Читать книгу Aphrodite’s Smile - Stuart Harrison - Страница 11

It was mid-morning when I woke. The events of the previous night came back to me in a rush, but in that groggy state between sleep and full consciousness I wondered whether I had dreamt it all. I recalled turning towards the figure muffled by shadow at the end of the wharf as she appeared to fall slowly forward into space and be swallowed by the darkness, then the splash of water. I thought of how Alex had watched me later as she had lain in bed, her eyelids flickering as she succumbed to sleep.

I got out of bed. My clothes were on a chair where I’d left them, still wet from the night before. The shutters over the window were closed and the air was stiflingly hot. I threw them open, squinting at the harsh light. Outside, the sun was beating down on the roof of the house from a still and cloudless sky. I could see the back of a dark-coloured sedan parked by the Jeep and the sound of voices reached me from somewhere in the house.

After I’d showered and dressed I went downstairs and found Irene and a man wearing the uniform of the local police sitting at the table on the terrace. They were speaking quietly in Greek, their heads close together. When they saw me, Irene drew back quickly, some indecipherable expression flashing in her eyes. It was gone in a moment, and smiling she rose to introduce us.

‘Kalimera, Robert. Did you sleep well? This is Captain Theonas from the police department. Miros this is Johnny’s son.’

The policeman rose to shake my hand. He was middle-aged, tall and thin with a deeply tanned face. ‘Kalimera, Mr French. May I extend my sympathies for your loss?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sit down,’ Irene told me. ‘I will fetch you some coffee.’

‘Are you here about my father, Captain?’ I asked after Irene had gone inside.

‘Yes. I have the results of the autopsy carried out by the examiner from Kephalonia.’

Beyond the terrace the deep blue sea glittered with slivers of light. The cicadas were going at full force, a startlingly loud cacophony of sound. I was aware that Theonas was watching me with professional reserve.

‘I am sorry to have to discuss these things. I understand that this must be a painful situation for you,’ he said sympathetically.

‘I suppose I’m not used to the idea that he’s dead yet.’

‘Of course. You are aware, I believe, of the circumstances surrounding the discovery of your father’s body?’

‘Irene told me that he was found in the harbour.’

‘That is correct. As I was explaining to her, the examination shows that your father drowned. It appears that he had been in the water since early on the morning he vanished.’

Just then Irene returned with coffee. Theonas glanced at her and I saw a sudden quickening change in his expression. It was gone before I could interpret it, but it made an impression on me, like a vivid painting glimpsed through a crack in a doorway before it closed.

‘How can you tell he drowned?’ I asked him.

‘By the presence of water in his lungs.’

‘Did he have another heart attack?’

‘This the examiner cannot determine for certain. There is evidence of thrombosis. This is the narrowing of the arteries supplying blood to the heart. However, this is to be expected given your father’s history. Perhaps he simply lost his footing and fell … his clothes became tangled in the propeller and he was unable to free himself …’

It seemed straightforward enough, and I glanced at Irene wondering if the autopsy results had allayed her misgivings. She guessed what I was thinking.

‘Miros is aware that your father claimed somebody had tried to kill him,’ she said. I was surprised that she had gone as far as reporting it to the police.

‘After Irene came to me I made some discreet enquiries,’ Theonas said. ‘On the night your father was taken to hospital he had been drinking heavily in a bar on the waterfront. There were many witnesses. Everybody that I spoke to said that he was in good spirits. In fact he had been making a speech.’

‘A speech?’

‘This was not unusual where your father was concerned. On this occasion he claimed that he had discovered the missing Panaghia.’

Seeing my incomprehension, Irene explained. ‘Your father was referring to a statue that has been lost since the German occupation ended during the war. The Panaghia was a statue of the Holy Virgin that was kept in the monastery at Kathara. The monastery was looted by the Germans.’

I knew what she was talking about then. When I was young there had been a man who worked for my dad whose name I couldn’t remember. They would have been about the same age. The three of us used to go out on the Swallow and my dad would talk about finding some statue that was meant to be on a sunken wreck from the war. We’d drop anchor at some spot or other and the two of them would take turns diving. I had a vivid recollection of watching them strap on their scuba gear, and their tanned bodies glistening when they came out of the water. When I asked if this was the statue she meant, Irene said that it was.

‘The ship was called the Antounnetta. Johnny used to spend part of each summer trying to find her. He wanted to return the Panaghia to the people of Ithaca, as a way of thanking them for making him welcome on the island.’

‘The statue is worthless in monetary terms,’ Theonas said. ‘However, to the people of the island it has great significance as a religious symbol. The night he was in the bar, your father became involved in a mild argument with a fisherman called Spiro Petalas. It seems that Spiro was sceptical of your father’s claim that he had at last discovered the Panaghia. It is possible that this incident might explain your father’s belief that somebody wished him harm. Perhaps he was confused …’

‘You mean he was talking about this fisherman?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Could there be any truth to it?’

‘I do not think so. Many people have told me that Spiro remained in the bar for several hours after your father left that night. And though he is certainly a moody fellow, I do not think Spiro is a violent man. In fact violent crime is almost unheard of on the island. On the rare occasion when it occurs, it is usually committed by a visitor. We had an incident recently in fact. I am afraid that it is an unpleasant irony that though we need tourists to survive, sometimes the people who come here are not entirely desirable.’ Theonas shrugged before he went on. ‘Your father was alone when he left the bar that night. It is a steep walk to the Perahori road from the harbour. There are many steps. For a man in his condition …’ He paused tactfully and I assumed he meant for a man as drunk as my father was. ‘I spoke also to the driver of the truck who took him to the doctor. He saw him collapse with his own eyes and he swears there was nobody else on the road.’

‘Then you think he imagined it?’

‘In the absence of any evidence to the contrary it is likely. I can think of no reason why anyone should have wished to harm him.’

Irene was frowning, deep in thought. She realised we were both watching her. ‘I suppose that you are right,’ she agreed, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. She got up and began clearing the table. As she picked up a cup she disturbed Theonas’s folder and a photograph fell out from between the typewritten sheets. It was a shot of my father’s pale bloated corpse on the autopsy table, the flesh grey and wax-like. Irene blanched.

Theonas picked it up quickly, looking stricken as he murmured an apology. ‘Signomi, Irene.’

His hand strayed to her arm in an instinctively intimate reaction and suddenly I understood the look I’d seen pass across his face earlier. But Irene hadn’t noticed. Instead she picked up one of the typewritten sheets and, frowning, said something in Greek to Theonas.

‘I am sorry, Robert,’ she said, remembering me. ‘I was asking Miros about something that is written here. It says the examiner found a wound on Johnny’s head.’ She touched the back of her skull above the neck to demonstrate.

‘What kind of wound?’

‘Some bruising,’ Theonas explained. ‘A small cut. It is conceivable that your father struck his head when he fell into the water. In fact that would explain how he drowned … if for a short time he lost consciousness …’

Irene stared at the sheet of paper, her brow deeply lined. ‘What is it?’ I asked her.

She shook her head in frustration. ‘I do not know. This. Everything. Perhaps Johnny had a heart attack. Perhaps he fell. Perhaps he struck his head. Nothing is for certain.’

‘This wound, couldn’t the examiner be more specific about what caused it?’ I asked Theonas, hoping he could add something to quell Irene’s anxieties.

‘The examiner found wooden splinters. Perhaps he hit his head on the wharf. It is impossible to say for sure. By the time he was found, your father had been in the water for several days. If there was any blood it had washed away.’

Irene gave him back the notes, though she still appeared to have her doubts. There was nothing more Theonas could tell us and, when he rose to leave shortly afterwards, Irene went with him to his car. I watched them from the terrace. They spoke quietly together in Greek. I couldn’t understand what they were saying and they were careful to maintain a degree of distance between each other, but they couldn’t disguise what I had already seen. When she came back Irene avoided my eye.

I helped her clear the table and followed her into the kitchen. ‘Can I ask you something?’ I said. ‘Did my father know Theonas was the man you were seeing?’

She looked momentarily surprised but didn’t attempt to deny it. ‘Yes. I sometimes wondered if that was why your father was so secretive.’

I didn’t understand what she meant. ‘Did he know you told Theonas that he thought somebody tried to kill him?’

‘No. I think that is why he tried to pretend he did not mean it. He did not want me to say anything.’

‘Because of your relationship with Theonas?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she answered, though I had the feeling that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. Before I could ask her any more she turned away leaving me puzzling as to why else my father wouldn’t have wanted her to say anything to Theonas.

Later, Irene told me that she had to go to her office. They were very busy, she said apologetically. ‘But there is something we must discuss. I must arrange your father’s funeral. Unless you would like to bury him in England?’

The idea hadn’t even occurred to me. ‘Did he make any requests in his will?’

‘Your father was not a religious man. I do not think he ever gave it any thought.’

‘You were his wife,’ I said. ‘It’s for you to decide. But if you want my opinion, I think he should stay here.’

‘Then I will speak to the priest today. You will stay for the funeral?’

‘Of course.’

She suggested I might like to go for a drive and fetched a map to show me some places where I could stop for a swim, suggesting we would have dinner together later. I hadn’t told Irene about Alex, but after I left I drove to the house where she was staying. There was nobody about, so I went to her room and knocked and when there was no answer I peered through the window. The bed was made and her backpack was still there and though Alex wasn’t anywhere to be seen, everything looked quite normal.

I found a note she had left for me by the door. It was brief, thanking me again and assuring me that she was all right. She said there was something she had to do, but she would be back later in the day. As a postscript she had written that I needn’t worry about her, and had added a smiley face and some exclamation marks in an effort to be convincing. It worked. Had she been planning on doing something rash I was sure she couldn’t have written anything so jaunty. I thought what had happened the night before was probably as she had said, a mixture of pills and alcohol that had caused a temporary loss of perspective.

I was disappointed that she wasn’t there, but since she hadn’t said anything about where she was going I decided to spend a few hours at a beach somewhere. When I got back to the Jeep I consulted the map Irene had given me. Other than the village of Perahori and the main town of Vathy, the remainder of the southern half of the island was uninhabited and largely inaccessible except by sea, so I decided to drive north to the more populated part of Ithaca.

When I reached the village of Stavros where Irene and I had stopped the day before, I drove down to the beach at Polis Bay, descending a perilously steep and rutted track to park in the shade of a small olive grove. There were a few local fishing boats tied up at the small wharf and a couple of buildings housed a shop of some kind and a bar. A plaque fixed to a large olive tree inscribed in both English and Greek described the history of an archaeological site on the far side of the bay that had been excavated during the thirties. I remembered my father telling me about it. Louizos cave, as it was known, had become famous as the place where, among other things, a fragment of a clay mask bearing the inscription of Odysseus had been found, proving that Homer’s hero had been worshipped as a god since before Homer himself had lived. The cave, however, had been buried during the devastating earthquake of 1953.

The beach was deserted. I sat in the shade afforded by a ruined stone hut and for a while I tried to read a book I’d brought with me, though I couldn’t concentrate and eventually I put it aside. Out in the bay several large yachts rode at anchor, brilliant white against the deep blue of the sea. I went down to the shore and swam out towards them. The water was clear and cool and almost completely flat. I swam hard, powering myself out into the bay with long, even strokes, the salt water sluicing off the dead cells, shedding old skin. I didn’t stop until my muscles ached and my chest was heaving, by which time I was almost alongside one of the yachts.

It was deserted, perhaps forty-five or fifty feet long. I wondered where it came from and who owned it. The idea of sailing the islands, stopping where I wanted, moving on without any particular destination or schedule seemed appealing. I trod water for a while engaged in this idle fantasy before I swam back again and came ashore dripping onto the pebbles where I lay down to dry and fell into a light sleep.

When I woke it was early in the afternoon. I’d had too much sun and I felt thick-headed. I was bathed in an uncomfortable sheen of sweat. I staggered groggily to the sea to cool off and lay with my head immersed looking up at the sky through the water. The images of a dream I’d had filtered back to me. My father had been standing by his boat when a shadowy figure approached from behind with his arm raised. He brought it down and my father collapsed. I knew it was only the workings of my unconscious mind fuelled by Irene’s suspicions. My father was seventy-two when he died. He had a bad heart and a history of drinking. Maybe his wild claims had all been a ploy to gain Irene’s sympathy. In fact I thought that made sense. Maybe he’d been trying to win her back from Theonas.

Once I had towelled off I decided to drive up to Stavros and find somewhere I could buy a beer and sit in the shade. At a junction just back from the beach I checked carefully for traffic, wary of the erratic driving habits of the locals. Fifty yards away a figure was squatting beside a scooter stopped at the side of the road. I almost drove on but then she stood up and I realised that it was Alex.

She looked around when she heard the Jeep approaching, but she didn’t realise who it was until I stopped.

‘Hello again,’ I said.

She smiled uncertainly. ‘Hello.’

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Fine. I slept late.’

‘I went to the place where you’re staying earlier. I got your note.’

She gestured to the scooter. ‘I wanted to get out and take a look around so I hired this. I couldn’t face being in my room all day.’

I looked at the scooter. ‘Is there a problem?’

In a gesture of frustration she pushed a damp strand of dark blonde hair back from her forehead. ‘Yes, actually. It won’t go.’

In the light of day she looked a lot better than when I had last seen her. The dark smudges beneath her eyes had already begun to fade. I was struck again by the colour of her eyes. Now that they weren’t reddened and puffy, the full effect of them was even more pronounced. Their unusual paleness somehow added to her vulnerability. It was as if I could look right inside her. She was, I thought, quite beautiful. But the overriding emotion I felt was one of protectiveness as I had when I had sat watching her sleep. Tearing my gaze away I bent down to have a look at the engine, checking that the lead and plug were secure, then opening the fuel tank.

‘I filled it before I left Vathy,’ she commented drolly. I smiled and gave up pretending that I knew what I was doing.

‘The best thing would be to leave it here. I’ll give you a lift back to the place where you hired it and they can come and pick it up.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ She sounded disappointed and glanced toward the hills across the bay.

‘Is that where you were going?’

‘Yes. There’s a village I wanted to see.’ She pointed to a towering hill where the hazy outline of a few buildings was visible perched precariously on the steep upper slopes. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I can go another time.’

‘I could drive you there if you like,’ I offered.

‘I didn’t mean to suggest …’

‘Suggest what?’

‘I mean you’ve done enough for me already,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Look, about last night. I feel terrible about it. I mean I feel like an idiot.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I’m just glad that I was there.’

‘I haven’t even thanked you have I?’

‘Yes you have. Last night.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember much to be honest. Anyway I really appreciate what you did. I don’t know what came over me. I’d had a few drinks. Actually more than a few. I don’t think they mixed well with those pills I took.’ She shook her head in disbelief at her own actions. ‘I just felt this black mood sink over me. I couldn’t shake it off.’

‘At least you seem better today.’

‘I am. Much better.’ She looked at me intently, almost beseechingly. ‘I didn’t really mean to kill myself you know. I mean I don’t know what I was doing. But it wasn’t that.’

‘Like you said, it was probably the pills. If I were you I’d get rid of them.’

She smiled gratefully. ‘I already did.’

I looked back towards the village on the distant hillside. I wanted to ask what had brought her to Ithaca and why she had been drinking alone and taking pills to help her sleep, but I thought if she wanted to tell me she would. ‘So, how about that lift? I’ll take you up there if you like.’

She hesitated. ‘I don’t think there’s much to see,’ she warned.

‘That’s OK, I haven’t got anything else to do. Besides there are probably great views from up there.’

I still sensed a residue of uncertainty in her, but then she suddenly smiled, whatever doubts she had melting away. ‘Well, if you’re sure, that would be great. Thanks.’

It turned out the village was called Exoghi and the road that led to it ascended in a series of tight switchback curves. At times the drop to Polis Bay far below was perilously close to the wheels, and the Jeep’s engine, stuck in first and second gear the entire way up, howled in protest. Now and then I glanced at Alex and though she smiled when our eyes met, most of the time she was preoccupied with her thoughts. Despite everything she’d said earlier I could sense that her assurances were a thin veneer to mask whatever was troubling her. As we got closer to the village however, she began to take a keen interest in it, craning her neck for a better view as we glimpsed the tower of a church among some cypress trees.

When we arrived it turned out there was a small parking area beside the church where I pulled over. I’d been right about the views. We could see for miles. To the east was a broad fertile valley where olive and fruit trees grew and beyond the coast, the blue-grey shapes of scattered islands were visible in the far distance. To the west across the strait the towering coastline of Kephalonia seemed close enough to touch.

It was very quiet and there was a curious stillness about the place that heightened its distinct feeling of isolation. ‘It looks deserted,’ I commented.

‘I think a lot of the houses are owned by people who come here for the summer,’ Alex said. ‘I read somewhere that only two families live here all year round.’

She studied the village intently as if comparing it to some mental image she had, perhaps from a guidebook. She wanted to look around, so we left the Jeep and went on foot. We walked past houses that overlooked the roofs of the ones below. Most were small, simply-built stone affairs with shuttered windows that had probably stood there for generations, but one or two had been built in recent times. One we saw even had a pool. Alleyways and sets of steps connected the streets, which was really a single road that ran back and forth through the village. Behind stone walls there were overgrown gardens and from one the familiar smell of wild mint and thyme sweetened the musty stench of something long dead. Weeds pushed through the cracks between the uneven paving slabs. The only sign of life we saw was a cat that regarded us suspiciously, frozen in surprise on a wall, as startled by us as we were by it.

Beyond the houses we came to a sign that indicated the way to a monastery at the summit of the hill. Alex frowned and looked back the way we’d come.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘To be honest I’m looking for something,’ she admitted. ‘A house. Or what’s left of one anyway. That’s why I wanted to come here. My grandmother was born in this village.’

I recalled that when I first saw Alex I’d mistaken her for a local, which made sense now. As we began to retrace our steps she told me a little about herself. She had grown up in Hertfordshire where she had attended a private girls’ school. Her mother was a doctor and her father a barrister working in London. It was her maternal grandmother who came from Ithaca, though she had lived much of her life in England until she had died the previous year.

‘It wasn’t until then that I realised how little I knew about her,’ Alex said. ‘I knew she was Greek of course, but I didn’t know where she was from exactly. It’s funny how you think you know somebody, and then suddenly you find that you really don’t at all. And then it’s too late.’ She shrugged philosophically. ‘And now here I am.’

We had reached an alleyway that we’d missed earlier. It ran between two houses, but it was overgrown with wild oak. Beneath our feet what had once been a paved path had succumbed to nature.

‘Let’s try this way,’ Alex suggested.

We emerged into a stand of gnarled and long-neglected olive trees beyond which stood the ruins of a cottage. The roof had gone and the walls had partly collapsed. It stood in an overgrown clearing. Sunlight splashed on the ruins, but instead of cheering them it somehow emphasised the emptiness of the windows, the shadowed spaces inside. There was an odd atmosphere about the place. I had the feeling that nobody had been there for a long time, but also that it still resonated with the lives of those who had once lived there. It was the sort of place that gives credence to the idea of the existence of ghosts.

‘Is this it do you think?’ I asked Alex.

‘I think so.’

She seemed absorbed with whatever private thoughts the place evoked in her and, sensing that she wanted to be alone, I wandered around to the back where I found what had once been a terrace. A rusted pole protruded from the ground at an angle – what remained of a trellis to support a grapevine. On the hillside, olive trees grew in ranks, the stone retaining walls badly in need of repair, the terraces themselves heavily overgrown and neglected.

Inside the ruin itself there was nothing to see except some faded graffiti painted on a wall. Overall there was an air of desolation about the place. A sort of heavy silence in the air.

A sound from behind startled me, but when I turned it was only Alex. I smiled self-consciously, my heart thumping. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

‘Sorry. There’s a strange feeling here isn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, glad that I wasn’t alone in my perception. ‘You said this is where your grandmother was born?’

‘My mother too actually, though she was only a baby when Nana took her to England.’ Alex hesitated and I had the distinct impression that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to share this with me. Then she said, ‘Have you ever felt that you don’t really know who you are?’

It was an odd question, but in a way I thought perhaps I knew what she meant. ‘When I was young I was sent to boarding school,’ I told her. ‘I never felt as if I belonged. I didn’t know what I was doing there.’

‘Yes, that’s it isn’t it? When everything we’re used to changes and suddenly we’re not sure where we fit in?’

‘Something like that.’

‘When I was growing up I never questioned anything. I think it’s incredible really when I look back on it, but my brother and sister didn’t either. I suppose my parents are quite well off. I went to a good school. There was pony club, a house in the country, all that sort of thing. The only thing that was out of place was my Nana. She lived in this little flat in North London where my mother grew up. She was quite happy there. She didn’t want to move because her friends and everyone she knew were all there. All these Greek families. But the funny thing is I never heard her speak anything but English. Even though she had this terrible almost unintelligible accent. You’d think I might have wondered why.’

‘Maybe not. I think kids accept something if it’s always been that way.’

‘I suppose that’s it. It must be why I was never really curious about my grandfather. Nobody ever talked about him. I grew up knowing that he died a long time ago, but that was all. There were no photographs of him anywhere. Even my mother never mentioned him.’

Alex looked around the inside of the ruined cottage. Her gaze settled on the faded graffiti. It was written in Greek so I had no idea what it meant. She dug in her pocket and found a pen and a notebook. ‘I want to know what it means,’ she said, copying it down as best she could.

We went back outside and before we left Alex stopped to take another look at the ruin. Sunlight fell in shafts through the branches of the olive trees, splashing in pools on the dry earth below. My gaze wandered beyond the clearing to the tangled undergrowth where it was gloomy and shadowed. I glimpsed a movement that at first I took to be an animal or a bird, but when I looked more closely I was surprised to find that I was wrong.

‘We’ve got company.’ I nodded towards the old man who stood almost hidden back among the trees. He stared at us silently and though I couldn’t make out his features clearly I had a strong impression of dark eyes filled with malevolence. I could feel it pouring out of him, a black stain that soaked into the earth.

‘Kalimera,’ Alex called out. ‘Oreos keros.’

The old man made no response. ‘Maybe we should leave,’ I suggested. ‘I don’t think he likes visitors.’

We began to make our way back along the path. At the edge of the trees I looked back and he was still there, staring after us. I was slightly relieved when we emerged back onto the street. As we made our way to the Jeep I half expected to see him following us, so when a figure appeared from an alleyway some way in front I wasn’t surprised that it was him.

‘What do you think he wants?’ Alex asked.

He stood by the side of the road watching as we approached.

‘He’s probably harmless. I expect he’s not used to seeing strangers around. Maybe he’s not quite all there.’

His face was as wrinkled and brown as a walnut. He had to be seventy or eighty years old. The clothes he wore were rough and patched, encrusted with ancient dirt. But it was the intensity of his gaze that was unnerving. As we passed, I nodded to him but I don’t think he even noticed. His baleful glare was fastened exclusively on Alex. He muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded harsh and unfriendly.

‘Did you catch that?’ I asked.

‘My Greek isn’t very good.’ She looked shaken.

He watched us until we reached the Jeep. He was the only living soul we had encountered in the entire village and, as we drove back down the hill, I was glad to put the place behind me.

When we reached Polis Bay I suggested we stop for a drink. We sat at a table outside the bar on the beach and ordered beers and some bread and salad. Some fishermen were working on a boat tied up to the wharf, and two young children were playing in the water. It was all very normal and reassuring.

‘That old man, he was looking at me wasn’t he?’ Alex asked. I admitted that it had appeared that way. She searched through her bag until she found what looked like a diary. From inside the back cover she took out some photographs and handed one to me. It was of an old woman with iron-grey hair.

‘My grandmother. It was taken just before she became ill.’

Despite the difference in their ages the resemblance was clear, especially since they both shared the same strikingly pale green eyes. She handed me another picture, this one much older and taken in black-and-white. The image wasn’t as clear, but the resemblance was even more obvious.

‘That was taken when she was a year or two older than I am now. I wonder if that old man mistook me for Nana.’

I supposed it was possible. ‘You think he might have known her?’

‘Perhaps. She left here after the Second World War. I never knew that until she was moved to a hospice for the last few months before she died. She started telling me stories about the village where she grew up. I’d never heard any of it before. She talked about her parents and about her brother who I never even knew existed. It was incredible. She was dying and I suddenly realised I didn’t know anything about her.’

‘Is that why you came to Ithaca?’

Alex hesitated. ‘Partly.’ I had the feeling she was trying to decide how much to reveal of herself. ‘I wanted to know more about her life. And about my grandfather.’

‘Was he from here as well?’

She shook her head. ‘You remember I said earlier that nobody ever talked about him? The first time I heard him mentioned was when Nana was dying. I went to see her one evening. They were giving her a lot of morphine. I think she was a bit confused. She seemed to think she was back here again and she talked about this man that she fell in love with. His name was Stefan.’

‘Stefan? That’s German isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t find out any more until after she died. When I asked my mother she told me that her father was a German soldier. That’s why nobody ever talked about him. When Nana left Ithaca she was pregnant. Her family name was Zannas. They had lived here for generations, but after the war, the family disowned her and forced her to leave. They said she was a traitor.’

I began to understand what Alex had meant when she had talked earlier about not knowing who she was, and why she’d wondered if the old man in the village had recognised her. ‘Do you know what happened to your grandfather?’

‘No. That’s partly why I’m here. My mother told me that she went through a phase once of wanting to find out everything she could about him. Even if he was dead, she thought he must have family. She wondered if she had half-brothers and sisters somewhere. She was an only child, so I suppose it was important to her. For a long time Nana wouldn’t tell her, but in the end she gave in. I think she was afraid that if she didn’t my mother would find out some other way, which would have been worse.’

‘Because he was an enemy soldier?’

‘Not just that. There was more to it. Have you noticed how many churches there are here?’

I said that I had. ‘The Orthodox Church is still a big part of life for many Greeks. Especially in places like Ithaca.’

‘Nana went to one in North London all her life. Her flat was full of those little icons of the saints. You see them all over the place here. When she grew up, her life was dominated by her family and by the church. In those days it was unthinkable for a girl to get pregnant before she was married. She told my mother that she was raped. I don’t think she actually used that term, but it’s what she meant.’

‘But didn’t you say she told you she was in love with this soldier?’

‘Yes. I think she might have told my mother she was raped to put her off looking for his family.’

‘That’s a hell of a thing to say if it wasn’t true isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it worked. Maybe she did it because he was already married. Anyway, after that my mother didn’t want to know any more.’

‘But you do?’

‘Yes. I think back then the war was still recent enough that Nana thought she was doing the best thing. I don’t know why. Perhaps to protect his family. But it is a long time ago now. I want to know the truth. There’s so much I don’t know. When I discovered all this I also found that I had a whole set of relatives in London. Nana’s estranged brother and his family. They own a restaurant in Camden. My mother told me that when she was little Nana was ill once and hadn’t been able to work so she went to ask her brother for help. My mother never even knew about them before then. A man came to the door and Nana spoke to him in Greek. He looked at them both for a long time and he didn’t say anything. But my mother said she never forgot his eyes. How full of hate they were. In the end he slammed the door on them. Nana never mentioned him again.’

‘Nice guy.’

Alex made a face. ‘He’s still alive actually. And he’s still horrible. His name is Kostas. I think after that Nana decided it would be better for my mother not to know about her Greek side. She brought her up as English, and my mother brought us up the same way. I suppose we all have different ways of dealing with these things. My mother’s was to bury it all. When I knew that I had relatives I hadn’t even heard of I wanted to meet them, though my mother tried to persuade me not to.’

‘I gather it didn’t work out.’

‘No. They still own the restaurant and so, of course, I went there. That’s where I met Dimitri.’

‘Dimitri?’ I thought she was referring to some relative or other.

‘He was working there. He’s from Ithaca. He’s the other reason I’m here.’ She paused and looked out across the bay for a few moments. After a while she turned back to me and smiled ruefully. ‘Anyway, things haven’t worked out in that department either. But since I’m here, I want to try to find out more about my family.’

I was curious about Dimitri, but I didn’t want to ask any more questions. I assumed that he was the cause of her unhappiness. It was clear when she mentioned his name that the wounds were still raw, but it was getting late by then, and Alex reminded me that she had to get back to the place where she had rented her scooter so, after I’d paid the bill, we left.

During the drive back to Vathy she was quiet, though she asked me a little about myself. I told her my father lived on the island and that I had come to see him, and she was interested when I said that he was an archaeologist. I didn’t tell her that he had died because I didn’t want to introduce a maudlin note. Instead we talked a little about Homer, whose work she had read when she was at school. She knew the story of the Odyssey much better than I did. She was surprised when I told her that my father had spent the past twenty-five years or so looking for Aphrodite’s Temple.

‘I didn’t know Odysseus really lived,’ she said. ‘I always thought he was a mythological figure. Our teacher taught us the Odyssey was a metaphor for life. She said Odysseus’s travels and struggles to return home were a search for the truth about what was really important. Family, home and so on.’

‘Maybe Homer blended fact and fiction,’ I said. ‘But some experts believe Odysseus really existed.’

When we arrived back in Vathy I drove her to the rental shop tucked away in a narrow street behind the main square and I waited outside while she went in to talk to the owner. I could see her through the window. I gathered the owner’s English wasn’t that good and she was having difficulty getting him to understand where she had left the scooter. He kept scratching his head and shrugging. Eventually she drew him a map and he smiled and nodded vigorously.

When she came back outside she said, ‘You needn’t wait. He’s going to give me another one.’

There was a moment of awkwardness as I realised this was my cue to leave, but I knew I wanted to see her again even if my reasons were less clear. ‘How long will you be staying on Ithaca?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Maybe we can meet for a drink or something,’ I suggested.

‘To be honest …’ she broke off and whatever she had been about to say seemed forgotten. ‘I’d like that. But …’

‘I understand,’ I assured her, guessing what she was about to say.

I couldn’t have put into words exactly what passed between us. Some recognition perhaps that we were both in our own ways adrift. I think then my overriding emotion was one of protectiveness towards her, and possibly she felt safe with me. But there was more to it than that, even though it was tempered with uncertainty and caution on both sides. We were both caught unawares by the moment.

When I drove off I looked back in the rear-view mirror and she was still standing outside the scooter shop watching me. I waved and she raised a hand in return.