But its tone was really set by its two paintings: both nudes, girls in sunlit interiors, pinks, reds, greens, honeys, ambers; all light, warmth, glowing like yellow fires with life, humanity, domesticity, sexuality, Mediterraneity.
“You know him?” I shook my head. “Bonnard. He painted them both five or six years before he died.” I stood in front of them. He said, behind me, “These, I paid for.”
“They were worth it.”
“Sunlight. A naked girl. A chair. A towel, a bidet. A tiled floor. A little dog. And he gives the whole of existence a reason.”
I stared at the one on the left, not the one he had inventoried. It showed a girl by a sunlit window with her back turned, apparently drying her loins and watching herself in the mirror at the same time. I was remembering Alison, Alison wandering about the flat naked, singing, like a child. It was an unforgettable painting; it set a dense golden halo of light round the most trivial of moments, so that the moment, and all such moments, could never be completely trivial again.
Conchis moved out on the terrace, and I followed him. By the westward of the two French doors stood a small Moorish ivory-inlaid table. It carried a bowl of flowers set, as if votively, before a photograph.
It was a large picture in an old-fashioned silver frame, with the photographer’s name stamped floridly in gold across the bottom corner—a London address. A girl in an Edwardian dress stood by a vase of roses on an improbable Corinthian pedestal, while painted foliage drooped sentimentally across the background. It was one of those old photographs whose dark chocolate shadows are balanced by the creamy richness of the light surfaces; of a period when women had bosoms, not breasts. The young girl in the picture had a massed pile of light hair, and a sharp waist, and that plump softness of skin and slightly heavy Gibson-girl handsomeness of feature that the age so much admired.
Conchis had stopped and saw me give it a lingering glance. “She was once my fiancée.”
I looked again. “You never married her?”
“She died.”
The girl looked absurdly historical, standing by her pompous vase in front of the faded, painted grove.
“She looks English.”
“Yes.” He paused, surveying her. “Yes, she was English.”
I looked at him. “What was your English name, Mr. Conchis?”
He smiled one of his rare smiles; like a monkey’s paw flashing out of a cage. “I have forgotten.”
“You never married at all?”
He remained looking down at the photograph, then slowly shook his head.
“Come.”
A table stood in the southeast corner of the parapeted L-shaped terrace. It was already laid with a cloth, presumably for dinner. We looked over the trees at the breathtaking view, the vast dome of light over land and sea. The mountains of the Peloponnesus had turned a violet-blue, and Venus hung in the pale green sky like a white lamp, with the steady soft brilliance of gaslight. The photo stood in the doorway, placed rather in the way children put dolls in a window to let them look out.
He sat against the parapet with his back to the view.
“You have a girl. You are engaged?” In my turn I shook my head. “You must find life here very frustrating.”
“I was warned.” Some embarrassing proposition haunted the air.
“You have no girl. You have no family. You have no friends here. You are very alone.”
“Loneliness has its advantages.” I looked at him. “Hasn’t it?”
“I am lonely here. Not elsewhere.” He added, “And not even here.”
I looked out to sea. “Well there is a girl, but…”
“But?”
“I can’t explain.”
“Is she English?”
I thought of the Bonnard; that was the reality; such moments; not what one could tell. I smiled at him.
“May I ask you what you asked me last week? No questions?”
“Of course.”
We sat in silence then, that same peculiar silence he had imposed on the beach the Saturday before. At last he turned to the sea and spoke again.
“Greece is like a mirror. It makes you suffer. Then you learn.”
“To live alone?”
“To live. With things as they are. A Swiss came to live here—many years ago now—in an isolated ruined cottage at the far end of the island. Over there, under Aquila. A man of my age now. He had spent all his life assembling watches and reading about Greece. He had even taught himself classical Greek. He repaired the cottage himself, cleared the cisterns, and made some terraces. His passion became—you cannot guess—goats. He kept one, then two. Then a small flock of them. They slept in the same room as he did. Always exquisite. Always combed and brushed, since he was Swiss. He used to call here sometimes in spring and we would have the utmost difficulty in keeping his seraglio out of the house. He learnt to make excellent cheeses—they fetched good prices in Athens. But he was absolutely alone. No one ever wrote to him. Visited him. Totally alone. And I believe the happiest man I have ever met.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died in 1937. A stroke. They did not discover him till a fortnight later. By then all his goats were dead too. It was winter, so you see the door was fastened.”
His eyes on mine, Conchis grimaced, as if he found death a joker. His skin clung very close to his skull. Only the eyes lived. I had the strange impression that he wanted me to believe he was death; that at any moment the leathery old skin and the eyes would fall, and I should find myself the guest of a skeleton.
Later we went back indoors. There were three other rooms on the north side of the first floor. One room he showed me only a glimpse of, a lumber room. I saw crates piled high, and some furniture with dustcovers on. Then there was a bathroom, and beside the bathroom, a small bedroom. The bed was made, and I saw my duffle-bag lying on it. I had fully expected one locked room, the woman-of-the-glove’s room. Then I thought that she lived in the cottage—Maria looked after her, perhaps; or perhaps this room that was to be mine for the weekend was normally hers.
He handed me the seventeenth-century pamphlet, which I had left on a table on the landing.
“I usually have an aperitif downstairs in about half an hour. I will see you then?”
“Of course.”
“I must tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“You have heard some disagreeable things about me?”
“I only know one story about you and that seems very much to your credit.”
“The execution?”
“I told you last week.”
“I have a feeling that you have heard something else. From Captain Mitford?”
“Absolutely nothing. I assure you.”
He was standing in the doorway, giving me his intensest look. He seemed to gather strength; to decide that the mystery must be cleared up; then spoke.
“I am psychic.”
The house seemed full of silence; and suddenly everything that had happened earlier led to this.
“I’m afraid I’m not psychic. At all.”
We seemed drowned in dusk; two men staring at each other. I could hear a clock ticking in his room.
“That is unimportant.” He moved away. “In half an hour?”
“Of course. But why did you tell me that?”
He turned to a small table by the door, and struck a match to light the oil lamp, and then carefully adjusted it. In the doorway he stopped a moment.