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By
half
-
past
eight
we
were
on
the
road
.
We
drove
over
the
wide
mountains
to
Thebes
,
where
Alison
bought
herself
some
stronger
shoes
and
a
pair
of
jeans
.
The
sun
was
shining
,
there
was
a
wind
,
the
road
empty
of
traffic
,
and
the
old
Pontiac
I
had
hired
the
night
before
still
had
some
guts
in
its
engine
.
Everything
interested
Alison
—
the
people
,
the
country
,
the
bits
in
my
1909
Baedeker
about
the
places
we
passed
.
Her
mixture
of
enthusiasm
and
ignorance
,
which
I
remembered
so
well
from
London
,
didn
’
t
really
irritate
me
any
more
.
It
seemed
part
of
her
energy
,
her
candor
;
her
companionability
.
But
I
had
,
so
to
speak
,
to
be
irritated
;
so
I
seized
on
her
buoyancy
,
her
ability
to
bob
up
from
the
worst
disappointments
.
I
thought
she
ought
to
have
been
more
subdued
,
and
much
sadder
.
She
asked
me
at
one
point
whether
I
had
discovered
any
more
about
the
waiting
room
;
but
eyes
on
the
road
,
I
said
,
no
,
it
was
just
a
villa
.
What
Mitford
had
meant
was
a
mystery
;
and
then
I
slid
the
conversation
off
onto
something
else
.
We
drove
fast
down
the
wide
green
valley
between
Thebes
and
Livadia
,
with
its
cornfields
and
melon
patches
.
But
near
the
latter
place
a
large
flock
of
sheep
straggled
across
the
road
and
I
had
to
slow
down
to
a
stop
.
We
got
out
to
watch
them
.
There
was
a
boy
of
fourteen
,
in
ragged
clothes
and
grotesquely
large
army
boots
.
He
had
his
sister
,
a
dark
-
eyed
little
girl
of
six
or
seven
,
with
him
.
Alison
produced
some
airline
barley
sugar
.
But
the
little
girl
was
shy
and
hid
behind
her
brother
’
s
back
.
Alison
squatted
in
her
dark
green
sleeveless
dress
ten
feet
away
,
holding
out
the
sweet
,
coaxing
.
The
sheep
bells
tinkled
all
around
us
,
the
girl
stared
at
her
,
and
I
grew
restless
.
"
How
do
I
ask
her
to
come
and
take
it
?
"
I
spoke
to
the
little
girl
in
Greek
.
She
didn
’
t
understand
,
but
her
brother
decided
we
were
trustworthy
and
urged
her
forward
.
"
Why
is
she
so
frightened
?
"
"
Just
ignorance
.
"
"
She
’
s
so
sweet
.
"
Alison
put
a
piece
of
barley
sugar
in
her
own
mouth
and
then
held
out
another
to
the
child
,
who
,
pushed
by
her
brother
,
went
slowly
forwards
.
As
she
reached
timidly
for
the
barley
sugar
Alison
caught
her
hand
and
made
her
sit
beside
her
;
unwrapped
the
sweet
.
The
brother
came
and
knelt
by
them
,
trying
to
get
the
child
to
thank
us
.
But
she
sat
gravely
sucking
.
Alison
put
her
arm
round
her
and
stroked
her
cheeks
.
"
I
shouldn
’
t
do
that
.
She
’
s
probably
got
lice
.
"
"
I
know
she
’
s
probably
got
lice
.
"
She
didn
’
t
look
up
at
me
or
stop
caressing
the
child
.
But
a
second
later
the
little
girl
winced
.
Alison
bent
back
and
looked
down
her
neck
.
"
Look
at
this
,
oh
,
look
at
this
.
"
It
was
a
small
boil
,
scratched
and
inflamed
,
on
the
child
’
s
shoulder
.
"
Bring
my
bag
.
"
I
went
and
got
it
and
watched
her
poke
back
the
dress
and
rub
cream
on
the
sore
place
,
and
then
without
warning
dab
some
on
the
child
’
s
nose
.
The
little
girl
rubbed
the
spot
of
white
cream
with
a
dirty
finger
;
and
suddenly
,
like
a
crocus
bursting
out
of
winter
earth
,
she
looked
up
at
Alison
and
smiled
.
"
Can
’
t
we
give
them
some
money
?
"
"
No
.
"
"
Why
not
?
"
"
They
’
re
not
beggars
.
They
’
d
refuse
it
anyway
.
"
She
fished
in
her
bag
and
produced
a
small
note
,
and
held
it
out
to
the
boy
and
pointed
to
him
and
the
girl
.
They
were
to
share
it
.
The
boy
hesitated
,
then
took
it
.
"
Please
take
a
photo
.
"
I
went
impatiently
to
the
car
,
got
her
camera
,
and
took
a
photo
.
The
boy
insisted
that
we
take
his
address
;
he
wanted
a
copy
,
to
remember
us
.
We
started
back
for
the
car
with
the
little
girl
beside
us
.
Now
she
seemed
unable
to
stop
smiling
—
that
beaming
smile
all
Greek
peasant
children
have
hidden
behind
their
solemn
shyness
.
Alison
bent
and
kissed
her
,
and
as
we
drove
off
,
turned
and
waved
.
And
waved
again
.
Out
of
the
corner
of
my
eye
I
saw
her
bright
face
turn
to
me
,
then
take
in
my
expression
.
She
settled
back
.
"
Sorry
.
I
didn
’
t
realize
we
were
in
such
a
hurry
.
"
I
shrugged
;
and
didn
’
t
argue
.
I
knew
exactly
what
she
had
been
trying
to
tell
me
;
perhaps
not
all
of
it
had
been
put
on
for
me
;
but
some
of
it
had
.
We
drove
for
a
mile
or
two
in
silence
.
She
said
nothing
until
we
got
to
Livadia
.
We
had
to
talk
then
,
because
there
was
food
to
buy
.
It
should
have
cast
a
shadow
over
the
day
.
But
it
didn
’
t
,
perhaps
because
it
was
a
beautiful
day
and
the
landscape
we
came
into
one
of
the
greatest
in
the
world
;
what
we
were
doing
began
to
loom
,
like
the
precipitous
blue
shadow
of
Parnassus
itself
,
over
what
we
were
.
We
wound
up
the
high
hills
and
glens
and
had
a
picnic
lunch
in
a
meadow
dense
with
clover
and
broom
and
wild
bees
.
Afterwards
we
passed
the
crossroads
where
Oedipus
is
reputed
to
have
killed
his
father
.
We
stopped
and
stood
among
the
sere
thistles
by
a
dry
stone
wall
;
an
anonymous
upland
place
,
exorcized
by
solitude
.
All
the
way
in
the
car
up
to
Arachova
,
prompted
by
Alison
,
I
talked
about
my
own
father
,
and
perhaps
for
the
first
time
in
my
life
without
bitterness
or
blame
;
rather
in
the
way
that
Conchis
talked
about
his
life
.
And
then
as
I
glanced
sideways
at
Alison
,
who
was
against
the
door
,
half
-
turned
towards
me
,
it
came
to
me
that
she
was
the
only
person
in
the
world
that
I
could
have
been
talking
like
that
to
;
that
without
noticing
it
I
had
slipped
back
into
something
of
our
old
relationship
…
too
close
to
need
each
other
’
s
names
.
I
looked
back
to
the
road
,
but
her
eyes
were
still
on
me
,
and
I
had
to
speak
.
"
A
penny
for
them
.
"
"
How
well
you
look
.
"
"
You
haven
’
t
been
listening
.
"
"
Yes
I
have
.
"
"
Staring
at
me
.
It
makes
me
nervous
.
"
"
Can
’
t
sisters
look
at
their
brothers
?
"
"
Not
incestuously
.
"
She
sat
back
obediently
against
the
seat
,
and
craned
up
at
the
colossal
gray
cliffs
we
were
winding
under
.
"
Just
a
walk
.
"
"
I
know
.
I
’
m
having
second
thoughts
.
"
"
For
me
or
for
you
?
"
"
Mainly
for
you
.
"
"
We
’
ll
see
who
drops
first
.
"
Arachova
was
a
picturesque
shoulder
of
pink
and
terracotta
houses
,
a
mountain
village
perched
high
over
the
Delphi
valley
.
I
made
an
inquiry
and
was
sent
to
a
cottage
near
the
church
.
An
old
woman
came
to
the
door
;
beyond
her
in
the
shadows
stood
a
carpet
-
loom
,
a
dark
red
carpet
half
-
finished
on
it
.
A
few
minutes
’
talk
with
her
confirmed
what
the
mountain
had
made
obvious
.
Alison
looked
at
me
"
What
’
s
she
say
?
"
"
She
says
it
’
s
about
six
hours
’
walk
.
Hard
walk
.
"
"
But
that
’
s
fine
.
It
’
s
what
Baedeker
says
.
One
must
be
there
at
sundown
.
"
I
looked
up
at
the
huge
gray
mountainside
.
The
old
woman
unhooked
a
key
from
behind
the
door
.
"
What
’
s
she
saying
?
"
"
There
’
s
some
kind
of
hut
up
there
.
"
"
Then
what
are
we
worrying
about
?
"
"
She
says
it
will
be
damn
cold
.
"
But
it
was
difficult
to
believe
,
in
the
blazing
midday
heat
.
Alison
put
her
hands
on
her
hips
.
"
You
promised
me
an
adventure
,
I
want
an
adventure
.
"
I
looked
at
the
old
woman
and
then
back
at
Alison
.
She
whisked
her
dark
glasses
off
and
gave
me
a
hard
,
sideways
,
tough
-
woman
’
s
stare
;
and
although
it
was
half
-
joking
I
could
see
the
hint
of
suspicion
in
her
eyes
.
If
she
once
began
to
guess
that
I
was
anxious
not
to
spend
the
night
in
the
same
room
with
her
,
she
would
also
begin
to
guess
that
my
halo
was
made
of
plaster
.
At
that
moment
a
man
led
a
mule
past
and
the
old
woman
called
to
him
.
He
was
going
to
fetch
wood
down
from
near
the
refuge
.
Alison
could
ride
on
the
packsaddle
.
It
was
destined
.
The
long
path
zigzagged
up
a
cliff
face
,
and
leaving
the
lower
world
behind
,
we
came
over
the
top
into
the
upper
Parnassus
.
A
vernally
cool
wind
blew
across
two
or
three
miles
of
meadowland
.
Beyond
,
somber
black
firwoods
and
gray
buttresses
of
rock
climbed
,
arched
and
finally
disappeared
into
fleecy
white
clouds
.
Alison
got
off
and
we
walked
over
the
turf
beside
the
muleteer
.
He
was
about
forty
,
with
a
fierce
moustache
under
a
broken
nose
and
a
fine
air
of
independence
about
him
.
He
told
us
about
the
shepherd
life
:
a
life
of
sun
-
hours
,
counting
,
milking
,
brittle
stars
and
chilling
winds
,
endless
silences
broken
only
by
bells
,
alarms
against
wolves
and
eagles
;
a
life
virtually
unchanged
in
the
last
six
thousand
years
.
I
translated
for
Alison
.
She
warmed
to
him
at
once
,
establishing
a
half
-
sexual
,
half
-
philanthropic
rapport
across
the
language
barrier
.
He
said
he
had
worked
in
Athens
for
a
time
,
but
then
hyparchi
esychia
,
there
was
no
silent
peace
there
.
Alison
liked
the
word
:
esychia
,
esychia
,
she
kept
on
repeating
.
He
laughed
and
corrected
her
pronunciation
;
stopping
and
conducting
her
,
as
if
she
were
an
orchestra
.
Her
eyes
flicked
defiantly
at
me
,
to
see
if
she
was
behaving
properly
in
my
eyes
.
I
kept
a
neutral
face
;
but
I
liked
the
man
,
one
of
those
fine
rural
Greeks
who
constitute
the
least
servile
and
most
likeable
peasantry
in
Europe
,
and
I
couldn
’
t
help
lildng
Alison
for
liking
him
back
.
On
the
far
side
of
the
grassland
we
came
to
two
kalyvia
,
rough
stone
huts
,
by
a
spring
.
Our
muleteer
was
taking
another
path
from
then
on
.
Alison
fished
impulsively
in
her
red
Greek
shoulder
-
bag
,
and
pressed
on
him
two
packets
of
airline
cigarettes
.
"
Esychia
,
"
the
muleteer
said
.
He
and
Alison
stood
interminably
shaking
hands
,
while
I
took
their
photo
.
"
Esychia
,
esychia
.
Tell
him
I
know
what
he
means
.
"
"
He
knows
you
know
.
That
’
s
why
he
likes
you
.
"
At
last
we
set
off
through
the
firs
.
"
You
think
I
’
m
just
sentimental
.
"
"
No
I
don
’
t
.
But
one
packet
would
have
been
enough
.
"
"
No
it
wouldn
’
t
.
I
felt
two
packets
fond
of
him
.
"
Later
she
said
,
"
That
beautiful
word
.
"
"
It
’
s
doomed
.
"
We
climbed
a
little
way
.
"
Listen
.
"
We
stopped
on
the
stony
track
and
listened
and
there
was
nothing
but
silence
,
esychia
,
the
breeze
in
the
fir
branches
.
She
took
my
hand
and
we
walked
on
.
The
path
mounted
interminably
through
the
trees
,
through
clearings
alive
with
butterflies
,
over
rocky
stretches
where
we
several
times
lost
the
path
.
As
we
came
higher
,
it
grew
cooler
,
and
the
mountain
ahead
,
a
damp
polar
gray
,
disappeared
completely
into
the
cloud
.
We
spoke
very
little
because
we
seldom
had
breath
to
speak
.
But
the
solitude
,
the
effort
,
the
need
I
had
continually
to
take
her
hand
to
help
her
when
the
path
became
,
as
it
frequently
did
,
a
rough
staircase
rather
than
a
path
—
all
broke
some
of
the
physical
reserve
between
us
;
instituted
a
sort
of
sexless
camaraderie
that
we
both
accepted
as
the
form
.
It
was
about
six
when
we
came
to
the
refuge
.
It
was
tucked
away
above
the
tree
line
in
a
goyal
,
a
minute
windowless
building
with
a
barrel
-
vaulted
roof
and
a
chimney
.
The
door
was
of
rusty
iron
,
perforated
with
jagged
bullet
holes
from
some
battle
with
the
Communist
andarte
during
the
Civil
War
:
we
saw
four
bunks
,
a
pile
of
old
red
blankets
,
a
stove
,
a
lamp
,
a
saw
and
an
axe
,
even
a
pair
of
skis
.
But
it
looked
as
if
no
one
had
stayed
there
for
years
.
I
said
,
"
I
’
m
game
to
call
it
a
day
here
.
"
But
she
didn
’
t
even
answer
;
simply
pulled
on
a
jumper
.
The
clouds
canopied
us
,
it
began
to
drizzle
,
and
as
we
turned
up
over
a
crest
,
the
wind
cut
like
January
in
England
.
Then
suddenly
the
clouds
were
all
around
us
,
a
swirling
mist
that
cut
visibility
down
to
thirty
yards
or
less
.
I
turned
to
look
at
Alison
.
Her
nose
had
gone
red
and
she
looked
very
cold
.
But
she
pointed
up
the
next
rock
-
strewn
slope
.
At
the
top
of
it
we
came
to
a
col
and
miraculously
,
as
if
the
mist
and
the
cold
had
been
a
small
test
,
the
sky
began
to
clear
.
The
clouds
thinned
,
were
perfused
by
oblique
sunlight
,
then
burst
open
into
great
pools
of
serene
blue
.
Soon
we
were
walking
in
sunshine
again
.
Before
us
lay
a
wide
basin
of
green
turf
,
ringed
with
peaks
and
festooned
by
streaks
of
snow
still
clinging
to
the
screes
and
hollows
of
the
steeper
slopes
.
Everywhere
there
were
flowers
—
harebells
,
gentians
,
deep
magenta
-
red
alpine
geraniums
,
intense
yellow
asters
,
saxifrage
.
They
burst
out
of
every
cranny
in
the
rocks
,
they
enameled
every
stretch
of
turf
.
It
was
like
stepping
back
a
season
.
Alison
ran
on
ahead
,
wildly
,
and
turned
,
grinning
,
her
arms
held
out
,
like
a
bird
about
to
take
wing
;
then
ran
on
again
,
dark
blue
and
jeans
blue
,
in
absurd
childish
swoops
.
Lykeri
,
the
highest
peak
,
was
too
steep
to
be
climbed
quickly
.
We
had
to
scramble
up
,
using
our
hands
,
resting
frequently
.
Near
the
top
we
came
on
beds
of
violets
in
bloom
,
huge
purple
flowers
that
had
a
delicate
scent
;
and
then
at
last
,
hand
in
hand
,
we
struggled
up
the
last
few
yards
and
stood
on
the
little
platform
with
its
crowning
cairn
.
Alison
said
,
"
Oh
my
God
,
oh
my
God
.
"
On
the
far
side
a
huge
chasm
plunged
down
two
thousand
feet
of
shadowy
air
.
The
westering
sun
was
still
just
above
the
horizon
,
but
the
clouds
had
vanished
.
The
sky
was
a
pale
,
absolutely
dustless
,
absolutely
pure
,
azure
.
There
were
no
other
mountains
near
to
crowd
the
distance
out
.
We
seemed
to
stand
immeasurably
high
,
where
land
and
substance
drew
up
to
a
narrow
zenith
,
remote
from
all
towns
,
all
society
,
all
drought
and
defect
.
Purged
.
Below
,
for
a
hundred
miles
in
each
direction
,
there
were
other
mountains
,
valleys
,
plains
,
islands
,
seas
;
Attica
,
Boeotia
,
Argolis
,
Achaia
,
Locris
,
Aetolia
,
all
the
old
heart
of
Greece
.
The
setting
sun
richened
,
softened
,
refined
all
the
colors
.
There
were
deep
blue
eastern
shadows
and
lilac
western
slopes
;
pale
copper
-
green
valleys
,
Tanagra
-
colored
earth
;
the
distant
sea
dreaming
,
smoky
,
milky
,
calm
as
old
blue
glass
.
With
a
splendid
classical
simplicity
someone
had
formed
in
small
stones
,
just
beyond
the
cairn
,
the
letters
phiomega
—
light
.
It
was
exact
.
The
peak
reached
up
into
a
world
both
literally
and
metaphorically
of
light
It
didn
’
t
touch
the
emotions
;
it
was
too
vast
,
too
inhuman
,
too
serene
;
and
it
came
to
me
like
a
shock
,
a
delicious
intellectual
joy
marrying
and
completing
the
physical
one
,
that
the
reality
of
the
place
was
as
beautiful
,
as
calm
,
as
ideal
,
as
so
many
poets
had
always
dreamed
it
to
be
.
We
took
photographs
of
each
other
,
of
the
view
,
and
then
sat
down
on
the
windward
side
of
the
cairn
and
smoked
cigarettes
,
huddled
together
because
of
the
cold
.
Alpine
crows
screeched
overhead
,
torn
in
the
wind
;
wind
as
cold
as
ice
,
as
astringent
as
acid
.
There
came
back
the
memory
of
that
mind
-
voyage
Conchis
had
induced
in
me
under
hypnosis
.
They
seemed
almost
parallel
experiences
;
except
that
this
had
all
the
beauty
of
its
immediacy
,
its
uninducedness
,
its
being
-
nowness
.
I
looked
covertly
at
Alison
;
the
tip
of
her
nose
was
bright
red
.
But
I
was
thinking
that
after
all
she
had
guts
;
that
if
it
hadn
’
t
been
for
her
we
wouldn
’
t
have
been
there
,
this
world
at
our
feet
,
this
sense
of
triumph
;
this
transcendent
crystallization
of
all
I
felt
for
Greece
.
"
You
must
see
things
like
this
every
day
.
"
"
Never
like
this
.
Never
even
beginning
to
be
like
this
.
"
Two
or
three
minutes
later
she
said
,
"
This
is
the
first
decent
thing
that
’
s
happened
to
me
for
months
.
Today
.
And
this
.
"
After
a
pause
,
she
added
,
"
And
you
.
"
"
Don
’
t
say
that
.
I
’
m
just
a
mess
.
A
defilement
.
"
"
I
still
wouldn
’
t
want
to
be
here
with
anyone
else
.
"
She
stared
out
towards
Euboea
;
bruised
face
,
being
dispassionate
for
once
.
She
turned
and
looked
at
me
