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He
had
refused
and
had
been
put
before
a
firing
squad
with
a
number
of
the
villagers
.
But
by
a
miracle
he
had
not
been
killed
outright
,
and
was
saved
.
This
was
evidently
the
story
Sarantopoulos
had
told
us
.
In
the
opinion
of
many
of
the
villagers
,
and
naturally
of
all
those
who
’
d
had
relatives
massacred
in
the
German
reprisal
,
he
should
have
done
what
they
ordered
.
But
that
was
all
past
.
He
had
been
wrong
,
but
to
the
honor
of
Greece
.
However
,
he
had
never
set
foot
in
the
village
again
.
Then
I
discovered
something
small
,
but
anomalous
.
I
asked
several
people
besides
Demetriades
,
who
had
been
at
the
school
only
a
year
,
whether
Leverrier
,
Mitford
’
s
predecessor
,
or
Mitford
himself
had
ever
spoken
about
meeting
Conchis
.
The
answer
was
always
no
—
understandably
enough
,
it
seemed
,
in
Leverrier
’
s
case
,
because
he
was
very
reserved
,
"
too
serious
"
as
one
master
put
it
,
tapping
his
head
.
It
so
happened
that
the
last
person
I
asked
,
over
coffee
in
his
room
,
was
the
biology
master
.
Karazoglou
said
in
his
aromatic
broken
French
that
he
was
sure
Leverrier
had
never
been
there
,
as
he
would
have
told
him
.
He
’
d
known
Leverrier
rather
better
than
the
other
masters
;
they
had
shared
a
common
interest
in
botany
.
He
rummaged
about
in
a
chest
of
drawers
,
and
then
produced
a
box
of
sheets
of
paper
with
dried
flowers
that
Leverrier
had
collected
and
mounted
.
There
were
lengthy
notes
in
an
admirably
clear
handwriting
and
a
highly
technical
vocabulary
,
and
here
and
there
professional
-
looking
sketches
in
India
ink
and
watercolor
.
As
I
sorted
uninterestedly
through
the
box
I
dropped
one
of
the
pages
of
dried
flowers
,
to
which
was
attached
a
sheet
of
paper
with
additional
notes
.
This
sheet
slipped
from
the
clip
that
was
holding
it
.
On
the
back
was
the
beginning
of
a
letter
,
which
had
been
crossed
out
,
but
was
still
legible
.
It
was
dated
June
6
,
1951
,
two
years
before
.
Dear
Mr
.
Conchis
,
I
am
much
afraid
that
since
the
extraordinary
…
and
then
it
stopped
.
I
didn
’
t
say
anything
to
Karazoglou
,
who
had
noticed
nothing
;
but
I
then
and
there
decided
to
visit
Mr
.
Conchis
.
I
cannot
say
why
I
became
so
suddenly
so
curious
about
him
.
Partly
it
was
for
lack
of
anything
else
to
be
curious
about
,
the
usual
island
obsession
with
trivialities
;
partly
it
was
that
one
cryptic
phrase
from
Mitford
and
the
discovery
about
Leverrier
;
partly
,
perhaps
mostly
,
a
peculiar
feeling
that
I
had
a
sort
of
right
to
visit
.
My
two
predecessors
had
both
met
this
unmeetable
man
,
and
not
wanted
to
talk
about
it
;
in
some
way
I
felt
I
had
a
turn
coming
,
too
.
I
did
one
other
thing
that
week
.
I
wrote
a
letter
to
Alison
.
I
sent
it
inside
an
envelope
addressed
to
Ann
in
the
flat
below
in
Russell
Square
,
asking
her
to
post
it
on
to
wherever
Alison
was
living
.
I
said
almost
nothing
in
the
letter
;
only
that
I
’
d
thought
about
her
once
or
twice
,
that
I
had
discovered
what
the
"
waiting
room
"
meant
;
and
that
she
was
to
write
back
only
if
she
really
wanted
to
,
I
’
d
quite
understand
if
she
didn
’
t
.
I
knew
that
on
the
island
one
was
driven
back
into
the
past
There
was
so
much
space
,
so
much
silence
,
so
few
meetings
that
one
too
easily
saw
out
of
the
present
and
then
the
past
seemed
ten
times
closer
than
it
was
.
It
was
likely
that
Alison
hadn
’
t
given
me
a
thought
for
weeks
,
and
that
she
had
had
half
a
dozen
more
affaires
.
So
I
posted
the
letter
rather
as
one
throws
a
message
in
a
bottle
into
the
sea
.
Not
as
a
joke
,
perhaps
,
but
almost
;
yet
with
a
kind
of
ashamed
hope
.
The
absence
of
the
usually
unfailing
sun
-
wind
made
the
next
Saturday
oppressively
hot
.
The
cicadas
had
begun
.
They
racketed
in
a
ragged
chorus
,
never
quite
finding
a
common
beat
,
rasping
one
’
s
nerves
,
but
finally
so
familiar
that
when
one
day
they
stopped
in
a
rare
shower
of
rain
,
the
silence
was
like
an
explosion
.
They
completely
changed
the
character
of
the
pine
forest
.
Now
it
was
live
and
multitudinous
,
an
audible
,
invisible
hive
of
energy
,
with
all
its
pure
solitude
gone
,
for
besides
the
tzitzikia
the
air
throbbed
,
whined
,
hummed
with
carmine
-
winged
grasshoppers
,
locusts
,
huge
hornets
,
bees
,
midges
,
bots
and
ten
thousand
other
anonymous
insects
.
In
some
places
there
were
nagging
clouds
of
black
flies
,
so
that
I
climbed
through
the
trees
like
a
new
Orestes
,
cursing
and
slapping
.
I
came
to
the
ridge
again
.
The
sea
was
a
pearly
turquoise
,
the
far
mountains
ash
-
blue
in
the
windless
heat
.
I
could
see
the
shimmering
green
crown
of
pine
trees
around
Bourani
.
It
was
about
noon
when
I
came
through
the
trees
out
onto
the
shingle
of
the
beach
with
the
chapel
.
It
was
deserted
.
I
searched
among
the
rocks
,
but
there
was
nothing
,
and
I
didn
’
t
feel
watched
.
I
had
a
swim
,
then
lunch
,
black
bread
and
ochra
and
fried
squid
.
A
long
way
south
a
plump
caique
thudded
past
towing
a
line
of
six
little
lamp
-
boats
,
like
a
mallard
with
ducklings
.
Its
bow
wave
made
a
thin
dark
miraging
ripple
on
the
creamy
blue
surface
of
the
sea
,
and
that
was
all
that
remained
of
civilization
when
the
boats
had
disappeared
behind
the
western
headland
.
There
was
the
infinitesimal
lap
of
the
transparent
blue
water
on
the
stones
,
the
waiting
trees
,
the
myriad
dynamos
of
the
insects
,
and
the
enormous
landscape
of
silence
.
I
dozed
under
the
thin
shade
of
a
pine
,
in
the
agelessness
,
the
absolute
dissociation
of
wild
Greece
.
The
sun
moved
,
came
on
me
,
and
made
me
erotic
.
I
thought
of
Alison
,
of
sex
things
we
had
done
together
.
I
wished
she
was
beside
me
,
naked
.
We
would
have
made
love
against
the
pine
needles
,
then
swum
,
then
made
love
again
.
I
was
filled
with
a
dry
sadness
,
a
mixture
of
remembering
and
knowing
;
remembering
what
was
and
what
might
have
been
and
knowing
it
was
all
past
,
at
the
same
time
knowing
,
or
beginning
to
know
,
that
other
things
were
happily
past
—
at
least
some
of
my
illusions
about
myself
,
and
then
the
syphilis
,
for
there
were
no
signs
that
it
was
going
to
come
back
.
I
felt
physically
very
well
.
What
was
going
to
become
of
my
life
I
didn
’
t
know
;
but
lying
there
that
day
by
the
sea
it
didn
’
t
seem
to
matter
much
.
To
be
was
enough
.
I
felt
myself
in
suspension
,
waiting
without
fear
for
some
impulse
to
drive
me
on
.
I
turned
on
my
stomach
and
made
love
to
the
memory
of
Alison
,
like
an
animal
,
without
guilt
or
shame
,
a
mere
machine
for
sensation
spreadeagled
on
the
earth
.
Then
I
ran
across
the
burning
stones
into
the
sea
.
I
climbed
the
path
by
the
wire
and
the
undergrowth
,
passed
round
the
peeling
gate
,
the
mysterious
sign
,
and
stood
in
the
grassy
track
.
It
ran
level
,
curved
and
dipped
a
little
,
emerged
from
the
trees
.
The
house
,
dazzlingly
white
where
the
afternoon
sun
touched
it
,
stood
with
its
shadowed
back
to
me
.
It
had
been
built
on
the
seaward
side
of
a
small
cottage
that
had
evidently
existed
before
it
.
It
was
square
,
with
a
fiat
roof
and
a
colonnade
of
slender
arches
running
round
the
south
and
east
sides
.
Above
the
colonnade
was
a
terrace
.
I
could
see
the
open
French
windows
of
a
first
-
floor
room
giving
access
to
it
.
To
the
east
and
back
of
the
house
there
were
lines
of
swordplants
and
small
clumps
of
bushes
with
vivid
scarlet
and
yellow
flowers
.
In
front
,
southwards
and
seawards
,
there
was
a
stretch
of
gravel
and
then
the
ground
fell
away
abruptly
down
to
the
sea
.
At
both
corners
of
the
gravel
stood
palm
trees
,
in
neat
whitewashed
rings
of
stones
.
The
pines
had
been
thinned
to
clear
the
view
.
The
house
abashed
me
.
It
was
too
reminiscent
of
the
Côte
d
’
Azur
,
too
un
-
Greek
.
It
stood
,
white
and
opulent
,
like
Swiss
snow
,
and
made
me
feel
sticky
-
palmed
and
uncouth
.
I
walked
up
the
small
flight
of
steps
to
the
red
-
tiled
side
-
colonnade
.
There
was
a
closed
door
with
an
iron
knocker
cast
in
the
shape
of
a
dolphin
.
The
windows
beside
it
were
heavily
shuttered
.
I
knocked
on
the
door
;
the
knocks
barked
sharply
over
stone
floors
.
But
no
one
came
.
The
house
and
I
stood
silently
in
a
sea
of
insect
sound
.
Along
the
colonnade
to
the
corner
of
the
southern
front
of
the
house
;
there
the
colonnade
was
wider
and
the
arches
more
open
.
Standing
in
the
deep
shade
,
I
looked
out
over
the
treetops
and
the
sea
to
the
languishing
ash
-
lilac
mountains
Surprise
at
the
beauty
of
the
view
seen
through
the
slender
arches
,
and
a
déjà
vu
feeling
of
having
stood
in
the
same
place
before
;
something
in
that
particular
proportion
of
the
arches
,
something
in
that
particular
contrast
of
shade
and
burning
landscape
outside
—
I
couldn
’
t
say
.
There
were
two
old
cane
chairs
in
the
middle
of
the
colonnade
,
and
a
table
covered
in
a
blue
and
white
folk
-
weave
cloth
,
on
which
were
two
cups
and
saucers
and
two
large
plates
covered
in
muslin
.
By
the
wall
stood
a
rattan
couch
with
cushions
;
and
hanging
from
a
bracket
by
the
open
French
windows
was
a
small
brightly
polished
bell
with
a
faded
maroon
tassel
hanging
from
the
clapper
.
I
noticed
the
twoness
of
the
tea
table
,
and
stood
by
the
corner
,
embarrassed
,
aware
of
a
trite
English
desire
to
sneak
away
.
Then
,
without
warning
,
a
figure
appeared
in
the
doorway
.
It
was
Conchis
.
Before
anything
else
,
I
knew
I
was
expected
.
He
saw
me
without
surprise
,
with
a
small
smile
,
almost
a
grimace
,
on
his
face
.
He
was
nearly
completely
bald
,
brown
as
old
leather
,
short
and
spare
,
a
man
whose
age
was
impossible
to
tell
;
perhaps
sixty
,
perhaps
seventy
;
dressed
in
a
navy
-
blue
shirt
,
knee
-
length
shorts
,
and
a
pair
of
salt
-
stained
gymshoes
.
The
most
striking
thing
about
him
was
the
intensity
of
his
eyes
;
very
dark
brown
,
staring
,
with
a
simian
penetration
emphasized
by
the
remarkably
clear
whites
;
eyes
that
seemed
not
quite
human
.
He
raised
his
left
hand
briefly
in
a
kind
of
silent
salutation
,
then
strode
to
the
corner
of
the
colonnade
,
leaving
me
with
my
formed
words
unspoken
,
and
called
back
to
the
cottage
.
"
Maria
!
"
I
heard
a
faint
wail
of
answer
.
"
You
…
"
I
began
,
as
he
turned
.
But
he
raised
his
left
hand
again
,
this
time
to
silence
me
;
took
my
arm
and
led
me
to
the
edge
of
the
colonnade
.
He
had
an
authority
,
an
abrupt
decisiveness
,
that
caught
me
off
-
balance
.
He
surveyed
the
landscape
,
then
me
.
The
sweet
saffronlike
smell
of
some
flowers
that
grew
below
,
at
the
edge
of
the
gravel
,
wafted
up
into
the
shade
.
"
I
chose
well
?
"
His
English
sounded
perfect
.
"
Wonderfully
.
But
you
must
let
me
—
"
Once
again
his
arm
,
brown
and
corded
,
swept
silencingly
towards
the
sea
and
the
mountains
and
the
south
,
as
if
I
might
not
have
properly
appreciated
it
.
I
looked
sideways
at
him
.
He
was
obviously
a
man
who
rarely
smiled
.
There
was
something
masklike
,
emotionpurged
,
about
his
face
.
Deep
furrows
ran
from
beside
his
nose
to
the
corners
of
his
mouth
;
they
suggested
experience
,
command
,
impatience
with
fools
.
He
was
slightly
mad
,
no
doubt
harmlessly
so
,
but
mad
.
I
had
an
idea
that
he
thought
I
was
someone
else
.
He
kept
his
apelike
eyes
on
me
.
The
silence
and
the
stare
were
alarming
,
and
faintly
comic
,
as
if
he
was
trying
to
hypnotize
a
bird
.
Suddenly
he
gave
a
curious
little
rapid
shake
of
the
head
;
quizzical
,
rhetorical
,
not
expecting
an
answer
.
Then
he
changed
,
as
if
what
had
happened
between
us
till
then
was
a
joke
,
a
charade
,
that
had
been
rehearsed
and
gone
according
to
plan
,
but
could
now
be
ended
.
And
I
was
completely
off
-
balance
again
.
He
wasn
’
t
mad
after
all
.
He
even
smiled
,
and
the
ape
eyes
became
almost
squirrel
eyes
.
He
turned
back
to
the
table
.
"
Let
us
have
tea
.
"
"
I
only
came
for
a
glass
of
water
.
This
is
…
"
You
came
here
to
meet
me
.
Please
.
Life
is
short
.
"
I
sat
down
.
The
second
place
was
mine
.
An
old
woman
appeared
,
in
black
,
a
black
gray
with
age
,
her
face
as
lined
as
an
Indian
squaw
’
s
.
She
was
incongruously
carrying
a
tray
with
an
elegant
silver
teapot
,
a
kettle
,
a
bowl
of
sugar
,
a
saucer
with
sliced
lemon
.
"
This
is
my
housekeeper
.
Maria
.
"
He
spoke
to
her
in
very
precise
Greek
,
and
I
heard
my
own
name
and
the
name
of
the
school
.
The
old
woman
bobbed
at
me
,
her
eyes
on
the
ground
,
unsmiling
,
and
then
unloaded
her
tray
.
Conchis
plucked
the
muslin
away
from
one
of
the
plates
with
the
quick
aplomb
of
a
conjurer
.
I
saw
cucumber
sandwiches
.
He
poured
the
tea
,
and
indicated
the
lemon
.
"
How
do
you
know
who
I
am
,
Mr
.
Conchis
?
"
"
Anglicize
my
name
.
I
prefer
the
ch
soft
.
"
He
sipped
his
tea
.
"
If
you
interrogate
Hermes
,
Zeus
will
know
.
"
"
I
’
m
afraid
my
colleague
was
tactless
.
"
"
You
no
doubt
found
out
all
about
me
.
"
"
I
found
out
very
little
.
But
that
makes
this
even
kinder
of
you
.
"
He
looked
out
to
sea
.
"
There
is
a
poem
of
the
Tang
dynasty
.
"
He
sounded
the
precious
little
glottal
stop
.
"
Here
at
the
frontier
,
there
are
falling
leaves
.
Although
my
neighbors
are
all
barbarians
,
and
you
,
you
are
a
thousand
miles
away
,
there
are
always
two
cups
on
my
table
.
"
I
smiled
.
"
Always
?
"
"
I
saw
you
last
Sunday
.
"
"
They
were
your
things
down
there
?
"
He
bowed
his
head
.
"
And
I
also
saw
you
this
afternoon
.
"
"
I
hope
I
haven
’
t
kept
you
from
your
beach
.
"
"
Not
at
all
.
My
private
beach
is
down
there
.
"
He
pointed
over
the
gravel
.
"
But
I
always
like
a
beach
to
myself
.
And
I
presume
the
same
of
you
.
Now
.
Eat
the
sandwiches
.
"
He
poured
me
more
tea
.
It
had
huge
torn
leaves
and
a
tarry
China
fragrance
.
On
the
other
plate
were
kourabiêdes
,
conical
buttercakes
rolled
in
icing
sugar
.
I
’
d
forgotten
what
a
delicious
meal
tea
could
be
;
and
sitting
there
I
felt
invaded
by
the
envy
of
the
man
who
lives
in
an
institution
,
and
has
to
put
up
with
the
institution
meals
and
institution
everything
else
,
for
the
rich
private
life
of
the
established
.
I
remembered
having
tea
with
one
of
my
tutors
,
an
old
bachelor
don
at
Magdalen
;
and
the
same
envy
for
his
rooms
,
his
books
,
his
calm
,
precise
,
ticking
peace
.
I
bit
into
my
first
kourabiè
,
and
gave
an
appreciative
nod
.
