I strolled along the waterfront, looking idly at the souvenirs, the postcards, the miniature plaster lions of Apollo. My steps took me toward the police barracks, which crouched in the shame of its drab grey stone, flanked on one side by the sea, by the astonishing geometry of the little blue-domed chapel on the other. I paused below the barracks steps, with my hands in my pockets, and craned my neck to peer through the open doorway. A large gaunt room was there, dimly illumined by the dying light from the sky which crept through a grimed mean window set high up in the wall. From where I stood, I could see the head and shoulders of a fat policeman in shirt sleeves, with his hands behind his head, bent as though in prayer over an ancient black typewriter. At intervals he emerged from his concentration, and his arms would drop and pounce upon the keys. The sharp little blows ravished the silence, and danced across the room like so many exclamation points. Beside his machine there stood a cabinet of gleaming steel. One of its drawers gaped, overflowing with dirty crockery, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The man at the typewriter stood up, punching a cramped arm, and touched a switch behind him on the wall. The light which he called forth was hardly brighter than that in the window, and the naked bulb dangled from the ceiling like a fat yellow tear. The policeman squinted at it, and shook his head. He caught sight of me, and we looked at each other in silence. A dog barked, a child squealed, and a little bell tinkled in the chapel. The sequence of sounds had about them the ineluctable precision of a mathematical formula, and, like the product of the equation, boots thudded somewhere inside the room, and an unintelligible phrase slithered down the steps. The fat policeman turned from me to the invisible speaker. He laughed, and nodded, and sat down again, tucking up the sleeves of his shirt. Strange how these inconsequential moments stay with one through all vicissitudes, doling out a little comfort now and then on the long journey from cave to grave. I turned, and walked away.
The taverna was crowded with diehards left over from a wedding feast held that morning. There was shouting and singing, and rampant smashing of crockery. I made my way to the bar. Constantinou, the proprietor, stood behind it in his usual pose, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the counter. He was a tall, diffident man, with the gentlest of smiles. He lifted his eyebrows at me, and was polite enough to ignore the wound on my cheek.
‘Ouzo,’ I said. ‘A bottle.’
‘Eh?’
I shouted my request. Crash, there went another plate against the wall. Constantinou looked to heaven, and set the bottle before me.
‘You leave tonight, yes?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m not leaving.’
‘It’s a pity.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘We shall miss you.’
Crash.
‘I’m not leaving. I said, I’m not leaving.’
‘Yes. You’ll have a good journey, the sea is calm tonight.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Me? No, I could never leave the island.’
‘Yes, but I asked, how much? For the ouzo. How much?’
He lifted his hands, shoulders and eyebrows, and pushed out his lower lip, his way of saying, who cares.
‘Take it for your journey,’ he yelled. ‘A gift.’
I laughed, and shook my head ruefully, but said only,
‘Efcharisto, Constantinou.’
‘Kali andamosi.’
I made my way out to the little square, where extra tables had been set up, but still not enough to cater for the throng. A familiar voice wound its way to my ear.
‘And there were such flowers, you would …’
She sat at a table near me, her back turned. She was talking to … my Jesus, Erik. Over her left shoulder he was looking at me, his face betraying not the slightest sign of recognition. Helena made a gesture with her hands, and I went away.
In the little shop by the further pier, I bought a piece of cheese and a loaf of bread. As I was leaving, the island girl who had served me said,
‘Have a good journey.’
Before I could turn to speak she had fled in confusion to the back room. Outside, the painted lanterns which hung below the eaves came suddenly, wondrously to life, laying tender stains of light at my feet. With my provisions tucked against me, I went slowly out along the pier. At the end, where the green beacon flashed, I sat down behind the sea wall and laid out the meagre meal on the stones. I broke a piece of cheese and bit a chunk from the bread, and with my arms folded, and my legs crossed before me, I looked across the harbour. Over there, by the white yachts, the red light winked at its partner above me. The sky was of the palest blue, with one star burning faintly. The water lapped at the sea wall. I took a drink of ouzo, and ate another piece of cheese.
A figure left Constantinou’s and started slowly along the quay, making toward me. The sea was running with shadow now as the breathless twilight ended. A strange violet light hovered over the village and the hills. The white houses and the little chapels were touched with a glowing rose tint, and a burnt lilac lay in the crevices of shadow. The fishing boats rolled gently by the quayside on the brittle green water. The bronze tolling of a bell came down the hills and crossed the bay, drawing in its wake the other evening sounds. Erik walked slowly out along the pier, studiously ignoring me. He was wearing his suit, the green of which gave an echo to the water. Around his neck was tied an exotic red silk scarf. I chewed a piece of bread and watched him approach. He put his hands into his pockets and turned to the sea, whistling softly as he looked at the red beacon blinking. At length he came and sat beside me. We glanced at each other, and then considered our feet. I offered him the bottle, but he shook his head. He took a piece of cheese and nibbled halfheartedly at it. The lights of the quay were coming into their own as darkness fell out of the sky. Erik took a flat silver case from his pocket and selected a cigarette. He passed the case to me, and I took one also, examined it, and nodded. We watched the smoke drift to the edge of the pier, slide over and drop down to the water.
‘Where did you get the scarf?’ I asked.
His fingers went to the flimsy piece of cloth, and he said uncertainly,
‘You think it foolish?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
We sat for a while, sustained by silence, riding its calm evening deeps.
‘I see you were talking to Mrs Kyd,’ I said.
‘No, she was talking to me.’
‘Oh. Leaving tonight, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘With Andreas?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Going on the yacht, eh?’
‘Yes. Your cheek …’
‘Walked into a door.’
‘Ah.’
Across the quay walked Julian and the boy. I recognized their white clothes. Helena joined them at the pier. They stopped for a moment to give directions for the stowing of their luggage, then they clambered into the skiff and were whisked across the harbour to their yacht. Erik said,
‘She is going away?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going away too. Erik.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did Aristotle want us killed?’
‘Aristotle want us … did he want us killed?’
‘Then why did you kill the sailor?’
‘He would have killed us.’
‘Why?’
‘He likes to kill.’
That tense was interesting. I glanced at him. He was frowning at his hands.
‘But Aristotle must have —’
‘I don’t know,’ he cried. ‘I don’t know.’