I sigh deeply, audibly, and buy figs, picking each one carefully. I shop only at the stands that allow one to touch the fruit and vegetables. I prefer yellow figs; they are sweeter than purple ones. The market people know me well. The good ones let me do as I please. I take my time but this is hardly a demand here. I am thankful for their familiarity. I talk with Sultana, who has sold me the figs, about some kittens she has and think to ask Helen if she’d want to adopt another. Yá sas, yá sas, I call out, leaving the market. Yá sou, Horace, kali mera, Sultana calls out in return.
The harbor is quiet at this time of day. I eat my lunch rather late, usually in my rooms, an old habit I can’t or don’t want to break. I look up from the street. Helen’s not on her terrace and her curtains are drawn again. Is she being a naughty girl? I’ll have to pay the piper with Alicia; no doubt she’ll invite me to tea again, which will be more like an inquisition. It is very odd, I’m completely conscious of this, it is odd that I went to visit John, but I could not help myself, and that’s what I’ll tell Alicia. I had a desperate need to know. Then I’ll add, I’m bored and unhappy, and I will complain about Yannis and pluck at the strings of her heart. Then we will discuss men and love and perhaps she will confess her infatuation with John. After all these years — we have in many ways grown up and old or up and down together — she will ultimately forgive me. She must, as our town is too small for petty enmities.
I open the door and find Yannis on the bed, quietly reading, which I like him to do. He may even be studying to please me. I feel a rush of affection for him and walk over to him on the bed and ruffle his hair. He turns and smiles and I believe he may even feel some real affection for me. Would sex now spoil this precious moment? Lust rises in me and my sex responds, rising too. Yannis undoes my zipper and gently strokes me, until I reach a delicious orgasm. I am with Helen’s John. I am a young man with long hair like his. We are lying side by side and I am as beautiful as he is. Yannis doesn’t want me to bring him to orgasm. This may have been an entirely unselfish act or a mercenary one. But I am happy. I have for a moment forgotten myself, what I truly look like, how foolish I may appear to others and myself.
Yannis moves from the bed. He leaps off it, with terrific ease. I feel old. I am old. Yet, and this surprised me, for I did not expect aging to be like this, my desire continues to be and has remained and remains the same as if I were thirty. It may not be the same as it was when, at seventeen, just a ride on a bus produced an erection, when desire always settled in one’s genitals. No, not like that. But with age, desire suffuses one’s whole body, one’s whole being, and is so much more difficult to satisfy. In a way it is more clearly life itself, life itself that is desire, that is as elusive as fantasy, amorphous fantasy.
I pride myself on being an older man who can rise easily on occasion. I must repeat this to Gwen, which reminds me of why I invited her here. How good it will be to discuss the intimate details of life with a true friend who is, in her way, as strange as I. And she is only twenty years younger, not forty years or more younger than I, as is Helen. Gwen has reached the age of truth. I like to think of my forties that way — the age of truth. And what will Gwen’s truth be?
I must ask Nectaria to find a room for her since it won’t do to have her stay here. I have my habits, my routines which are fixed, to some extent, although they can be broken every once in a while. There is not enough space, in any case, and Gwen will want her own room, I’m certain. I hope she is no longer using sleeping pills, for they make her cranky in the mornings. Gwen has dreadful dreams, replete with monsters and odd forms of execution, and years ago she became habituated to sleeping pills and has taken them off and on ever since. I’ve never asked Helen about her drug usage; I assume she partakes now and again. But Helen does not behave as if she uses downers, as Gwen calls them.
As I ruminate on Helen and drugs, I’m struck by a brilliant idea — I could write a crime story based on the alleged suicide of a twin. Pills, of course. The truth of how the twin died will become the object of Stan Green’s quest. He must discern whether or not the twin had a natural unnatural death, a true suicide, or whether it was foul play, and the surviving twin sister — I’ll make them twin brothers, to disguise Helen — actually and cleverly did her — him — in, by mixing up some pills, let’s say.
How can I think like this? I am a grotesque creature.
Chapter 7
I walk to the window and discover Helen standing on her terrace, looking in this direction. I wave and we agree in sign language to meet later for dinner. She seems excited. Could she possibly have found out about my meeting John the other day? How could she? That is paranoia.
Nectaria has set up a shower on the roof for those of us who have been here forever. It is remarkable how being on the roof, on top of the world, as Yannis likes to exclaim — his innocence exists in such expressions — on top of the world and naked as a buck, with the sun still strong but not hot, with cool water drizzling down one’s body, how one feels safe and clean, truly clean. Pure. I soap thoroughly and scrub here and there, over and over. A Lady Macbeth I am not, because my hands are clean, there is no blood, not even a stain, no visible sign. I am not, I convince myself, a bad man. And when I towel off and breathe the fragrant Cretan air, air that brilliant ancients also breathed, why I know myself to be in a line of humanity of which I can be proud. I wrap my terry around me and descend to my apartment.
I splash my face with the after-shave Gwen sent me, English Leather, which is, I am sure, one of her subtle jokes. I put on my lemon-yellow Brooks Brothers shirt, my yellow-and-white cravat, my white linen jacket, and I am as good as a Graham Greene character or even Greene himself. I often like to dress for dinner, especially after having been rather solitary. In a sour mood, Yannis will stay home, but he will show up later, as he usually does, I am sure. He ignores me as I leave the apartment, but I am inured to him at the present moment.
Roger is seated at a table far from Helen and me. He seems to be in a pensive mood. He’s reading a Greek newspaper. He is unhappy, poor dear; he supported the junta and its regime, and liked to say that on this he and the Greek people agreed. Both he and they, he will still insist tiresomely, knew the country needed the restoration of order and a strong hand. What battles Roger and I have had about the censorship of news! Roger could be reading about the wreckage of a Bronze Age ship, recently discovered off Hydra; it is thought to be the earliest known ship-wreck ever found. Probably Roger wishes he had gotten there first, to grab the spoils.
He and I barely nod to each other. It’s a mode either of us might adopt which means nothing. Helen has clipped her hair back and seems even younger and more vulnerable. Christos bends over her and takes her order, looking down her shirt, I think. She doesn’t, of course, wear a brassiere. Occasionally Helen glances at Roger, who has also only nodded to her; she is not used to this from him. I explain, not caring if he hears, that this is not unusual for Roger and she must not take his behavior personally. She says nothing.