Where is he making for? Perhaps that fold in the hills, above the old harbour, the area he spoke of. Prosecuting his researches. Possibly. But there could be other reasons. He could be making his own survey of the coast-for landing stages perhaps, or seeking some contact with the people in the interior. There are, as we all know, rebel forces in the mountains. We see their fires. Your troops are ambushed in lonely places. These people come down into the villages for supplies and nobody says anything. It may be that Mister Bowles has come to give them encouragement or money, stir up a bit of murder-for the best of reasons, no doubt, reasons these days are always excellent. Deaths here could be of benefit somewhere, to someone, provide a bargaining point, strengthen an argument. The Powers dabble in blood, if you will forgive the play on words.
We must make no violent movements, Excellency. We must emulate Mrs Socratous in the lobby of the Metropole, keeping as still as possible. Your Empire is the most cosmopolitan the world has ever seen, a multiplicity of races, creeds and tongues, united in the Ottoman state. A perfect equivalent, in political terms, of that unity in diversity which has exercised philosophers ever since Thales. (He held the opinion, if you will remember, that the world, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, is made of water.)
This unity can only be preserved by our remaining immobile. Avoid sudden gestures, Excellency. Avoid detonations. Avoid radical reform. There are certain phases in the progress of decay which can become interminable. We are living through one such. They have called us the Sick Man of Europe, but invalids can outlive their squabbling heirs. Let us aim at protracted moribundity. Make repairs by all means. Soothe local discontents. Review the pay structure for those in government service, especially your faithful and anonymous army of spies. That much motion will serve to keep carrion birds at bay.
The particles cluster to you, their natural lode and only attractive principle. By granting constitutions you will break this field of force. And what will they do, with their shining new nationhood? Serbs, Bulgarians, Albanians, Macedonians. I will tell you, Excellency. They will devise uniforms and anthems and distinctive ways of marching on parade. They will be quick to take offence. It is a dignified thing to be a nation, and honour can only be served by inflicting atrocities up and down your new-found borders. More important than this, there is the attitude of the Powers to be considered. Take Austria, for example. Italy could shut off the Adriatic tomorrow, if she wished. If that were to happen, think how important Salonika would become to the Hapsburgs. Do you think they will allow the Slavs autonomy in Macedonia?
It is more than thirty years since your accession, and I have seen your dominions loosening, falling away from year to year. You must keep still, Excellency.
Why is it that I feel uneasy, giving this excellent advice of a faithful servant? Perhaps I smell again the steam of your Empire, vaporised blood. It hangs in the air of our immobility.
What is he doing, up there in the hills? Lydia may know something. A visit to her studio might elicit some information; or at least, though lower in the scale of things, food. I have not eaten today yet.
I did not continue yesterday, feeling tired after my visit to Lydia 's studio. Tired and unwell. In fact I almost lost consciousness, on the steps up to my balcony. That was after leaving the Englishman. The blood was beating in my head and my vision was impaired for some minutes. I went to bed but could not sleep for a long time, not till early morning. Today I feel better. I need new glasses, Excellency. These I have had for ten years now. I was giving French lessons during that period to the daughters of the magistrate and to the Assistant Chief of Police, and I was able to save a little. I got the glasses in Smyrna. They are good glasses, but my eyes need stronger lenses now.
I know what it is that Mister Bowles requires of me. He arrived at the studio not very long after I did. Doctor Hogan came too, a little later. Lydia was working when I arrived, but seemed not to mind being interrupted. We talked about Mister Bowles for a while, and then, after he arrived, about painting. This conversation afforded a number of insights, important, I think, in this narrative of mine, and I shall describe it in more detail later. But I must speak first about Mister Bowles's proposition.
When I got up to go Mister Bowles offered to accompany me, rather to my surprise. He had been annoyed, I think, by some remarks of the doctor's, and I thought at first that he was leaving because of this, but it was not so: his real reason soon became plain.
We walked for some time in silence. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was high, though the house walls on the seaward, western side cast a narrow shadow. Our steps were quiet in the dust of the street. We passed one or two Moslem women, no men. They were quick to cover their faces, no doubt because of the tall fair foreigner walking beside me.
Mister Bowles began to speak about his archeological interests. He was particularly interested in the site of the sanctuary to Artemis and in the area adjoining this. 'Up there in the hills, you know,' he said, not looking at me-he did not look at me while he was speaking, and nothing could make him seem so alien to the ways of the Levant. Still, for a dedicated informer what could be better than to see Mister Bowles unfolding his obsessions, watch the movements of moustache and pale lashes? 'No one has ever really looked at it,' he said. 'There are some extensive ruins there. Also the remains of a villa of the early Roman type.' He did look at me now, quickly, as if these last words were in some way revealing. After a moment, he said, 'It is believed to be the house to which the Virgin Mary retired after the death of Christ.'
'That is the local legend,' I said.
But it was not merely local, it seemed. In a series of bursts Mister Bowles indicated that it was a belief of very respectable antiquity. There were references in contemporary authors, though admittedly not conclusive. ' St Jerome,' he said, 'speaks of an island in the Greek Sea as having been the last resting place of the Mother of Christ. And Thornton, the English traveller Thornton-'
'But by the Greek Sea, he must have meant the Western Aegean, surely?' I said.
Mister Bowles went on as if I had not spoken, merely raising his voice a little. 'The English traveller Thornton -' he repeated. It was as if he were reciting something, almost, and was dutifully determined to get through to the end. 'He was here in 1703,' he said, 'and he refers to the belief, then generally prevalent, that this was where the Virgin spent her last years.' People used to come from as far away as the mainland, apparently, to intercede at her shrine.
'The Greeks burn a candle up there sometimes,' I said. 'When they want to give thanks to the Panagia for some favour, a good olive crop or a male child, something like that.'
Mister Bowles nodded at this, soberly, and said he would put it in his book. He was writing a book about the various places that claim sanctity on the grounds that Mary breathed her last there. 'There are eight altogether,' he said. 'Shall we walk down to the shore?'
We were among the Greek houses again now. We turned down towards the sea. Pappoulis was standing at the door of his taverna, clicking his tongue at the caged goldfinch on the wall. He nodded to me, but said nothing, and after a moment looked away. He did not speak to me, Excellency! Only last week, only five days ago, we played chess together. Fear came like nausea to the pit of my stomach. Pappoulis was averting his eyes from my death. For a moment, there in the sunlit street, the crucified man of my memory swung and creaked in his ropes. Mon bon cadavre, o ma mémoire.