to start pulling his clothes off and the forbidden memory came rushing in on him. A beefy, sneering face from long ago filled his mind’s eye. He went wild with rage; his body heaved and lunged and twisted in a frenzy of resistance. Yanni was no threat to his self-respect because they were linked by shared tastes, but they would have to knock him out before he’d let himself be stripped in front of the other two. Their grip was hard on him as they swayed with him toward the bed. Yanni hooked a leg around his and he lost his footing and they surged forward almost to the edge of it. He could feel their balance going and they all crashed to the floor. An elbow smashed into his eye as they went and his head reeled until he was brought up hard on the floor. They were a sweating, panting mass of tangled bodies. His face was crushed against somebody’s chest. One hand was trapped under a leg. He was reminded of schoolboy grapplings, tests of strength, with their constant threat of ending in disgrace for him. He had always had a tendency to get an erection at any close physical contact with other boys. He hadn’t known what it meant until he met Charlie. Unlike Charlie, he had always shunned the experiences that this tendency might have led him into.
The Peter & Charlie Trilogy Page 52
