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When
I
went
downstairs
,
the
music
room
was
lamplit
but
empty
.
There
was
a
tray
on
the
table
in
front
of
the
stove
with
a
bottle
of
ouzo
,
a
jug
of
water
,
glasses
and
a
bowl
of
fat
blue
-
black
Amphissa
olives
.
I
poured
out
some
ouzo
and
added
enough
water
to
make
it
go
milkily
opaque
.
Then
,
glass
in
hand
,
I
began
a
tour
of
the
bookshelves
.
The
books
were
methodically
arranged
.
There
were
two
entire
sections
of
medical
works
,
mostly
in
French
,
and
many
—
they
hardly
seemed
to
go
with
spiritualism
—
on
psychiatry
,
and
another
two
of
scientific
books
of
all
kinds
;
several
shelves
of
philosophical
works
,
and
also
a
fair
number
of
botanical
and
ornithological
books
,
mostly
in
English
and
German
;
but
the
great
majority
of
all
the
rest
were
autobiographies
and
biographies
.
There
must
have
been
thousands
of
them
.
They
appeared
to
have
been
collected
without
any
method
:
Wordsworth
,
Mae
West
,
Saint
-
Simon
,
geniuses
,
criminals
,
saints
,
nonentities
.
The
collection
had
the
eclectic
impersonality
of
a
public
library
.
Behind
the
harpsichord
and
under
the
window
there
was
a
low
glass
cabinet
which
contained
two
or
three
classical
pieces
.
There
was
a
rhyton
in
the
form
of
a
human
head
,
a
black
-
figure
kylix
on
one
side
,
a
small
red
-
figure
amphora
on
the
other
.
On
top
of
the
cabinet
were
also
three
objects
:
a
photo
,
an
eighteenth
-
century
clock
and
a
white
-
enameled
snuffbox
.
I
went
behind
the
music
stool
to
look
at
the
Greek
pottery
.
The
painting
on
the
flat
inner
bowl
of
the
kylix
gave
me
a
shock
.
It
involved
two
satyrs
and
a
woman
and
was
very
obscene
indeed
.
Nor
were
the
paintings
on
the
amphora
of
a
kind
any
museum
would
dare
put
on
display
.
Then
I
looked
closer
at
the
clock
.
It
was
mounted
in
ormolu
with
an
enameled
face
.
In
the
middle
was
a
rosy
little
naked
cupid
;
the
shaft
of
the
one
short
hand
came
through
his
loins
,
and
the
rounded
tip
at
its
end
made
it
very
clear
what
it
was
meant
to
be
.
There
were
no
hours
marked
round
the
dial
,
and
the
whole
of
the
right
-
hand
half
was
blacked
out
,
with
the
word
Sleep
in
white
upon
it
.
On
the
other
half
,
enameled
in
white
,
were
written
in
neat
black
script
the
following
faded
but
still
legible
words
:
at
six
,
Exhaustion
;
at
eight
,
Enchantment
;
at
ten
,
Erection
;
at
twelve
,
Ecstasy
.
The
cupid
smiled
;
the
clock
was
not
going
and
his
manhood
hung
permanently
askew
at
eight
.
I
opened
the
innocent
white
snuffbox
.
Beneath
the
lid
was
enacted
,
in
Boucheresque
eighteenth
-
century
terms
,
exactly
the
same
scene
as
some
ancient
Greek
had
painted
in
the
kylix
two
thousand
years
before
.
It
was
between
these
two
objets
that
Conchis
had
chosen
,
whether
with
perversion
,
with
humor
,
or
with
simple
bad
taste
,
I
couldn
’
t
decide
,
to
place
another
photo
of
the
Edwardian
girl
,
his
dead
fiancée
.
She
looked
out
of
the
oval
silver
frame
with
alert
,
smiling
eyes
.
Her
splendidly
white
skin
and
fine
neck
were
shown
off
by
a
square
décolletage
,
messy
swathes
of
lace
tied
over
her
bosom
by
what
seemed
a
white
shoelace
.
By
one
armpit
was
a
floppy
black
bow
.
She
looked
very
young
,
as
if
she
was
wearing
her
first
evening
dress
;
and
in
this
photo
she
looked
less
heavy
featured
;
rather
piquant
,
a
touch
of
mischief
,
almost
as
if
she
rather
enjoyed
being
queen
of
a
cabinet
of
curiosa
.
A
door
closed
upstairs
,
and
I
turned
away
.
The
eyes
of
the
Modigliani
seemed
to
glare
at
me
severely
,
so
I
sneaked
out
under
the
colonnade
,
where
a
minute
later
Conchis
joined
me
.
He
had
changed
into
a
pair
of
pale
trousers
and
a
dark
cotton
coat
.
He
stood
silhouetted
in
the
soft
light
that
flowed
out
of
the
room
and
silently
toasted
me
.
The
mountains
were
just
visible
,
dusky
and
black
,
like
waves
of
charcoal
,
the
sky
beyond
still
not
quite
drained
of
afterglow
.
But
overhead
—
I
was
standing
on
the
steps
down
to
the
gravel
—
the
stars
were
out
.
They
sparkled
less
fierily
than
they
do
in
England
;
tranquilly
,
as
if
they
were
immersed
in
limpid
oil
.
"
Thank
you
for
the
bedside
books
.
"
"
If
you
see
anything
more
interesting
on
the
shelves
,
take
it
up
.
Please
.
"
There
was
a
strange
call
from
the
dark
trees
to
the
east
of
the
house
.
I
had
heard
it
in
the
evenings
at
the
school
,
and
at
first
thought
it
made
by
some
moronic
village
boy
.
It
was
very
high
pitched
,
repeated
at
regular
intervals
.
Kew
.
Kew
.
Kew
.
Like
a
melancholy
transmigrated
bus
conductor
.
"
There
is
my
friend
,
"
said
Conchis
.
For
an
absurd
and
alarming
moment
I
thought
he
must
mean
the
woman
of
the
glove
.
I
saw
her
flitting
through
the
island
trees
in
her
Ascot
gloves
,
forever
searching
for
Kew
.
The
call
came
again
,
eery
and
stupid
,
from
the
night
behind
us
.
Conchis
counted
five
slowly
,
and
the
call
came
as
he
raised
his
hand
.
Then
five
again
,
and
again
it
came
.
"
What
is
it
?
"
"
Otus
scops
.
The
scops
owl
.
It
is
very
small
.
Not
twenty
centimeters
.
Like
this
.
"
"
I
saw
you
had
some
books
on
birds
.
"
"
Ornithology
interests
me
.
"
"
And
you
have
studied
medicine
.
"
"
I
studied
medicine
.
Many
years
ago
.
"
"
And
never
practiced
?
"
"
Only
on
myself
.
"
Far
out
to
sea
to
the
west
I
saw
the
bright
lights
of
the
Athens
boat
.
On
Saturday
nights
it
went
on
south
down
to
Kythera
.
But
instead
of
relating
Bourani
to
the
ordinary
world
,
the
distant
ship
seemed
only
to
emphasize
its
hiddenness
,
its
secrecy
.
I
took
the
plunge
.
"
What
did
you
mean
by
saying
that
you
were
psychic
?
"
"
What
did
you
think
I
meant
?
"
"
Spiritualism
?
"
"
Infantilism
.
"
"
That
’
s
what
I
think
.
"
"
Of
course
.
"
I
could
just
make
out
his
face
in
the
light
from
the
doorway
.
He
could
see
more
of
mine
,
because
I
had
swung
round
and
sat
against
a
column
.
"
You
haven
’
t
really
answered
my
question
.
"
"
Your
first
reaction
is
the
characteristic
one
of
your
contrasuggestible
century
:
to
disbelieve
,
to
disprove
.
I
see
this
very
clearly
underneath
your
politeness
.
You
are
like
a
porcupine
.
When
that
animal
has
its
spines
erect
,
it
cannot
eat
.
If
you
do
not
eat
,
you
will
starve
.
And
your
prickles
will
die
with
the
rest
of
your
body
.
"
I
swilled
the
last
of
the
ouzo
round
in
my
glass
.
"
Isn
’
t
it
your
century
too
?
"
"
I
have
lived
a
great
deal
in
other
centuries
.
"
"
In
literature
.
"
"
In
reality
.
"
The
owl
called
again
,
at
monotonously
regular
intervals
.
I
stared
out
into
the
darkness
of
the
pines
.
"
Reincarnation
?
"
"
Is
rubbish
.
"
"
Then
…
"
I
shrugged
.
"
I
cannot
escape
my
human
life
span
.
So
there
is
only
one
way
I
could
have
lived
in
other
centuries
.
"
I
was
silent
.
"
I
give
up
.
"
"
Not
give
up
.
Look
up
.
What
do
you
see
?
"
"
Stars
.
Space
.
"
"
And
what
else
?
That
you
know
are
there
.
Though
they
are
not
visible
.
"
"
Other
worlds
?
"
I
turned
to
look
at
him
.
He
sat
,
a
black
shadow
.
I
felt
a
chill
run
down
my
spine
.
Not
at
the
supernatural
,
but
at
the
now
proven
realization
that
I
was
with
a
madman
.
He
took
the
thought
out
of
my
mind
.
"
I
am
mad
?
"
"
Mistaken
.
"
"
No
.
Neither
mad
nor
mistaken
.
"
"
You
…
travel
to
other
worlds
?
"
"
Yes
.
I
travel
to
other
worlds
.
"
I
put
the
glass
down
and
pulled
out
a
cigarette
;
lit
it
before
speaking
.
"
In
the
flesh
?
"
"
If
you
can
tell
me
where
the
flesh
ends
and
the
mind
begins
,
I
will
answer
that
.
"
"
You
um
…
you
have
some
evidence
of
this
?
"
"
Ample
evidence
.
"
He
allowed
a
moment
to
pass
.
"
For
those
with
the
intelligence
to
see
it
.
"
"
This
is
what
you
meant
by
election
and
being
psychic
?
"
"
In
part
.
"
I
was
silent
.
I
was
thinking
that
I
must
make
up
my
mind
what
course
of
action
to
take
.
I
sensed
a
sort
of
inherent
hostility
to
him
in
myself
,
which
rose
from
beyond
anything
that
had
passed
between
us
;
a
subconscious
resistance
of
water
against
oil
.
I
decided
to
pursue
a
course
of
polite
scepticism
.
"
You
do
this
…
traveling
by
,
I
don
’
t
know
,
something
like
telepathy
?
"
But
before
he
could
answer
there
was
a
soft
slap
of
footsteps
round
the
colonnade
.
Maria
stood
and
bobbed
.
"
Sas
efcharistoume
,
Maria
.
Dinner
is
served
,
"
said
Conchis
.
We
stood
and
went
in
to
the
music
room
.
As
we
put
our
glasses
on
the
tray
he
said
,
"
There
are
things
that
words
cannot
explain
.
"
I
looked
down
.
"
At
Oxford
we
are
taught
to
assume
that
if
words
can
’
t
explain
,
nothing
else
is
likely
to
.
"
"
Very
well
.
"
He
smiled
.
"
May
I
call
you
Nicholas
now
?
"
"
Of
course
.
Please
.
"
He
poured
a
drop
of
ouzo
into
our
glasses
.
We
raised
and
clinked
them
.
"
Eis
’
ygeia
sas
,
Nicholas
.
"
"
Sygeia
.
"
But
I
had
a
strong
suspicion
even
then
that
he
was
drinking
to
something
other
than
my
health
.
The
table
in
the
corner
of
the
terrace
glittered
,
an
unexpectedly
opulent
island
of
glass
and
silver
in
the
darkness
.
It
was
lit
by
one
tall
lamp
with
a
dark
shade
;
the
light
flowed
downwards
,
concentrated
on
the
white
cloth
,
and
was
then
reflected
up
,
lighting
our
faces
strangely
,
Caravaggio
fashion
,
against
the
surrounding
darkness
.
The
meal
was
excellent
.
We
ate
small
fish
cooked
in
wine
,
a
delicious
chicken
,
herb
-
flavored
cheese
and
a
honey
-
and
-
curd
flan
made
,
according
to
Conchis
,
from
a
medieval
Turkish
recipe
.
The
wine
we
drank
had
a
trace
of
resin
,
as
if
the
vineyard
had
merely
been
beside
a
pine
forest
,
and
was
nothing
like
the
harsh
turpentine
-
tasting
rotgut
I
sometimes
drank
in
the
village
.
We
ate
largely
in
silence
.
He
evidently
preferred
this
.
If
we
talked
,
it
was
of
the
food
.
He
ate
slowly
,
and
very
little
,
but
I
left
Maria
nothing
to
take
away
.
When
we
had
finished
,
Maria
brought
Turkish
coffee
in
a
brass
pot
and
took
the
lamp
,
which
was
beginning
to
attract
too
many
insects
.
She
replaced
it
by
a
single
candle
.
The
flame
rose
untrembling
in
the
still
air
;
now
and
again
a
persistent
insect
would
fly
around
,
in
,
around
and
away
.
I
lit
my
cigarette
,
and
sat
like
Conchis
,
half
-
turned
towards
the
sea
and
the
south
.
He
did
not
want
to
talk
,
and
I
was
content
to
wait
.
Suddenly
there
were
footsteps
below
on
the
gravel
.
They
were
going
away
from
the
house
towards
the
sea
.
At
first
I
took
them
for
Maria
’
s
,
though
it
seemed
strange
that
she
should
be
going
down
to
the
beach
at
that
time
.
But
a
second
later
I
knew
that
they
could
not
,
or
could
no
more
plausibly
than
the
glove
,
be
hers
.
They
were
light
,
rapid
,
quiet
steps
,
as
if
the
person
was
trying
to
make
as
little
noise
as
possible
.
They
might
even
have
belonged
to
a
child
.
I
was
sitting
away
from
the
parapet
,
and
could
see
nothing
below
.
I
glanced
at
Conchis
.
He
was
staring
out
into
the
darkness
as
if
the
sound
was
perfectly
normal
.
I
shifted
unobtrusively
,
to
crane
a
look
over
the
parapet
.
But
the
steps
had
passed
away
into
silence
.
With
alarming
speed
a
large
moth
dashed
at
the
candle
,
repeatedly
and
frantically
,
as
if
attached
to
it
by
elastic
cord
.
Conchis
leant
forward
and
snuffed
the
flame
.
"
You
do
not
mind
sitting
in
darkness
?
"
"
Not
at
all
.
"
It
occurred
to
me
that
it
might
after
all
have
really
been
a
child
,
from
one
of
the
cottages
at
the
bay
to
the
east
;
someone
who
had
come
to
help
Maria
.
I
was
just
about
to
ask
when
Conchis
spoke
.
"
I
should
tell
you
how
I
came
here
.
"
"
It
must
have
been
a
marvelous
site
to
find
.
"
"
Of
course
.
But
I
am
not
talking
of
architecture
.
"
He
sat
staring
out
to
sea
,
his
face
like
a
death
mask
,
emotionless
.
"
I
came
to
Phraxos
looking
for
a
house
to
rent
.
A
house
for
a
summer
.
I
did
not
like
the
village
.
I
do
not
like
coasts
that
face
north
.
On
my
last
day
I
had
a
boatman
take
me
round
the
island
.
For
pleasure
.
By
chance
he
landed
me
for
a
swim
at
Moutsa
down
there
.
By
chance
he
said
there
was
an
old
cottage
up
here
.
By
chance
I
came
up
.
The
cottage
was
crumbled
walls
.
A
litter
of
stones
choked
with
thorn
-
ivy
.
It
was
very
hot
.
About
four
o
’
clock
on
the
afternoon
of
April
the
eighteenth
,
1929
.
"
He
paused
,
as
if
the
memory
of
that
year
had
stopped
him
;
and
to
prepare
me
for
a
new
facet
of
himself
;
a
new
shift
.
"
There
were
many
more
trees
then
.
One
could
not
see
the
sea
.
I
stood
in
the
little
clearing
round
the
ruined
walls
.
I
had
immediately
the
sensation
that
I
was
expected
.
Something
had
been
waiting
there
all
my
life
.
I
stood
there
,
and
I
knew
who
waited
,
who
expected
.
It
was
myself
.
I
was
here
and
this
house
was
here
,
you
and
I
and
this
evening
were
here
,
and
they
had
always
been
here
,
like
reflections
of
my
own
coming
.
It
was
like
a
dream
.
I
had
been
walking
towards
a
closed
door
,
and
by
a
sudden
magic
its
impenetrable
wood
became
glass
,
through
which
I
saw
myself
coming
from
the
other
direction
,
the
future
.
I
speak
in
analogies
.
You
understand
?
"
I
nodded
,
cautious
,
not
concerned
with
understanding
;
because
underlying
everything
he
did
I
had
come
to
detect
an
air
of
stage
management
,
of
the
planned
and
rehearsed
.
He
did
not
tell
me
of
his
coming
to
Bourani
as
a
man
tells
something
that
chances
to
occur
to
him
,
but
far
more
as
a
dramatist
tells
an
anecdote
where
the
play
requires
.
He
went
on
.
"
I
knew
at
once
that
I
must
live
here
.
I
could
not
go
beyond
.
It
was
only
here
that
my
past
would
merge
into
my
future
.
So
I
stayed
.
I
am
here
tonight
.
And
you
are
here
tonight
.
"
In
the
darkness
he
was
looking
sideways
at
me
.
I
said
nothing
for
a
moment
;
there
had
seemed
to
be
some
special
emphasis
on
the
last
sentence
.
"
Is
this
also
what
you
meant
by
being
psychic
?
"
"
It
is
what
I
mean
by
being
fortunate
.
There
comes
a
time
in
each
life
like
a
point
of
fulcrum
.
At
that
time
you
must
accept
yourself
.
It
is
not
any
more
what
you
will
become
.
It
is
what
you
are
and
always
will
be
.
You
are
too
young
to
know
this
.
You
are
still
becoming
.
Not
being
.
"
"
Perhaps
.
"
"
Not
perhaps
.
For
certain
.
"
"
What
happens
if
one
doesn
’
t
recognize
the
…
point
of
fulcrum
?
"
But
I
was
thinking
,
I
have
had
it
already
—
the
silence
in
the
trees
,
the
siren
of
the
Athens
boat
,
the
black
mouth
of
the
shotgun
barrels
.
"
You
will
be
like
the
many
.
Only
the
few
recognize
this
moment
.
And
act
on
it
.
"
"
The
elect
?
"
"
The
elect
.
The
chosen
by
hazard
.
"
I
heard
his
chair
creak
.
"
Look
over
there
.
The
lamp
fishermen
.
"
Away
at
the
far
feet
of
the
mountains
there
was
a
thin
dust
of
ruby
lights
in
the
deepest
shadows
.
I
didn
’
t
know
whether
he
meant
simply
,
look
;
or
that
the
lamps
were
in
some
way
symbolic
of
the
elect
.
"
You
’
re
very
tantalizing
sometimes
,
Mr
.
Conchis
.
"
"
I
am
prepared
to
be
less
so
.
"
"
I
wish
you
would
be
.
"
He
was
silent
again
.
"
Suppose
that
what
I
might
tell
you
should
mean
more
to
your
life
than
the
mere
listening
?
"
"
I
hope
it
would
.
"
Another
pause
.
"
I
do
not
want
politeness
.
Politeness
always
conceals
a
refusal
to
face
other
kinds
of
reality
.
I
am
going
to
say
something
about
you
that
may
shock
you
.
I
know
something
about
you
that
you
do
not
know
yourself
.
"
He
paused
,
again
as
if
to
let
me
prepare
myself
.
"
You
too
are
psychic
,
Nicholas
.
You
are
sure
you
are
not
.
I
know
that
.
"
"
Well
,
I
’
m
not
.
Really
.
"
I
waited
,
then
said
,
"
But
I
’
d
certainly
like
to
know
what
makes
you
think
I
am
.
"
"
I
have
been
shown
.
"
"
When
?
"
"
I
prefer
not
to
say
.
"
"
But
you
must
.
I
don
’
t
even
know
what
you
really
mean
by
the
word
.
If
you
merely
mean
some
sort
of
intuitive
intelligence
,
then
I
hope
I
am
psychic
.
But
I
thought
you
meant
something
else
.
"
Again
silence
,
as
if
he
wanted
me
to
hear
the
sharpness
in
my
own
voice
.
"
You
are
treating
this
as
if
I
have
accused
you
of
some
crime
.
Of
some
weakness
.
"
"
I
’
m
sorry
.
Look
,
Mr
.
Conchis
,
I
just
know
that
I
am
not
psychic
.
I
’
ve
never
had
a
psychical
experience
in
my
life
.
"
I
added
,
naïvely
,
"
Anyway
,
I
’
m
an
atheist
.
"
His
voice
was
gentle
and
dry
.
"
If
a
person
is
intelligent
,
then
of
course
he
is
either
an
agnostic
or
an
atheist
.
Just
as
he
is
a
physical
coward
.
They
are
automatic
definitions
of
high
intelligence
.
But
I
am
not
talking
about
God
.
I
am
talking
about
science
.
"
I
said
nothing
.
His
voice
became
much
drier
.
"
Very
well
.
I
accept
that
you
believe
that
you
are
…
"
he
mimicked
my
emphasis
"
…
not
psychic
