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There
was
a
letter
for
me
.
The
Sunday
boat
had
brought
it
.
DEAR
NICHOLAS
,
I
thought
you
were
dead
.
I
’
m
on
my
own
again
.
More
or
less
.
I
’
ve
been
trying
to
decide
whether
I
want
to
see
you
again
—
the
point
is
,
I
could
.
I
come
through
Athens
now
.
I
mean
I
haven
’
t
decided
whether
you
aren
’
t
such
a
pig
that
it
’
s
crazy
to
get
involved
with
you
again
.
I
can
’
t
forget
you
,
even
when
I
’
m
with
much
nicer
boys
than
you
’
ll
ever
be
.
Nicko
,
I
’
m
a
little
bit
drunk
and
I
shall
probably
tear
this
up
anyway
.
Well
,
I
may
send
a
telegram
if
I
can
work
a
few
days
off
at
Atheus
.
If
I
go
on
like
this
you
won
’
t
want
to
meet
me
.
You
probably
don
’
t
now
as
it
is
.
When
I
got
your
letter
I
knew
you
’
d
just
written
it
because
you
were
bored
out
there
.
lsn
’
t
it
awful
I
still
have
to
get
boozed
to
write
to
you
.
It
’
s
raining
,
I
’
ve
got
the
fire
on
it
’
s
so
bloody
cold
.
It
’
s
dusk
,
it
’
s
gray
it
’
s
so
bloody
miserable
.
The
wallpaper
’
s
muave
or
is
it
mauve
hell
with
green
plums
.
You
’
d
be
sick
all
down
it
.
A
.
Write
care
of
Ann
.
Her
letter
came
at
the
wrongest
time
.
I
realized
that
I
didn
’
t
want
to
share
Bourani
with
anyone
.
After
the
first
knowledge
of
the
place
,
and
still
after
the
first
meeting
with
Conchis
,
even
as
late
as
the
Foulkes
incident
,
I
had
wanted
to
talk
about
it
—
and
to
Alison
.
Now
it
seemed
fortunate
that
I
hadn
’
t
,
just
as
it
seemed
,
though
still
obscurely
,
fortunate
that
I
hadn
’
t
lost
my
head
in
other
ways
when
I
wrote
to
her
.
One
doesn
’
t
fall
in
love
in
five
seconds
;
but
five
seconds
can
set
one
dreaming
of
falling
in
love
,
especially
in
a
community
as
unrelievedly
masculine
as
that
of
the
Lord
Byron
School
.
The
more
I
thought
of
that
midnight
face
,
the
more
intelligent
and
charming
it
became
;
and
it
seemed
too
to
have
had
a
breeding
,
a
fastidiousness
,
a
delicacy
,
that
attracted
me
as
fatally
as
the
local
fishermen
’
s
lamps
attracted
fish
on
moonless
nights
.
I
reminded
myself
that
if
Conchs
was
rich
enough
to
own
Modiglianis
and
Bonnards
,
he
was
rich
enough
to
pick
the
very
best
in
mistresses
.
I
had
to
presume
some
sort
of
sexual
relationship
between
the
girl
and
him
—
to
do
otherwise
would
have
been
naïve
;
but
for
all
that
there
had
been
something
much
more
daughterly
,
affectionately
protective
,
than
sexual
in
her
glance
back
at
him
.
I
must
have
read
Alison
’
s
letter
a
dozen
times
that
Monday
,
trying
to
decide
what
to
do
about
it
.
I
knew
it
had
to
be
answered
,
but
I
came
to
the
conclusion
that
the
longer
I
left
it
,
the
better
.
To
stop
its
silent
nagging
I
pushed
it
away
in
the
bottom
drawer
of
my
desk
;
went
to
bed
,
thought
about
Bourani
,
drifted
into
various
romanticsexual
fantasies
with
that
enigmatic
figure
;
and
failed
entirely
,
in
spite
of
my
tiredness
,
to
go
to
sleep
.
The
crime
of
syphilis
had
made
me
ban
sex
from
my
mind
for
weeks
;
now
I
was
not
guilty
—
half
an
hour
with
a
textbook
Conchis
had
given
me
to
look
at
had
convinced
me
his
diagnosis
was
right
—
the
libido
rose
strong
.
I
began
to
think
erotically
of
Alison
again
;
of
the
dirty
-
weekend
pleasures
of
having
her
in
some
Athens
hotel
bedroom
;
of
birds
in
the
hand
being
worth
more
than
birds
in
the
bush
;
and
with
better
motives
,
of
her
loneliness
,
her
perpetual
mixed
-
up
loneliness
.
The
one
sentence
that
had
pleased
me
in
her
unfastidious
and
not
very
delicate
letter
was
the
last
of
all
—
that
simple
Write
care
of
Ann
.
Which
denied
the
gaucheness
,
the
lingering
resentment
,
in
all
the
rest
.
I
got
out
of
bed
and
sat
in
my
pajama
trousers
and
wrote
a
letter
,
quite
a
long
letter
,
which
I
tore
up
at
the
first
rereading
.
The
second
attempt
was
much
shorter
and
hit
off
,
I
thought
,
the
right
balance
between
regretful
practicality
and
yet
sufficient
affection
and
desire
for
her
still
to
want
to
climb
into
bed
if
I
got
half
a
chance
.
I
said
I
was
rather
tied
up
at
the
school
over
most
weekends
;
though
the
half
-
term
holiday
was
the
weekend
after
next
and
I
might
just
be
in
Athens
then
—
but
I
couldn
’
t
be
sure
.
But
if
I
was
,
it
would
be
fun
to
see
her
.
As
soon
as
I
could
I
got
Méli
on
his
own
.
I
had
decided
that
I
had
to
have
a
confidant
at
the
school
.
One
did
not
have
to
attend
school
meals
with
the
boys
over
the
weekend
if
one
was
off
duty
,
and
the
only
master
who
might
have
noticed
I
had
been
away
was
Méli
himself
,
but
as
it
happened
he
’
d
been
in
Athens
.
We
sat
after
lunch
on
Monday
in
his
room
;
or
rather
he
sat
chubbily
at
his
desk
,
living
up
to
his
nickname
,
spooning
Hymettus
honey
out
of
a
jar
and
telling
me
of
the
flesh
and
fleshpots
he
had
bought
himself
in
Athens
;
and
I
lay
on
his
bed
,
only
half
listening
.
"
And
you
,
Nicholas
,
you
had
a
nice
weekend
?
"
"
I
met
Mr
.
Conchs
.
"
"
You
…
no
,
you
are
joking
.
"
"
You
are
not
to
tell
the
others
.
"
He
raised
his
hands
in
protest
.
"
Of
course
,
but
how
…
I
can
’
t
believe
it
.
"
I
gave
him
a
very
expurgated
version
of
the
visit
the
week
before
,
and
made
Conchis
and
Bourani
as
dull
as
possible
.
"
He
sounds
as
stupid
as
I
thought
.
No
girls
?
"
"
Not
a
sign
.
Not
even
little
boys
.
"
"
Nor
even
a
goat
?
"
I
threw
a
box
of
matches
at
him
.
Half
by
desipience
,
half
by
proclivity
,
he
had
come
to
live
in
a
world
where
the
only
significant
leisure
activities
were
coupling
and
consuming
.
His
batrachian
lips
pursed
into
a
smile
,
and
he
dug
again
into
the
honey
.
"
He
’
s
asked
me
over
next
week
again
.
As
a
matter
of
fact
,
Méli
,
I
wondered
,
if
I
do
two
preps
for
you
…
would
you
do
my
noon
to
six
on
Sunday
?
"
Sunday
duty
was
easy
work
.
It
meant
only
that
one
had
to
stay
inside
the
school
and
stroll
through
the
grounds
a
couple
of
times
.
"
Well
.
Yes
.
I
will
see
.
"
He
sucked
the
spoon
.
"
And
tell
me
what
to
tell
the
others
,
if
they
ask
.
I
want
them
to
think
I
’
m
going
somewhere
else
.
"
He
thought
a
minute
,
waved
the
spoon
,
then
said
,
"
Tell
them
you
are
going
to
Hydra
.
"
Hydra
was
a
stop
on
the
way
to
Athens
,
though
one
didn
’
t
have
to
catch
the
Athens
boat
to
go
there
,
as
there
were
often
caiques
doing
the
run
.
It
had
an
embryonic
artistic
colony
of
sorts
;
the
kind
of
place
I
might
plausibly
choose
to
go
to
.
"
Okay
.
And
you
won
’
t
tell
anyone
?
"
He
crossed
himself
.
"
I
am
as
silent
as
the
…
the
what
is
it
?
"
"
Where
you
ought
to
be
,
Méli
.
The
bloody
grave
.
"
I
went
to
the
village
several
times
that
week
,
to
see
if
there
were
any
strange
faces
about
.
There
was
no
sign
of
the
three
people
I
was
looking
for
,
although
there
were
a
few
strange
faces
:
three
or
four
wives
with
young
children
sent
out
to
grass
from
Athens
,
and
one
or
two
old
couples
,
dehydrated
rentiers
,
who
doddered
in
and
out
of
the
mournful
lounges
of
the
Hotel
Philadelphia
.
One
evening
I
felt
restless
and
walked
down
to
the
harbor
.
It
was
about
eleven
at
night
and
the
place
,
with
its
catalpas
and
its
old
black
cannons
of
i8zi
,
was
almost
deserted
.
After
a
Turkish
coffee
and
a
nip
of
brandy
in
a
kapheneion
I
started
to
walk
back
.
Some
way
past
the
hotel
,
still
on
the
few
hundred
yards
of
concrete
"
promenade
,
"
I
saw
a
very
tall
elderly
man
standing
and
bending
in
the
middle
of
the
road
,
apparently
looking
for
something
.
He
looked
up
as
I
approached
—
he
was
really
remarkably
tall
and
strikingly
well
dressed
for
Phraxos
;
evidently
one
of
the
summer
visitors
.
He
wore
a
pale
fawn
suit
,
a
white
gardenia
in
his
buttonhole
,
an
oldfashioned
white
Panama
hat
with
a
black
band
,
and
he
had
a
small
goatee
beard
.
He
was
holding
by
its
middle
a
cane
with
a
meerschaum
handle
,
and
he
looked
gravely
distressed
,
as
well
as
naturally
grave
.
I
asked
in
Greek
if
he
had
lost
anything
.
"
Ah
pardon
…
est
-
ce
que
vous
parlez
francais
,
monsieur
?
"
I
said
,
yes
,
I
spoke
some
French
.
It
seemed
he
had
just
lost
the
ferrule
of
his
stick
.
He
had
heard
it
drop
off
and
roll
away
.
I
struck
a
few
matches
and
searched
round
,
and
after
a
little
while
found
the
small
brass
end
.
"
Ah
,
très
bien
.
Mille
mercis
,
monsieur
.
"
He
produced
a
pocketbook
and
I
thought
for
a
moment
he
was
going
to
tip
me
.
His
face
was
as
gloomy
as
an
El
Greco
;
insufferably
bored
,
decades
of
boredom
,
and
probably
,
I
decided
,
insufferably
boring
.
He
didn
’
t
tip
me
,
but
placed
the
ferrule
carefully
inside
the
wallet
,
and
then
politely
asked
me
who
I
was
,
and
,
fulsomely
,
where
I
had
learnt
such
excellent
French
.
We
exchanged
a
few
sentences
.
He
himself
was
here
for
only
a
day
or
two
.
He
wasn
’
t
French
,
he
said
,
but
Belgian
.
He
found
Phraxos
pittoresque
,
mais
mains
belle
que
Délos
.
After
a
few
moments
more
of
this
platitudinous
chat
we
bowed
and
went
our
ways
.
He
expressed
a
hope
that
we
might
meet
again
during
the
remaining
two
days
of
his
stay
and
have
a
longer
conversation
.
But
I
took
very
good
care
that
we
didn
’
t
.
At
last
Saturday
came
.
I
had
done
the
two
extra
duties
during
the
week
to
clear
my
Sunday
,
and
was
thoroughly
exhausted
with
the
school
.
As
soon
as
the
morning
lessons
were
over
and
I
had
snatched
a
quick
lunch
I
headed
towards
the
village
with
my
bag
.
Yes
I
told
the
old
man
at
the
gate
—
a
sure
method
of
propagating
the
lie
—
I
was
off
to
Hydra
for
the
weekend
.
As
soon
as
I
was
out
of
sight
of
the
school
I
cut
up
through
the
cottages
and
round
the
back
of
the
school
onto
the
path
to
Bourani
.
But
I
didn
’
t
go
straight
there
.
I
had
speculated
endlessly
during
the
week
about
Conchs
,
and
as
futilely
as
endlessly
.
I
thought
I
could
discern
two
elements
in
his
"
game
"
—
one
didactic
,
the
other
aesthetic
.
But
whether
his
cunningly
mounted
fantasies
hid
ultimately
a
wisdom
or
a
lunacy
I
could
not
decide
.
On
the
whole
I
suspected
the
latter
.
Mania
made
more
sense
than
reason
.
I
had
wondered
more
and
more
during
the
week
about
the
little
group
of
cottages
at
Agia
Varvara
,
the
bay
east
of
Bourani
.
It
was
a
wide
sweep
of
shingle
with
a
huge
row
of
athanatos
,
or
agaves
,
whose
bizarre
twelve
-
foot
candelabra
of
flowers
stood
facing
the
sea
.
I
lay
on
a
thyme
-
covered
slope
above
the
bay
,
having
come
quietly
through
the
trees
,
and
watched
the
cottages
below
for
any
sign
of
unusual
life
.
But
a
woman
in
black
was
the
only
person
I
saw
.
Now
I
examined
it
,
it
seemed
an
unlikely
place
for
Conchis
’
s
"
assistants
"
to
live
.
It
was
so
open
,
so
easy
to
watch
.
After
a
while
I
wound
my
way
down
to
the
cottages
.
A
child
in
a
doorway
saw
me
coming
through
the
olives
and
called
,
and
then
the
entire
populalion
of
the
tiny
hamlet
appeared
—
four
women
and
half
a
dozen
children
,
unmistakably
islanders
.
With
the
usual
peasant
hospitality
they
offered
me
a
little
saucer
of
quince
jam
and
a
thimbleful
of
raki
as
well
as
the
glass
of
cistern
water
I
requested
.
Their
men
were
all
away
far
to
the
south
,
fishing
.
I
said
I
was
going
to
see
o
kyrios
Conchis
,
and
their
surprise
seemed
perfectly
genuine
.
Did
he
ever
visit
them
?
Their
heads
all
went
back
swiftly
together
,
as
if
the
idea
was
unheard
of
.
I
had
to
listen
to
the
story
of
the
execution
again
—
at
least
the
oldest
woman
launched
out
into
a
welter
of
words
among
which
I
heard
"
mayor
"
and
"
Germans
"
;
and
the
children
raised
their
arms
like
guns
.
Maria
,
then
?
They
saw
her
,
of
course
?
But
no
,
they
never
saw
her
.
She
is
not
a
Phraxiot
,
one
of
them
said
.
Then
the
music
,
the
songs
in
the
night
?
They
looked
at
one
another
.
What
songs
?
I
was
not
surprised
,
Veiy
probably
they
went
to
bed
and
woke
with
the
sun
.
"
And
you
,
"
asked
the
grandmother
,
"
are
you
a
relation
of
his
?
"
They
evidently
thought
of
him
as
a
foreigner
.
I
said
I
was
a
friend
.
FIe
has
no
friends
here
,
said
the
old
woman
,
and
with
a
faint
hostility
in
her
voice
she
added
,
bad
men
bring
bad
luck
.
I
said
he
had
guests
—
a
young
girl
with
fair
hair
,
a
tall
man
,
a
younger
girl
so
high
.
They
had
seen
them
?
They
had
not
.
Only
the
grandmother
had
even
been
inside
Bourani
;
and
that
was
long
before
the
war
.
Then
they
had
their
way
and
asked
me
the
usual
series
of
childish
but
charmingly
eager
questions
about
myself
,
about
London
,
about
England
.
I
got
free
in
the
end
,
after
being
presented
with
a
sprig
of
basil
,
and
walked
inland
along
the
bluff
until
I
could
climb
onto
the
ridge
that
led
to
Bourani
.
For
some
time
three
of
the
barefoot
children
accompanied
me
along
the
seldom
-
used
path
We
topped
a
rocky
crest
among
the
pines
,
and
the
distant
flat
roof
of
the
house
came
into
sight
over
the
sea
of
trees
ahead
.
The
children
stopped
,
as
if
the
house
was
a
sign
that
they
should
go
no
further
.
I
turned
after
a
while
and
they
were
still
wistfully
standing
there
.
I
waved
,
but
they
made
no
gesture
in
return
.
I
went
with
him
and
sat
in
his
music
room
and
listened
to
him
play
the
D
minor
English
suite
.
All
through
tea
I
had
waited
for
some
indication
on
his
part
that
he
knew
I
had
seen
the
girl
—
as
he
must
have
known
,
for
it
was
obvious
that
the
nocturnal
concert
had
been
given
to
announce
her
presence
.
But
I
intended
to
follow
the
same
course
of
action
as
I
had
over
the
earlier
incident
:
to
say
nothing
until
he
gave
me
an
opening
.
Not
the
slightest
chink
had
appeared
in
our
conversation
.
Conchis
seemed
to
me
,
no
expert
,
to
play
as
if
there
was
no
barrier
between
him
and
the
music
;
no
need
to
"
interpret
,
"
to
please
an
audience
,
to
satisfy
some
inner
vanity
.
He
played
as
I
suppose
Bach
himself
would
have
played
—
I
think
at
a
rather
slower
tempo
than
most
modern
pianists
and
harpsichordists
,
though
with
no
loss
of
rhythm
or
shape
.
I
sat
in
the
cool
,
shuttered
room
and
watched
the
slightly
bowed
bald
head
behind
the
shining
black
harpsichord
.
I
heard
the
driving
onwardness
of
Bach
,
the
endless
progressions
.
It
was
the
first
time
I
had
heard
him
play
great
music
,
and
I
was
moved
as
I
had
been
by
the
Bonnards
;
moved
in
a
different
way
,
but
still
moved
.
The
mystery
of
the
old
man
dwindled
,
and
his
humanity
rose
uppermost
.
It
came
to
me
as
I
listened
that
I
didn
’
t
want
to
be
anywhere
else
in
the
world
at
that
moment
,
that
what
I
was
feeling
at
that
moment
justified
all
I
had
been
through
,
because
all
I
had
been
through
was
my
being
there
.
Conchis
had
spoken
of
meeting
his
future
,
of
feeling
his
life
balanced
on
a
fulcrum
,
when
he
first
came
to
Bourani
.
