the afternoon with a small dish of dried apricots, and of course he knows all about archaeology. The ancient Greek language is his passion.”
“Do people like that exist?”
“Here they do,” Rebecca said.
Henry thought for a moment, and then said:
“Let’s do that.”
“Do what?”
“Let’s make here our home—it’s so far from our lives that we can be free.”
She turned away and looked out into the darkness. Her pillow was soft and warm.
“But I just met you. I don’t know you.”
“I feel like you know me,” Henry said.
Rebecca turned to face him. “If I think too much about what we’re doing, I might get scared.”
Henry touched her hair. Then he planted gentle kisses on the back of her neck, and she soon fell asleep.
In the morning, Henry dressed and went outside. It was cool. He untangled the strap on his helmet and looked up at his own balcony. Then he mounted his rusty Vespa and rode north, until pulling free of the city.
He slowly climbed the mountain road that led to the scorching, sun-drenched hole he was digging, with what Rebecca would later describe as an expensive toothbrush. By early afternoon, he would leave the site with his briefcase of notes and get on a plane bound for London. A Cambridge University minibus would ferry him to his dormitory for the week.
Rebecca stayed in his apartment until noon. She washed in his hot yellow bathroom, then cleaned the dishes from supper. After dressing, she bought oranges from an Albanian in the street, propping open the front door with an empty wine bottle. She put the oranges in a small bowl and left them on the kitchen table next to the lemons with her address. Before closing all the shutters for the day, Rebecca noticed the topless man who had been boiling towels in the building opposite. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette and pulling at his hair.
Chapter Eleven
George spent most of the afternoon in bed, a bilingual volume of poetry by Kazantzakis split over his body like a small church. It was open on a page that read:
Beauty is merciless. You do not look at it, it looks at you and does not forgive.
It was about a week since he had seen Rebecca. His apartment smelled of spilled wine. Wilting vines of dill lay on the kitchen counter in thick bunches, while empty wine and liquor bottles occupied most corners and areas where George didn’t need to walk. He repeated the line of poetry a few times until he knew it by heart.
He was meeting someone at noon, and so got up, dressed, and made his way to a popular café on the corner of his street. George’s lunch companion was early, and stood to greet him. They did not shake hands, but were pleased to see one another.
“How are you, Costas?” George said. “Did you order?”
He shook his head.
“Thanks for meeting me. Here are cigarettes and the bottle of ouzo, before I forget.”
The man’s look of dull shame brightened for a moment. He tucked the cigarettes into one of the many pockets of his heavy coat, but held up the bottle of ouzo and made a great pretence of reading the label. This was an attempt, George suspected, to hide that fact that he was actually illiterate.
“Looks like a nice one, interesting history,” the man said.
“It’s excellent, just like your English.”
Costas nodded appreciatively. He was a dark-haired man of about fifty, but due to his circumstances he looked considerably older.
“So what have you been up to since our encounter?”
“Honestly?” said George.
Costas nodded.
“I’ve gone and fallen in love with someone.”
“A woman?”
George nodded.
“Greek?”
“French.”
“Oh,” Costas said. “Very nice.”
“But,” George said, “I haven’t heard from her in a week.”
“Have you telephoned?” Costas suggested.
“She doesn’t have a telephone, but I’ve been round a few times and she doesn’t appear to be home, or if she is, she doesn’t open the door when I ring.”
“Maybe she’s
“Do people like that exist?”
“Here they do,” Rebecca said.
Henry thought for a moment, and then said:
“Let’s do that.”
“Do what?”
“Let’s make here our home—it’s so far from our lives that we can be free.”
She turned away and looked out into the darkness. Her pillow was soft and warm.
“But I just met you. I don’t know you.”
“I feel like you know me,” Henry said.
Rebecca turned to face him. “If I think too much about what we’re doing, I might get scared.”
Henry touched her hair. Then he planted gentle kisses on the back of her neck, and she soon fell asleep.
In the morning, Henry dressed and went outside. It was cool. He untangled the strap on his helmet and looked up at his own balcony. Then he mounted his rusty Vespa and rode north, until pulling free of the city.
He slowly climbed the mountain road that led to the scorching, sun-drenched hole he was digging, with what Rebecca would later describe as an expensive toothbrush. By early afternoon, he would leave the site with his briefcase of notes and get on a plane bound for London. A Cambridge University minibus would ferry him to his dormitory for the week.
Rebecca stayed in his apartment until noon. She washed in his hot yellow bathroom, then cleaned the dishes from supper. After dressing, she bought oranges from an Albanian in the street, propping open the front door with an empty wine bottle. She put the oranges in a small bowl and left them on the kitchen table next to the lemons with her address. Before closing all the shutters for the day, Rebecca noticed the topless man who had been boiling towels in the building opposite. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette and pulling at his hair.
Chapter Eleven
George spent most of the afternoon in bed, a bilingual volume of poetry by Kazantzakis split over his body like a small church. It was open on a page that read:
Beauty is merciless. You do not look at it, it looks at you and does not forgive.
It was about a week since he had seen Rebecca. His apartment smelled of spilled wine. Wilting vines of dill lay on the kitchen counter in thick bunches, while empty wine and liquor bottles occupied most corners and areas where George didn’t need to walk. He repeated the line of poetry a few times until he knew it by heart.
He was meeting someone at noon, and so got up, dressed, and made his way to a popular café on the corner of his street. George’s lunch companion was early, and stood to greet him. They did not shake hands, but were pleased to see one another.
“How are you, Costas?” George said. “Did you order?”
He shook his head.
“Thanks for meeting me. Here are cigarettes and the bottle of ouzo, before I forget.”
The man’s look of dull shame brightened for a moment. He tucked the cigarettes into one of the many pockets of his heavy coat, but held up the bottle of ouzo and made a great pretence of reading the label. This was an attempt, George suspected, to hide that fact that he was actually illiterate.
“Looks like a nice one, interesting history,” the man said.
“It’s excellent, just like your English.”
Costas nodded appreciatively. He was a dark-haired man of about fifty, but due to his circumstances he looked considerably older.
“So what have you been up to since our encounter?”
“Honestly?” said George.
Costas nodded.
“I’ve gone and fallen in love with someone.”
“A woman?”
George nodded.
“Greek?”
“French.”
“Oh,” Costas said. “Very nice.”
“But,” George said, “I haven’t heard from her in a week.”
“Have you telephoned?” Costas suggested.
“She doesn’t have a telephone, but I’ve been round a few times and she doesn’t appear to be home, or if she is, she doesn’t open the door when I ring.”
“Maybe she’s
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