Читать книгу The Search for Artemis - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 12

3

Out of respect for his guest’s age, Day resisted the temptation to offer him the gin and tonic before dinner that would be Day’s usual habit. They finished their tea, closed up the house and began to walk into Filoti to the taverna. They drew a few stares from the locals, the tall, blonde Englishman and the wiry old professor who was old enough to be his grandfather. Edward talked about his life in Cambridge as they sauntered along the road. After retiring fifteen years ago from his position as Professor of Ancient History at King’s, he had continued to live on his own in one of Cambridge’s tall, elegant townhouses in a quiet road near Jesus College. He had never married or had a longterm partner, but he was very content with his life. He maintained a close association with his old college, and often met former colleagues at High Table and annual events. He had never stopped working, and still spent much of his time in the library.

Day envisaged the overwhelming beauty of King’s College while his eyes fell on the small houses of Filoti and sun-bleached cars full of dents and scratches parked up on the cracked pavements. Old people sitting on ancient chairs by their front doors were chatting across the street in the now gentle heat of evening. Different worlds.

A short walk brought them to Taverna O Thanasis, Day’s favourite restaurant since moving to Filoti. The tables in front of the taverna were all full, the tourist season being in full swing. Thanasis, the portly owner, saw them arriving and turned from the bar to greet them. He smiled broadly when he saw Day.

“Martin, my good friend, how are you? And good evening, sir, you are most welcome!”

“Thanasi, this is Edward, my friend from the UK. Edward, this is Thanasis, owner of my favourite restaurant in all Greece!”

Thanasis offered them a good table near the open front window, overlooking the terrace and the street beyond. He brought them a bottle of cold mineral water, glasses, menus and a basket of freshly sliced crusty bread nestling against cutlery tightly wrapped in paper serviettes.

“I’ll leave you in the care of my son, Vangelis,” said Thanasis, beckoning the younger man, “and I shall just say that this evening I recommend my wife’s katsikaki. It’s her own recipe.”

Thanasis gave a small bow of the head and retreated to welcome more guests.

“Remind me, Martin, my Greek’s a bit rusty?”

“He was recommending the baby goat,” said Day. “Thanasis’s wife, Koula, never fails to do something amazing in the kitchen. I recently had her souvlaki, and although I don’t much care for souvlaki as a rule, well, it was astonishing.”

“Then our choice is made. I take it we’ll order to share? Good. Perhaps you’d do the honours?”

Day asked for some small bits and pieces chosen by Vangelis to start, followed by a portion of the baby goat, a Greek salad and Naxos fried potatoes. Day had a particular fondness for chips. Moreover, on Naxos the locals claimed to grow exceptionally tasty potatoes. Day could not dispute this, and happily put it to the test as often as he could.

“Do you already know, Edward, that you are now in the home of the finest potatoes in Greece?”

“I had heard the rumour,” Edward nodded. “One can hardly know Naxos without hearing it. I have to say, they’re right. I’m fond of potatoes, as anyone with Irish blood must be, and I’ve never tasted better.”

“You have Irish blood?”

“A little. A love of potatoes, and an ability to tell a good story at great length, is all I have to show for it.”

“Ah. In that case, you should tell me a good story! But before you do, shall we order some wine?”

“Please, let’s do that. Red wine? Barrel?”

Day regarded his guest with approval, and beckoned the attentive Vangelis. He ordered a litre of the local red wine ‘from the barrel’, light and young, and good for your head the next day.

“It sounds as if you’ve been to Naxos before, Edward? Do you know the island well?”

“I’ve tried to visit as many of the islands in the Cyclades as I can. I have friends on Naxos now. I also remember the Archeological Museum. Wonderful curator there, I recall. Many good pieces too, although the Roman things aren’t so close to my heart as the older material…”

“You know the Curator? He’s a very good friend of mine. Aristos Iraklidis.”

“Ah yes, that’s the name. He’s still here?”

“He’s been here for ever, I think. I’ll take you to see him, you can renew the acquaintance.”

“That would be excellent, Martin. I must say, …”

Day didn’t discover what it was that Edward had to say, as Vangelis arrived with their first dishes. There was a small plate of crispy fried squid in a delicate batter, another of courgette balls, and a bowl of homemade tzatziki dip, flavoured with mint and cucumber. The bright metal jug of red wine and two glasses then appeared, and Vangelis wished them Kali Orexi.

“Oh, this is a real pleasure. Thank you, Martin.”

“To your good health, Edward.”

Contrary to their plan, they devoted themselves to the food before beginning to talk of the project. Once again, Day approved of Edward Childe for this. It seemed they had certain preferences in common as well as at least one friend. When the food arrived they found that Koula, who brought the dish of roasted baby goat to their table herself, had again cooked something special. The meat was tender, tasty and not too strong, nestling among chunks of the famous Naxian potatoes which were ideal for absorbing the juices. Day was in potato heaven. He helped himself to a second portion of chips when he thought Edward was preoccupied.

When sufficient justice had been done to the dinner, Day divided the last of the jug of wine between their glasses, and sat back in his chair. He suggested that Edward tell him more about his friend, the marble artist.

***

“I met Konstantinos Saris in 2013 in Cambridge. He was visiting the Fitzwilliam Museum for an exhibition called ‘Marble Art in the Islands of the Mediterranean’. It was a collaboration between the Fitzwilliam, The Greek Ministry of Culture and various senior curators and academics. Behind the scenes, most of the administration was being done by a very gifted PhD student of mine. Anyway, it was a wonderful exhibition, featuring the work of some really exciting contemporary sculptors at the height of their powers. At the exhibition you could see their new work alongside examples of ancient marble sculpture from the same islands. There were representatives from Cyprus, Sicily, Crete, Sardinia and the Cyclades.

“I went along to the Fitzwilliam one day to congratulate my student, and she introduced me to Konstantinos. He and I went for dinner together that night, and formed a plan for me to visit him on Naxos a couple of months later. Well, I was retired, so there was nothing to stop me. That was six years ago, and I’ve visited him a couple of times since. His home is in the hills near Kato Potamia, not too far from here, in fact. You have to see it to believe me, it’s an artist’s paradise.

“Anyway, Konstantinos is almost exactly my age, but his career is going from strength to strength. The Niarchos Foundation have taken an interest in him, and have funded a three year project in which Konstantinos will collaborate with a different marble artist each year at his ‘atelier’ (as he calls it). The visiting artist will work alongside Konstantinos during the winter months, and each spring there will be an exhibition of work on Naxos. At the end of the three years, the entire output will be shown at the Niarchos Cultural Centre in Athens, where it will be on display for six months. Not bad work for an old man, eh?”

“You’re right, Edward, I shall enjoy meeting your friend Konstantinos. I’m ashamed I haven’t heard about him already, and he’s practically a neighbour.”

“And do you see how he fits in so well with my current project, Martin? I haven’t talked about it to him yet, but I’m hoping he will agree to be involved. Maybe he would give an interview, as part of the comparison of modern and ancient marble work on Naxos.”

At this moment Vangelis, almost apologetically, interrupted their conversation to give them complimentary glasses of liqueur. It was a clear liquid but looked thicker than tsipouro, the traditional spirit digestif which Thanasis usually gave to his favoured customers.

“Mastika!” said Vangelis by way of explanation, with a smile of pride.

“Mastic liqueur? I haven’t tasted this for many years,” said Edward. “Cheers, Martin, and here’s to our collaboration. That is, I hope you’re considering it after what you’ve heard?”

Day sipped his drink politely, although he always found mastic too sweet for his taste. He replaced his glass gently on the table.

“I think I might need another glass of red,” he said quietly. “Then yes, I think we can drink to the collaboration.”

***

Day and Edward took their second jug of wine to an outside table under the vine-draped pergola. Most of the tourist families had finished and left, and the table was relatively private. It gave a good view down the village street, where brighter, more popular cafes were busy with people who had gathered to talk and drink away the balmy evening.

Day quite suddenly realised that Edward was tipsy, and felt a pang of guilt. He poured them both fresh glasses of water. Edward talked on, true to his Irish heritage as he would say. Day almost stopped listening. He was thinking about their visit the next day to see Konstantinos Saris at what he called his ‘atelier’ in the hills. Edward’s project appealed to Day in many ways, especially if this marble artist would take part. It would all provide something of a welcome change from the affairs of the late Nikos Elias. He was pondering these things in a pleasant, wine-induced reverie when Edward changed the subject.

Edward had been telling a story about an Italian girl whose doctorate he had supervised many years ago and who had become a renowned yachtswoman, when he stopped and gave a short laugh.

“I’d like to tell you a different story, Martin, if you permit me. It’s one which until now I’ve kept to myself. I’d like to share it with you.”

Day rallied himself from his thoughts. “By all means,” he smiled.

“Something rather special brings me to Greece this month, in addition to seeing you about the marble project. My plans were already in place to come here when I was invited to a different kind of meeting.

“It has to do with a lady I met many years ago. I suppose she’s the reason why I’ve never married. I’ve certainly been in love. I was twenty-one when I met her, here in Greece. I had recently finished my undergraduate degree in Classics and had decided to use all my savings to travel round Greece with a knapsack - that’s what we called backpacks in 1959. I bought a cheap rail ticket and headed to Athens, intending to visit all the ancient sites round Greece which I’d studied only from books. I wanted to stand there and experience them for real.

“I planned to hitch lifts, take trains, buses. The Greek buses were very good, I remember. Before going anywhere, though, I visited the Acropolis of Athens, of course. After that, all the other sites in the city, cutting my teeth on the Hill of the Pnyx, the Areopagus, the Agora … you know, all the endless delights of Athens. In 1959 it looked very different indeed from today….

“My next stop was Sounion, on a local bus service. The adventure had started. By then - I was an arrogant youth, I’m sure - I thought of nothing but antiquity. I traced my finger over Byron’s name where he’d etched it into a blue-white marble column of the Temple of Poseidon, and gazed out to sea imagining the Venetian fleet passing in the distance.

“I remember I got a lift from Sounion to Brauron. It was August like it is now, very hot. We didn’t wear shorts back then - it was cream suits or white slacks, and ties, and terribly old-fashioned hats!”

Edward chuckled, and Day could imagine him in the kind of light jacket, dusky trousers and old-fashioned hat he had seen in many an old black and white photograph in worthy archaeological tomes.

“Those were the days when the excavation of the Temple of Artemis at Brauron was in full swing,” continued Edward. “It had begun in the 1940s and it went on until sometime in the 1960s, under the supervision of the great man himself, Ioannis Papadimitriou. Exciting times.

“At the village of Brauron I found a room in a local house for a few shillings a night and arranged to stay two nights. The next morning I carefully prepared myself with my Baedeker and notebook, and walked to the excavation site itself. Perhaps it’s only the benefit of hindsight, but I think even then I felt that something very important was going to happen to me that day.

“I walked round the remains of the Temple of Artemis in a daze. In those days, of course, you were allowed to touch the columns, even stand on the column bases if you wanted, and I remember striding from corner to corner of the temple to understand it and get a feel for its dimensions. There was only one other person around, an old man in a blue shirt and dark trousers who was sitting in the only bit of shade. He wasn’t looking at me, but I couldn’t stop looking at him. I thought I recognised him, but it was impossible. I hesitated, I can tell you. Then I went over to him.

“He saw me walking towards him but didn’t get up. I worked out afterwards that he was 72. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘Are you Professor Carl Blegen?’ The old man smiled, quite a kind smile. He had a grey moustache and bushy grey eyebrows in a suntanned face. His eyes were as blue as his clothes. ‘I can’t deny it, young man,’ he said. He had a strong American accent.

“I muttered something about the honour of meeting him, and he allowed me to shake his hand. He lived another twelve years, you know, but he seemed extremely old to me that day. He asked what I was doing. I told him, and he didn’t ask me any questions. He just said, ‘I can see you’ll be following in my footsteps, Edward Childe. Good luck to you.’

Day had no doubt how pivotal this meeting must have been for young Edward, back in 1959. To meet the great Carl Blegen, the American archaeologist who had excavated Pylos and Troy, at the impressionable age of twenty-one, must have been life-changing.

“Had you already decided on a career in ancient history, Edward?”

“I’d played with the idea, but after meeting the Great Blegen I never considered anything else. I still don’t know what he was doing there. Probably just making a visit, like me. I thought it odd that he was sitting on his own, although maybe he was waiting for someone. Occasionally I wonder whether I dreamed it all.”

“Surely he would have visited all the sites, and you were just fortunate to be at Brauron on that particular day?”

“I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, the story doesn’t end there. It was only the beginning.

“That afternoon, after I’d gone off to the village and bought myself something for lunch, I went back to the site again. A girl was sitting on a column drum sketching the great columns and the broken architraves of the temple. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a brown skirt that reached down to her stout leather boots. Her only concession to the heat was a broad-brimmed white hat. She didn’t notice me, she was intent on her drawing. I watched her from a distance for a few minutes, and then went back to exploring the temple.

“Later in the afternoon I came across her again. We said hello and I admired her sketches. She was very easy to talk to, and remember this was 1959 when girls tended to be rather more reserved than today. A boy had to tread quite carefully. Her name was Artemis, and that got us talking. She thought it huge fun that she shared the name of the ancient goddess of Brauron, and we laughed together. Artemis. She had no airs and graces, and no problem with talking to a young man from England. She was Greek, of course. She had the most beautiful long black hair, I remember admiring it at the time. Well, of course, we soon developed a liking for each other. I extended my stay at the little room in the village, and we spent our days together, I reading and mapping the layout of the site, she drawing and painting everything that she saw.

“When our time at Brauron ended she agreed to go with me on my summer exploration of the other sites of Ancient Greece. She wanted to see Corinth, so we headed there, and then we saw Epidauros and carried on to Nafplio, and walked round Mycenae together. It was a very hot August, which matched our mood perfectly.”

Day nodded, not wanting to interrupt the old man’s flow. Edward was right, he did tell a good story. Artemis of Brauron, ancient and modern. It was a real 1950s romance on so many levels.

“Unfortunately, the idyll didn’t last. My Artemis finally made love to me in Nafplio, and I did nothing to stop her. I was out of my wits in love with her, and she was a truly independent spirit. I was away from home, and so was she. We were so happy. I fell asleep one night, I remember, with Artemis in my arms, and I decided to ask her to marry me before we parted that summer. There seemed to be no urgency. I was wrong. When I woke the next morning she had gone. She left me a sketch she’d done of me while I was sleeping.”

“Did you see her again?”

“No. I never heard from her and I couldn’t find her. I barely knew anything about her, not even her family name. She would say that she was more interested in hearing about me, and I could never get her to talk much about herself.

“I finished my summer tour on my own, sad but determined. Carl Blegen’s words kept me going, even though I was in the depths of misery in my heart. I went back to England and started a doctorate on Bronze Age Greece. That’s the end of the story, I’m afraid. At least, it was until a month ago.

“I received a letter from Greece. It was from a lady called Angelika, who said she was Artemis’s granddaughter. The letter explained that Artemis died in 2011, and at the time nobody had gone carefully through her personal things. Angelika had recently done so, and found a diary from 1959 in which her grandmother wrote about her relationship with me. Angelika had written to me care of King’s College, Cambridge, and thankfully the College had forwarded it to me.

“To cut to the best bit, Martin, I’m going to meet Angelika next week in Athens. I plan to spend some time in town seeing people at the National Museum and the British School, but the meeting with Angelika, the granddaughter of my lovely Artemis … I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

“You don’t need to, Edward. What a story. Isn’t it incredible how things work out if you wait long enough? You might discover what Artemis wrote about you, and why she moved on. I hope it isn’t too painful.”

Edward laughed quietly.

“I’m too old for that. I have wonderful memories, and whatever made Artemis leave me I would respect it. These things happen when you’re young. She clearly married and had a family, which I’m pleased about. I should have asked her to marry me sooner, that’s all.”