Читать книгу Cretan Teat - Brian Aldiss - Страница 7

The monk in Langstreet’s car directed Langstreet into wild and deserted countryside. At a certain bend in the road, the Punto had to be abandoned. Langstreet and the monk proceeded on foot. They made their way down a narrow track, which ran between ancient olive trees; the branches of the trees on one side of the way met the branches of the trees on the other side. It was dark here; evening was approaching. Langstreet stumbled on a stone.

‘Who owns this lane?’ he asked his guide.

‘Fighting was all here,’ said the monk, with a sweeping gesture.

‘I asked you who owned the lane.’

‘Maybe is Family Paskateris. At the end of the twelfth century, Byzantine noblemen moved to Crete. They fight against the Venetians. Once was very rich, long ago but not now. Except one man, is now our mayor.’

They trudged on as the gloom intensified.

At last, the monk grunted and stopped. He heaved at a section of fencing that guarded the grove on their left. It fell away. Langstreet climbed through, to stand amid rank grass. The monk followed, replacing the fencing behind him.

He gestured ahead. ‘Here is a chapel, but is too near to darkness to see in a good way.’

They tramped among the trees, distorted into bizarre shapes by the extremes of old age. The gloom was pierced by a lingering ray of the setting sun which cut through a gap in the mountains nearby. Its smouldering light lit the front of a small stone building. The building was low and square, resembling a stable except for a bell set in its front facade.

The monk pushed at the door. It yielded grudgingly at his third heave. They entered with bowed shoulders.

A scent of incense, just a ghost of a trace of incense, reached Langstreet’s nostrils. Incense, mingled with damp and age and old stories. The monk shone a small pocket torch.

‘No, wait!’ The thin white beam destroyed the atmosphere. Langstreet went to the rear of the chapel. There was only a cubby-hole, no ikonostasis: clearly this family, Family Paskateris, had not been of the wealthiest. In the cubby-hole lay a few brown candles, slender as willow twigs, and a rather damp box of matches. Getting a match to strike, Langstreet lit the wick of a candle. Its frail glow warmed the preoccupied lines of his face, making of it an ikon in the surrounding gloom. He carried the candle back to where the monk stood.

‘Would you permit me to remain here alone for a moment, please?’ he asked.

‘I shall remain outside.’ As the monk opened the door, Langstreet had a glimpse of the thicket of olive trees, hieroglyphics of age as they slipped into darkness. The door shut. He was alone in the old chapel. He crossed himself.

No windows punctuated the rough stone walls of the building. Four cane-bottomed chairs huddled together in a corner, refugees from family congregations. There came to Langstreet’s mind the thought of his family’s fortunes, his parents arriving in England, a foreign land, his mother dying – that pain, still attendant on him – his father’s remarriage into a wealthy Scottish family, his own marriage to Kathi. That change of nationality a generation ago: it was brought about by the tides of history. This chapel must have represented security, piety, to a family facing the changing fortunes of time.

Langstreet was moved to kneel on a damp patch of carpet. Clasping his hands together, he uttered a short prayer.

‘Great Lord, I thank you that I have been able to emerge from the darkness of an evil history into the light of goodness, through your good guidance. Here in this humble place where you still dwell, I beseech you to remain with me while I endeavour still to make restitution for the past. And I pray that my dear wife may come to understand these things which I do in your name. Amen.’

Whoever the generations had been, worshipping here, they had certainly experienced no diminution in the desire of the outside world for olive oil. But slowly their means of processing and distribution had fallen behind the technological advances elsewhere. Now the olive-crushing machines in Kyriotisa – those old-fashioned engines Langstreet had briefly glimpsed in the town – supplied their oil to Italy, where it was bottled and sold as genuine Italian oil. There was no longer a name for the Kyriotisan olive oil which once had been praised in Constantinople.

Shading the candlelight from his eyes, Langstreet rose to his feet and gazed about him. He felt the brooding presence of God. The door had no lock on it. Thieves were unknown. But there was nothing worth stealing.

The light shone on the rough-hewn stone walls, some of which had been plastered. Here, an artist-monk of long ago had attempted some religious decoration. Perhaps at about the time the Fourth Crusade was wreaking havoc in Constantinople, a monk had set out on the journey to Christian Crete, glad enough to escape the chaos in his city. It was apparent at a glance that he had been a poor artist, perhaps the best the Paskaterises could afford. Nor were the rough walls conducive to fine art. However passable the results had been when fresh, the centuries had been about their slow work in destroying colour and form.

One painting in particular claimed Langstreet’s attention. It was formally headed Agia Anna and showed a woman suckling an infant. He took the candle closer, sheltering its flame with his hand.

The woman, St Anna, had had her eyes scratched out, the vandalism obliterating most of her face. The ugly child she was clutching sucked at a teat resembling an aubergine. It protruded from St Anna’s garments somewhere about the lower rib cage. It was clear that the artist, holy man that he must have been, had scant personal knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.

After gazing at the painting with reverence, Langstreet called in the monk, to ask him who St Anna was.

‘Anna is auntie of Jesus. The Blessed Virgin Mary, she dries up her milk, so she gives Baby Jesus to his auntie for suckle. Here you see him at the breast.’

‘The aunt of Jesus? I don’t understand. What is the evidence on which this painting is based? It seems sacrilegious. It’s not in the Gospels.’

‘No, no. Not in Gospels at all. You find him in Protovangelium of James. In Constantinople was erected a church dedicated to Anna by Emperor Justinian. Is getting dark, sir.’

‘Well, that’s very interesting.’ Langstreet placed a thousand drachma note in the cubby-hole, extinguished the candle, and followed the monk out into the open. Staring down at his boots, he said, ‘I find it wonderful. A revelation.’

The monk closed the door firmly. ‘Only one more such painting exists in all the world, sir. They tell it is in Romania or Bulgaria, or thereabouts.’

Once they were in the car, the monk said, ‘I am only poor man, with no education. So I must live in Kyriotisa for all my life. You must speak to the priest for more better information, sir.’

‘Thank you. You have been very helpful to me. Perhaps I may be permitted to buy you a bottle of wine when we get back to Kyriotisa.’

The monk waved a hand with nicotine-stained fingers in a rough but courteous gesture. ‘Sir, is not necessary. I am glad to help you, as British helped us in the war.’

Langstreet drove the Punto back across the mountains to Paleohora. The road twisted and turned as it sought a way to the sea. He encountered no other traffic on the way. At one point, he drew into the side of the road, climbed out and walked a short distance to sample the loneliness. Stars shone overhead. The moon had yet to rise. This place was unaltered from earliest times; he stood as if on a shore marking the boundary between bygone and modern worlds.

The sky overhead still retained some light, whereas the gloom of night had already settled over the land, emphasising its antiquity. In the distance, a line of land had been raised to resemble a giant hip, teasing Langstreet’s fancy into imagining that he had trespassed on the sleeping body of some ancient being. He had stepped momentarily back from the ages of a Christian God into a time where women gave gods suck.

Hunching his shoulders, he walked briskly back to the car and the present day. He slammed the Punto door. Accelerating at once, he headed for the isolated lights of Paleohora.

Going down to breakfast next morning, I did my best not to limp. Out on the balcony, at the far table, smoking over a cup of coffee, sat Ingrid. She was alone, looking spruce and calm. I recalled that her daughter did not eat breakfast.

She gave me her usual smile, cynical yet warm, acknowledging, accepting, the follies of the world.

‘Were you disturbed by the burglar in the night?’

‘I thought I heard something.’

‘I guess it frightened you off coming to see me.’

‘Crete is known to be a violent country.’

‘And England not so?’

‘We’re just a little country with a big language.’

‘You should visit Denmark. We’re a little country with a big hospitality.’

‘I should like to enjoy your big hospitality, Ingrid.’

‘Let me give you my address. Lisa and I must leave this morning.’

‘I’ll come and visit you, if I may.’

‘I hope your leg will be better then.’

After breakfast, I sat in my room and began to write notes for my novel, until Boris came and suggested that we swam. When I returned to the foyer, I found that Ingrid and her daughter had already left.

Well, it was not important – just a mild flirtation, in which much or little had been said. That seemed to be about all I was capable of these days. What do you expect?

Nevertheless, I found myself dwelling with some tenderness on her features: the narrow temples and mild almond eyes, with the cheeks broadening out to accommodate a generous mouth. And her hair, dyed no doubt, swept back in good fashion, leaving a wing of fine quality over each ear. Inevitably, I then slipped into speculating on other parts of her body, of the snug exchequer tucked between her thighs, warm and resilient, ready for tenancy. But, alas, it was farewell to Planet Genitalia, at least for a while.

I could not help seeing myself as Dr Johnson’s Rasselas, whose ‘chief amusement was to picture to himself that world which he had never seen; to place himself in various conditions: to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in wild adventures…’

For eleven years I had lived with an actress; a lady calling herself Diana Coventry, real name Doreen Stephens. Not particularly successful on the boards or even in TV commercials, but a pleasant woman, given to all those highs and lows with which the legendary leading actresses are assailed. In the dark, Diana might have been Vivien Leigh.

Doreen was as interested in the male sexual organ as I in the female. We never tired of looking as well as doing. There are men I know, men heterosexual to a fault, who admit to disliking the look and aroma of a woman’s genitals. I am not one of them.

I have a memory from early boyhood. I was in a cinema in Manila. A documentary was showing which employed a method of stop-motion photography on plants. From a bud of a flower, the sepals curled back and the whole flower slowly opened. Its interior revealed intricate details, while the petals, brightly coloured, unfurled, lined with marks to guide the bees to the honey at the heart of the blossom.

It was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I experienced an erection, entirely spontaneously. I was puzzled by the tiny disturbance in my shorts. From then on, I associated a flower-like beauty with the female organ.

Unfortunately, Doreen’s and my years together were to end rather unexpectedly. I have always regretted our parting and, looking back, wonder if she has not later regretted it too.

Doreen secured a role in a soap. She played Viv Baker, a woman who ran a clothes shop in the West End. It upset our comfortable arrangements. She became the part. And when Viv Baker was required to indulge in amorous activities with the local crooked landlord, played by Larry Wingate, my Diana became more interested in Wingate than in me. Before I knew what was what, a note was on the fridge door, pinned there by a magnetic model of a London double-decker bus, saying Adios! (in so few words); and Diana was away to the suburb of Wimbledon with Wingate.

And so I was free to stew in my own juice. I have been rather at a loss ever since. Rather too prone to attend the racecourse.

It must have been nostalgia that prompted me at that point to pick up the phone, dial international, and try to speak to Doreen again.

A choked voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

‘Doreen, is that you?’

‘This is Diana Coventry here. What do you want? I’m about to put the phone down.’

‘Hang on, Doreen. It’s me, your lost love, remember? I’m in Crete. I was just ringing to see how you were.’

‘I’m utterly miserable, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Are you missing me?’

‘What makes you think that? I’ve just heard that poor Jav has died.’ Jav was her brother. I had admired him. Jav was all that I was not: a man with good causes ever close to his heart, perennially adopting African tribes or giving starving Albanians holidays on the Costa Brava, or smuggling imbecile babies out of Romania into Finland. His eccentric ways had not endeared him to his semi-famous sister. When I had last had word of them, they were quarrelling bitterly. He was trying to borrow money from Doreen – all right, Diana – to fly pregnant leopards from the war zone in East Timor to a zoo in Australia. Darwin, if I remember right.

‘I’m sorry. What did he die of?’

‘I was just having a good weep when you interrupted me.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Alone. He had taken up the cause of some aborigines near Alice Springs. Just think, a brother of mine to go and die in Australia.’

‘I don’t suppose he could help it.’

‘But Australia… How degrading!’ Sob. Sob.

‘It sounds romantic to me.’ I was trying to cheer her up – always my role where women were concerned. ‘Just imagine the abbo funeral. Didgeridoos wailing across the burning outback, dancing, fire, wallabies roasting on a spit, liquor consumed, screams, mass fornication… An ideal way of being sent off – better than a bloody church service…’

‘Oh, you’re so cruel, you wretch!’

Her phone clicked off. I remembered she was a bit on the religious side. I could but chuckle.

I had been contemplating writing a novel about my life with Diana Coventry when the better idea of Saint Anna came along. Well, I thought it was better. I sent an outline of the story to my agent, old Welling-Jones. True, there was the annoyance of this idea intruding itself upon a lazy Cretan package holiday, but one is fortunate when an idea arrives at all, no matter how inconveniently.

Kathi was sitting by the stern of the yacht when Archie Langstreet returned, wearing a new pair of blue velvet slacks and a white T-shirt without inscription. She had her evening glass of vodka and lime by her right hip. Every now and again she glanced at a portable TV set, by her naked feet, where two men and a woman were clinging to the face of a mountain in a howling gale.

She greeted Langstreet warmly and switched off the set. He kissed her cheek.

‘Have you eaten, darling?’ she asked.

‘No, no. Where’s Cliff?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Where is he?’

‘You ought to eat something. He’s with his Scandish blonde, isn’t he?’

Langstreet grunted. ‘Kathi, I’ve made an amazing find. A crude painting of the infant Jesus being suckled, not by the Virgin Mary, but by his aunt. I came across it in a chapel up in the hills. Eight centuries old. Part of the Christian legend the Christians appear to have forgotten.’

She laughed, switching off the television set. ‘A bit of blasphemy? A schism within the holy ranks?’

‘I’m given to understand that it’s a neglected part of holy legend. Certainly the family who owned the chapel believed in Anna and reverenced her.’

‘Oh, there can’t be a jot of truth in it, surely. It’s like Max Ernst’s famous painting of the BVM giving young Jesus a good walloping!’

He sat down on the deck beside her, being careful to place a newspaper underneath him to protect the white of his canvas trousers.

‘The story can be authenticated. That I mean to do. You must take this seriously, Kathi, my dear. If it is true, it is very touching. It seems that, according to my guide, the Virgin Mary’s milk ran dry, so auntie took over.’

She sat there frowning, drawing her knees up to her chest.

‘Does the guide believe this to be true?’

‘He doesn’t know much about it. He claims there is only one other such painting in the world – apparently in Bulgaria or Romania.’

Kathi chuckled. ‘Can you see her tits?’

‘One breast protrudes. It’s very modest.’

Laughing, she said, ‘Pity you didn’t come across a painting of the Virgin Mary showing her tits!’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘That would never be permitted. It’s no laughing matter. You’re being indecent. I must speak to a local priest and find out more about the subject. The painting is clearly something of a rarity, and should be preserved. There it is, rotting in a stone shack in an olive grove.’

She remained silent for a while, or else was listening to the lap of water against the sides of the boat.

‘It’s an ikon, is it?’

‘No. An ikon would most likely have been stolen long ago. It’s a wall painting or a fresco.’

She said slowly, ‘An ikon would have been better. You could have used it, couldn’t you? I mean, against bloody Nentelstam.’

Archie Langstreet and his wife were taking a vacation while his lawyers in Geneva sought to amass the final sheaf of documents in a legal battle of long-standing. As a senior official in the WHO, Langstreet had been assigned to see the case through. His official title was Director of ACDW (Against Commercialisation of the Developing World). The case was due to come to court in November, after three years’ work. Nentelstam had done everything in its power to delay and muddle the issue. Langstreet was dedicated to concluding the case, and winning it, before his retirement.

Nentelstam was well known for selling its formula powdered milk to mothers in the Third World. That breast-feeding obviated the danger of many diseases and the risks of becoming pregnant again was considered by the powerful international company to be none of their business. If Langstreet hated anyone, it was the faceless Nentelstam corporation, with its ruthless drive to open up more markets.

New scientific evidence had recently come to light, fortifying his case against the corporation.

He told his wife now that no ikon was going to make Nentelstam change its mind or its policies.

‘But an ikon of Jesus being breast-fed,’ Kathi urged.

‘There’s no ikon, my dear.’

‘So you said. But wouldn’t it be a powerful persuader for your cause? “Breast-feeding could turn your son into a Saviour…” ’ She sketched the sentence in the evening sky with a finger. ‘Don’t you see, Archie? If there were an ikon, it could be reproduced all over the world.’

‘It’s a good idea, Kathi. Brilliant, now I come to think of it. But – if there were an ikon… Only there’s not.’

‘If there were an ikon – ’

‘If there were an ikon?’ He regarded her grimly, not smiling.

She stood up. ‘We’ll go shopping in the morning.’

Cliff was up early next day. The sound of his singing in the shower woke Kathi. She slept naked. Drawing a silk robe about her, she went on deck to survey the scene. Distantly, two fishing boats had drawn in, and there were men working at the nets. The boats were painted light blue, with eyes under the raised prows. Otherwise, the harbour was deserted. The sky was overcast with light mackerel cloud. A breeze toyed with her light brown hair. She inhaled deeply before going below to brew coffee and wake her husband.

After breakfast, Cliff went off to find his new love. Langstreet and his wife went ashore to find a priest. Of the people they saw, the tourists wandered as if lost, whereas the locals were more purposeful, though unhurried. Gaining the main street, they asked a waiter in the nearest coffee shop where a priest might be found. The waiter obligingly walked with them for a hundred metres before pointing up a side street and giving them directions.

They walked up a street lined by mutilated trees. Taking a turn to the right, they entered among ranks of smaller houses, most of them decked with flowers. The last house in the line, standing in a small garden in which honeysuckle flowered, was the one described by the waiter as the priest’s house. It was in no way distinguishable from its neighbour. Kathi rang the doorbell.

They waited.

‘Shall I ring again?’

‘He may be out.’

‘Doing good?!’

‘Doing no harm, we hope.’

The door opened. The priest emerged, to stand there blinking benevolently at them, turning a blue-streaked rag over in his hands. He wore the customary black robes of the orthodox priest, and the customary round black hat. His face was wrinkled, its rich brown colouration setting off his white beard. He pursed his lips and raised his dark eyebrows in mute question.

‘We need your advice, sir,’ said Langstreet. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘What nationality have you?’ enquired the holy man, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise Langstreet. ‘English? German?’

‘We’re English,’ Kathi told him. ‘We have a religious question to ask you, if we may.’

He gestured largely, and began to walk slowly towards the garden at the side of the house. As they followed, he said, ‘You see, I decorate my house. I have some paint. Therefore I cannot ask you inside it. We shall sit in my garden. There you can speak.’

The side garden was untidily bright with pink and blue flowers, among which courgettes and peppers grew. In the garden, sheltered by vines, stood a ramshackle table and chairs. The faded blue cushions on the seats of the chairs had once borne a pattern, now all but obliterated by wear and weather. The priest gestured to them to sit down. He seated himself after they had done so. A small bell hung from a chain by his right hand. This he shook once or twice. It gave off musical notes. A small bird in a wooden cage nearby echoed the sound.

The priest asked courteously how he could assist them.

‘In the hills above Kyriotisa, I came across a painting in an old chapel which interests me greatly. It portrays the infant Christ being suckled by his aunt Anna,’ Langstreet began.

The priest raised his hand immediately. ‘Pardon. Agia Anna is not the aunt of Jesus Christ. She is his grannie.’

Kathi snorted with concealed laughter. ‘His grannie? On which side of the family?’

The priest, without relaxing his good-humoured expression, said, ‘Is not that rather a silly question, madam?’

Langstreet interposed hurriedly, saying that a monk had told him Anna was the aunt of Jesus.

‘The monks are poor men. They are good but they are countrymen, you understand. They have not much learning. Only a few scriptures by heart. They sometimes lack even Biblical knowledge.’

Langstreet remarked that he did not recall the legend of Anna giving the infant Jesus suck in the Bible.

‘You must look in the Protovangelium of James, in the second century. There it is clear. Grannie, no aunt. Saint Anna. Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Her relics are preserved in a chapel in Rome, as I recall.’

‘Well, that makes that clear,’ said Kathi, regarding her husband with merriment in her eyes. Langstreet evaded her glance.

A sturdy old lady, with an apron over her black, ankle-length dress, appeared around the rear corner of the house, carrying a tray. She smiled graciously at her husband’s guests and set down the tray before them. Her brief journey had disturbed the arrangement of some biscuits on a patterned plate. She set them into a star pattern, smiling absently as she did so. With gestures of invitation, she then retreated.

Cups of coffee and small cakes lay before them, beside the biscuits in their neat pattern. The priest, whispering a word of grace, invited them to help themselves.

‘So this grannie still had breast milk when her daughter had run dry?’ Kathi said.

‘Such is the report of James,’ the holy man said. He then looked enquiringly at Langstreet, who asked why this legend was not better known.

‘Is no a legend, but history. Wait, I have it in a history book, which I will fetch. Please enjoy your coffee.’ He rose and disappeared around the corner of the house. Kathi chose a small cake, while Langstreet selected a biscuit.

‘Jesus’ grannie!’ Kathi exclaimed in a whisper. ‘Ask him if there’s an ikon. There must be!’

The priest returned, leafing industriously through a heavy volume bound in black leather. He had put on a pair of rickety spectacles and, having seated himself again, he stared at the pages through which he leafed, muttering to himself.

Finally, raising a finger, he looked up.

‘Here we have the details. This is an English History of Byzantium. I bought it during my stay at Oxford, some period of time before. It has been written by Doctor George Layton. Listen!’

He proceeded to read.

‘Mmm… “Two centuries and a half had almost passed away. The Byzantine Empire had been destroyed by the Crusaders – ” that is the Fourth Crusade, of course’ – and the Asiatic Greeks were endeavouring to expel the piratical Genoese from Crete. The Emperor Michael Paleologos was besieging Constantinople without success. Some Greek officers, wandering through the ruins of the church and monastery of the Sacred Family, admired the magnificence of the edifice, despite its ruinous condition. They could but lament that so splendid a monument to Byzantine piety should have been converted into a stable under the ruinous administration of the Ottoman conquerors.

‘ “In a corner of the building, a remarkable tomb which had recently been desecrated arrested their attention. Within the sarcophagus lay a well-preserved body of a woman, richly dressed. An inscription upon the broken lid of the tomb proclaimed these to be the mortal remains of Saint Anna, mother of the Blessed Virgin.

‘ “Later, the Emperor Michael VI visited the spot. He ordered that the body be preserved and removed to the Monastery of Our Saviour, since when it has been lost to human cognisance.” ’

‘No ikons were made of Saint Anna?’ Langstreet asked.

‘Justinian erected a church in her honour.’

‘But no ikons?’

The priest shook his head. ‘Why are you on this quest, sir? What happens to be your interest?’

‘I am a connoisseur of ikons, and am keen to acquire one of St Anna.’

‘I cannot help you there. Maybe there is no such ikon.’ His strong white teeth bit into one of the cakes.

‘Thank you for your help, sir.’ Langstreet extracted his business card from his wallet and handed it ceremoniously to the priest.

The quiet town of Paleohora exhibited signs of life when tourists, returning from the beaches, sought a midday meal. Still Langstreet’s hired yacht lay moored on the quayside of the main harbour. Along the eastern beach, where shops and tavernas grew more modest, stood a shop selling ethnic wares, including a number of ikons. Langstreet and his wife entered the crowded little room, to be greeted by numerous representations of the good and bearded.

A corpulent woman of middle age emerged from behind a counter at the rear and asked them if they would like to buy some local silverware. She clasped her hands before her, over a worn brown dress.

Langstreet was inspecting the ikons. All were modern reproductions, and garishly coloured.

He asked the woman where her ikons came from. She told him they were manufactured in Athens, at a workshop in the Plaka, a centre for tourist activities.

‘But a real ikon painter? Are there any in Crete?’

‘Not a real painter, no.’ She nodded her head, before adding, ‘But is old monk who does such things. He lives in the gorge.’

‘What gorge is that?’ Kathi asked. ‘The Samaria Gorge?’

‘No, no. I show you.’ She retreated to the rear of the shop, and they followed meekly behind her broad back.

The woman fished up a biro and a paper bag from under her counter. On the bag she drew a rough line to indicate the south coast of the island. Marking the position of Paleohora with a cross, she drew a ragged line to the east of it, from the coast inland.

‘Here is Gorge Mesovrahi.’ As she drew another cross halfway up the gorge, she said, ‘Here is Church of Agios Ioannis. Here you will find the Monaché Kostas. He will show his ikons. Is very old.’ She handed the bag to Kathi.

‘Can we get there by road?’

‘Is no road. Only by sea you get there.’

Langstreet and his wife exchanged glances. He asked the woman, ‘Are you sure this Kostas is still alive? There’s a village, is there?’

‘No village. Is church. Kostas is still living. I know it. He is my relation. His name is now Christodoulas – “He who serves Christ”.’

Thanking the woman, clutching the paper bag, they left the shop. It meant sailing back the way they had come, and so probably returning the Southern Warrior late to the rental firm in Piraeus.

‘Why not? It sounds amusing,’ said Langstreet. The remark was an uncharacteristic one, as her glance at him indicated.

‘And maybe something more than that.’

They sat in a taverna with Cliff, drinking frappé and consulting a nautical map. The mouth of the Mesovrahi Gorge was only some nine nautical miles from Paleohora, an easy sail. Cliff said he did not wish to come.

‘Oh, come on, darling, it’ll be a bit of an adventure.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m having my adventure here, Kathi. If you’re away overnight, I can stay with Vibe… Yes, in her hotel room… Oh, don’t look so old-fashioned, father! The hotel won’t care. You can pick me up when you come back.’

‘Do come with us, Cliff,’ his father said. ‘You should not sleep with a woman so easily. Besides which, it’s safer if we’re together.’

‘Safer?’ He shook his head with affected weariness. ‘What danger is there here?’

Langstreet shrugged. ‘You never know.’

So far so good. I get the impression that Archie Langstreet is a decent, serious man. Quite a different character from me. Perhaps there is an echo of my son in Cliff. On second thoughts, no, not really.

I have said very little about Boris. I call him my son, but he is not a blood relation. At one time I was living with a decent woman called Polly Pointer. My life was then sane and orderly.

Polly was superintendent of a home for unwanted children, and that was where she picked up Boris. His parents had beaten and abandoned him. She brought him home one day, a small sad mite of a boy who said nothing for two or three weeks. Tell me I have no sense of responsibility, but Boris was not popular with me.

Polly and I quarrelled over the boy. I said she should have consulted me before bringing him home. The bad feeling between us was not improved by the child’s filthy habits, which were slow to improve.

Not that bad feelings got in the way of our fascination for each other. Here was a woman who accepted responsibility, who cared for a number of people with horrible habits. And Polly did care – in a calm, deep way. What did she see in me? I was an independent spirit; I did not have to answer to a board, as she did. Also, at that time I was immensely popular and successful. I appeared frequently on TV chat shows. I was on the Literature Panel of the Arts Council, dishing out money to those less fortunate than myself (you notice that the money has run out, just when I’m broke). My novel, Whom the Gods Hate, was short-listed for the Booker Prize. All this success faded when Polly died.

There was more truth than I had bargained for in my epigram, adopted from the Greek, ‘Whom the gods hate, they first make famous’.

It seems as if, looking back, I was earning enough money to iron out our differences and live and love in some style.

As circumstances eased, Boris improved. Polly was applying to have him officially adopted. Then the home where she worked rang one day to say that Polly was injured. I left the lad with a neighbour and drove to the hospital in Bournemouth where she lay.

She had been run over in the driveway of the home. A client making an angry retreat had hit her as she ran to pick up a child who had fallen over. She died two days later, without regaining consciousness.

After the funeral, I was stunned by grief. Only then did I fully realise what a good woman she was, and how much I loved her. And how I had often quarrelled with her unnecessarily.

Poor dear Polly! I had taken her for granted. What do you expect? That’s life, as they say. She had been so joyous; without that joy, I was one of the walking dead.

For Polly’s sake I did not get rid of Boris. He was by now a lonely and still oddly behaved little boy. I tried to talk to him about Polly.

‘She didn’t love me,’ he said. He was merely responding to the pattern of his life.

‘Yes she did, she loved you very much. Polly chose you of all the children in the home.’

‘She didn’t love me, or else why did she die?’

How often I cried over that very question; it was one I could not help asking myself. How self-centred I was, crying more for myself than for her.

Now I think of it, I remember ringing my literary agent at that time, about something or other, and telling him that only women were capable of real joy. Not men. Men hid their incapacity in obsessions, such as writing. Real joy was granted only to women.

‘And how do you make that out?’ he had asked.

‘It’s a fact, Will. Something everyone knows. Like the fact that if you live in London you’re never more than a yard from a rat. Men should be humble before women, and serve them.’

‘Jesus,’ he said, and put the phone down. I then recalled what a big woman his wife was.

Anyhow, to cheer up this narrative a bit, I must relate that I bought Boris some livestock to keep him happy. I was such an inadequate father. Firstly, I bought him a pair of ring-doves. Boris would be quiet in the garden, sitting on a log, to watch those pretty birds for hours, as they were cooing and flitting from tree to ground, strutting, flirting, seemingly everything to each other, the most contented of creatures.

For his indoor companion, I bought him an iguana. We went together to a pet shop and chose a small common iguana, young but wise-looking. Years later, Fred, as we called him, had grown to be five feet long and became rather a problem; but Boris and I loved him from the start.

We got two goats, which were rather a nuisance. But why am I telling you all this? So that you will know something of this rather silent lad, now almost a man, who still lives with me, who came on holiday with me to Paleohora, and remains a mystery to me, as I to him. He is studying to be a naturalist. His affections are directed, not to women or men, as far as I can see, but to the world of birds and animals.

Much of my present trouble springs from my flying Boris to Tuscany to celebrate his sixteenth birthday. Our intention was to take a party of four friends, two adults and a girl and a boy, with us; but one of them fell ill at the last moment. Boris and I went alone, to a large, sparsely-furnished house in the wilds. I had a book to write. Boris cycled about the countryside, watching for wildlife.

One evening, as I sat on the balcony with a glass of wine by my elbow, I saw Boris coming along the valley road, pushing his bike. With him was a young woman, walking in a confident manner. A woman, or girl, I should say, he had met in a village trattoria. This was Lucia, a pretty dark-haired girl, whose breasts were noticeable under her T-shirt. She wore shorts and mountain boots. They were excited, since Boris had captured a rare butterfly in a specimen jar, so introductions were perfunctory.

I was disturbed. Somehow, that sight of Boris and the young girl, with the bike, walking along that road among the poplars, seemed oddly familiar and consequently disconcerting.

‘I’ll cook us some supper,’ I said.

I poured them some wine before going to cook. Lucia – little more than a kid – followed me into the kitchen. Boris tailed after her.

Lucia said, lifting up the jar containing the butterfly, ‘Boris must let this poor creature go free, don’t you think?’

When I agreed with her, she flashed me a smile. Just to keep in practice, she took to flashing me enticing looks. I told myself they meant nothing. I like women, am generally on good terms with them, but these young specimens of their sex, just come to puberty – heaven preserve me from them!

Boris was eager to please Lucia. He emanated, he seemed to be surrounded by, a blush of emotion. Until this time, I had not seen him exhibit any sexual desire. Certainly, Lucia seemed as pleasing a cause of desire as any girl could be, if you were young and rash enough, and had a lot to learn. Old though I was, I was shortly to find I too had much to learn.

The sun had just set behind the hills. We stood outside as he opened the specimen jar. Out flew the butterfly. As it fluttered to the corner of the house, a bird flew swiftly past, snatching the insect in its beak and making off without pause. It was a terrible moment of synchronicity.

Over the meal, I asked Lucia if she was staying the night.

‘I think I will. Soon I will become a film star.’

This curious conjunction of sentences needed some thinking about. I hardly listened to Boris’ explanation of Lucia’s fortunate meeting with a British film crew making a mystery-thriller set partly in Florence. Boris seemed to my eyes clumsy and unsophisticated when compared with this sparkling and confident young creature.

‘Will your parents mind?’ I asked.

She looked at me as if I had come from the Ark. In reply, she gave what novelists call ‘a tinkling laugh’.

After the meal, Lucia started to make up to Boris, becoming coquettish and teasing him, after the manner of her kind. He was embarrassed in front of his father, so I left the house and walked through a fine night, down to the river. There I listened to the swift flow of water over the pebbles on its bed. That ceaseless energy made music through the darkness. Admittedly, I felt some envy of my son, having such a pretty girl in tow.

My heart ached for my lovely Polly.

Stars came out overhead. I watched them through the trees and thought about my life, and its unsatisfactory quality, which I recognised as being mainly of my own making.

When I returned, the youngsters had gone up to Boris’ bedroom at the top of the house. I went to my room and slept. The room was stuffy. I slept naked.

A shriek awoke me, followed by a male cry. Grabbing a towel with which to cover myself, I rushed up the stairs to see what was happening. Perhaps our isolated position had invited criminals to invade us.

A light burned by the bedside. Boris lay in bed, his back turned to the light. Lucia, naked, stood on the bed, kicking him in the ribs.