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I
swam
on
,
they
followed
,
truly
Greek
in
their
obsessive
curiosity
.
Then
I
lay
over
a
great
slab
of
rock
which
warmed
the
water
almost
to
bath
heat
.
The
shadow
of
the
boat
fell
across
it
.
Conchis
led
me
a
little
way
to
a
deep
fissure
between
two
boulders
,
and
there
suspended
a
piece
of
white
cloth
on
the
end
of
a
line
.
I
hung
like
a
bird
in
the
water
overhead
,
watching
for
the
Octopus
he
was
trying
to
entice
.
Soon
a
sinuous
tentacle
slipped
out
and
groped
the
bait
,
then
other
swift
tentacles
,
and
he
began
skillfully
to
coax
the
octopus
up
;
I
had
tried
this
myself
and
knew
it
was
not
nearly
as
simple
as
the
village
boys
made
it
seem
.
The
octopus
came
reluctantly
but
inevitably
,
slow
-
whirling
,
flesh
of
drowned
sailors
,
its
suckered
arms
stretching
,
reaching
,
searching
.
Conchis
suddenly
gaffed
it
into
the
boat
,
slashed
its
sac
with
a
knife
,
turned
it
inside
out
in
a
moment
.
I
levered
myself
aboard
.
"
I
have
caught
a
thousand
in
this
place
.
Tonight
another
will
move
into
that
same
hole
.
And
he
will
let
himself
be
caught
as
easily
.
"
"
Poor
thing
.
"
"
You
notice
reality
is
not
necessary
.
Even
the
octopus
prefers
the
ideal
.
"
A
piece
of
old
white
sheeting
,
from
which
he
had
torn
his
"
bait
,
"
lay
beside
him
.
I
remembered
it
was
Sunday
morning
;
the
time
for
sermons
and
parables
.
He
looked
up
from
the
puddle
of
sepia
.
"
Well
,
how
do
you
like
the
world
below
?
"
"
Fantastic
.
Like
a
dream
.
"
"
Like
humanity
.
But
in
the
vocabulary
of
millions
of
years
ago
.
"
He
threw
the
octopus
under
the
thwart
"
Do
you
think
that
has
a
life
after
death
?
"
I
looked
down
at
the
viscid
mess
and
up
to
meet
his
dry
smile
.
The
red
-
and
-
white
skullcap
had
tilted
slightly
.
Now
he
looked
like
Picasso
imitating
Ghandi
imitating
a
buccaneer
.
He
let
in
the
clutch
lever
and
we
moved
forward
.
I
thought
of
the
Maine
,
of
Neuve
Chapelle
;
and
shook
my
head
.
He
nodded
,
and
raised
the
white
sheeting
.
His
even
teeth
gleamed
falsely
,
vividly
in
the
intense
sunlight
.
Stupidity
is
lethal
,
he
implied
;
and
look
at
me
,
I
have
survived
.
We
had
lunch
,
a
simple
Greek
meal
of
goat
’
s
-
milk
cheese
and
greenpepper
salad
with
eggs
,
under
the
colonnade
.
The
cicadas
rasped
in
the
surrounding
pines
,
the
heat
hammered
down
outside
the
cool
arches
.
All
the
time
we
talked
of
the
undersea
world
.
For
him
it
was
like
a
gigantic
acrostic
,
an
alchemist
’
s
shop
where
each
object
had
a
mysterious
value
,
an
inner
history
that
had
to
be
deduced
,
unraveled
,
guessed
at
.
He
made
natural
history
sound
and
feel
like
something
central
and
poetic
;
not
an
activity
for
Scout
masters
and
a
butt
for
Punch
jokes
.
The
meal
ended
,
and
he
stood
up
.
He
was
going
upstairs
for
his
siesta
.
We
would
meet
again
at
tea
.
"
What
will
you
do
?
"
I
opened
the
old
copy
of
Time
magazine
I
had
beside
me
.
Carefully
inside
lay
his
seventeenth
-
century
pamphlet
.
"
You
have
not
read
it
yet
?
"
He
seemed
surprised
.
"
I
intend
to
now
.
"
"
Good
.
It
is
rare
.
"
He
raised
his
hand
and
went
in
.
I
crossed
the
gravel
and
started
idly
off
through
the
trees
to
the
east
.
The
ground
rose
slightly
then
dipped
;
after
a
hundred
yards
or
so
a
shallow
outcrop
of
rocks
hid
the
house
.
Before
me
lay
a
deep
gulley
choked
with
oleanders
and
thorny
scrub
,
which
descended
precipitously
down
to
the
private
beach
.
I
sat
back
against
a
pine
trunk
and
became
lost
in
the
pamphlet
.
It
contained
the
posthumous
confessions
and
letters
and
prayers
of
a
Robert
Foulkes
,
vicar
of
Stanton
Lacy
in
Shropshire
.
Although
a
scholar
,
and
married
with
two
sons
,
in
1677
he
had
got
a
young
girl
with
child
,
and
then
murdered
the
child
;
for
which
he
was
condemned
to
death
.
He
wrote
the
fine
muscular
pre
-
Dryden
English
of
the
mid
-
seventeenth
century
.
He
had
mounted
to
the
top
of
impiety
,
even
though
he
had
known
that
the
minister
is
the
people
’
s
Looking
-
glass
.
Crush
the
cockatrice
he
groaned
from
his
death
cell
.
I
am
dead
in
law
—
but
of
the
girl
he
denied
that
he
had
attempted
to
vitiate
her
at
Nine
years
old
;
for
upon
the
word
of
a
dying
man
,
both
her
Eyes
did
see
,
and
her
Hands
did
act
in
all
that
was
done
.
The
pamphlet
was
some
forty
pages
long
,
and
it
took
me
half
an
hour
to
read
.
I
skipped
the
prayers
,
but
it
was
as
Conchis
had
said
,
far
more
real
than
any
historical
novel
—
more
moving
,
more
evocative
,
more
human
.
I
lay
back
and
stared
up
through
the
intricate
branches
into
the
sky
.
It
seemed
strange
,
to
have
that
old
pamphlet
by
me
,
that
tiny
piece
of
a
long
-
past
England
that
had
found
its
way
to
this
Greek
island
,
these
pine
trees
,
this
pagan
earth
.
I
closed
my
eyes
and
watched
the
sheets
of
warm
color
that
came
as
I
relaxed
or
increased
the
tension
of
the
lids
.
Then
I
slept
.
When
I
woke
,
I
looked
at
my
watch
without
raising
my
head
.
Forty
minutes
had
passed
.
After
a
few
minutes
more
of
dozing
I
sat
up
.
He
was
there
,
standing
in
the
dark
ink
-
green
shadow
under
a
dense
carob
tree
seventy
or
eighty
yards
away
on
the
other
side
of
the
gulley
,
at
the
same
level
as
myself
.
I
leapt
to
my
feet
,
not
knowing
whether
to
call
out
,
to
applaud
,
to
be
frightened
,
to
laugh
,
too
astounded
to
do
anything
but
stand
and
stare
.
The
man
was
costumed
completely
in
black
,
in
a
high
-
crowned
hat
,
a
cloak
,
a
kind
of
skirted
dress
,
black
stockings
.
He
had
long
hair
,
a
square
collar
of
white
lace
at
the
neck
,
and
two
white
bands
.
Black
shoes
with
pewter
buckles
.
He
stood
there
in
the
shadows
,
posed
,
a
Rembrandt
,
disturbingly
authentic
and
yet
enormously
out
of
place
—
a
heavy
,
solemn
man
with
a
reddish
face
.
Robert
Foulkes
.
I
looked
round
,
half
expecting
to
see
Conchis
somewhere
behind
me
.
But
there
was
no
one
.
I
looked
back
at
the
figure
,
which
had
not
moved
,
which
continued
to
stare
at
me
from
the
shade
through
the
sunlight
over
the
gulley
.
And
then
another
figure
appeared
from
behind
the
carob
.
It
was
a
whitefaced
girl
of
about
fourteen
or
fifteen
,
in
a
long
dark
brown
dress
.
I
could
make
out
a
sort
of
closefitting
purple
cap
on
the
back
of
her
head
.
Her
hair
was
long
.
She
came
beside
him
,
and
she
also
stared
at
me
.
She
was
much
shorter
than
he
was
,
barely
to
his
ribs
.
We
must
have
stood
,
the
three
of
us
,
staring
at
each
other
for
nearly
half
a
minute
.
Then
I
raised
my
arm
,
with
a
smile
on
my
face
.
There
was
no
response
.
I
moved
ten
yards
or
so
forward
,
out
into
the
sunlight
,
as
far
as
I
could
,
to
the
edge
of
the
gulley
.
"
Good
day
,
"
I
called
in
Greek
.
"
What
are
you
doing
?
"
And
then
again
:
"
Ti
kanete
?
"
But
they
made
not
the
least
reply
.
They
stood
and
stared
at
me
—
the
man
with
a
vague
anger
,
it
seemed
,
the
girl
expressionlessly
.
A
flaw
of
the
sun
-
wind
blew
a
brown
banner
,
some
part
of
the
back
of
her
dress
,
out
sideways
.
I
thought
,
it
’
s
Henry
James
.
The
old
man
’
s
discovered
that
the
screw
could
take
another
turn
.
And
then
,
his
breathtaking
impudence
.
I
remembered
the
conversation
about
the
novel
.
Words
are
for
facts
.
Not
fiction
.
I
looked
around
again
,
towards
the
house
;
Conchis
must
declare
himself
now
.
But
he
did
not
.
There
was
myself
,
with
an
increasingly
foolish
smile
on
my
face
—
and
there
were
the
two
of
them
in
their
green
shadow
.
The
girl
moved
a
little
closer
to
the
man
,
who
put
his
hand
ponderously
,
patriarchally
,
on
her
shoulder
.
They
seemed
to
be
waiting
for
me
to
do
something
.
Words
were
no
use
.
I
had
to
get
close
to
them
.
I
looked
up
the
gulley
.
It
was
uncrossable
for
at
least
a
hundred
yards
,
but
then
my
side
appeared
to
slope
more
easily
to
the
gulley
floor
.
Making
a
gesture
of
explanation
,
I
started
up
the
hill
.
I
looked
back
again
and
again
at
the
silent
pair
under
the
tree
.
They
turned
and
watched
me
until
a
shoulder
on
their
side
of
the
small
ravine
hid
them
from
view
.
I
broke
into
a
run
.
The
gulley
was
finally
crossable
,
though
it
was
a
tough
scramble
up
the
far
side
through
some
disagreeably
sharp
-
thorned
bushes
.
Once
through
them
I
was
able
to
run
again
.
The
carob
came
into
sight
below
.
There
was
nothing
there
.
In
a
few
seconds
—
it
had
been
perhaps
a
minute
in
all
since
I
had
lost
sight
of
them
—
I
was
standing
under
the
tree
,
on
an
unrevealing
carpet
of
shriveled
seedpods
.
I
looked
across
to
where
I
had
slept
.
The
small
gray
and
red
-
edged
squares
of
the
pamphlet
and
Time
lay
on
the
pale
carpet
of
needles
.
I
went
well
beyond
the
carob
until
I
came
to
strands
of
wire
running
through
the
trees
,
at
the
edge
of
the
inland
bluff
,
the
eastern
limit
of
Bourani
.
The
three
cottages
lay
innocently
below
among
their
little
orchard
of
olives
.
In
a
kind
of
panic
I
walked
back
to
the
carob
and
along
the
east
side
of
the
gulley
to
the
top
of
the
cliff
that
overlooked
the
private
beach
.
There
was
more
scrub
there
,
but
not
enough
for
anyone
to
hide
,
unless
they
lay
flat
.
And
I
could
not
imagine
that
choleric
-
looking
man
lying
down
flat
,
in
hiding
.
Then
from
the
house
I
heard
the
bell
.
It
rang
three
times
.
I
looked
at
my
watch
—
teatime
.
The
bell
rang
again
;
quick
,
quick
,
slow
,
and
I
realized
it
was
sounding
the
syllables
of
my
name
.
I
shouted
—
"
Coming
!
"
My
voice
echoed
,
lonely
,
ridiculous
.
I
began
to
walk
back
.
I
ought
,
I
suppose
,
to
have
felt
frightened
.
But
I
wasn
’
t
.
Apart
from
anything
else
I
was
too
intrigued
and
too
bewildered
.
Both
the
man
and
the
wheyfaced
girl
had
looked
remarkably
English
;
and
whatever
nationality
they
really
were
,
I
knew
they
didn
’
t
live
on
the
island
.
So
I
had
to
presume
that
they
had
been
specially
brought
;
had
been
standing
by
,
hiding
somewhere
,
waiting
for
me
to
read
the
Foulkes
pamphlet
.
I
had
made
it
easy
by
falling
asleep
,
and
at
the
edge
of
the
gulley
.
But
that
had
been
pure
chance
.
And
how
could
Conchis
have
such
people
standing
by
?
And
where
had
they
disappeared
to
?
For
a
few
moments
I
had
let
my
mind
plunge
into
darkness
,
into
a
world
where
the
experience
of
all
my
life
was
disproved
and
ghosts
existed
.
But
there
was
something
far
too
unalloyedly
physical
about
all
these
supposedly
"
psychic
"
experiences
.
Besides
,
"
apparitions
"
obviously
carry
least
conviction
in
bright
daylight
.
It
was
almost
as
if
I
was
intended
to
see
that
they
were
not
really
super
-
natural
;
and
there
was
Conchis
’
s
cryptic
,
doubt
-
sowing
advice
that
it
would
be
easier
if
I
pretended
to
believe
.
Why
easier
?
More
amusing
,
more
polite
,
perhaps
;
but
"
easier
"
suggested
that
I
had
to
pass
through
some
ordeal
.
I
stood
there
in
the
trees
,
absolutely
at
a
loss
;
and
then
smiled
.
I
had
somehow
landed
myself
in
the
center
of
an
extraordinary
old
man
’
s
fantasies
.
That
was
clear
.
Why
he
should
hold
them
,
why
he
should
so
strangely
realize
them
,
and
above
all
,
why
he
should
have
chosen
me
to
be
his
solitary
audience
of
one
,
remained
a
total
mystery
.
But
I
knew
I
had
become
involved
in
something
too
uniquely
bizarre
to
miss
,
or
to
spoil
,
through
lack
of
patience
or
humor
.
I
picked
up
Time
and
the
pamphlet
.
Then
,
as
I
looked
back
at
the
dark
,
inscrutable
carob
tree
,
I
did
feel
a
faint
touch
of
fear
.
But
it
was
a
fear
of
the
inexplicable
,
the
unknown
;
not
of
the
supernatural
.
As
I
walked
across
the
gravel
to
the
colonnade
,
where
I
could
see
Conchis
was
already
sitting
,
his
back
to
me
,
I
decided
on
a
course
of
action
—
or
rather
,
of
reaction
.
He
turned
.
"
A
good
siesta
?
"
"
Yes
thank
you
.
"
"
You
have
read
the
pamphlet
?
"
"
You
’
re
right
.
it
is
more
fascinating
than
any
historical
novel
.
"
He
kept
a
face
impeccably
proof
to
my
ironic
undertone
.
"
Thank
you
very
much
.
"
I
put
the
pamphlet
on
the
table
.
Calmly
,
in
my
silence
,
he
began
to
pour
me
tea
.
He
had
already
had
his
own
and
he
went
away
to
play
the
harpsichord
for
twenty
minutes
.
As
I
listened
to
him
I
thought
.
The
incidents
seemed
designed
to
deceive
all
the
senses
.
Last
night
’
s
had
covered
smell
and
hearing
;
this
afternoon
’
s
,
and
that
glimpsed
figure
of
yesterday
,
sight
.
Taste
seemed
irrelevant
—
but
touch
…
how
on
earth
could
he
expect
me
even
to
pretend
to
believe
that
what
I
might
touch
was
"
psychic
"
?
And
then
what
on
earth
—
appropriately
,
on
earth
—
had
these
tricks
to
do
with
"
traveling
to
other
worlds
"
?
Only
one
thing
was
clear
;
his
anxiety
about
how
much
I
might
have
heard
from
Mitford
and
Leverrier
was
now
explained
.
He
had
practiced
his
strange
illusionisms
on
them
;
and
sworn
them
to
secrecy
.
When
he
came
out
he
took
me
off
to
water
his
vegetables
.
The
water
had
to
be
drawn
up
out
of
one
of
a
battery
of
long
-
necked
cisterns
behind
the
cottage
,
and
when
we
had
done
that
and
fed
the
plants
we
sat
on
a
seat
by
the
Priapus
arbor
,
with
the
unusual
smell
,
in
summer
Greece
,
of
verdant
wet
earth
all
around
us
.
He
did
his
deep
-
breathing
exercises
;
evidently
,
like
so
much
else
in
his
life
,
ritual
;
then
smiled
at
me
and
jumped
back
twenty
-
four
hours
.
"
Now
tell
me
about
this
girl
.
"
It
was
a
command
,
not
a
question
,
or
rather
a
refusal
to
believe
I
could
refuse
again
.
"
There
’
s
nothing
really
to
tell
.
"
"
She
turned
you
down
.
"
"
No
.
Or
not
at
the
beginning
.
I
turned
her
down
.
"
"
And
now
you
wish
…
?
"
"
It
’
s
all
over
.
It
’
s
all
too
late
.
"
"
You
sound
like
Adonis
.
Have
you
been
gored
?
"
There
was
a
silence
.
I
took
the
step
;
something
that
had
nagged
me
ever
since
I
had
discovered
he
was
a
doctor
;
and
also
to
shock
his
old
man
’
s
mocking
of
my
young
man
’
s
fatalism
.
"
As
a
matter
of
fact
I
have
.
"
He
looked
sharply
at
me
.
"
By
syphilis
.
I
managed
to
get
it
early
this
year
in
Athens
.
"
Still
he
observed
me
.
"
It
’
s
all
right
.
I
think
I
’
m
cured
.
"
"
Who
diagnosed
it
?
"
"
The
man
in
the
village
.
Patarescu
.
"
"
Tell
me
the
symptoms
.
"
"
The
clinic
in
Athens
confirmed
his
diagnosis
.
"
"
No
doubt
.
"
His
voice
was
dry
,
so
dry
that
my
mind
leapt
to
what
he
hinted
at
.
"
Now
tell
me
the
symptoms
.
"
In
the
end
he
got
them
out
of
me
;
in
every
detail
.
"
As
I
thought
.
You
had
soft
sore
.
"
"
Soft
sore
?
"
"
Chancroid
.
Ulcus
molle
.
A
very
common
disease
in
the
Mediterranean
.
Unpleasant
,
but
harmless
.
The
best
cure
is
frequent
soap
and
water
.
"
"
Then
why
the
hell
…
"
He
rubbed
his
thumb
and
forefinger
together
in
the
ubiquitous
Greek
gesture
for
money
,
for
money
and
corruption
;
I
suddenly
felt
like
Candide
.
"
Have
you
paid
?
"
"
Yes
.
For
this
special
penicillin
.
"
"
You
can
do
nothing
.
"
"
I
can
damn
well
sue
the
clinic
.
"
"
You
have
no
proof
that
you
did
not
have
syphilis
.
"
"
You
mean
Patarescu
—
"
"
I
mean
nothing
.
He
acted
with
perfect
medical
correctness
.
A
test
is
always
advisable
.
"
It
was
almost
as
if
he
were
on
their
side
.
He
shrugged
gently
:
what
was
,
was
.
"
He
could
have
warned
me
.
"
"
Perhaps
he
thought
it
more
important
to
warn
you
against
venery
than
venality
.
"
I
hit
my
thigh
with
my
clenched
fist
.
"
Christ
.
"
We
fell
silent
.
In
me
battled
a
flood
of
relief
at
being
reprieved
and
anger
at
such
vile
deception
.
At
last
Conchis
spoke
again
.
"
Even
if
it
had
been
syphilis
—
why
could
you
not
return
to
this
girl
you
love
?
"
"
Really
—
it
’
s
too
complicated
.
"
"
Then
it
is
usual
.
