He seemed to have difficulty finding his voice. "What's Adrian doing here?"
"I cabled him," she said.
"Why?" His voice was harsh. "Why did you do that?"
"You were in trouble with the authorities, and then Professor Holroyd coming out … I thought Dr. Gilmore-"
"How could he help?" He seemed strangely upset, as though shaken by some inner conflict. "You shouldn't have involved him."
"Well, he's here on the boat and he'd like to see you."
"No." For some extraordinary reason he seemed to shy away from the idea. "I don't want to see him. I don't want to see anybody."
She tried coaxing him, but it was no good. It was as though by opting out, by abandoning his work to Holroyd, he had withdrawn inside himself. Nothing would induce him to go down to Port Vathy. I offered to bring the boat round to Port Atheni, but it didn't make any difference. He seemed determined now to cut himself off completely from his own world. And to close the subject he asked me about my own plans.
I told him briefly, not explaining the purpose of my visit to Samos, and he said, "Anatolia I know, all that Turkish coast. But the islands off … I don't think early man ever got to the Dodecanese." And then he was questioning me about Bert again, asking about the boat and the diving equipment on board. The diving equipment seemed to fascinate him. "A spelaeologist, you say?" He was leaning back, his eyes half closed. "And he's been exploring underwater cities."
"Only two," I said. "One off the island of Andros, and a Roman port on the African coast. He's really more interested in old wrecks."
"Have you done any diving yourself?"
"No."
"A pity. I was thinking. ." But then he seemed to lose track of what was in his mind, for he began talking about the Aegean and the successive waves of invasion from the east by primitive people worshipping the Earth Goddess. And then suddenly he was back to Bert again. "He's a friend of yours?"
"I've chartered his boat, that's all."
"He thinks a lot of you."
I stared at him, wondering what he was after. "Bert's a good fellow," I said. "And he took quite a risk bringing you here."
He nodded. "Yes. I appreciate that." But I could see his mind was on something else.
"Why were you in such a hurry to come here?"
He stared at me, his eyes suddenly blank.
"You talked to the Barretts about having to get here before Holroyd, something urgent you had to do, and about some bones-bones you'd left here the previous year."
"Did I?" His tone was vague-deliberately vague. And his face had a shut look. "Oh yes," he said. "But that's all settled. I'm working on something else now." And he added, "When you come back. . You know where to find me now. Come and see me."
"From Samos," I said, "I'll be sailing direct to Pantel-leria."
But he didn't seem to take that in. "Maybe I'll have something to show you then."
"What?" I asked. And when he didn't reply, I said, "Are you referring to that lamp?" I don't know why I said that. It just seemed to come into my head.
"Lamp! What lamp?"
It was extraordinary. His whole face had changed, the brows drawn down and the lines back. A carved head on some great cathedral's gutter.
"The stone lamp you were holding," I murmured, and his breath came in a hiss.
Sonia spoke then-quickly as though soothing a child. "Paul saw it in a picture-some shots taken by that student of Dr. Gilmore's, Cassellis."
He leaned back, rubbing his hand over his face. "Yes, of course. I remember now."
"Where was it?" I asked. I would have pressed him for an answer, but Sonia reached out and gripped my hand, holding it tight with an urgent shake of her head. And instead of answering me, he said, "So you're going to Pantelleria. I was there once. In nineteen sixty-four. No, 'sixty-five. I can't remember."
He passed his hand up over his brow. "All lava. Black. A dreadful, volcanic place. And under the lava. ." He was concentrating, almost struggling, it seemed, to keep his mind focussed on what he was saying. "Old places-middens. . places where ancient man had lived before the island erupted." He was speaking faster now, getting into his stride as he told how all vestige of man had been buried beneath an avalanche of molten rock. And then suddenly he was pressing me urgently to come back through the Corinth Canal and pick him up. "By then perhaps I'll have broken through-I'll know the truth, I hope." He looked at me, suddenly pleading. "Come back for me. And if I'm here, then we'll go on to Pantelleria together."
I didn't say anything, not relishing the thought of bringing the contents of looted Turkish graves out through Greece, and unaccountably my hands were trembling. His assumption that I would fit in with his plans. .
"Paul." He was staring at me urgently. "I want you to promise. Come back. I may need you."
But all I said was, "I'll think about it." He was sick. Sick in his mind, and it scared me. I finished my wine and got to my feet. "I have to go now."
He nodded, his eyes, deep-sunk in their sockets, watching me. "You're like your mother," he said. "Ruth was like that.
Physical courage, yes. But she couldn't face the turmoil that springs from the great well of man's loneliness." He leaned a little forward. "Do you believe in God?" The question took me by surprise. It made me feel uneasy. "Well, do you?"
"I–I don't really know."
"Do you never think about death and what happens afterwards?" He was smiling now, a little sadly. "Well, never mind. Go back to your boat and the nice uncomplicated life of the sea. But remember that half of you is me, and with that half you inherit the other side of man-Man the Seeker." He chuckled to himself, but there was no mirth in the sound. "Pray God it never leads you where it has led me." He closed his eyes and leaned back. The brooding look had returned to his face and his mind was far away.
We left then, for he seemed suddenly exhausted. Or perhaps it was just that he wanted to be alone. Whatever it was, we were conscious of a mood of withdrawal. It didn't worry me, but Sonia felt it deeply, so that she was very quiet as we walked back through the village and down past the church. Above the slope of the hill with its olives she stopped suddenly, gazing out to the vista of sea beyond. "You'll be sailing to Samos now, I suppose."
"Yes," I said.
"And from there you'll go straight to Pantelleria? You won't be coming back here?"
"No."
She stood there, silent, looking lost and sad. I could feel her loneliness, and for the first time I understood her need, the desperate, driven search for the father she had never really known. Now she felt shut out. It was this realization, and perhaps the wine I had drunk, that made me say, "Would you like to come with us?" The words were out before I'd given a thought to what I might be letting her in for.
"On a smuggling run?" Her pale eyebrows lifted and she smiled. "That's nice of you, Paul. But no." She shook her head. "I must stay." Her eyes were screwed up. I thought at first it was the sun, but then I saw the glint of tears as she turned quickly away. I caught her then, my arm round her, and suddenly she was leaning against me, sobbing her heart out.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "And it's all so beautiful." She didn't say what was beautiful. She was shaking uncontrollably. "It's so bloody pointless, but I feel I must. He's all alone, and no money, nobody to make him feel he's wanted." She had got her handkerchief out. "I'll be all right in a moment." And then she pushed away from me and stood very straight and stiff, facing me and not bothering to hide her tears. "You did mean that, didn't you?"
"Yes."
She stared at me a moment and then she smiled. It was like sunshine after rain, a smile that seemed to light up her whole face, so that for a moment she looked quite radiant. And then the sunshine vanished and she turned away, blowing her nose and searching in her bag for her compact. "It wouldn't have worked anyway." She was in control of herself again now. "Florrie wouldn't have liked it, and it's her boat."