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- Джон Фоулз
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Immediately
to
the
west
of
the
bay
with
the
cottages
the
ground
rose
steeply
into
a
little
cliff
that
ran
inland
some
hundreds
of
yards
,
a
crumbled
and
creviced
reddish
wall
;
as
if
it
was
some
fortification
for
the
solitary
villa
that
lay
on
the
headland
beyond
.
All
I
knew
of
this
villa
was
that
it
belonged
to
a
presumably
Well
-
to
-
do
Athenian
,
who
used
it
only
in
high
summer
.
Because
of
an
intervening
rise
in
the
pine
forest
,
one
could
see
no
more
than
the
flat
roof
of
the
place
from
the
central
ridge
.
But
now
a
thin
wisp
of
pale
smoke
curled
up
from
the
roof
.
It
was
no
longer
deserted
.
My
first
feeling
was
one
of
resentment
,
a
Crusoelike
resentment
,
since
the
solitude
of
the
south
side
of
the
island
must
now
be
spoilt
and
I
had
come
to
feel
possessive
about
it
.
It
was
my
secret
province
and
no
one
else
’
s
—
I
permitted
the
poor
fishermen
in
the
three
cottages
—
no
one
else
risen
beyond
peasanthood
had
any
right
to
it
.
For
all
that
I
was
curious
,
and
I
chose
a
path
that
I
knew
led
down
to
a
cove
the
other
side
of
Bourani
,
the
name
of
the
headland
the
villa
stood
on
.
The
sea
and
a
strip
of
bleached
stones
finally
shone
through
the
pines
.
I
came
to
the
edge
of
them
.
It
was
a
large
open
cove
,
a
stretch
of
shingle
,
the
sea
as
clear
as
glass
,
walled
by
two
headlands
.
On
the
left
and
steeper
,
the
eastward
one
,
Bourani
,
lay
the
villa
hidden
in
the
trees
,
which
grew
more
thickly
there
than
anywhere
else
on
the
island
.
It
was
a
beach
I
had
been
to
before
two
or
three
times
,
and
it
gave
,
like
many
of
the
island
beaches
,
the
lovely
illusion
that
one
was
the
very
first
man
that
had
ever
stood
on
it
,
that
had
ever
had
eyes
,
that
had
ever
existed
,
the
very
first
man
.
There
was
no
sign
of
anyone
from
the
villa
.
I
installed
myself
at
the
more
open
westward
end
of
the
beach
,
I
swam
,
I
ate
my
lunch
of
bread
,
olives
and
zouzoukakia
,
fragrant
cold
meatballs
,
and
I
saw
no
one
.
Sometime
in
the
early
afternoon
I
walked
down
the
burning
shingle
to
the
villa
end
of
the
cove
.
There
was
a
minute
white
chapel
set
back
among
the
trees
.
Through
a
crack
in
the
door
I
saw
an
overturned
chair
,
an
empty
candlestand
,
and
a
row
of
naively
painted
ikons
on
a
small
screen
.
A
tarnished
paper
-
gilt
cross
was
pinned
on
the
door
.
On
the
back
of
it
someone
had
scrawled
Agios
Demetrios
—
Saint
James
.
I
went
back
to
the
beach
.
It
ended
in
a
fall
of
rocks
which
mounted
rather
forbiddingly
into
dense
scrub
and
trees
.
For
the
first
time
I
noticed
some
barbed
wire
,
twenty
or
thirty
feet
from
the
foot
of
this
slope
;
the
fence
turned
up
into
the
trees
,
isolating
the
headland
.
An
old
woman
could
have
got
through
the
rusty
strands
without
difficulty
,
but
it
was
the
first
barbed
wire
I
had
seen
on
the
island
,
and
I
didn
’
t
like
it
.
It
insulted
the
solitude
.
I
was
staring
up
at
the
hot
,
heavy
slope
of
trees
,
when
I
had
the
sensation
that
I
was
not
alone
.
I
was
being
looked
at
.
I
searched
the
trees
in
front
of
me
.
There
was
nothing
.
I
walked
a
little
nearer
the
rocks
above
which
the
wire
fence
ran
through
the
scrub
.
A
shock
.
Something
gleamed
behind
the
first
rock
.
It
was
a
blue
rubber
foot
-
fin
.
Just
beyond
it
,
partially
in
the
thin
clear
shadow
of
another
rock
,
was
the
other
fin
,
and
a
towel
.
I
looked
round
again
.
I
moved
the
towel
with
my
foot
.
A
book
had
been
left
beneath
.
I
recognized
it
at
once
by
the
cover
design
:
one
of
the
commonest
paperback
anthologies
of
modern
English
verse
,
which
I
had
myself
in
my
room
back
at
the
school
.
It
was
so
unexpected
that
I
remained
staring
stupidly
down
with
the
idea
that
it
was
in
fact
my
own
copy
,
stolen
.
I
picked
it
up
to
see
.
It
was
not
mine
.
The
owner
had
not
written
his
or
her
name
inside
,
but
there
were
several
little
slips
of
plain
white
paper
,
neatly
cut
.
The
first
one
I
turned
to
marked
a
page
where
four
lines
had
been
underscored
in
red
ink
;
from
"
Little
Gidding
.
"
We
shall
not
cease
from
explorationAnd
the
end
of
all
our
exploringWill
be
to
arrive
where
we
startedAnd
know
the
place
for
the
first
time
.
The
last
three
lines
had
an
additional
mark
vertically
beside
them
.
I
looked
up
to
the
dense
bank
of
trees
again
before
I
turned
to
the
next
little
slip
of
paper
.
That
,
and
all
the
other
slips
,
were
at
pages
where
there
were
images
or
references
concerning
islands
or
the
sea
.
There
must
have
been
about
a
dozen
of
them
.
Later
,
that
night
,
I
rediscovered
a
few
passages
in
my
own
copy
.
Each
in
his
little
bed
conceived
of
islands
.
.
.
Where
love
was
innocent
,
being
far
from
cities
.
Those
two
lines
from
Auden
had
been
marked
,
and
the
two
intervening
ones
not
.
There
were
several
from
Ezra
Pound
.
Come
,
or
the
stellar
tide
will
slip
away
.
Eastward
avoid
the
hour
of
its
decline
,
Now
!
for
the
needle
trembles
in
my
soul
!
And
this
one
—
Yet
must
thou
sail
after
knowledgeKnowing
less
than
drugged
beasts
.
phthengometha
thasson
.
The
sun
beat
down
on
my
back
.
The
sun
-
wind
,
the
breeze
that
blows
almost
every
summer
day
in
the
Aegean
,
sent
little
waves
curling
like
lazy
whips
along
the
shingle
.
Nothing
appeared
,
everything
waited
.
For
the
second
time
that
day
I
felt
like
Robinson
Crusoe
.
I
put
the
book
back
beneath
the
towel
,
and
faced
the
hill
in
a
rather
self
-
conscious
way
,
convinced
by
now
that
I
was
indeed
being
watched
.
I
bent
down
and
picked
up
the
towel
and
the
book
and
put
them
on
top
of
the
rock
with
the
fins
,
where
they
would
be
easier
to
find
if
someone
came
looking
for
them
.
Not
out
of
kindness
,
but
to
justify
my
curiosity
to
the
hidden
eyes
.
The
towel
had
a
trace
of
feminine
perfume
on
it
;
suntan
oil
.
I
went
back
to
where
my
own
clothes
were
and
watched
out
of
the
corner
of
my
eye
along
the
beach
.
After
a
time
I
withdrew
to
the
shade
of
the
pine
trees
behind
the
beach
.
The
white
spot
on
the
rock
gleamed
in
the
sun
.
I
lay
back
and
went
to
sleep
.
It
can
’
t
have
been
for
long
.
But
when
I
woke
up
and
looked
down
the
beach
,
the
things
had
gone
.
The
girl
,
for
I
’
d
decided
it
was
a
girl
,
had
done
her
retrieving
unseen
.
I
dressed
and
walked
down
to
the
place
.
The
normal
path
back
to
the
school
was
from
the
middle
of
the
bay
.
At
this
end
I
could
see
another
small
path
that
led
up
away
from
the
beach
where
the
wire
turned
.
It
was
steep
,
and
the
undergrowth
inside
the
fence
was
too
dense
to
see
through
.
Small
pink
heads
of
wild
gladioli
flopped
out
of
the
shadows
,
and
some
warbler
in
the
thickest
of
the
bushes
reeled
out
a
resonant
,
stuttering
song
.
It
must
have
been
singing
only
a
few
feet
from
me
,
with
a
sobbing
intensity
,
like
a
nightingale
,
but
much
more
brokenly
.
A
warning
or
a
luring
bird
?
I
couldn
’
t
decide
,
though
it
was
difficult
not
to
think
of
it
as
meaningful
.
It
scolded
,
fluted
,
screeched
,
jugjugged
,
entranced
.
Suddenly
,
a
clear
bell
sounded
from
some
way
beyond
the
undergrowth
.
The
bird
stopped
singing
,
and
I
climbed
on
.
The
bell
sounded
again
,
three
times
.
It
was
evidently
calling
people
to
some
meal
,
English
tea
,
or
perhaps
a
child
was
playing
with
it
.
After
a
while
the
ground
leveled
out
on
the
back
of
the
headland
,
and
the
trees
thinned
a
little
,
though
the
undergrowth
kept
on
as
thickly
as
ever
.
Then
there
was
a
gate
,
chained
and
painted
.
But
the
paint
was
peeling
,
the
chain
rusty
,
and
a
well
-
worn
way
had
been
forced
through
the
wire
by
the
right
-
hand
gatepost
.
A
wide
,
grassy
track
led
along
the
headland
,
seawards
and
slightly
downhill
,
but
it
curved
between
the
trees
and
revealed
nothing
of
the
house
.
I
listened
for
a
minute
,
but
there
was
no
sound
of
voices
.
Down
the
hill
the
bird
began
to
sing
again
.
Then
I
saw
it
.
I
went
through
the
gap
.
It
was
two
or
three
trees
in
,
rusty
,
barely
legible
,
roughly
nailed
high
up
the
trunk
of
a
pine
,
in
the
sort
of
position
one
sees
Trespassers
will
be
prosecuted
notices
in
England
.
But
this
notice
said
,
in
dull
red
letters
on
a
white
background
,
SALLE
D
’
ATTENTE
It
looked
as
if
years
ago
it
had
been
taken
from
some
French
railway
station
;
some
ancient
student
joke
.
Enamel
had
come
off
and
cancerous
patches
of
rusty
metal
showed
through
.
At
one
end
were
what
looked
like
several
old
bullet
holes
.
It
was
Mitford
’
s
warning
:
Beware
of
the
waiting
room
.
I
stood
on
the
grassy
track
,
in
two
minds
whether
to
go
on
to
the
house
,
caught
between
curiosity
and
fear
of
being
snubbed
.
I
guessed
immediately
that
this
was
the
villa
of
the
collaborationist
he
had
quarreled
with
;
but
I
had
pictured
a
shifty
,
rat
-
faced
Greek
Laval
rather
than
someone
cultured
enough
to
read
,
or
have
guests
who
could
read
,
Eliot
and
Auden
in
the
original
.
I
stood
so
long
that
I
became
impatient
with
my
indecision
,
and
forced
myself
to
turn
away
.
I
went
back
through
the
gap
and
followed
the
track
up
towards
the
central
ridge
.
It
soon
petered
out
into
a
goatpath
,
but
one
that
had
been
recently
used
,
because
there
were
overturned
stones
that
showed
earth
-
red
among
the
sun
-
bleached
grays
.
When
I
reached
the
central
ridge
,
I
looked
back
.
From
that
particular
point
the
house
was
invisible
,
but
I
knew
where
it
lay
.
The
sea
and
the
mountains
floated
in
the
steady
evening
sunshine
.
It
was
all
peace
,
elements
and
void
,
golden
air
and
mute
blue
distances
,
like
a
Claude
;
and
as
I
wound
down
the
steep
schoolward
paths
,
the
northern
side
of
the
island
seemed
oppressed
and
banal
in
comparison
.
The
next
morning
after
breakfast
I
crossed
over
to
Demetriades
’
s
table
.
He
had
been
in
the
village
the
previous
evening
and
I
hadn
’
t
bothered
to
wait
up
until
he
returned
.
Demetriades
was
small
,
very
plump
,
frog
-
faced
,
a
corfiot
with
a
pathological
dislike
of
sunshine
and
the
rural
.
He
grumbled
incessantly
about
the
"
disgusting
"
provincial
life
we
had
to
lead
on
the
island
.
In
Athens
he
lived
by
night
,
indulging
in
his
two
hobbies
,
whoring
and
eating
.
He
spent
all
his
money
on
these
two
pursuits
and
on
his
clothes
,
and
he
ought
to
have
looked
sallow
and
oily
and
corrupt
,
but
he
was
always
pink
and
immaculate
.
His
hero
in
history
was
Casanova
.
He
lacked
the
Boswellian
charm
,
to
say
nothing
of
the
genius
,
of
the
Italian
,
but
he
was
in
his
alternately
gay
and
lugubrious
way
better
company
than
Mitford
had
suggested
.
And
at
least
he
was
not
a
hypocrite
.
He
had
the
charm
of
all
people
who
believe
implicitly
in
themselves
,
that
of
integration
.
I
took
him
out
into
the
garden
.
His
nickname
was
Méli
—
honey
—
for
which
he
was
a
glutton
.
"
Méli
,
what
do
you
know
about
the
man
over
at
Bourani
?
"
"
You
’
ve
met
him
?
"
"
No
.
"
"
Ai
!
"
He
shouted
petulantly
at
a
boy
who
was
carving
a
word
on
an
almond
tree
.
The
Casanova
persona
was
confined
strictly
to
his
private
life
;
in
class
he
was
a
martinet
.
"
You
don
’
t
know
his
name
?
"
"
Conchis
.
"
He
pronounced
the
ch
hard
—
the
ch
of
loch
.
"
Mitford
said
he
had
a
row
with
him
.
A
quarrel
with
him
.
"
"
He
was
telling
lies
.
He
was
always
telling
lies
.
"
"
Maybe
.
But
he
must
have
met
him
.
"
"
Po
po
.
"
Po
po
is
Greek
for
"
Tell
that
to
the
marines
.
"
"
That
man
never
sees
anyone
.
Never
.
Ask
the
other
professors
.
"
"
But
why
?
"
"
Ech
…
"
He
shrugged
.
"
Many
old
stories
.
I
don
’
t
know
them
.
"
"
Come
on
.
"
"
It
is
not
interesting
.
"
We
walked
down
a
cobbled
path
.
Méli
disliked
silence
,
and
in
a
moment
he
began
to
tell
me
what
he
knew
about
Conchis
.
"
He
worked
for
the
Germans
in
the
war
.
He
never
comes
to
the
village
.
The
villagers
would
kill
him
with
stones
.
So
would
I
,
if
I
saw
him
.
"
I
grinned
.
"
Why
?
"
"
Because
he
is
rich
and
he
lives
on
a
desert
island
like
this
when
he
could
be
in
Paris
…
"
he
waved
his
pink
right
hand
in
rapid
small
circles
,
a
favorite
gesture
.
It
was
his
own
deepest
ambition
—
an
apartment
overlooking
the
Seine
,
containing
a
room
with
no
windows
and
various
other
peculiar
features
.
"
Does
he
speak
English
?
"
"
I
suppose
.
But
why
are
you
so
interested
?
"
"
I
’
m
not
.
I
just
saw
the
house
.
"
The
bell
for
second
school
rang
through
the
orchards
and
paths
against
the
high
white
walls
of
the
school
grounds
.
On
the
way
back
to
class
I
invited
Méli
to
have
dinner
with
me
in
the
village
the
next
day
.
The
leading
estiatoras
of
the
village
,
a
great
walrus
of
a
man
called
Sarantopoulos
,
knew
more
about
Conchis
.
He
came
and
had
a
glass
of
wine
with
us
while
we
ate
the
meal
he
’
d
cooked
.
It
was
true
that
Conchis
was
a
recluse
and
never
came
to
the
village
,
but
that
he
had
been
a
collaborationist
was
a
lie
.
He
had
been
made
mayor
by
the
Germans
during
the
Occupation
,
and
had
in
fact
done
his
best
for
the
villagers
.
If
he
was
not
popular
now
,
it
was
because
he
ordered
most
of
his
provisions
from
Athens
.
He
launched
out
on
a
long
story
.
The
island
dialect
was
difficult
,
even
for
Greeks
,
and
I
couldn
’
t
understand
a
word
.
He
leant
earnestly
across
the
table
.
Demetriades
looked
bored
and
nodded
complacently
at
the
pauses
.
"
What
’
s
he
say
,
Méli
?
"
"
Nothing
.
A
war
story
.
Nothing
at
all
.
"
Sarantopoulos
suddenly
looked
past
us
.
He
said
something
to
Demetriades
,
and
stood
up
.
I
turned
.
In
the
door
stood
a
tall
,
mournful
-
looking
islander
.
He
went
to
a
table
in
the
far
corner
,
the
islanders
’
corner
,
of
the
long
bare
room
.
I
saw
Sarantopoulos
put
his
hand
on
the
man
’
s
shoulder
.
The
man
stared
at
us
doubtfully
,
then
gave
in
and
allowed
himself
to
be
led
to
our
table
.
"
He
is
the
agoyatis
of
Mr
.
Conchis
.
"
"
The
how
much
?
"
"
He
has
a
donkey
.
He
takes
the
mail
and
the
food
to
Bourani
.
"
"
What
’
s
his
name
?
"
His
name
was
Hermes
.
I
had
become
far
too
used
to
hearing
not
conspicuously
brilliant
boys
called
Socrates
and
Aristotle
,
and
to
addressing
the
ill
-
favored
old
woman
who
did
my
room
out
as
Aphrodite
,
to
smile
.
The
donkey
driver
sat
down
and
rather
grudgingly
accepted
a
small
tumbler
of
retsina
.
He
fingered
his
koumbologi
,
his
amber
patience
beads
.
He
had
a
bad
eye
,
fixed
,
with
a
sinister
pallor
.
From
him
Méli
,
who
was
much
more
interested
in
eating
his
lobster
,
extracted
a
little
information
.
What
did
Mr
.
Conchis
do
?
He
lived
alone
—
yes
,
alone
—
with
a
housekeeper
,
and
he
cultivated
his
garden
,
quite
literally
,
it
seemed
.
He
read
.
He
had
many
books
.
He
had
a
piano
.
He
spoke
many
languages
.
The
agoyatis
did
not
know
which
—
all
,
he
thought
.
Where
did
he
go
in
winter
?
Sometimes
he
went
to
Athens
,
and
to
other
countries
.
Which
?
The
man
did
not
know
.
He
knew
nothing
about
Mitford
visiting
Bourani
.
No
one
ever
visited
.
"
Ask
him
if
he
thinks
I
might
visit
Mr
.
Conchis
.
"
No
;
it
was
impossible
.
Our
curiosity
was
perfectly
natural
,
in
Greece
—
it
was
his
reserve
that
was
strange
.
He
might
have
been
picked
for
his
sullenness
.
He
stood
up
to
go
.
"
Are
you
sure
he
hasn
’
t
got
a
harem
of
pretty
girls
hidden
there
?
"
said
Méli
.
The
agoyatis
raised
his
blue
chin
and
eyebrows
in
a
silent
no
,
then
turned
contemptuously
away
.
"
What
a
villager
!
"
Having
muttered
the
worst
insult
in
the
Greek
language
at
his
back
,
Méli
touched
my
wrist
moistly
.
"
My
dear
fellow
,
did
I
ever
tell
you
about
the
way
two
men
and
two
ladies
I
once
met
on
Mykonos
made
love
?
"
"
Yes
.
But
never
mind
.
"
I
felt
oddly
disappointed
.
And
it
was
not
only
because
it
was
the
third
time
I
had
heard
precisely
how
that
acrobatic
quartet
achieved
congress
.
Back
at
the
school
I
picked
up
,
during
the
rest
of
the
week
,
a
little
more
.
Only
two
of
the
masters
had
been
at
the
school
before
the
war
.
They
had
both
met
Conchis
once
or
twice
then
,
but
not
since
the
school
had
restarted
in
1949
.
One
said
he
was
a
retired
musician
.
The
other
had
found
him
a
very
cynical
man
,
an
atheist
.
But
they
both
agreed
that
Conchis
was
a
man
who
cherished
his
privacy
.
In
the
war
the
Germans
had
forced
him
to
live
in
the
village
.
They
had
one
day
captured
some
andarte
—
resistance
fighters
—
from
the
mainland
and
ordered
him
to
execute
them
.
