surroundings became stranger still when the moon rose above the hills in the east, silvering some of the darkness, plunging the rest into yet deeper shadow. There was something maddening about the timelessness of it all when he was so short of time himself. Somewhere in this great peacefulness those welcoming eyes were turned towards the veranda window that she had left open. But where, where? Already the smile in the eyes was beginning to fade, and at any moment the other Dr. Norman Wilfred would come raging out of the shadows and shoulder him aside. The embowered bungalows were a long way from one another, and even in the moonlight he had to get very close to see the names carved in the stonework. Xenocles, Theodectes, Menander … Leucippus, Empedocles, Anaximander … He realized that he had forgotten the name of the one he was looking for. Demosthenes. No—Damocles.
He would have to give up. Go back to his own room, get a good night’s sleep, and hope that somehow, somewhere, the old Dr. Norman Wilfred was as lost as he was himself.
But he couldn’t go back to his room. He didn’t know the way and, even if he could find someone to ask, he’d forgotten the name of it. In any case he hadn’t got the key.
He was beginning to feel nostalgic for the old days, when he had still been Oliver Fox. As so often in life, though, there was nowhere to go but on, and nothing to do but what you had so recklessly started doing.
* * *
At last, as the taxi swayed and rocked on the dirt road through the mountains, Georgie’s phone rang. She was holding it in her hand, ready and waiting.
“Hi!” she said joyfully. “I’m here! Where are you?”
“On the boat,” said Patrick. “Where you left me.”
It took her no more than a quarter of a second to reconfigure herself.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Obviously. Who did you think I was?”
“I thought you might be Nikki. My old schoolfriend. The one I’m staying with. I told you! She was supposed to meet me at the airport. At Zurich.”
“You’re in Switzerland already? You said you missed the plane.”
“I found another one. Via somewhere … Belgrade.”
Silence from Izmir. She wound down the window and felt the hot scented night air flowing over her face. She was aware that the man with the wart on his nose was watching her in his rearview mirror.
“What’s the weather like in Switzerland?” said Patrick.
“Oh, you know. The usual. Bit cool.”
“So you’re still in Zurich? Still at the airport?”
“I’m in a taxi.”
“What happened to your pal?”
“Nikki? Busy at her foundation thing. Tied up with her skiers.”
“Skiers?”
“I told you.”
“In June?”
“They go very high.”
“I thought this was some sort of cultural institute?”
“It is. Culture and skiing.”
Another silence.
“Yes, well … Just checking you’re OK.” A special strangulated note came into his voice. “I love you, you know.”
“I know. Me, too—me you.”
She pressed the red button. She tried not to catch the taxi driver’s eye in the mirror.
“Spiros,” he said, and handed a card over his shoulder to her. “You want taxi? Spiros. Not Stavros. Stavros he’s my brother. He drive very bad. Kill you for sure.”
She wasn’t thinking about Greece, though. She was thinking about Nikki, at her foundation thing high in the Alps. She couldn’t remember now what Nikki had said about it. Only something about there being skiing there, or skiers. She thought about the skiers swooping across the whiteness of the high snowfields through the sparkling cold mountain air. And Nikki, up there with them, leading her clear, white, well-organized life. If only she could have been like that!
She pressed a number on her phone, then turned sideways to get away from Spiros, and hid her mouth behind her hand. There were some conversations that even she felt a little self-conscious about.
“Also electrical,” said Spiros. “Also genuine
He would have to give up. Go back to his own room, get a good night’s sleep, and hope that somehow, somewhere, the old Dr. Norman Wilfred was as lost as he was himself.
But he couldn’t go back to his room. He didn’t know the way and, even if he could find someone to ask, he’d forgotten the name of it. In any case he hadn’t got the key.
He was beginning to feel nostalgic for the old days, when he had still been Oliver Fox. As so often in life, though, there was nowhere to go but on, and nothing to do but what you had so recklessly started doing.
* * *
At last, as the taxi swayed and rocked on the dirt road through the mountains, Georgie’s phone rang. She was holding it in her hand, ready and waiting.
“Hi!” she said joyfully. “I’m here! Where are you?”
“On the boat,” said Patrick. “Where you left me.”
It took her no more than a quarter of a second to reconfigure herself.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Obviously. Who did you think I was?”
“I thought you might be Nikki. My old schoolfriend. The one I’m staying with. I told you! She was supposed to meet me at the airport. At Zurich.”
“You’re in Switzerland already? You said you missed the plane.”
“I found another one. Via somewhere … Belgrade.”
Silence from Izmir. She wound down the window and felt the hot scented night air flowing over her face. She was aware that the man with the wart on his nose was watching her in his rearview mirror.
“What’s the weather like in Switzerland?” said Patrick.
“Oh, you know. The usual. Bit cool.”
“So you’re still in Zurich? Still at the airport?”
“I’m in a taxi.”
“What happened to your pal?”
“Nikki? Busy at her foundation thing. Tied up with her skiers.”
“Skiers?”
“I told you.”
“In June?”
“They go very high.”
“I thought this was some sort of cultural institute?”
“It is. Culture and skiing.”
Another silence.
“Yes, well … Just checking you’re OK.” A special strangulated note came into his voice. “I love you, you know.”
“I know. Me, too—me you.”
She pressed the red button. She tried not to catch the taxi driver’s eye in the mirror.
“Spiros,” he said, and handed a card over his shoulder to her. “You want taxi? Spiros. Not Stavros. Stavros he’s my brother. He drive very bad. Kill you for sure.”
She wasn’t thinking about Greece, though. She was thinking about Nikki, at her foundation thing high in the Alps. She couldn’t remember now what Nikki had said about it. Only something about there being skiing there, or skiers. She thought about the skiers swooping across the whiteness of the high snowfields through the sparkling cold mountain air. And Nikki, up there with them, leading her clear, white, well-organized life. If only she could have been like that!
She pressed a number on her phone, then turned sideways to get away from Spiros, and hid her mouth behind her hand. There were some conversations that even she felt a little self-conscious about.
“Also electrical,” said Spiros. “Also genuine
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