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Many
lights
,
many
voices
.
Kai
ta
pyrotechnimata
.
"
And
the
fireworks
.
Georgiou
said
,
"
Yah
.
You
were
drunk
,
Barba
.
"
"
No
.
I
was
not
drunk
.
"
Try
as
I
did
,
I
could
get
nothing
more
out
of
the
old
man
.
I
was
on
lunch
-
and
-
afternoon
duty
;
so
in
the
end
I
shook
them
both
by
the
hand
,
paid
the
small
bill
,
tipped
Georgiou
heavily
,
and
walked
back
to
the
school
.
One
thing
was
clear
.
There
had
been
Leverrier
,
Mitford
and
myself
;
but
then
others
whose
names
I
did
not
yet
know
back
in
the
thirties
;
a
long
line
.
It
gave
me
the
courage
to
face
whatever
new
was
being
prepared
in
that
now
uncurtained
theatre
over
on
the
far
side
.
I
returned
to
the
village
that
evening
,
and
climbed
up
the
narrow
cobbled
streets
that
led
to
the
back
of
the
village
;
past
warrens
of
whitewashed
walls
,
peasant
interiors
,
tiny
squares
shaded
by
almond
trees
.
Great
magenta
sprays
of
bougainvillea
flamed
in
the
sun
or
glowed
in
the
pale
evening
shadows
.
It
was
a
sort
of
kasbah
area
of
the
village
,
a
very
pretty
kasbah
,
with
its
cross
glimpses
of
the
plunibago
-
blue
six
-
o
’
clock
sea
below
,
and
the
gold
-
green
pinecovered
hills
above
.
People
sitting
outside
their
cottages
greeted
me
,
and
I
collected
the
inevitable
small
Pied
Piper
chain
of
children
,
who
subsided
into
giggles
if
I
looked
at
them
and
waved
them
away
.
When
I
came
to
the
church
I
went
in
.
I
wanted
to
justify
my
presence
in
the
quarter
.
It
was
densely
gloomy
,
with
a
miasma
of
incense
over
everything
;
a
row
of
ikons
,
somber
silhouettes
set
in
smoky
gold
,
stared
down
at
me
,
as
if
they
knew
what
an
alien
I
was
in
their
cryptlike
Byzantine
world
.
After
five
minutes
I
came
out
.
The
children
had
mercifully
disappeared
,
and
I
could
take
the
alley
to
the
right
of
the
church
.
On
one
side
there
were
the
round
cylinders
of
the
church
apses
,
on
the
other
a
wall
eight
or
nine
feet
high
.
The
alley
turned
and
the
wall
continued
.
But
halfway
along
it
there
was
an
arched
gateway
:
a
keystone
with
the
date
1823
Ofl
it
,
and
above
that
a
place
where
there
had
once
been
a
coat
of
arms
.
I
guessed
that
the
house
inside
had
been
built
by
one
of
the
pirate
"
admirals
"
of
the
War
of
Independence
.
There
was
a
narrow
door
let
into
the
right
hand
of
the
two
gate
doors
,
with
a
slit
for
letters
.
Above
it
,
painted
white
on
black
on
an
old
bit
of
sheet
metal
,
was
the
name
Hermes
Ambelas
.
To
the
left
the
ground
fell
away
behind
the
church
.
There
was
no
way
of
looking
over
the
wall
from
that
side
.
I
went
to
the
small
door
and
pushed
it
gently
to
see
if
it
gave
.
But
it
was
locked
.
The
islanders
were
notoriously
honest
,
thieves
unknown
;
and
I
could
not
remember
having
seen
an
outer
gate
locked
like
that
anywhere
else
on
Phraxos
.
I
went
on
.
The
rocky
lane
dipped
abruptly
down
between
two
cottages
.
The
roof
of
the
one
on
the
right
was
below
the
wall
of
the
house
.
At
the
bottom
a
cross
alley
took
me
back
and
around
to
the
other
side
.
There
the
ground
fell
away
even
more
precipitously
and
I
found
myself
looking
up
ten
feet
of
vertical
rock
even
before
the
wall
foundation
started
The
house
and
its
garden
walls
on
this
side
continued
the
rockface
,
and
I
could
see
that
in
fact
it
was
not
a
very
big
house
,
though
still
by
village
standards
much
too
grandiose
for
a
donkey
driver
.
Two
ground
-
floor
windows
,
three
upstairs
,
all
shuttered
.
They
were
still
in
the
last
sunlight
and
must
have
given
a
fine
view
west
over
the
village
and
the
straits
to
the
Argolian
mainland
.
Was
it
a
view
Julie
knew
well
?
I
felt
like
Blondel
beneath
Richard
Coeur
de
Lion
’
s
window
,
but
not
even
able
to
pass
messages
by
song
.
Down
in
a
small
square
below
I
could
see
two
or
three
women
interestedly
watching
me
.
I
waved
,
strolled
on
,
as
if
my
look
upwards
had
been
idle
curiosity
.
I
came
to
yet
another
cross
alley
,
and
climbed
up
it
to
my
starting
point
outside
Agios
Elias
.
The
house
was
impregnable
to
passing
eyes
.
Later
,
down
in
front
of
the
Hotel
Philadelphia
,
I
looked
back
.
I
could
see
over
all
the
intervening
roofs
the
church
and
the
house
to
the
right
of
it
,
the
five
windows
staring
out
.
They
seemed
defiant
,
but
blind
.
Monday
was
a
day
of
academic
chores
,
catching
up
on
the
Sisyphean
piles
of
marking
that
seemed
always
to
roll
down
on
my
desk
;
finalizing
—
miserable
word
for
a
miserable
prospect
—
the
end
-
of
-
term
examination
papers
;
and
trying
all
the
time
not
to
think
about
Julie
.
I
knew
it
was
useless
asking
Demetriades
to
help
me
find
out
the
names
of
the
English
masters
at
the
school
before
the
war
.
If
he
knew
them
he
wouldn
’
t
tell
them
;
and
very
probably
he
genuinely
did
not
know
them
.
I
went
to
the
school
bursar
,
but
this
time
he
could
not
help
me
;
all
the
bursary
records
had
gone
with
the
wind
of
1940
.
On
Tuesday
I
tried
the
master
who
ran
the
school
library
.
He
went
at
once
to
a
shelf
and
pulled
down
a
bound
volume
of
Founder
’
s
Day
programs
—
one
for
each
year
before
the
war
.
These
programs
were
lavishly
got
up
to
impress
visiting
parents
and
in
the
back
contained
class
lists
—
as
well
as
a
list
of
"
professors
.
"
In
ten
minutes
I
had
the
names
of
the
six
who
had
taught
between
1930
and
1939
.
But
I
was
still
stuck
for
all
their
addresses
.
The
week
ground
slowly
past
.
Each
lunchtime
I
watched
the
village
postman
come
in
with
letters
and
give
them
to
the
duty
prefect
,
who
then
made
a
slow
,
slow
tour
of
the
tables
.
None
came
for
me
.
I
expected
no
mercy
from
Conchis
;
but
I
found
it
hard
to
forgive
Julie
.
The
first
and
most
obvious
possibility
was
that
she
had
taken
her
sister
’
s
advice
and
flown
back
to
England
;
in
which
case
I
couldn
’
t
believe
she
would
not
have
written
at
once
—
at
least
to
tell
me
.
The
second
was
that
she
had
had
to
accept
the
cancellation
of
the
weekend
;
but
she
could
still
have
written
to
console
me
,
to
explain
why
.
The
third
was
that
she
was
being
held
prisoner
,
or
at
any
rate
incommunicado
to
the
extent
that
she
could
not
post
a
letter
to
me
.
I
couldn
’
t
really
believe
that
,
though
I
had
angry
moments
when
I
thought
of
going
to
the
police
,
or
of
hiring
a
caïque
and
going
to
Nauplia
myself
.
The
days
dragged
on
,
redeemed
only
by
one
little
piece
of
information
that
fell
into
my
hands
by
chance
.
Looking
through
the
books
in
the
English
bay
in
the
library
for
a
suitable
"
unseen
"
for
the
exams
,
I
took
down
a
Conrad
.
There
was
a
name
on
the
flyleaf
:
D
.
P
.
R
.
Nevinson
.
I
knew
he
had
been
at
the
school
before
the
war
.
Underneath
was
written
Balliol
College
,
1930
.
I
started
looking
through
the
other
books
.
Nevinson
had
left
a
good
number
;
but
there
was
no
other
address
besides
Balliol
.
The
name
W
.
A
.
Hughes
,
another
prewar
master
’
s
,
appeared
on
two
poetry
volume
flyleafs
,
without
address
.
I
left
lunch
early
on
the
Thursday
,
asking
a
boy
to
bring
me
any
letters
that
might
be
distributed
later
.
I
had
come
not
to
expect
any
.
But
about
ten
minutes
afterwards
,
when
I
was
already
in
pajamas
for
the
siesta
,
the
boy
knocked
on
my
door
.
Two
letters
.
One
from
London
,
a
typewritten
address
,
some
educational
publisher
’
s
catalogue
.
But
the
other
…
A
Greek
stamp
.
Indecipherable
postmark
.
Neat
italic
handwriting
.
In
English
.
Siphnos
,
MondayMY
DEAR
SWEET
NICHOLAS
,
I
know
you
must
be
angry
with
me
for
not
having
written
,
but
the
answer
is
very
simple
.
We
’
ve
been
at
sea
(
in
all
ways
)
and
today
is
our
first
in
sight
of
a
postbox
.
I
must
be
quick
,
because
the
boat
that
takes
the
mail
sails
in
half
an
hour
.
I
am
writing
in
a
cafe
’
by
the
harbor
and
June
is
keeping
watch
.
We
left
Nauplia
in
the
yacht
on
Thursday
,
we
thought
for
a
day
or
two
’
s
cruise
.
I
don
’
t
know
where
to
begin
—
well
,
first
of
all
,
June
has
refused
to
go
on
.
He
began
to
tell
us
the
"
script
"
on
Friday
evening
.
It
involved
my
having
a
ridiculous
quarrel
with
you
.
Then
June
trying
to
make
it
up
—
and
trying
to
make
love
to
you
at
the
same
time
.
Of
course
we
demanded
to
know
why
—
why
everything
,
in
the
end
.
I
can
’
t
tell
you
all
we
said
—
except
that
when
it
had
all
been
said
,
neither
June
nor
myself
was
satisfied
.
He
went
back
to
this
business
of
mystification
,
and
some
incomprehensible
talk
about
time
.
Time
with
a
capital
T
.
I
don
’
t
think
we
were
meant
to
understand
.
He
was
cunning
,
really
,
because
he
said
that
the
more
we
demanded
to
know
,
the
more
impossible
it
was
to
go
on
.
June
took
all
the
initiative
.
She
told
him
about
you
and
me
.
He
pretended
to
be
amazed
,
but
we
didn
’
t
believe
his
amazement
(
probably
weren
’
t
meant
to
)
.
(
I
must
hurry
.
)
In
the
end
he
became
very
understanding
,
but
once
again
too
understanding
.
You
know
what
I
mean
.
Greeks
,
and
fearing
gifts
.
When
we
went
to
bed
we
thought
we
were
heading
back
for
Nauplia
—
and
then
on
to
the
island
on
Saturday
.
Instead
when
we
got
up
we
were
out
of
sight
of
land
—
and
we
’
ve
stayed
out
of
sight
—
reach
,
anyway
—
of
land
till
now
.
All
Maurice
would
say
was
that
he
had
to
revise
all
his
plans
.
I
think
he
may
have
been
trying
to
soften
us
—
show
us
how
hurt
he
was
,
and
remind
us
(
me
,
sweet
Nicholas
)
of
what
we
were
missing
.
But
we
stood
firm
.
What
has
been
arranged
is
this
:
he
has
begged
me
to
play
my
part
for
one
more
week
.
He
says
he
wants
to
tell
you
the
last
chapter
of
his
life
and
to
play
what
he
calls
the
"
disintoxication
"
scene
.
He
says
you
will
now
be
expecting
the
last
chapter
(
?
)
.
Whatever
seems
to
be
happening
(
he
’
s
told
us
,
so
I
tell
you
)
on
Saturday
and
Sunday
,
at
the
end
no
bell
will
ring
.
I
shan
’
t
have
to
go
away
…
unless
you
want
me
to
.
Perhaps
you
do
now
.
It
will
be
only
one
or
two
more
days
when
you
get
this
.
He
may
play
some
last
Maurician
trick
,
so
please
pretend
,
remember
that
you
haven
’
t
read
this
,
you
know
nothing
—
you
must
act
a
little
now
!
—
please
.
For
my
sake
.
Nicholas
.
June
says
I
must
finish
.
I
so
want
to
see
you
.
If
you
only
knew
how
often
I
think
of
you
.
That
night
.
JULIEP
.
S
.
There
’
s
to
be
a
present
for
you
.
A
sort
of
surprise
.
At
the
very
end
.
J
.
I
read
the
letter
twice
,
three
times
.
I
lay
on
the
bed
and
thought
of
her
coming
to
me
;
her
nakedness
;
lying
together
,
nothing
other
between
us
.
I
felt
completely
buoyant
again
,
able
to
cope
;
as
long
as
she
was
still
in
Greece
,
to
be
waiting
for
me
at
Bourani
…
I
was
woken
at
four
by
the
bell
that
a
prefect
always
came
across
and
rang
with
vindictive
violence
in
the
wide
stone
corridor
outside
our
rooms
.
There
was
the
usual
chorus
of
angry
shouts
from
my
colleagues
.
I
lay
on
my
elbow
and
read
Lily
’
s
letter
twice
more
.
Then
I
remembered
the
other
one
I
had
thrown
on
my
desk
and
went
yawning
to
open
that
.
Inside
was
a
typewritten
note
and
another
,
airmail
,
envelope
slit
open
,
but
I
hardly
looked
at
them
because
two
newspaper
cuttings
were
pinned
on
to
the
top
of
the
note
.
I
had
to
read
them
first
.
The
first
words
.
The
first
words
.
The
whole
thing
had
happened
to
me
before
,
the
same
sensations
,
the
same
feeling
that
it
could
not
be
true
and
was
true
,
of
vertiginous
shock
and
superficial
calm
.
Coming
out
of
the
Randolph
in
Oxford
with
two
or
three
other
people
,
walking
up
to
Carfax
,
a
man
under
the
tower
selling
the
Evening
News
.
Standing
there
,
a
silly
girl
saying
"
Look
at
Nicholas
,
he
’
s
pretending
he
can
read
.
"
And
I
looked
up
with
the
death
of
parents
in
my
face
and
said
"
My
mother
and
father
.
"
As
if
I
had
just
for
the
first
time
discovered
that
such
people
existed
.
The
top
cutting
was
from
some
local
newspaper
,
from
the
bottom
of
a
column
.
It
said
:
AIR
HOSTESS
SUICIDEAustralian
air
hostess
Alison
Kelly
,
24
,
was
found
yesterday
lying
on
her
bed
in
the
Russell
Square
flat
they
both
share
by
her
friend
Ann
Taylor
,
also
Australian
,
when
she
returned
from
a
weekend
in
Stratford
-
on
-
Avon
.
She
was
rushed
to
the
Middlesex
Hospital
but
found
to
be
dead
on
admission
.
Miss
Taylor
was
treated
for
shock
.
Inquest
next
week
.
The
second
cutting
said
:
UNHAPPY
IN
LOVE
SO
KILLS
HERSELFPC
Henry
Davis
told
the
deputy
Holborn
coroner
on
Tuesday
how
on
the
evening
of
Sunday
,
June
z9th
,
he
found
a
young
woman
lying
on
her
bed
with
an
empty
bottle
of
sleeping
tablets
by
her
side
.
He
had
been
called
by
the
dead
girl
’
s
flat
-
mate
,
Australian
physiotherapist
Ann
Taylor
,
who
found
the
deceased
,
Alison
Kelly
,
air
hostess
,
aged
24
,
on
her
return
from
a
weekend
at
Stratford
-
on
-
Avon
.
A
verdict
of
suicide
was
recorded
.
Miss
Taylor
said
that
although
her
friend
had
been
subject
to
fits
of
depression
and
said
she
could
not
sleep
properly
she
had
had
no
reason
to
suppose
the
deceased
was
in
a
suicidal
frame
of
mind
.
In
answer
to
questions
,
Miss
Taylor
said
,
"
My
friend
was
recently
depressed
because
of
an
unhappy
love
affaire
,
but
I
thought
she
had
got
over
it
.
"
Dr
.
Behrens
,
the
deceased
’
s
doctor
,
told
the
coroner
that
Miss
Kelly
had
led
her
to
believe
that
it
was
her
work
which
gave
her
insomnia
.
Asked
by
the
coroner
whether
she
normally
prescribed
such
large
quantities
of
tablets
,
Dr
.
Behrens
replied
that
she
took
into
account
the
difficulty
the
deceased
might
have
in
getting
to
a
chemist
frequently
.
She
had
no
reason
to
suspect
suicide
.
The
coroner
stated
that
two
notes
found
by
the
police
threw
no
light
on
the
real
motive
of
this
tragic
business
.
The
typewritten
note
was
from
Ann
Taylor
.
DEAR
NICHOLAS
URFE
,
The
enclosed
cuttings
will
explain
why
I
am
writing
.
I
am
sorry
,
it
will
be
a
great
shock
,
but
I
don
’
t
know
how
else
to
break
it
.
She
was
very
depressed
when
she
came
back
from
Athens
,
but
she
wouldn
’
t
talk
about
it
,
so
I
don
’
t
know
whose
fault
it
was
.
She
used
to
talk
a
lot
about
suicide
at
one
time
but
we
always
thought
it
was
a
joke
.
She
left
this
envelope
for
you
.
The
police
opened
it
.
There
was
no
note
inside
.
There
was
a
note
for
me
,
but
it
said
nothing
—
just
apologies
.
We
are
all
heartbroken
about
it
.
I
feel
I
am
to
blame
.
Now
she
is
gone
we
realize
what
she
was
.
I
can
’
t
understand
any
man
not
realizing
what
she
really
was
underneath
and
not
wanting
to
marry
her
.
But
I
don
’
t
understand
men
,
I
suppose
.
Yours
very
sadly
,
ANN
TAYLORP
.
S
.
I
don
’
t
know
if
you
want
to
write
to
her
mother
.
The
ashes
are
being
sent
home
.
Her
address
is
—
Mrs
.
Mary
Kelly
,
19
Liverpool
Avenue
,
Goulburn
,
N
.
S
.
W
.
I
looked
at
the
airmail
envelope
.
It
had
my
name
outside
,
in
Alison
’
s
handwriting
.
I
tipped
the
contents
out
on
the
desk
.
A
tangle
of
clumsily
pressed
flowers
:
two
or
three
violets
,
some
pinks
.
Two
of
the
pinks
were
still
woven
together
.
Three
weeks
.
To
my
horror
I
began
to
cry
.
My
tears
did
not
last
very
long
.
I
had
no
privacy
.
The
bell
for
class
rang
,
and
Demetriades
was
tapping
at
my
door
.
I
brushed
my
eyes
with
the
back
of
my
wrist
and
went
and
opened
it
.
I
was
still
in
pajamas
.
"
Eh
!
What
are
you
doing
?
We
are
late
.
"
"
I
don
’
t
feel
very
well
.
"
"
You
look
strange
,
my
dear
fellow
.
"
He
put
on
a
look
of
concern
.
I
turned
away
,
"
Just
tell
the
first
lot
to
revise
for
the
exam
.
And
tell
the
others
to
do
the
same
.
"
"
But
—
"
"
Leave
me
alone
,
will
you
?
"
"
What
shall
I
say
?
"
"
Anything
.
"
I
shoved
him
out
.
