"You remind me a bit of another student," she said, speaking in such a soft voice that Indy almost thought she was talking to herself. "He was from England. When he came here, he had no sense of our recent history. He knew that Lord Byron died at Missolonghi. That was it."
She was quiet a moment and Indy waited for her to continue. "We should get going," she finally said.
The first lights winked on in the dusky haze over the city. Indy nodded, but his attention was drawn back to the Erechtheum. He peered, as best he could, into the inner recesses of the porch. The light shifted, the glare vanished, and now he could see the porch clearly. There was some one there. No, two people, two men, and they were peering out at them.
"That's odd."
"What?" Dorian asked.
"There're two guys up by the Caryatids watching us."
Dorian swung around as if he'd stabbed her in the back. "I don't see anyone."
"They moved back now."
Dorian took hold of his arm. "Come on."
He didn't know what the hurry was, but he followed her back toward the Parthenon. Below it was a path leading to the road where horses and buggies waited. In Athens, there was a mix of carriages and automobiles, whereas in Paris autos prevailed and horses were a rarity. It was as if Athens couldn't quite decide whether to join the twentieth century.
Dorian tugged on his arm again. "Indy, they're coming after us."
He glanced back. The two men were moving toward the Parthenon, one a few yards ahead of the other.
"Why do you think they're after us? They're probably just a couple of tourists."
"Look again." The men had closed the gap. They weren't quite running, but they weren't bothering to disguise the fact that they were in a hurry.
"Let's wait. They're probably not interested in us at all."
Dorian grabbed him by the arm. "Don't be a fool. Run."
They charged forward, hurrying over the rocky escarp ment. Indy felt foolish; he still doubted the men were chasing them. He stumbled and almost pulled Dorian down on top of him. A white-hot pain shot through his ankle.
"Damn it."
"Hurry," Dorian hissed. He winced as he pushed off the ground and hobbled after her.
The shadows had turned a deep purple, making it more difficult to see. They scraped their arms on the heavy thicket as they descended the path, his ankle throbbed and screamed with every step. He kept glancing back, but couldn't see anyone pursuing them.
The ruins were nearly empty and a lone carriage waited at the bottom of the path for stragglers. Dorian rushed over to it, waving her arms at the driver. The man calmly opened the door for her; Indy reeled across the road, limping as he ran.
"You all right, sir?" the driver asked.
"Fine. Let's go."
As the carriage pulled away, Indy glanced out the win dow into the dusky night. He glimpsed the men just as they reached the road. They stopped, and stared after the carriage as it pulled away.
"They were probably just after the last carriage, not us," he said.
She didn't answer.
Dorian's house was located on a hill in an old neighbor hood called Monastiraki, where at any time of the day you could look up and see the Acropolis hovering in the sky like a temple of gods. The house was quaint in appearance, with pilasters at the corners, a tile roof edged with terra-cotta goddesses, and a small yard protected from the street by a wrought iron fence and an abundance of vegetation.
Not bad, Indy thought as they entered the house and he smelled dinner cooking. She'd come home after two years, and it was as if she'd never left. She had another life here that had continued despite her absence. Not only was dinner being prepared by the housekeeper, but a bubble bath awaited Dorian. While she bathed, Indy sat on the bed soaking his swollen ankle in a pail of cold water.
"Hey, Indy," Dorian called.
He looked at the bathroom door. "Yeah?"
"Bring your pail in here so we can talk."
Good idea, he thought. He did want to talk to her and, hey, why not do it while she bathed? A mischievous smile turned on his lips as he raised his foot from the pail. "How come I didn't think of that?"
He set his pail down next to the bathtub and sat on a chair draped with a towel. On the floor next to the tub was a bottle and a wine glass. Dorian held a half-full glass in her hand. "Help yourself to some retsina,"
she said as he lowered his foot into the pail.
"Thanks. What is it?"
"A wine made from pine sap."
"Pine sap?" He poured himself a glass, sipped it, and made a face.
Dorian laughed. "It grows on you. Believe me. It's very popular. Some people say too popular. You just have to be careful not to overindulge."
He took another sip; his eyes strayed from her face. The sight of her soaking among the bubbles with one leg stretched languidly over the side reminded him of their recent tryst. He saw them entwined in her berth on the train, their movements synchronized with the rattle of the rails below them. Their lovemaking seemed almost surreal now, not like a real memory at all. He still found it hard to believe how rapidly the Lady Ice of Paris had melted in his arms. Yet, here he was, casually watching as she bathed. Everything since then seemed like a blur to him. They'd left the train yesterday morning, and spent most of the day on the ferry. When they'd reached the port of Piraeus, they'd taken a taxi to Athens. They'd arrived exhausted, and had slept twelve hours.
Today, while Dorian had busied herself with details for the trip to Delphi, Indy had explored the city on his own. First, he'd dutifully spent the morning at the archaeology museum; later, he'd simply wandered around taking in the sights.
"So what do you think of Athens?" she asked. "I like it, but I can't stop comparing it to Paris." "And what have you concluded?" She stretched one of her legs, toes pointed toward the ceiling.
The texture of life was different here, he'd decided. The beauty of Paris was seen through the subtle changes in the quality of light. Here the light was harsher, brighter, a contrast to the craggy landscape.
"Greece is earthy, fertile; France is more intellectual, refined." "I agree."
Both cities were tied to the past, but the past affected each city in different ways. Paris thrived as a center of artistic culture, a creative offspring of past artistic triumphs. Here, even though the past was everywhere, the culture that had flowered was now dormant. Paris was a sculpture still being defined; Athens was a monument, and its people could only stand by and watch it slowly deteriorate. Yet, in spite of living in the shadows of their forebears, the Greeks still seemed to excel in spirit. He saw them as a gregarious, talkative people who openly expressed their emotions, whether joy, anger or sorrow. Most of the men were dark, curly-haired, and handsome. They smoked black tobacco and drank endless cups of coffee while they absently fingered beads made of amber or silver. The women, however, seemed resigned to domestic drudgeries and many wore black dresses, as though they were in permanent mourning.
He tried his best to explain his thoughts, but Dorian no longer seemed interested. "Indy, I want to tell you why I thought those men at the ruins were after us." "Good. I'd like to hear about it." "First, I should tell you a bit about my family," she said, arching her back as she washed the base of her neck, and the rosy tips of her breasts pushed through the bubbles.
"Your family?" It was difficult to concentrate on what she was saying.
"Yes. My family. You see, Greek peasant girls don't become archaeologists. My father is a shipbuilder, and a large landholder. We even own a couple of islands." "Entire islands?" She laughed. "Not large islands." "He lives here in Athens?"