Mortal Remains (6 page)

The village of Ai Saranda, when Patrick reached it after a long drive over mountain roads that twisted and turned, and then across a fertile plain planted with vines, was beginning to expand. In addition to the original old whitewashed cottages there were several square new concrete houses with flat roofs, and a grocer’s shop which displayed detergents in the window.

In the centre of the cluster of buildings a huge eucalyptus tree cast a shade under which were arranged some tables and chairs, and across the road was the
kafenion
which owned them. Patrick parked further up the road and walked back towards the
kafenion.
He took a seat at one of the rickety tables. A few old men, some in baggy trousers and all wearing boots, were already sitting at another table. They looked at Patrick curiously. He said
‘kalimera’
and felt rage at being rendered inarticulate.

A middle-aged man wearing an apron came out to attend to him.

‘Ouzo,
parakalo,’
he said, and asked the other if he spoke English.

‘Two—three words,’ said the Greek, with a shrug.

‘
Ime Anglos. Den katalaveno Ellinika,
’ recited Patrick in a carefully learned phrase.

‘Ah—Eengleesh—how are you?’ said the Greek, smiling warmly. He shook Patrick’s hand with vigour.
‘Anglos,’
he told his other customers.

It seemed to be a magic word. The older men all started smiling, and one levered himself to his feet, came across, and announced that he spoke English very good.

Patrick, who had begun to wish that he had asked Ursula Norris to accompany him on this mission as interpreter, took fresh heart. Someone would be able to find Ilena for him.

‘What is your town in England?’ he was asked, and there were cries of
‘nai, nai,’
over
Oxfordi.

He was mercilessly cross-examined.

‘You are married?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Ah—you have a sister
—po, po, po,’
Much head-shaking, and commiserating murmurs all round.

‘Yes, I have a sister.’ Patrick was puzzled, and then light dawned. They would be expecting him to look about for a husband for Jane before finding a wife for himself, in the Greek fashion.

‘She is married – two children. Yes, she has a son,’ he told them.

This went on for some time. When they had dragged out of him every detail of his family circumstances, he felt it was time to make an effort of his own.

‘A friend of mine was in Crete during the war. Alec Mudie. He came to Ai Saranda. Do you remember him?’

Yes, of course – they all remembered Alexis. So strong, he had been, so brave, so gay. He had been back to visit them several times since then, but not for some years now. How was he?

At the news of his death, all fell silent. Patrick explained about Alec’s wife and her long illness and that this was the reason he had not come. He spoke simply, for Petros, his translator, clearly had linguistic limitations. It all took time, and much ouzo was consumed during the discussion.

At last Patrick asked to be directed to Ilena Pavlou’s house.

At this there was sudden silence.

‘She has gone away,’ said Petros, at last.

Patrick looked round the group. No one met his eye.

‘Where to? She is not dead?’

No, she was not dead. But no one wanted to say where she was. Perhaps they did not know. Well, what about Yannis?

‘Ah, Yannis. That one.’ Heads were shaken. He had been a headstrong, ambitious youth, Patrick was told.

These were valiant old men. If Yannis had rebelled against the current regime they would not disapprove; Alec had implied that this was what must have happened.

‘Yannis had been in prison?’ Patrick tried. Perhaps he could force them into disclosing something.

There was a silence. Pride was involved. A mutter of
‘po, po, po,’
came from one man, then Patrick heard
‘nai, nai.’
He found it hard to remember that this meant ‘yes’ in Greek, since it sounded so negative.

A short staccato conference took place, and finally Petros spoke.

‘Kirie
Grant, we tell you what we know. Yannis is coming here one year ago. He is very—’ Petros searched for the word he wanted. ‘His clothes. Very new. Very expensive. He is in a big car from
Iraklion.
He take his mother away. She cry. She do not want to go, but he say come, I have money, you help me.’

‘Where did they go?’ asked Patrick, after a pause in which all the men looked away from him. They clearly feared that Yannis was engaged in a dubious enterprise and had involved his mother. ‘Athens?’

No one answered. Then more excited talk broke out and what seemed to be further argument, though most Greek conversation was carried on at this pitch. Petros and one old man seemed to be urging one course against the rest, and in the end they prevailed. Petros spoke.

‘The wife of Manouli—’ a nod towards the oldest man ‘—she is the friend of Ilena. She has a letter.’ Pause. Patrick waited. ‘She is on an island, doing work, but it is not hard. She has much comfort. Yannis is working for a shipping firm. He is well paid and can support her.’

‘That’s good, then.’ But it was not, that was plain. The men did not approve of Yannis’s new prosperity. Anyway, if he was thriving, there was no need to seek him out.

‘Which island?’ Patrick asked.

In the end they told him.

He drove away still puzzled by their reticence.

The ruins of the palace of Phaestos shimmered in the heat. All around the plateau on which it had been built the land fell away into the surrounding fertile plain; what a vantage point, and the peaceful citizens had built no fortifications three thousand years ago. Patrick wandered about in the hot sun among the thick, ancient walls trying to imagine the scene as it had been in those days, but not succeeding very well. Around him, clustering on the heels of their various guides, were flocks of tourists in bright dresses and shirts. Patrick heard French, German, Italian and English, and other tongues he could not recognise. He stood for a while gazing across at Mount Ida, allegedly Zeus’s birthplace. And why not?

After a time he felt too hot to remain outside any longer, though he had not worked out the plan of the palace at all well in his mind. He had consumed a fair amount of ouzo with his new Cretan friends, for none of which had he been allowed to pay, and he had then driven on to the coast where he had found a
taverna
by the sea. There he had eaten fried fish and drunk iced beer. The effect of it all was soporific. He walked slowly back to the tourist building where he could have some sort of long, cool, non-alcholic drink.

He was sitting in the shade eating an enormous apple and drinking lemonade when Ursula Norris appeared from within the building and saw him. She was chuckling away to herself.

‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘So you got here. I am pleased to see you.’ She was choking with suppressed mirth. ‘Do you know, in this birthplace of civilisation, where there was an elaborate plumbing system three thousand years ago, the ladies’ loo today is still just a hole in the ground? What about that for the march of progress?’

‘No, really?’

‘Mm. One wouldn’t give it a thought anywhere else in Europe – but here—’ she grinned at him. ‘I’ve a childish sense of humour,’ she said.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Patrick suggested.

‘I’d love one, but there isn’t time. We’ve got to go back to the coach,’ said Ursula.

‘Come back with me,’ said Patrick. ‘My car will be like an oven as I could find no tree to park it under, and the clutch is lousy, but you’re very welcome.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely. Could I?’ Her pleasure was genuine. ‘I’ll tell our guardian.’

She moved away, and Patrick saw her speak to an earnest-looking young woman with dark, glossy hair, wearing an orange dress. Then she returned.

‘That’s fine. Those couriers have a terrible job. There’s always someone who’s difficult, or keeps the coach waiting. How lovely to desert them.’

Patrick saw George Loukas and his wife looking at postcards. George said something to Elsie and took her elbow. They began to walk slowly towards the coach park.

‘Those two came with you?’ he asked. ‘I saw them waiting to be collected.’

‘Who? Oh, the American couple. Yes. Do you know them?’

‘I met him in Challika last night,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s of Greek descent. This is a sentimental pilgrimage for him.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said Ursula.

‘He was talking away in Greek,’ Patrick said. ‘I was quite surprised that a second-generation American citizen had kept it up.’

‘It happens all the time,’ said Ursula. ‘They come back to retire, after working all their lives in the States, sometimes.’

They sat and talked about it while she drank lemonade and shared the remains of Patrick’s apple, and waited till the coach had gone.

Their way back went through Gortys, and although two coaches were parked in the shade at the side of the road, there was no seething mob swarming among the ruins, so they stopped.

‘Modern stuff, this,’ said Patrick, surveying the theatre. ‘Even I can tell a Roman brick when I see one. What a nice place.’

The site, set among its olive trees, was a peaceful spot that afternoon.

‘They’ll excavate it thoroughly, one day, no doubt,’ said Ursula Norris as they walked towards the odeum, built of soft, rose-coloured brick, wherein the code of laws could be seen inscribed on the inner wall. ‘They were an enlightened lot, in those days.’

‘Yes.’ Patrick had read it up the night before in his
Hellenic Traveller.

The ruined church of St. Titus drew them, and when they reached it, there was George Loukas wandering around saying, ‘My, would you believe it?’ to the lambent air. He hailed Patrick.

‘Hi, there. Isn’t this just great?’ he cried. ‘My, we’ve had a wonderful day, haven’t we, Elsie?’

Elsie was looking rather hot. She had a silk scarf tied around her head; her face was flushed; strong, freckled arms lightly covered with fine gold hairs emerged from her lime-green dress.

‘We’ve seen a heck of a lot of ruins,’ she said.

‘Say, honey, what am I thinking of? You haven’t met Dr Grant, have you?’ George said. ‘He’s the professor from Oxford, England, I was telling you about. Let me present Mrs Loukas, Dr Grant.’

Patrick felt unequal to explaining at this point that he was not a professor. He shook hands with Elsie and introduced Ursula Norris to both the Americans.

‘Did you read about the feller that found this place?’ George continued, enthusiastically. ‘He was drinking from a stream when he saw a stone in the water that had been carved some special way. So he covered it up and said nothing till he was able to buy the ground years later. What a guy.’

‘Archaeology is a patient profession,’ said Ursula.

‘It must be great when you make a find, eh?’ said George. ‘Good results are worth waiting for.’

‘Have you visited Knossos yet, Mrs Loukas?’ asked Patrick.

‘No. I guess it’s a whole lot better than Phaestos, though. Not so ruined,’ said Elsie Loukas. She sounded completely American; many years in the States might well erase the strongest British accent.

‘I can understand Sir Arthur Evans not wanting to go anywhere else, can’t you?’ said Ursula. ‘I’d be quite happy to set up camp here, for instance, and start digging.’

‘I guess it can be wet and cold in winter, Miss Norris, even in Crete,’ said George.

The Loukases had to leave them, as their guide was calling her flock together.

‘What a nice little man,’ said Ursula, watching them go. ‘She’s had her fill of ruins, I think, don’t you?’

Patrick agreed. They walked slowly back through the shaded grove to their car, which did not want to start. Patrick grumbled about it as they bumped over the grass where they had left it, back to the road.

‘Poor car. It’s doing its best,’ said Ursula. ‘I expect it’s had a different driver every week, all summer. I’m delighted to be in it, I can tell you. The coaches are comfortable, and it’s an easy way to get about – but what a long day. They haven’t finished yet – they’ll be stopping somewhere else on the way back, Mallia, probably.’

‘These trips just whet one’s appetite, don’t they?’ said Patrick. ‘Make one long to return.’

‘Yes. It’s all too quick. I’d like a whole day in the museum in Heraklion. I think the tour allows just over an hour. Even a day isn’t enough, from what I’ve heard.’

“The famous Linear B tablet,’ said Patrick. ‘What a story that is.’

They discussed the solving of mysteries from the past as they drove on, the road climbing soon, back up to the mountains. Ursula Norris felt that she was lucky to have met this cultured, not-so-very-young man, who was lonely enough to be glad of her company.

‘Crete, the modern bit – the war, and all that – keeps coming into my mind as much as the distant past,’ said Patrick. ‘An island of drama – ancient and modern.’

‘It’s typical of Greek history in general,’ said Ursula. ‘Perhaps it’s what’s given them their resilient characterThey passed a vine-growing area where grapes were spread out on racks in the sun to dry into raisins, and through arid stretches where even goats must find cropping a livelihood hard. Occasionally they came upon a donkey carrying a black-clad woman, with often a goat or a sheep at its heels.

Back in Challika, Patrick suggested a drink, and said he wanted to buy a paper, so they parked the car and walked along to the newsagent’s where Patrick bought
The Times
and Ursula
The Guardian.
Then they went to Zito’s, where Ursula taught Patrick to order their ouzos with a whole sentence in Greek.

There was a small paragraph in
The Times
about Felix; it said merely that his body had been found on a beach in Crete and that he had died as the result of an accidental fall from the cliff while on holiday. There was no mention of the cruise. A few words followed about his academic achievements. Among the ordinary obituaries, Gwenda announced his death and the time of his funeral, four days hence.