“I shall see you next spring then.”
“Perhaps.”
“I have a two-year contract at the school.”
“Ah.”
“And be the butt again.”
“No more than that?”
“When one’s emotions get involved…”
“I warned you.”
“And also ensured that the temptation remained.”
“Death is the only state without temptation.”
Again I would have liked to pull out my wallet, to face him with my own recent encounter with death. But I was not in the mood to admit to him that I had lied previously about meeting Alison. I stubbed out my cigarette.
“Will she be here next year?”
“You will not see her.”
“But will she be here?”
Our eyes were locked, unconceding, like battling stags’ horns. “You will not want to see her.”
“Why won’t I want to see her?”
“Because you will understand by then how much she has deceived you.”
“I don’t mind being deceived. Especially by a girl as pretty as Julie.”
His eyes hesitated, black with suspicion, a lightning assessment; it was like playing chess with a five-second move limit. He said, “That is not her name.”
“You told me it was.”
“I was deceiving you.”
“And her bank manager?”
He quizzed, uncertain of my meaning. I took out my wallet, found the letter from Barclay’s and pushed it across the table to him. He read it slowly, twice, as if it was difficult to understand, then put it back on the table. For a moment he had a downcast, bewildered look; Lear deceived by Cordelia. Then with a little shrug, a grimace, a wide smile, he conceded defeat.
“I understand. It is I who am the butt today.”
“She begged me not to tell you.”
“You are in love.”
“I know she told you.”
He looked down. “Yes, yes, she told me.”
“She wrote me a letter.” His eyes were hurt; almost reproachful. “I know you haven’t been in Geneva, but that’s all. I’m happy to go on being the butt.”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “This is all I have tried to avoid in my theatre. Now it is theatre—make-believe and artifice.” He waved the infamous idea of the conventional theatre away; tapped his head. “I have tried to be too clever.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stood up, stared down at me. “Well. You are fortunate. That she should really love you. I did not expect it.”
“No?” I smiled back at his slow smile.
“Let us say—I did not intend it.”
“I think, Mr. Conchis, now that at last I have you at my mercy, I’d like to know what you did intend.”
He bit his lips, almost boyishly, his eyes suddenly brimming with good humor. I had an unexpected feeling of affection for him. Julie was right: one could not believe he was evil.
“You must ask her.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“She does know. I have told her the truth. But I warn you it is very strange.” The eyes crinkled. “Very strange indeed.” Then before I could say anymore, he looked at his watch, seemed surprised, and went to the corner of the colonnade.
“Catherine!”
He pronounced it the French way. He turned back to me. “Maria—of course—is not a simple Greek peasant. This was to be another little surprise for you. But now…” He shrugged, as if all was wasted, all a damp fizzle. We heard her footsteps and turned. Maria was still an elderly woman, still had a lined face; but she wore a well-cut black suit, a gilt-and-garnet brooch. Stockings. Shoes with short heels. A touch of lipstick. The sort of middle-class matron of fifty one might see in any fashionable Athenian street. All her old manner was gone. She stood with a faint smile on her face—the big surprise, the quick-change entrance. But Conchis sacrificed the effect.
“Nicholas, this is Madame Catherine Athanasoulis, who has made a speciality of peasant roles. She has helped us many times before.” He moved towards her. “Catherine, tine malheur nous est arrivée. Quelquechose de tout a fait inattendu.” He took her elbow and led her aside; their backs to me, and a retreat into Greek. She nodded at what he was saying.
She looked at me and gave an open-palmed gesture, whether of resignation or regret, I could not tell. I made a small smile of appreciation at her change. I felt obscurely guilty; a bit of a bull in a china shop; no poetry, again.
Conchis watched her go back composedly towards her cottage, then turned to me.
“Before Julie comes, I have much to say. First of all, I am not deceiving you about America. I must be there next week. I have meetings. Bourani will be shut from today.” He looked at his watch. “And I shall be fetched at noon. I have a plane to catch in Athens. Now, money. There is… Patarescu. And other expenses.” He produced a fat envelope from the briefcase. “Here is a small sum.” He put it on the table.
“I don’t want it.”
“I insist. It is nothing. Ten million drachmai.” I smiled; even allowing for Greek inflation, ten million was well over a hundred pounds.
“I can’t take it.”
He held out the envelope once more, but I shook my head very firmly.
“There is one other thing, Nicholas. For purposes I will not go into now I told you only yesterday that I did not like you. This was merely to authenticate what will not now take place today. So permit me to say, at this unexpected last moment, that I have grown to like you very much. Will you believe me?”
I said, “Of course.”
“Whatever may happen to you in your life, I beg you never to stop believing that of me.”
I bowed.
He caught sight of something behind me, then glanced at his watch; things were carefully timed.
“Ah. Here is Joe. All this was meant as a surprise. What we call a désintoxication.”
It was the Negro. He was strolling through the trees from the gulley, in an elegant dark tan suit. A pink shirt, a club tie. It was still a surprise, this mask-dropping, however much sharper Conchis had intended it to be. The Negro raised a hand as he saw us looking at him. The moustache had disappeared. Conchis went out in the sun to meet him, to stop the pretense again. They spoke a few words, I saw the Negro look up towards me. Then they both came back across the gravel. Conchis looked almost a dwarf, a dapper dwarf, beside him. Joe was about ten years older than I; a hard face, but a mobile and intelligent one.
“Nicholas, this is Joe Harrison.”
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
My tone was so curt that he grinned and gave a little side glance at Conchis. He reached out a hand. “Sorry, friend. Just did what the book said.”
I took his hand, but I said, “With some conviction.”
“Man, I was born in Alabama. In that kind of play…” he gestured back, as if he had left his role in the trees.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Okay.”
We exchanged a wary look. He pulled a pack of American cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one out for me, then he turned to Conchis. “Your bags?”
Conchis said, “They’re upstairs.”
“Fine.” He glanced at me as I lit his cigarette, appeared to search for words, shrugged, smiled secretly and went indoors.
More footsteps. Hermes appeared, carrying two more suitcases over the gravel down to the beach. “Maria” followed him, under the colonnade. She came to me holding out her hand.
“Sans rancune, j’espère, monsieur.” Her accent was heavily Greek. I frogged a small grimace, and took her hand. “Eh bien. Bonne chance.” Perhaps it had not been so difficult for her to play Maria; she was veil-eyed by nature.
I watched her black back descend the path, sink out of sight. And at once, in the same place, Julie rose into sight, climbing up from the beach.
Conchis said, “Let us pretend for a few moments.”
She was wearing a white linen suit, a navy-blue shirt, town shoes; and the shock of seeing her in contemporary clothes was the greatest of the three.