Other than that, nothing. Nothing of hers, of Lydia 's. They have locked up the studio until her parents in Lyons can be informed.
Nothing really but questions. Questions of fact, questions of interpretation. The head, the bracelet, the documents concerning the lease – I do not know where he hid them. Probably up there in the hills somewhere, but far away from the ruins. Someday, no doubt, they will be found again, to provide a new set of puzzles.
Mister Bowles, Lydia too, remain mysteries to me-opaque, ungraspable. As does this brief action in which we were all engaged…
At least I did not make characters of them. Now, after these few days, they have already lost unity in my mind, their wholeness was a physical impression only, not surviving the body. I am left with fragments – that word again: Mister Bowles as he was on the day of his arrival, as he stood bareheaded, momentarily bemused, with all my story contained in his luggage, the head, the bracelet, the obscure doll; his face as he laid the head on Mahmoud's desk, that quick licking of the lips his only sign of stress; his face again, gleaming and fanatical as he ministered to the bronze youth; then that final mask of blood. There is no way now of recombining these elements.
And Lydia, whom I neglected so after the statue was found: her awareness of him, right from the start, we all saw it, that first evening, every movement was for him – as if she had been waiting; her bare arm glimpsed among the rocks; her landscapes, which imprisoned things – we ourselves were arrested that day in her studio, in poses to her liking, among the other objects assembled there. Then I saw her as Circe. But there was the gown, that sacrificial smudge. I should have known then. She was the victim of all of us, because she had nothing material to gain. She was there for love, Excellency. It was as if she was waiting, as if her possession of freedom was only apparent, until Mister Bowles came. Perfect balance is insufferable, as I have said elsewhere in this report. Perhaps Lydia too, with her ostensible fear of the irrational, perhaps she too was waiting for the gesture that shatters the glass. And then, Mister Bowles had this gift for inspiring people with his own vision of things, involving them in his purposes. Like a skilful cast of the net… She was intending to go with him. Their suitcases were found on the boat…
You will understand, Excellency, that I am offering you simply one version among many. Even in that Mister Bowles and I are alike, the version chosen being that which lends itself to the shaping fantasy at the time. Everything is thus enveloped in its own thick aura of alternatives, including me, the observer. One chooses a convenient self, a suitable standpoint. I could have been a different kind of voice in this report.
I do not know, even, what he proposed to do with the statue. Other than getting away with it, I don't think he knew himself. Perhaps he was planning to sell it in Europe, where for an original Greek bronze of that period (if he was right) he might have got a large sum from the right buyer. I think not, but one cannot be sure. Maybe the statue itself is a fake – there would be a marvellous irony in that. It has gone by ship to Constantinople now. Izzet told me there were fragments of brain on the statue's foot, the forward one.
Mahmoud and Izzet have been obliged to leave the site -empty-handed, save possibly for the doll. There are workmen from the mainland up there. The preliminary surveys have been made. Yesterday several times, and again today, there were explosions of dynamite, resounding over the whole island. First fanfares of Herr Gesing's Commerce and National State.
I do not go up there. Since the shooting I have lived in a sort of vacuous calm. I spend most of my time along by the shore, walking, thinking. I feel some prescience here, some demand still unsatisfied by what has been done. I sense it, glimpse it faintly, as I move towards the end; an end not seen, but contained in the beginning. Standing on the beach, among the bric-a-brac of ages, it is strange to acknowledge how infinitely small have been the gradations of change, since he arrived on the island and my report began. Minute changes in the constitution of the sea, adjustments the wind might have made to grasses, fading of things brought about by the sun in that time. Frightening, this discrepancy, wastage of persons and hopes, blankness of endurance in things.
My hopes too, in this pang of time, have withered. 'Imagine the paper-work,' he said. I remember his face as he said that, the look of pity in his eyes. 'Abdul Hamid is finished,' he said. He was right, Excellency. I knew it then, as I know it now. My reports have not been read. Worse, they have not been kept. And now you are no longer there. It was because I knew he was right, and because of the pity in his eyes, that I betrayed him. I have Lydia 's money still in the envelope, but there is no use for it now. The blood money from Herr Gesing I will not collect. I will wait here. One day they will come for me. My death will not even serve as a sacrifice, such a belated and accidental event will not be regarded with favour by any god. More than that will be required for an acceptable aroma. The world is preparing for it, Excellency.
Now you too are gone. There is nobody there. I shall bring this to a close, go for a walk along the shore, study the indifference of things. We cannot retaliate on indifference by asserting truth, only by casting doubt. Maybe none of this actually happened. Like the fly, the fly on my wrist, remember?
Lord of the world. Shadow of God on earth. God bring you increase.
About the Author
Barry Unsworth was born in 1930 in a mining village in Durham. He attended Stockton-on-Tees Grammar School and Manchester University. He has spent a number of years in the Eastern Mediterranean area and has taught English in Athens and Istanbul. His first novel, The Partnership, was published in 1966. This was followed by The Greeks Have a Word for It (1967) and The Hide (1970). Mooncranker's Gift received the Heinemann Award for 1973 for its 'sheer beauty of writing and richness of experience'. His other books include Stone Virgin (1985), of which the Daily Telegraph wrote: 'A marvellous novel, beautifully written and compelling', and his most recent novel, Sugar and Rum (1988). Pascali's Island was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1980.