Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 23

14

The next morning, very early, Day was tired and moody. He declared an interest in eating breakfast, a meal he only enjoyed when he was hung over. Unfortunately there was no time because their ferry left early. Paros was the first port of call for the ferries leaving Naxos on their way to the mainland.

They drove to the port, parked the Fiat on the main road, and crossed the busy street to the Blue Star Ferries office. Having acquired tickets on the Blue Star Naxos to Paros departing at nine thirty, they settled for a coffee in one of the port-side cafés. Fortunately the sailing to Paros would take only forty-five minutes. Day was a reluctant

sailor.

The ship was not full and they found comfortable seats. Before Day could become queasy, Paros appeared on the starboard side, its harbour one of the prettiest in the Cyclades, with a white windmill near the disembarkation point. There were a great many people at the port to meet the boat. Most of the other ferry passengers dragged suitcases and were hunting for taxis, or were being met by family or hoteliers. Day and Helen, no bags between them, left them behind and soon the pedestrian shopping lanes of Parikia, the island’s main town, enfolded them.

Day had recovered his energy and enthusiasm, possibly because he was again on dry land.

“Too late for breakfast,” he announced breezily, “especially if we want a nice fish lunch. How about a stroll through the shopping lanes? The museum will close at three, so we’d better go there before lunch.”

“Is there something special you need to do at the museum?”

“No. The inscription I want to check is on a stone that’s been incorporated into a house wall just beyond the museum, but we can have a browse inside while we’re here. Have you been before?”

“Yes, years ago. I remember the open area at the front, with the mosaic and grave sculptures, and some things inside that I liked.”

“We shall have a good look round. But first, the shops!”

***

The narrow lanes of old Parikia were already full of visitors. As it wasn’t yet mid-day, the lanes were sunny on one side and shady on the other. A range of jewellery, shoes, handicrafts and clothes were displayed outside the shops. Some vendors hovered encouragingly, while others waited in the cool interior like spiders. Older women sat on wooden chairs on the shaded side of the lane, or under awnings, drinking coffee or chatting to a friend. A shop selling traditional woven goods caught Day’s eye, and Helen found a shop selling hand-made, brightly-glazed pottery. They enjoyed being tourists under no pressure to buy.

Leaving the shops, they walked towards the largest church in the town, the one known as the Church of a Hundred Doors. A sign pointed past it to the Archaeological Museum of Paros. The heat was reflecting up from the glazed pavement and off the elaborately buttressed church. They passed the school playground and the museum entrance and, at a house wall further up the hill, Day pulled back the leaves of a jasmine and showed Helen the inscription he had come to revisit. He took a photo of it with his phone.

“Good, that’s what I thought,” he said mysteriously. “This inscription isn’t written up, so don’t tell anyone. Let’s go to the museum now, shall we?”

The front courtyard of the Paros Museum had not changed since Helen’s last visit. There were column drums, statue bases, urns and funerary statues round the walls, and a Roman floor mosaic occupied the central space. Inside, in the coolness of the museum’s two spacious rooms, they wandered separately. Day had changed back into a historian, silently studying each object like a mildly interesting acquaintance who has just said something surprising.

Helen was looking at the decorated amphorae, contentedly choosing her favourite, when she heard voices at the ticket window. Day looked up in displeasure, but then he started to smile. He came over to Helen.

“That tour guide over there is my mad friend Paul. Come and meet him.”

Once the tour group were inside, Day walked over to Paul and introduced Helen. She thought Paul looked like a student who had never quite grown up. He was probably Day’s age, about forty, but lacked a sense of having arrived where he wanted to be. A cheerful man, his sleeves rolled up, full of enthusiasm and goodwill, he seemed to be adored by his tour group. His pale skin, which matched his curly red hair and beard, was turning pink in the early season sun.

“Martin, fancy seeing you twice in one week! What are you doing on Paros?”

“The same as you, I suspect. Visiting the museum.”

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch to fix up that drink. This group’s really keen, they take up all my time, literally all of it. But I’ll be back on Naxos soon, so I’ll call you.”

“I’m up for it whenever. You’re doing OK then?”

“Never busier, and it’s only May. This will help pay the overdraft on the boat!”

***

The taverna they chose for lunch was a psarotaverna, a fish restaurant, but it looked quieter than the popular seafood restaurants along the shoreline. This place was some way out of town and Greek families were eating inside. Day and Helen also chose a table in the cool interior. Immaculately scrubbed wood characterised the place, and a quiet buzz arose from the diners. The waiter came to their table promptly.

“Good afternoon, what can I get you?”

“What do you have today?”

“We have squid, octopus, bream, small fish, whatever you want.” The waiter sounded rather bored.

“OK,” said Day. “What would you choose for your mother?”

The waiter smiled as if this were the most normal question in the world. “A plate of baby squid and then the barbounia. Freshly caught this morning.”

“That sounds good, we’ll have a portion of each and a portion of fried potatoes. And a large bottle of water.”

There was a considerable wait until the food arrived, during which time Day finished the bread. When the squid and fish arrived, with more bread, the curly baby squid, fried in a light batter, was crisp and succulent, and the small pink barbounia, attractively laid on an oval dish, were grilled, lightly salted and drizzled with oil, and needed nothing else to make them perfect.

Finally, a minute or two after they had finished the fish, the fried potatoes were brought to their table. This was Day’s ideal hang-over remedy. He did them justice, sat back, and finally felt better.

Helen eased back her chair, wiped her fingers on the serviette, and crossed her legs comfortably.

“That was an excellent fish lunch. Now, why don’t you tell me more about Paul.”

“We were students together at Cambridge; we both did Classics. After graduation we went different ways. We didn’t have that much in common really, and even within the subject our interests were different. Paul had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. I didn’t hear from him for fifteen years or so, until I came across him doing the business he’s doing now.”

“Tour guiding?”

“Yes, well specifically he led cultural tours of Greece. He worked for several different companies. He’d work in the summer season mostly, as there was much less demand in the winter. I used to bump into him on sites around Greece, gamely lecturing to his wealthy clients. He has his own boat and his own tour company now. Maybe that will work out better for him.”

“Does he have a partner?”

“Not that I know of. It’s hardly a settled lifestyle.”

“Does he live in Greece?”

“I don’t actually know. Perhaps I’ll find out when we meet up for a drink.”

“His life sounds as if it could be ideal, or it could be a nightmare,” remarked Helen.