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"
Where
do
you
come
from
?
The
National
Theatre
?
"
But
he
shook
his
head
,
as
if
he
didn
’
t
understand
.
"
A
very
rich
man
.
"
He
looked
down
at
the
driver
,
as
if
he
would
understand
,
even
if
I
didn
’
t
.
"
He
is
buried
in
St
.
George
’
s
.
A
fine
cemetery
.
"
And
there
was
something
so
perfect
in
his
typical
Greek
idler
’
s
smile
,
in
the
way
he
extended
such
unnecessary
information
,
that
I
began
almost
to
believe
that
he
was
what
he
seemed
.
"
Is
that
all
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Ne
,
ne
.
Go
and
see
his
grave
.
A
beautiful
grave
.
"
I
got
into
the
taxi
.
He
rushed
for
his
stick
of
tickets
,
and
brandished
them
through
the
window
.
"
You
will
be
lucky
.
The
English
are
always
lucky
.
"
He
picked
one
off
,
held
it
to
me
.
"
Eh
.
Just
one
little
ticket
.
"
I
spoke
sharply
to
the
driver
.
He
did
a
U
-
turn
,
but
after
fifty
yards
I
stopped
him
outside
a
café
.
I
beckoned
to
a
waiter
.
The
house
back
there
,
did
he
know
who
it
belonged
to
?
Yes
.
To
a
widow
called
Ralli
,
who
lived
in
Corfu
.
I
looked
through
the
rear
window
.
The
ticket
seller
was
walking
quickly
,
much
too
quickly
,
in
the
opposite
direction
;
and
as
I
watched
,
he
turned
down
a
side
alley
out
of
sight
.
At
four
o
’
clock
that
afternoon
,
when
it
was
cooler
,
I
caught
a
bus
out
to
the
cemetery
.
It
lay
some
miles
outside
Athens
,
on
a
wooded
slope
of
Mount
Aigaleos
.
When
I
asked
the
old
man
at
the
gate
I
half
expected
a
blank
look
.
But
he
went
painfully
inside
his
lodge
,
fingered
through
a
large
register
,
and
told
me
I
must
go
up
the
main
alley
;
then
fifth
right
.
I
walked
past
lines
of
toy
Ionic
temples
and
columned
busts
and
fancy
steles
,
a
forest
of
Hellenic
bad
taste
;
but
pleasantly
green
and
shady
.
Fifth
left
.
And
there
,
between
two
cypresses
,
shaded
by
a
mournful
aspidistra
-
like
plant
,
lay
a
simple
Pentelic
marble
slab
with
,
underneath
a
cross
,
the
words
:
MORIS
KOLCHIS1896
—
1949Four
years
dead
.
At
the
foot
of
the
slab
was
a
small
green
pot
in
which
sat
,
rising
from
a
cushion
of
inconspicuous
white
flowers
,
a
white
arum
lily
and
a
red
rose
.
I
knelt
and
took
them
out
.
The
stems
were
recently
cut
,
probably
from
only
that
morning
;
the
water
was
clear
and
fresh
.
I
understood
;
it
was
his
way
of
telling
me
what
I
had
already
guessed
,
that
detective
work
would
lead
me
nowhere
—
to
a
false
grave
,
to
yet
another
joke
,
a
smile
fading
into
thin
air
.
I
replaced
the
flowers
.
One
of
the
humbler
background
sprigs
fell
and
I
picked
it
up
and
smelt
it
;
a
sweet
,
honey
fragrance
.
Since
there
was
a
rose
and
a
lily
,
perhaps
it
had
some
significance
.
I
put
it
in
my
buttonhole
,
and
forgot
about
it
.
At
the
gate
I
asked
the
old
man
if
he
knew
of
any
relatives
of
the
deceased
Maurice
Conchis
.
He
looked
in
his
book
again
for
me
,
but
there
was
nothing
.
Did
he
know
who
had
brought
the
flowers
?
No
,
many
people
brought
flowers
.
The
breeze
raised
the
wispy
hairs
over
his
wrinkled
forehead
.
He
was
an
old
,
tired
man
.
The
sky
was
very
blue
.
A
plane
droned
down
to
the
airport
on
the
other
side
of
the
Attic
plain
.
Other
visitors
came
,
and
the
old
man
limped
away
.
The
dinner
that
evening
was
dreadful
,
the
epitome
of
English
vacuity
.
Before
I
went
,
I
had
some
idea
that
I
might
tell
them
a
little
about
Bourani
;
I
saw
a
spellbound
dinner
table
.
But
the
idea
did
not
survive
the
first
five
minutes
of
conversation
.
There
were
eight
of
us
,
five
from
the
Council
,
an
Embassy
secretary
,
and
a
little
middle
-
aged
queer
,
a
critic
,
who
had
come
to
do
some
lectures
.
There
was
a
good
deal
of
literary
chitchat
.
The
queer
waited
like
a
small
vulture
for
names
to
be
produced
.
"
Has
anyone
read
Murdoch
’
s
latest
?
"
asked
the
Embassy
man
.
"
Couldn
’
t
stand
it
.
"
"
Oh
I
rather
enjoyed
it
.
"
The
queer
touched
his
bowtie
.
"
Of
course
you
know
what
Iris
said
when
she
…
"
I
looked
round
the
other
faces
,
after
he
had
done
this
for
the
tenth
time
,
hoping
to
see
a
flicker
of
fellow
feeling
,
someone
else
who
wanted
to
shout
at
him
that
writing
was
about
books
,
not
the
trivia
of
private
lives
.
But
they
were
all
the
same
,
each
mind
set
in
the
same
weird
armor
,
like
an
archosaur
’
s
ruff
,
like
a
fringe
of
icicles
.
All
I
heard
the
whole
evening
was
the
tinkle
of
broken
ice
needles
as
people
tried
timidly
and
vainly
to
reach
through
the
stale
fence
of
words
,
tinkle
,
tinkle
,
and
then
withdrew
.
Nobody
said
what
they
really
wanted
,
what
they
really
thought
.
Nobody
behaved
with
breadth
,
with
warmth
,
with
naturalness
;
and
finally
it
became
pathetic
.
I
could
see
that
my
host
and
his
wife
had
a
genuine
love
of
Greece
,
but
it
lay
choked
in
their
throats
.
The
critic
made
a
perceptive
little
disquisition
on
Leavis
,
and
then
ruined
it
by
a
cheap
squirt
of
malice
.
We
were
all
the
same
;
I
said
hardly
anything
,
but
that
made
me
no
more
innocent
—
or
less
conditioned
.
The
solemn
figures
of
the
Old
Country
,
the
Queen
,
the
Public
School
,
Oxbridge
,
the
Right
Accent
,
People
Like
Us
,
stood
around
the
table
like
secret
police
,
ready
to
crush
down
in
an
instant
on
any
attempt
at
an
intelligent
European
humanity
.
It
was
symptomatic
that
the
ubiquitous
person
of
speech
was
"
one
"
—
it
was
one
’
s
view
,
one
’
s
friends
,
one
’
s
servants
,
one
’
s
favorite
writer
,
one
’
s
traveling
in
Greece
,
until
the
terrible
faceless
Avenging
God
of
the
British
,
One
,
was
standing
like
a
soot
-
blackened
obelisk
over
the
whole
evening
.
I
walked
back
to
the
hotel
with
the
critic
,
thinking
,
in
a
kind
of
agonized
panic
,
of
the
light
-
filled
solitudes
of
Phraxos
;
of
the
losses
I
had
suffered
.
"
Dreadful
bores
,
these
Council
people
,
"
he
said
.
"
But
one
has
to
live
.
"
He
didn
’
t
come
in
.
He
said
he
would
stroll
up
to
the
Acropolis
.
But
he
strolled
towards
Zappeion
,
a
park
where
the
more
desperate
of
the
starving
village
boys
who
flock
to
Athens
sell
their
thin
bodies
for
the
price
of
a
meal
.
I
went
to
Zonar
’
s
in
Panepistemiou
and
sat
at
the
bar
and
had
a
large
brandy
.
I
felt
upset
,
profoundly
unable
to
face
the
return
to
England
.
I
was
in
exile
,
and
forever
,
whether
I
lived
there
or
not
.
The
fact
of
exile
I
could
stand
;
but
the
loneliness
of
exile
was
intolerable
.
It
was
about
half
-
past
twelve
when
I
got
back
to
my
room
.
There
was
the
usual
hot
airlessness
of
nocturnal
Athens
in
summer
.
I
had
just
stripped
off
my
clothes
and
turned
on
the
shower
when
the
telephone
rang
by
the
bed
.
I
went
naked
to
it
.
I
had
a
grim
idea
that
it
would
be
the
critic
,
unsuccessful
at
Zappeion
and
now
looking
for
a
target
for
his
endless
Christian
names
.
"
Hello
.
"
"
Meester
Ouf
.
"
It
was
the
night
porter
.
"
There
is
telephone
for
you
.
"
There
was
a
clicketing
.
"
Hello
?
"
"
Oh
.
Is
that
Mr
.
Urfe
?
"
It
was
a
man
’
s
voice
I
didn
’
t
recognize
.
Greek
,
but
with
a
good
accent
.
"
Speaking
.
Who
are
you
?
"
"
Would
you
look
out
of
your
window
,
please
?
"
Click
.
Silence
.
I
rattled
the
hook
down
,
with
no
result
.
The
man
had
hung
up
.
I
snatched
my
dressing
gown
off
the
bed
,
switched
out
the
light
,
and
raced
to
the
window
.
My
third
-
floor
room
looked
out
on
a
side
street
.
There
was
a
yellow
taxi
parked
on
the
opposite
side
with
its
back
to
me
,
a
little
down
the
hill
.
That
was
normal
.
Taxis
for
the
hotel
waited
there
.
A
man
in
a
white
shirt
appeared
and
walked
quickly
up
the
far
side
of
the
street
,
past
the
taxi
.
He
crossed
the
road
just
below
me
.
There
was
nothing
strange
about
him
.
Deserted
pavements
,
street
lights
,
closed
shops
and
darkened
offices
,
the
one
taxi
.
The
man
disappeared
.
Only
then
was
there
a
movement
.
Directly
opposite
and
beneath
my
window
was
a
streetlight
fixed
on
the
wall
over
the
entrance
to
an
arcade
of
shops
.
Because
of
the
angle
I
could
not
see
to
the
back
of
the
arcade
.
A
girl
came
out
.
The
taxi
engine
broke
into
life
.
She
knew
where
I
was
.
She
came
out
to
the
edge
of
the
pavement
,
small
,
unchanged
yet
changed
,
and
stared
straight
up
at
my
window
The
light
shone
down
on
her
brown
arms
,
but
her
face
was
in
shadow
.
A
black
dress
,
black
shoes
,
a
small
black
evening
handbag
in
her
left
hand
.
She
came
forward
from
the
shadows
as
a
prostitute
might
have
done
;
as
Robert
Foulkes
had
done
.
No
expression
,
simply
the
stare
up
and
across
at
me
.
No
duration
.
It
was
all
over
in
fifteen
seconds
.
The
taxi
suddenly
reversed
up
the
road
to
in
front
of
her
.
Someone
opened
a
door
,
and
she
got
quickly
in
.
The
taxi
jerked
off
very
fast
.
Its
wheels
squealed
scaldingly
at
the
end
of
the
street
.
A
crystal
lay
shattered
.
And
all
betrayed
.
At
the
last
moment
I
had
angrily
cried
her
name
.
I
thought
at
first
that
they
had
found
some
fantastic
double
;
but
no
one
could
have
imitated
that
walk
.
The
way
of
standing
.
I
leapt
back
to
the
phone
and
got
the
night
porter
.
"
That
call
—
can
you
trace
it
?
"
He
didn
’
t
understand
"
trace
.
"
"
Do
you
know
where
it
came
from
?
"
No
,
he
didn
’
t
know
.
Had
anyone
strange
been
in
the
hotel
lobby
during
the
last
hour
?
Anyone
waiting
for
some
time
?
No
,
Meester
Ouf
,
nobody
.
I
turned
off
the
shower
,
tore
back
into
my
clothes
and
went
out
into
Constitution
Square
.
I
went
round
all
the
cafés
,
peered
into
all
the
taxis
,
went
back
to
Zonar
’
s
,
to
Tom
’
s
,
to
Zaporiti
’
s
,
to
all
the
fashionable
places
in
the
area
;
unable
to
think
,
unable
to
do
anything
but
say
her
name
and
crush
it
savagely
between
my
teeth
.
Alison
.
Alison
.
Alison
.
I
understood
,
how
I
understood
.
Once
I
had
accepted
,
and
I
had
to
accept
,
the
first
incredible
fact
:
that
she
must
have
agreed
to
join
the
masque
.
But
how
could
she
?
And
why
?
Again
and
again
:
why
.
I
went
back
to
the
hotel
.
Conchis
would
have
discovered
about
the
quarrel
,
perhaps
even
overheard
it
;
if
he
used
cameras
,
he
could
use
microphones
and
tape
recorders
.
Contacted
her
during
the
night
,
or
early
the
next
morning
.
Perhaps
through
Lily
.
Those
messages
in
the
Earth
:
Hirondelle
.
The
people
in
the
Piraeus
hotel
,
watching
me
try
to
get
her
to
let
me
back
into
her
room
.
As
soon
as
I
mentioned
Alison
,
Conchis
must
have
pricked
up
his
ears
.
As
soon
as
he
knew
she
was
coming
to
Athens
he
must
have
started
to
envisage
new
complications
in
his
action
;
sized
up
the
situation
;
stepped
in
and
used
it
;
had
us
followed
from
the
moment
we
met
;
then
persuaded
her
,
all
his
charm
,
probably
half
deceiving
her
,
as
everyone
on
the
fringes
was
deceived
.
That
Sunday
he
had
suddenly
gone
to
Nauplia
was
the
same
day
the
opened
telegram
from
Alison
had
arrived
.
Even
then
?
Hadn
’
t
he
forced
me
to
meet
her
by
canceling
—
without
warning
—
that
next
,
half
-
term
weekend
?
Gone
to
Nauplia
to
plan
?
And
Lily
had
really
begun
to
throw
her
web
round
me
,
that
same
strange
Sunday
.
All
must
have
changed
course
,
that
day
.
The
lies
I
had
told
the
next
weekend
.
To
Lily
-
Julie
.
I
felt
my
face
go
red
.
The
day
she
had
worn
light
blue
,
dark
blue
;
to
echo
Alison
.
I
growled
out
loud
.
I
saw
a
meeting
of
all
of
them
:
I
saw
them
overwhelming
her
with
their
sick
logic
,
their
madness
,
their
ease
,
their
money
.
And
the
great
secret
:
why
they
had
chosen
me
.
I
recalled
something
that
had
occurred
to
me
in
the
Earth
—
how
little
use
had
been
made
of
Rose
.
All
her
costumes
had
been
there
.
Before
Alison
’
s
"
entry
,
"
she
would
have
been
going
to
play
a
much
fuller
role
,
and
that
first
meeting
with
her
had
been
the
beginning
of
it
(
and
a
sneer
at
my
inconstancy
)
.
At
only
one
week
from
his
first
approach
to
Alison
Conchis
riad
probably
not
been
quite
sure
of
her
,
so
Rose
’
s
role
that
weekend
was
an
insurance
against
Alison
’
s
failing
to
cooperate
.
Very
soon
after
Alison
must
have
agreed
;
so
Rose
withdrew
.
That
was
why
Lily
’
s
character
and
role
had
changed
and
why
she
had
to
enter
—
and
so
rapidly
—
the
present
.
First
she
had
been
acting
"
against
"
Rose
;
then
"
against
"
Alison
.
The
sedan
-
coffin
.
It
had
not
been
empty
.
The
mercilessness
of
it
;
the
endless
exposure
.
The
trial
:
my
"
preying
on
young
women
"
;
Alison
must
have
told
them
that
.
And
the
suicide
—
"
hysterical
suicide
"
;
she
would
have
told
them
that
as
well
.
All
their
knowledge
of
my
past
.
I
was
mad
with
anger
.
I
thought
of
that
genuine
and
atrocious
wave
of
sadness
I
had
felt
when
the
news
about
Alison
came
.
All
the
time
she
would
have
been
in
Athens
;
perhaps
in
the
house
in
the
village
,
or
over
at
Bourani
.
Watching
me
,
even
.
Playing
an
invisible
Maria
to
Lily
’
s
Olivia
and
my
Malvolio
—
always
these
echoes
of
Shakespearean
situations
.
I
walked
up
and
down
my
room
,
imagining
scenes
where
I
had
Alison
at
my
mercy
.
Beating
her
black
and
blue
,
making
her
weep
with
remorse
.
And
then
again
,
it
all
went
back
to
Conchis
,
to
the
mystery
of
his
power
,
his
ability
to
mould
and
wield
girls
as
intelligent
as
Lily
;
as
independent
as
Alison
.
As
if
he
had
some
secret
that
he
revealed
to
them
,
that
put
them
under
his
orders
;
and
once
again
I
was
the
man
in
the
dark
,
the
excluded
,
the
eternal
butt
.
Malvolio
.
Not
a
Hamlet
mourning
Ophelia
.
But
Malvolio
.
I
couldn
’
t
sleep
.
I
had
to
do
something
.
I
went
down
to
the
hall
and
telephoned
Ellenikon
again
.
I
knew
there
were
staging
flights
through
at
all
hours
,
and
there
might
be
someone
on
the
desk
.
I
was
lucky
:
there
was
.
Even
luckier
,
it
was
an
English
hostess
who
had
just
come
off
duty
,
and
chanced
to
pick
up
the
phone
on
her
way
to
bed
.
Yes
,
she
knew
about
Alison
.
"
Look
,
I
know
this
sounds
pretty
extraordinary
,
but
I
’
m
an
old
friend
of
hers
and
I
think
I
’
ve
just
seen
her
.
"
There
was
a
silence
.
"
But
she
’
s
dead
.
"
"
Yes
,
I
know
.
I
know
she
’
s
meant
to
be
dead
.
"
"
But
it
was
in
the
papers
.
"
"
You
saw
it
?
"
"
I
know
lots
of
people
who
did
.
"
"
Actually
in
the
papers
?
Or
just
cuttings
they
’
d
been
sent
?
"
Her
patience
began
to
break
.
"
I
’
m
terribly
sorry
but
—
"
"
Do
you
know
anyone
who
went
to
the
funeral
?
"
She
said
,
"
Are
you
sure
you
’
re
all
right
?
"
I
wished
her
good
night
then
;
it
was
useless
to
go
on
.
I
could
guess
what
they
had
done
.
Alison
would
have
failed
to
report
for
duty
one
day
in
London
,
pleaded
ill
health
or
something
.
A
week
or
two
later
,
the
same
cuttings
would
have
been
sent
out
,
the
same
forged
letters
from
Ann
Taylor
.
I
turned
to
the
night
porter
.
"
I
want
a
line
to
London
.
This
number
.
"
I
wrote
it
down
.
A
few
minutes
later
he
pointed
to
a
box
.
I
stood
listening
to
the
phone
burr
-
burr
in
my
old
flat
in
Russell
Square
.
It
went
on
a
long
time
.
At
last
it
was
picked
up
.
"
For
goodness
sake
…
who
’
s
that
?
"
The
operator
said
.
"
I
have
a
long
-
distance
call
for
you
from
Athens
.
"
"
From
where
!
"
I
said
,
"
Okay
,
operator
.
Hello
?
"
"
Who
is
that
?
"
She
sounded
a
nice
girl
,
but
she
was
half
asleep
.
Though
the
call
cost
me
four
pounds
,
it
was
worth
it
.
I
discovered
that
Ann
Taylor
had
gone
back
to
Australia
,
but
six
weeks
before
.
No
one
had
killed
herself
.
