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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 488/535
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She
threw
her
arms
around
him
,
clinging
fiercely
.
"
Oh
,
Rain
,
do
n't
make
it
so
hard
!
"
she
cried
.
*
*
*
Alone
,
Dane
drove
his
Lagonda
up
the
Italian
boot
,
past
Perugia
,
Firenze
,
Bologna
,
Ferrara
,
Padova
,
better
by-pass
Venezia
,
spend
the
night
in
Trieste
.
It
was
one
of
his
favorite
cities
,
so
he
stayed
on
the
Adriatic
coast
a
further
two
days
before
heading
up
the
mountain
road
to
Ljubljana
,
another
night
in
Zagreb
.
Down
the
great
Sava
River
valley
amid
fields
blue
with
chicory
flowers
to
Beograd
,
thence
to
Nis
,
another
night
.
Macedonia
and
Skopje
,
still
in
crumbling
ruins
from
the
earthquake
two
years
before
;
and
Tito-Veles
the
vacation
city
,
quaintly
Turkish
with
its
mosques
and
minarets
.
All
the
way
down
Yugoslavia
he
had
eaten
frugally
,
too
ashamed
to
sit
with
a
great
plate
of
meat
in
front
of
him
when
the
people
of
the
country
contented
themselves
with
bread
.
The
Greek
border
at
Evzone
,
beyond
it
Thessalonika
.
The
Italian
papers
had
been
full
of
the
revolution
brewing
in
Greece
;
standing
in
his
hotel
bedroom
window
watching
the
bobbing
thousands
of
flaming
torches
moving
restlessly
in
the
darkness
of
a
Thessalonika
night
,
he
was
glad
Justine
had
not
come
.
"
Pap-an-dre-ou
!
Pap-an-dre-ou
!
Pap-an-dre-ou
!
"
the
crowds
roared
,
chanting
,
milling
among
the
torches
until
after
midnight
.
But
revolution
was
a
phenomenon
of
cities
,
of
dense
concentrations
of
people
and
poverty
;
the
scarred
countryside
of
Thessaly
must
still
look
as
it
had
looked
to
Caesar
's
legions
,
marching
across
the
stubble-burned
fields
to
Pompey
at
Pharsala
.
Shepherds
slept
in
the
shade
of
skin
tents
,
storks
stood
one-legged
in
nests
atop
little
old
white
buildings
,
and
everywhere
was
a
terrifying
aridity
.
It
reminded
him
,
with
its
high
clear
sky
,
its
brown
treeless
wastes
,
of
Australia
.
And
he
breathed
of
it
deeply
,
began
to
smile
at
the
thought
of
going
home
.
Mum
would
understand
,
when
he
talked
to
her
.
Above
Larisa
he
came
onto
the
sea
,
stopped
the
car
and
got
out
.
Homer
's
wine-dark
sea
,
a
delicate
clear
aquamarine
near
the
beaches
,
purple-stained
like
grapes
as
it
stretched
to
the
curving
horizon
.
On
a
greensward
far
below
him
stood
a
tiny
round
pillared
temple
,
very
white
in
the
sun
,
and
on
the
rise
of
the
hill
behind
him
a
frowning
Crusader
fortress
endured
.
Greece
,
you
are
very
beautiful
,
more
beautiful
than
Italy
,
for
all
that
I
love
Italy
.
But
here
is
the
cradle
,
forever
.
Panting
to
be
in
Athens
,
he
pushed
on
,
gunned
the
red
sports
car
up
the
switchbacks
of
the
Domokos
Pass
and
descended
its
other
side
into
Boeotia
,
a
stunning
panorama
of
olive
groves
,
rusty
hillsides
,
mountains
.
Yet
in
spite
of
his
haste
he
stopped
to
look
at
the
oddly
Hollywoodish
monument
to
Leonidas
and
his
Spartans
at
Thermopylae
.
The
stone
said
:
"
Stranger
,
go
tell
the
Spartans
that
here
we
lie
,
in
obedience
to
their
command
.
"
It
struck
a
chord
in
him
,
almost
seemed
to
be
words
he
might
have
heard
in
a
different
context
;
he
shivered
and
went
on
quickly
.
