Overtired and somewhat frantic, I commit the following to paper: The large-screen television is on annoyingly all night. The children occasionally gather around it as if around a hearth. I am surprised that television is so central a part of their lives and I suppose I am even surprised by their having electricity. Roman has watched television all his life; his favorite programs come from America and he talks fluently of them. I admit I never watch it and he — they all — are astounded. At some point the old man calls out that the Gypsies are the smartest people on earth. And then he relates a tale to prove it. I can recall it only generally. Forty not-very-smart Gypsies were sent into a forest to do a job — cut down trees — and instead they bought sheep and used up all their money. Then they fell asleep, but no one Gypsy wanted to sleep on the outside of the circle, so all night they kept changing places, and by morning no one had slept. They lost their rope and axes; thirty-eight of them fell into a ravine and died. The other two — something dreadful happens to both. But the last — this is most amusing — the last dies because he wants to look at his private parts, which he has never seen. By now he is carrying a torch, but he leans so far forward, he falls off a bridge into a river and drowns. The Gypsies who died, says the old man, were the foolish ones, the scatterbrained ones. It is lucky they died, he says, for all the others who remained and didn’t go into the woods, they were the intelligent ones. All the stupid ones were gotten rid of, and that’s why the Gypsies are the smartest people on earth.
I pull the typewriter paper out of the machine.
The Gypsy’s desire to look at his genitals is something I’d never come upon before in a folktale. It could be, in a sense, derived from the Narcissus myth, but it’s base; rather its base is focused lower. It could also have to do with masturbation. My hand settles on my crotch, and I speculate, lazily, about whether they obey the same laws and prohibitions that oppressed me. I close the typewriter case, though I would prefer to linger and wander in the luscious maze Roman’s interest in me has provoked. But I can’t find the energy. Fully dressed, I lie down and fall into a blessed, restorative sleep.
After my nap, I wash, shave, splash cologne on my face, and change into clean clothes. Refreshed, I walk in the direction of the restaurant the little virgin mentioned. I have some anxiety that this might be the night I find Helen, and though I have been planning for this, or at least praying that it would happen, I haven’t the faintest idea what I will say to her. In truth I am unprepared, for what in the world should I say to her?
When I enter the restaurant, I find no one I recognize, just a few Greeks and several Germans.
I order taramosaláta, grilled fish, salad, and wine. The view is not spectacular, not mind-blowing, as John might say. I’d nearly forgotten him. I am relatively calm and eat the bread, which is fresh, and fish-roe spread, downing every mouthful with a gulp of cold, dry wine. My appetite is back. Just as the grilled fish arrives, the door opens. I stiffen, expecting it to be Helen. But it is not. I open my book and try to read, but a disquieting idea invades my overwrought brain.
If I don’t accept the Gypsy’s prophecy, or prophecy in general, ought I to continue to read about or study them? If I reject their ways and ideas, can I learn anything?
I drink more and continue along this mental path, which now engrosses me. For perhaps this is what the old Gypsy woman meant. If so, I tell myself, I am accepting at least some of her wisdom and ought to be allowed to go on. But didn’t T.S. Eliot become an Episcopalian, an Anglo-Catholic? Don’t most medievalists eventually convert to Catholicism? Jews, Protestants, all? It is a conundrum.
I make my home, my bed, in a rational world, but I awaken in an irrational one. That might be a good line for Stan Green, though perhaps too refined. Is it any less rational to consider accepting this, the Gypsy’s prophecy, for instance, than Eliot’s acceptance of God, his submission to faith? Perturbed, I rub my eyes. How is it possible to think about something one cannot or does not understand? Prophecy? The writing on Helen’s wall? My experience with the Gypsies has affected me. I hope it has made me a better person, a more human one. I sigh audibly. The Germans glance in my direction.
My dinner finished, and my exhaustion acute and abiding, I pay the bill. But courtesy demands that I meet the owner of the restaurant and his family. I explain where I am staying; at the mention of Partheny’s name, the owner’s wife lifts her head up sharply, indicating, in a Greek gesture, a strong no. I cannot inquire why. Probably she dislikes Partheny. Of course, a young and attractive widow is always feared in a small village. But that is not the story I wish to pursue. I do let them know I am pursuing Helen and describe her. They too think they have seen her, so I am certainly on the right track.
Partheny welcomes me back as if I were Odysseus. I hope she is not matchmaking. It is a lonely life she leads. I smile and return to my subterranean abode where she has placed a vase with flowers. It sits on the cheap dresser, inadequately providing beauty to an undistinguished, indeed dismal, room. But in Partheny’s small gift is such richness that I sit on the bed and weep. I do not know why. The events of the last days have weakened me. I sit motionless on the bed.
Her gift of daisies and narcissus dislodges a buried incident from my days in college, when a friend with whom I had had a quarrel and to whom I no longer spoke left flowers in my room. In just the same way. Then too I wept, uncontrollably, and yet we never again were friends. Pride, I suppose, or callow youth prevented my making the rapprochement. I wonder if he is alive. Life is endlessly sad. To be sad is to be human. To be human is to be sad. With such bathos do I nearly slip out of consciousness. But just before I do, for which I am oddly glad, I hear Roger’s bawdy voice. He shouts gleefully, Blow it out your asshole, Horace.
In the morning, Partheny knocks on my door and carries in a tray with coffee, a boiled egg, bread and jam. I thank her profusely. Behind her is a little girl with a ribbon in her dark hair. She has a child and is not alone, I tell myself. I eat and dress. I am in a common-sense sort of temper. I will walk to the beach this morning and see what’s what. I straighten my bed and march up the stairs. There is a young man — he is French, I believe — standing close to Partheny. He is nuzzling her neck. Suddenly they become aware of me. She smiles, with some embarrassment, but much less than one expects from a Cretan widow. Clearly he is her lover; it is no wonder the woman at the restaurant last night shook her head no. Partheny is breaking with the custom of her village, indeed, of Crete. She is either brave or foolhardy. She might, and this is Stan Greenish, yet not farfetched, end up dead. I am simultaneously relieved — I am not part of her marriage plans — and worried. The consequences of their actions could be dire. Does the young Frenchman know this? And will he behave responsibly?
I rid my mind of these concerns as soon as I shut the door behind me. Partheny must know what she is doing. But do I? That must be faced. I amble along the gravel-and-tar street. Pebbles stick between my toes, making walking a nuisance. I despise sandals — one’s toes stick out in such an accusatory fashion — and yet I refuse to ruin my tennis sneakers by wearing them on the beach. I do treasure the ocean and excitement mounts inside me, welling up in my chest. It is how I think birds feel when mating, or what nature intends for them in the winter when they puff themselves up to keep warm. I often compare myself with birds because of my thin arms and legs and slightly rounded stomach.
I pass the restaurant. The family is on the terrace. I call out to them — Yá sas — and they greet me by name. Then I continue on my way and, after not too long, perhaps another mile, I reach the path to the beach. It is down a rocky incline. I fall just once but do not hurt myself. There is no one in sight and I make my way to an isolated cove where the water is clear as glass. Tinted glass — it is the palest of aquatic greens. I drop the blanket which Partheny has lent me onto the warm sand and remove my trousers and shirt. I am of course wearing bathing shorts; nude sunbathing is for the French and Italians. I smother my skin in suntan oil. I pay particular attention to my face, to my nose especially. Now I gleam and glisten like a Greek god. I unpack my bag, which contains a towel, a flask of water, books, pen, paper, and a small but powerful telescope.