Nightspawn by John Banville Page B

the coast high above the peaceful sea, the rocks, the rubbish dump, the shambles. Lizards lay torpid in the dust, too drugged with heat to stir at our approach. My shirt was damp and dark with sweat, and Helena now and then drove her hands into the heat of her hair. We followed in the silence of our steps the winding road, and at last, the hill crest crossed, we found the little bay and the deserted beach, the taverna at the water’s edge, and the tall parched reeds behind it. A great gust of wind met us, and died away. The day was growing calm. I found Helena smiling at me.
    ‘Everything,’ she murmured, and shook her head in wonder and amusement.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Everything, you said that everything frightens you.’
    We took a table in the shade of the olive tree before the taverna. The beach was at our feet. The old woman of the place approached us warily. I asked her for beer, and she smiled, and nodded, and backed away. Helena said,
    ‘Are you writing a book now?’
    ‘A wha—? Oh yes, indeed, yes, like a beaver I am.’
    She searched in her bag, her small bright tongue touching her lip, and brought out a crumpled packet of fat sweet Turkish cigarettes. I shifted, sitting sideways on the chair, for god, it would not do to have it nudge her knee under the table.
    ‘We had difficulty in bringing you back last night,’ she said, and picked a piece of tobacco from her lip. ‘From Delos, you know? You were very drunk, and sick. Do you remember?’
    ‘Not very well.’
    ‘I am not surprised.’
    I turned the matchbox end over end on the table. The old woman of the crazed smile returned and set the beer before us. While I counted my money, she slowly wiped her hands in her apron, watching me. I paid her, and then said sharply,
    ‘Wait.’
    Her smile wavered. I retrieved one of the coins from her palm and replaced it with another.
    ‘This is for luck, you see.’
    She said something, which I did not catch, and went away. I slipped the coin into the pocket of my shirt.
    ‘For luck,’ I told Helena.
    ‘Of course.’
    We drank our beer, and watched the water, the comings and goings of the little waves, wrestling with the silence. I dared to eat a grape. A boat rounded the headland and turned toward the beach. The soft liquid sound of the oars came clearly to us. Helena put a hand against her cheek and looked down at her glass. Light through the leaves above her had cut a tiny jewel on the rim. She was very still, and suddenly, without provocation, all her hair came loose and fell about her. It was long, and of one colour with the sunlight, it fell over her arm, over the table.I bent and picked up the gold pin which had fallen to the dust. The point pricked my finger and suddenly I paused, wondering how I had come to be there. No force of my own had carried me down the hill, along the road, to this beach with this woman whom I did not know. I looked at her with a new curiosity. She was grinning at me through delicate blue wreaths of smoke. A woman whom I did not know. She dropped her cigarette into the sand, and lowered her eyes.
    ‘Have you ever been to France?’ she asked idly. ‘We went there last year. It was the end of winter, and very cold, we had not thought of that. On our last day there, the sun came out. We went to Versailles, and it was spring just in one moment, with a bird singing. In the gardens of the palace there were such trees and flowers. Perhaps you need to come from a barren country like this to appreciate such things.’
    ‘Greece is not barren,’ I said.
    She did not look at me. One eyebrow twitched in annoyance, and then she was smiling again.
    ‘But the flowers, they were magnificent.’
    She cupped her hands before her face, delineating a wondrous bloom. I watched her silently, with a fist against my teeth. She went on,
    ‘And I bought one of those little books, to read about the king. When he was dying, he said how everyone had told him it was difficult to die, but no, he knew it was