He brought out from the pocket of his suit a moth-eaten pair of black woollen swimming trunks. They were too big for him, and when he put them on, and stood up, his scrawny frame looked even more emaciated in that ridiculous gear. He went and dived into the water, making hardly a splash. I stood and watched him. Down there he was almost graceful, his long thin figure sliding through the liquid darkness with perfect ease. After a few strokes he came out again, shaking his head and spitting uproariously. On the seaweed-covered steps, he slipped and bruised his knee. We sat down again, and Erik examined his wounded leg. He cleaned his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief and clipped them behind his ears again.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, clawing at his hair.
‘Go back to Rabin’s. I never intended to do otherwise.’
‘And what about the girl?’
‘What about her?’
He shrugged, and lapsed into silence. I threw the last crusts of the loaf toward the water, but before they could reach the surface, two seagulls came down like flashes of light and took them in their beaks. We watched them soar away, two beautiful beasts, and then Erik said sheepishly,
‘Perhaps, just a small drink, to wish us both luck.’
I handed him the bottle and listened to the liquor gurgle in his throat. He gasped, and wiped his mouth. I made the motions of a toast, but could find no suitable words. Erik belched, and immediately the liner’s siren sent up an outrageous echo. He stood up and put on his suit again, over the wet trunks.
‘Isn’t it strange how all these things work together,’ I mused. ‘The wind lifts the waves, and the waves pound the shore. These strange cycles. People too, with their cycles and reversals that cause so much anguish. It’s amazing.’
I looked at Erik. Erik looked at the sea. I went on,
‘Imitating the seasons, I suppose. The rages and storms, the silences. If only the world would imitate us once in a while. That would be something, wouldn’t it? But the world maintains a contemptuous silence, and what the heart desires, the world is incapable of giving.’
A pretty speech. I would refuse to believe that I had made it, did I not have evidence, which I have. Erik hitched up his trousers, and blew his nose. I wondered if he had been listening to me. He had.
‘I must go now,’ he said.
‘Good luck.’
‘I shall see you in Athens, yes?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
But he had not gone six paces when he stopped, and retraced his steps.
‘I wanted to say that …’
He closed his mouth.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know.’
I did not know, but what difference did that make? He nodded, and went away. I did not have time to watch him go, for the white yacht, the great craft, was pulling away from the pier, out of the harbour, under full sail.
I walked through the little streets, humming to myself, sniffing the gorgeous odours of the island, lime and salt, fish, incense, bread and burning charcoal, and I realized that it was not I who was departing, but these things, this island, this beauty, they were going, were already becoming a memory. There were a few tears, yes.
From a sidestreet, a dim figure crept out and laid a hand on my shoulder. I let out a shriek, and leapt a foot into the air, and whirled about with the bottle lifted in my hand.
‘It’s me, Andreas. Erik tells me you’re leaving.’
‘Yes.’
He came with me to my room, where I packed a bag, and tied my papers with a piece of twine. Then I cast one last look around me, and switched off the light. Out of the darkness, Andreas’s voice said,
‘You don’t want to leave?’
‘Come on.’
We reached the quay as the last trawler was preparing to depart. Both yachts were gone now. Andreas saw me looking at the vacant mooring places, and he smiled, and said,
‘It seems we both have our losses, Mr White.’
‘Aye.’
The lights of the village trembled on the black water. The little boat rolled and shuddered around the thrust of its engine.
‘Ten hours to Athens,’ said Andreas gloomily.
I ignored him. The white flank of the liner loomed above us, and we climbed the swaying steps to the deck. Andreas found two seats for us on a bench under the canvas awning of the third-class area. We left our baggage there, and went out to stand by the rail. I felt that he was offering me something, a truce maybe, perhaps, even, friendship. I wondered what I would need to surrender in return, and decided that I would not be able to accept the bargain. But all these considerations were incidental to what was foremost in my mind, this awful sadness of departure, and I paid little attention to the poor creature by my side who was waiting for a word. Small sounds lapped about us, the calm sea swell, the deep thrumming of the engines. A bell clanged thrice. I clenched my hands on the damp rail. Across the water, the quayside was thronged with vague dark figures. Hands waved, and faint voices called farewells. Behind me, my fellow passengers stood locked in silence, and watched, with amazement almost, the little lights recede, and the twin white wakes set out behind us on their backward journey. The sky was blue, an impossible, deep blue, as though the night, falling from it, had drained half of its darkness. I watched the last of the world I was deserting, imagining that I would never see it again, and the voices from the quay, beating ever more weakly across the bay, seemed the voice of the island itself, of its inviolable hills and shores, bidding me, whom it was losing, its last farewell.
What did I say? It was a lie. I was not happy. There was no peace. Lust was the least of my terrors. The land was waste, nothing flourished. Time trammelled me in all my days, the light blinded me, broke my sight, and I saw nothing, nothing.
PART TWO
Autumn is approaching, and the ships are bellowing out on the sea. The fog comes to my window, nuzzles at my window like some friendly blind animal. I can feel the roots of the year withering. The sap retreats. My little feathered foes are growing restless for the golden south. See the seasons trundle off again on their tiresome course. Time passes, nothing endures. Only here, in these sinister pages, can time be vanquished. These little keys on which I dance transfix eternity with every tap. O city city. Tremulous music begins to drop like liquid through the wings. The lights grow dim, and from out of the dimness the lighted stage advances. There I stand, in the sober darkness of my robes, my hands uplifted. I am about to conjure up another world. Watch me closely. Abraca—
I walked across the Plaka, from under the violet shade of the rock into the sunlight. The blazing markets rang with sound and light. On stalls that lined the narrow streets ripe fruit was piled, slow explosions of crimson and yellow, breathtaking purples, the copper acned flesh of oranges. Children scampered, beggars lurched, the vendors roared their wares. A woman laid her hands upon a barrel of tomatoes, and smiled at me with her teeth as white as seashells, her fingers pressing the passionate fruits. Lavender shadows lay between her lips. I carried away the image of glittering sapphire flies drawing a frame about her face. High above, behind me, the pillars of the Parthenon glowed in the sun, gold supports set between heaven and the massive rock. Dust flew in the air like yellow pollen, and a delicate blue heat-haze bloomed on the houses and the little shops, on hand and face and hair, on the ancient stones. In Monasteraki, the mood of the day was calm, matched to the sombre glow of copper and bronze in the bazaars. There I stopped, in an alleyway, to watch an old blind man weaving a basket, while above his head, in its ornate cage, a blinded canary whistled a song of unendurable tenderness, telling me that I would live forever, at the very least. Another spring.