He found the place more by feel than by memory, he had gone there only one single time eight years ago, a stupid tourist with his wife and daughter, but he had been told to definitely visit that humble and inconspicuous little restaurant far from the tourist joints, where it showed that locals also lived on Rhodes, here you didn’t order food, the owner decided for you and brought it over himself, an elderly, bony Lydian with a white beard and a huge moustache, with blue eyes and a salty face, as if he had just stepped off the fishing boat, he served his guests with respect and spry gestures, in which there was not a trace of the sycophantic servility demonstrated by the waiters in the usual restaurants, he moved briskly through the small space, carrying bowls of salads, plates of octopus, calamari, and mussels, which his wife prepared in the tiny kitchen behind the bar. Even Elena, who was known for reluctantly pushing food around her plate for half an hour, was impressed, now these were unpretentious, yet disconcertingly delicious appetizers, which they washed down with a liter of white wine and despite the stern glance from her mother, he poured some for Elena, too, for the first time he poured wine for her at the table, she took a sip cautiously, yet proudly, wrinkled up her nose and said it was a little sour, but otherwise all right, and drank her first glass of white wine along with the strange black dish which swallowed up the light, squid served in a sauce made of its own ink, if you were a writer, Elena said suddenly with one of her last fanciful, childlike whims, if you were a writer, you’d have to eat only this, an animal cooked in its own ink, being a writer, you’d have to eat ink, what do you say? They said that’s exactly right and even shared this idea with the owner, he found it amusing and twisted his long moustache in satisfaction, well maybe your daughter will become a writer some day, if she eats ink regularly. Then Krustev turned his attention to the squid itself, incidentally, if you’re a photographer it also made sense to eat it, but Elena’s idea had lodged in his memory, because he thought of it from time to time, imagining a writer who ate ink sitting alone at the table, lost in thought and slightly scowling, dipping his bread in the black sauce and stuffing it into his mouth, now after all those books he had read over the winter, in which the people and the stories from the printed page seemed more real to him than everything around him and certainly more real than he himself was, he again wanted to eat squid ink, the strange, slightly tart taste of the sea and of something which cannot be defined, and for one more evening to draw close to the life of the man with the blue eyes and salty face and his heavy wife, who chopped, minced, fried and steamed, the two of them truly like something out of a book; and for that reason he had to go alone.
He found it; and it was the same, nothing about the place had changed, the same simple tables, the guitar hanging on the wall, and on the other wall — black-and-white photographs of old men from the islands, rugged, eternal old men, but among them there was one with huge, magnetic eyes, which seemed to have gathered all the possible dreams of his island, emanating them in his radiant gaze, which gushed from the picture and spilled throughout the space and far beyond it. The proprietor’s beard was also as white, his moustache was also as long, Krustev sat down at one of the small tables, across from him four men were drinking ouzo, it was unusual for someone to come here alone, but he and the blue-eyed owner agreed on salad, squid and wine, he spoke English well, Krustev remembered that back then, too, they had been surprised that such an elderly man did so well with English, but perhaps he wasn’t really as old as he looked, or perhaps he was eternal, like the old men in the photos. Krustev turned his eyes to the pictures and gave himself over to the oncoming return, the reversal of time, he let it pull him back into the sea, he once again thought of his grandfather, hidden behind a mask of rugged and scowling silence in the last house in the village, heavily treading the earth with his feet, how would he have gotten along with this spry man of the sea here, and right then he appeared with the plates and pulled him back into the present. Krustev broke off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the black squid sauce and involuntarily blurted out, I was here years ago, and back then my daughter said that this was a dish for writers… Because writers should eat ink, the owner added, well, yes, I remember all three of you, I was just wondering where I knew you from, years may have passed, but it’s all stored up here and he tapped his forehead, I’ve got a memory like an elephant, I don’t forget anything, and even if I want to, I can’t, which is sometimes not a good thing at all, but other times is good, so did your daughter become a writer? I don’t know, Krustev said foolishly. And he thought to himself that whatever he might be asked about his daughter, about his wife, he would be forced to reply I don’t know far too often, he bit his lips and suddenly started talking, as if the chunk of bread soaked in ink had freed the long stopped-up stream, the swarms of words stuck in his body now poured out uninhibited in a language that was foreign to both of them; when he started telling him about his wife, the proprietor’s salty face grew serious, until that moment he had been standing over the table, stunned, but now he pulled up a chair and looked at him carefully with his blue eyes and only when Krustev fell silent, winded, after he had told him about his daughter as well, and about the three young people and how he had brought them to Rhodes and about that self of his that he remembered from years ago, the raging Slav with the guitar from Euphoria, he told himself that he didn’t know anyone else who was able to listen like that, you did right, the man said suddenly, sitting there across from him and looking at him with his blue eyes, and repeated you did right. Krustev felt himself blushing, he turned his eyes away and his gaze fell on the guitar. How long has it been since you’ve played, asked the old man. I don’t know, Krustev smiled and realized that he didn’t even know his name. Ardis, said the proprietor. Boril, Krustev replied and again wondered at the hard, marble sound of his given name. The squid had gone cold. And it shows that you loved to play when you were young, Ardis said. They called him from the other table, but he waved them off angrily and fixed his blue eyes on Krustev. Your daughter, I remember her very well, saying that about the ink, she was a smart girl, find her again. But first, eat up.
Krustev obediently finished off the cold squid and the salad, and drank the wine, only then did Ardis again grace him with his attention, he brought a bottle with two glasses the size of thimbles and sat down across from him, smiling. This is called mastika, he explained, they make it on the island of Chios and only there, from the sap of some special trees, they only have them on Chios. Now that you’ve eaten ink from the sea, he winked, some sap from the tree will do you good. Krustev wasn’t sure if he should look for some hidden meaning in his words, because the old man clearly loved speaking in parables. But the sudden sweet scent of the drink hit his nostrils, refreshing him. Ardis, he said, the whole time, when I’m with these kids, I get the feeling that I should be ashamed. Well, of course, you’re ashamed, replied the proprietor. If you weren’t ashamed, I would have kicked you out of here long ago. Ardis got up abruptly, took the guitar off the wall and gave it to Krustev, he took it and carefully tried the strings and heard a voice that had sunk deeply in the sea of his own past, when Ardis told him take it, do you hear me, he said, take the guitar, I’m giving it to you.