It’s just my phone, pretending. Tell it your troubles, though, and it’ll listen patiently and pass them on to me as soon as I remember to press the button.”
Of course. The announcement was only too familiar. But this time it really was a bit of a bugger. She had scarcely expected him to be waiting for her at the airport, since he hadn’t known she was coming. But at least he might have been waiting at the end of the phone. Because otherwise she had no idea where she was supposed to be going. He’d borrowed a villa from someone. But what villa? Where? What was the name of the people he’d borrowed it from?
She tried once more to phone him as she waited for her bag, and again after it had arrived, but there was still only the answering machine. She felt suddenly lost and lonely. Most of her fellow passengers from Thessaloniki were Greek, and when she emerged from the baggage hall even the signs that the waiting chauffeurs and taxi drivers were holding up were in an unwelcomingly incomprehensible script. Among them, though, was one that had an English translation with it: SKIOS TAXI. It was being held up by a man with a bald head and a large belly. In the middle of his bald head was a black wart like a fly.
“Do you speak English?” she asked him.
“ Eustrabolgi ?”
“Oh, hello, yes, sorry, eustrabolgi, only I wonder if you could help me…”
“I wait Strabolgi,” he said. He turned round and said something to a man sitting on the bench behind him, who heaved himself to his feet and ambled slowly over. He had a large belly, a bald head, and a black wart like a fly on the end of his nose. He held out his hand.
“Spiros,” he said. “Stavros he don’t speak English good. Where you like to go?”
She explained to him about how she was supposed to meet a friend here, only she had missed the plane thanks to the difficulties made by another friend, etc., etc., and then she had suddenly seen there was a flight to Thessaloniki, etc., etc., and her friend’s phone was etc., etc., and all she knew about the villa they were staying in was that it belonged to some people, only she didn’t know their name.
“No problem,” said the man with the wart on the end of his nose. “What?”
She had missed the plane, she explained again, thanks to the tiresomeness of her friend Patrick, with the result that another friend of hers who was supposed to be meeting her here, and who was called Oliver—
“Wait!” said the man. “You want Mr. Fox Oliver?”
“ Mystaphoksoliva ?” she repeated blankly. And suddenly she realized how easy it was to understand Greek. “Yes!” she cried. “Mr. Fox Oliver! Yes, yes!”
“No problem,” said Spiros. He took the handle of her suitcase and ushered her towards the parking. “I know where. I drive him. Mr. Fox Oliver. Already now he have the bath waiting you, glass of wine on the table.”
* * *
Straight along the path and then left.
It had sounded so easy when Nikki said it. But in the darkness, as the new Dr. Norman Wilfred groped his way around in his white bathrobe, with the bottle of chilled champagne tucked under his arm, he found it difficult to make any sense of the world he had invented himself into. Straight along the path, yes, but none of the paths was straight! They were all elegantly landscaped into the complex contours of the hillside. Then left. But when was a left a left, and when was it a winding straight with a right turning off it?
Here and there small lights kept their eyes modestly downcast upon the ground, or half concealed behind veils of sweet-scented vegetation. Every now and then he heard a snatch of conversation or laughter, but lights and sounds alike only made the surrounding darkness and silence seem deeper. He caught occasional glimpses through the trees of some kind of life—of people moving about, or sitting at tables—but it was way down the hillside below him, and there seemed to be no possible approach.
His
Of course. The announcement was only too familiar. But this time it really was a bit of a bugger. She had scarcely expected him to be waiting for her at the airport, since he hadn’t known she was coming. But at least he might have been waiting at the end of the phone. Because otherwise she had no idea where she was supposed to be going. He’d borrowed a villa from someone. But what villa? Where? What was the name of the people he’d borrowed it from?
She tried once more to phone him as she waited for her bag, and again after it had arrived, but there was still only the answering machine. She felt suddenly lost and lonely. Most of her fellow passengers from Thessaloniki were Greek, and when she emerged from the baggage hall even the signs that the waiting chauffeurs and taxi drivers were holding up were in an unwelcomingly incomprehensible script. Among them, though, was one that had an English translation with it: SKIOS TAXI. It was being held up by a man with a bald head and a large belly. In the middle of his bald head was a black wart like a fly.
“Do you speak English?” she asked him.
“ Eustrabolgi ?”
“Oh, hello, yes, sorry, eustrabolgi, only I wonder if you could help me…”
“I wait Strabolgi,” he said. He turned round and said something to a man sitting on the bench behind him, who heaved himself to his feet and ambled slowly over. He had a large belly, a bald head, and a black wart like a fly on the end of his nose. He held out his hand.
“Spiros,” he said. “Stavros he don’t speak English good. Where you like to go?”
She explained to him about how she was supposed to meet a friend here, only she had missed the plane thanks to the difficulties made by another friend, etc., etc., and then she had suddenly seen there was a flight to Thessaloniki, etc., etc., and her friend’s phone was etc., etc., and all she knew about the villa they were staying in was that it belonged to some people, only she didn’t know their name.
“No problem,” said the man with the wart on the end of his nose. “What?”
She had missed the plane, she explained again, thanks to the tiresomeness of her friend Patrick, with the result that another friend of hers who was supposed to be meeting her here, and who was called Oliver—
“Wait!” said the man. “You want Mr. Fox Oliver?”
“ Mystaphoksoliva ?” she repeated blankly. And suddenly she realized how easy it was to understand Greek. “Yes!” she cried. “Mr. Fox Oliver! Yes, yes!”
“No problem,” said Spiros. He took the handle of her suitcase and ushered her towards the parking. “I know where. I drive him. Mr. Fox Oliver. Already now he have the bath waiting you, glass of wine on the table.”
* * *
Straight along the path and then left.
It had sounded so easy when Nikki said it. But in the darkness, as the new Dr. Norman Wilfred groped his way around in his white bathrobe, with the bottle of chilled champagne tucked under his arm, he found it difficult to make any sense of the world he had invented himself into. Straight along the path, yes, but none of the paths was straight! They were all elegantly landscaped into the complex contours of the hillside. Then left. But when was a left a left, and when was it a winding straight with a right turning off it?
Here and there small lights kept their eyes modestly downcast upon the ground, or half concealed behind veils of sweet-scented vegetation. Every now and then he heard a snatch of conversation or laughter, but lights and sounds alike only made the surrounding darkness and silence seem deeper. He caught occasional glimpses through the trees of some kind of life—of people moving about, or sitting at tables—but it was way down the hillside below him, and there seemed to be no possible approach.
His
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