Now, he drove toward Volos and stopped at the Bay of Kolpas. A priest sitting at a table under an old tree at bayside didn't look up as Mason slammed his car door. Two mothers with children who'd by chance met on the road were exchanging words. Hazy day. He looked carefully: there were no winged sea creatures out there in the water. He crossed the street to Restaurant Pemba and sat at an outside table. The waiter came out and Mason got up and went in with him to take a look at the available fish on ice. He selected three different types. While they were being grilled the waiter brought him a bottle of Dymphe. He poured some into the glass while Mason gazed at the priest across the street. Maybe the guy wasn't a real priest but some kind of plant. After lunch Mason got a bright idea. In the back seat of the car he took off his jeans and put on his swimming trunks. He had the radio on while doing this: American pop music. He locked the car and stuck the key into his tiny pocket. Tipping down the rock path he noticed a group of about eleven people sitting in a rough circle at the water's edge. They were eating and drinking and laughing and talking. A couple of kids played near them. Scuffed fishing boats were anchored farther down the coast — a few smaller ones along here had been pulled up onto the sand. Mason looked back. The priest was watching. Him? Mason flapped around in the water. Two from the beach party came in. The man said to Mason, “Bless the Bay of Kolpas. She is warm!” He took up a handful of water and kissed it with a big smacking sound. Mason laughed. The woman was infected by his laughter and laughed too. They wanted to know if he was from North Africa. When he said America they laughed. (How did he like Greece? Very well, of course. The man introduced himself as Elias Vouliagmenis and the woman was Helena Moutsopoulou. They spoke English as naturally as drinking water. Another member of the party came in. She swam smoothly as soon as she was in deep enough then went on by them. “How long will you be in Volos?” Mason shrugged. “In that case, you
must come to a party we're having tonight,” Elias said while slapping Mason on the shoulder. “It's perfect! You arrived today? Which hotel? No hotel — yet? In that case, perhaps… ” The woman who'd swum by was now returning. Mason was trying to explain that he'd planned to go on to Larissa when Elias interrupted to introduce Zizi Kifissias, a painter. Mason shook Zizi's hand. She was a handsome woman. Presently two other guys joined them — obviously curious about Mason. They too shook his hand. Names: Pavlos Kallethea and David Pangrati. They were quick to say that they were co-directors of an artists' cooperative first established in Athens but recently extended to Volos. What did he do. Well, wouldn't you know, he was a writer. That suited them fine. They shook his hand again. Helena was now swimming out as far as she dared. Zizi had her head cocked at a forty-five degree angle away from Mason and was watching him out of the sides of her eyes. Was that mistrust? Mason noticed there were still others back there in the half broken circle on the sand talking and drinking wine. When they all went back to the sand Mason met the others: Christos Papadopoulos and Stefanos Georga and Costas Massalias and Mariella Tricoupi and Alexander Papadiamantopoulou — all painters or sculptors associated with Pavlos' and David's gallery. Mason began to relax. Even if he were at the center of some sort of scheme, if The System was seeking and gaining its revenge on him, he could not believe these pleasant Greek people were part of any plot to bring him to “justice” or to trap him, use him, push him further into a complex Buckeye-Nameless plot. Nobody'd held up a card and asked him to describe what he saw. Nobody'd asked him to try hard to remember his name. The real one? Any name. Pick a name. Name your name. So he relaxed. The moment he did, something that had been festering in the back of his mind broke, and the clear puss poured out: that name, it now made sense: Alm Harr Fawond was Alan Henri Ferrand. Think, Mason! And realizing this his heart and brain shrunk. Should he just wait for the machinery to close around him. Surely he could. But this was crazy. He refused to believe himself a Pynchon yoyo or an Ellison dancing Sambo paper doll…. Somebody was speaking to him and he wasn't paying attention. Something about giving a couple of them a lift in his car. Sure, of course. “Besides, you can get first-hand directions…. ” Dazed with anal-fear and with Zizi beside him smelling of salt-water he began to doubt his ability to ever become free of this elusive and massive plot. He also for the first time doubted his ability to be himself. What was Zizi saying? “… and we call our villa Princess Aliki. No reason other than it sounds good. It's just a name. You'll be surprised—”