Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 11

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Martin Day, archaeologist and television presenter, came laughing out of the office of the Curator of the Naxos Archaeological Museum, and took the steps two at a time to the ground floor. An English-speaking tour group filled the reception area of the museum, and Day waited for them to disperse before trying to leave. He was quite keen, anyway, to hear what their tour guide was telling them. He had just recognised him as an old friend from England.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the outstanding Archaeological Museum of Naxos. Inside you’ll find a truly impressive collection of items, including the famous Roman mosaic floor. Naxos was an important centre of Cycladic culture through a range of periods, so the museum covers a great many fascinating eras. I know you’re particularly excited to see the beautiful Cycladic figurines, like the ones which we saw in Athens when we visited the Museum of Cycladic Art. The figurines have a captivating beauty that appeals to us today and have inspired many of our great modern artists - think of the paintings of Picasso and Modigliani, and the sculptures of Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore.”

Day permitted himself a small smile. The tour guide paused for breath and glanced in Day’s direction. Having been a Classics undergraduate at Cambridge alongside Day, Paul was a fellow escapee from a life of academia. Paul now led ‘cultural tours’ of Greek sites, while Day was freelance, writing successful books on Greek archaeology and presenting television history programmes on subjects that took his fancy. Neither of them found conventional careers appealing.

Paul grinned and nodded to Day, before continuing with his lecture without missing a beat.

“Cycladic figurines are often female in form, with arms crossed and marks on the belly that suggest pregnancy. Their original purpose is unknown, but they may have been fertility symbols or funerary items. Many are broken across the middle, and could even have been broken deliberately as part of some ceremonial event. Many of these lovely statuettes were found buried in one single, remote pit. Mysterious as well as beautiful objects.”

Day squeezed round the group and out into the fresh air as the lecture continued. The spring morning was already very warm. He loitered outside and didn’t have long to wait before Paul joined him. He laid a big hand on Day’s arm.

“I’ve got ten minutes while they buy their tickets and guide books,” he said. “So, how are you, Professor?”

Day had made a TV series recently in which the American director had insisted on giving him the title of Professor, which he had certainly not earned in any university. He grinned.

“And what are you doing here? I thought you were in Athens.”

“I’ve just bought myself a place here on Naxos,” Day replied. “Finally got round to it. I’ll be spending the summers here.”

“Lucky bastard!”

“Working, of course. Never any rest from the job. You know me. How about you?”

“I’m good, thanks. I bought a boat this year and went independent as a tour operator. Now I have the boat I can arrange my own itineraries and be my own master. Tourists never change, but the down-time I get now is much better. And I take them to places that I want to go to, rather than having somebody else write the script. Look, how about a drink one evening?”

“Sure. Whenever you like. I’ll be living here till something else comes up.”

“Great, I’ll text you. I’ll be showing this group around here for a few days, and I get free time whenever they do. It’ll be good to catch up, it’s been months.”

“Years more like.”

“Really? OK, got to go, they’re looking for their leader! Good to see you, Martin.”

Paul hurried back to his group and Day’s thoughts turned, as they often did, to coffee. He fancied a quiet table with a view of the sea. He walked towards the sea and found a café on the road near the port. It was a favourite of his, because it had seating right on the edge of the water. He ordered a frappé and sat back feeling great. He was back on Naxos, with the whole summer ahead of him, and now he owned his own place. Day intended that summers in his new house, for which he had only received the deeds of ownership at the beginning of the year, would be a simple regime of research and writing in the glorious peace of the island’s hilly centre. He had just informed his old friend Aristos Iraklidis, otherwise known as The Curator, that he planned to pick the Greek’s knowledgeable brain over a bottle or two of local wine from time to time, and now he realised he might occasionally see other friends and colleagues as they passed through the islands, as Paul was doing.

To add icing to the cake, his old friend Helen Aitchison was about to arrive for a long visit. Helen was the kind of person Day liked best: independent, undemanding, intelligent and, like himself, a lover of peace and quiet. She wrote novels now, quite successfully, and was planning on spending most of the summer in Day’s new home up in Filoti village. His relationship with Helen was blissfully platonic, their friendship rooted securely in a shared past where they worked together, and they had proved that they could successfully spend long periods under the same roof without driving each other mad. She would be on Tuesday’s ferry from Rafina.

Day’s mood, as he drank his frappé, checked Facebook on his phone and gazed from time to time at the shining Aegean, was entirely in harmony with the serene May morning.