Early in the afternoon she started getting me fancied up. She worked on my hair for an hour, and then produced one of her silk caftans for me to wear. It was pale green; apparently she had decided that was my color.
I went downstairs supported by Kore and the silent maid. I felt a little giddy at first, but the feeling soon passed away, and I studied my surroundings with interest. I had not seen the interior of the villa, except for my own room. It was a beautiful place. The floors were made of those smooth shiny tiles that are common in the Mediterranean countries, cool deep blues and soft greens-sea colors. The wide staircase had a handsome wrought-iron balustrade. The drawing room was a large, low-ceilinged chamber, with wide windows opening onto a courtyard; not the one I had seen from my window, but a small space, with a little fountain in the center and exotic trees in big pots. The furniture was a mixture of European antiques and local peasant work.
After I had been settled in an overstuffed chair, the maid left and another woman came in with a tray of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Her face gave me a start; it was so like the faces that had passed through my field of vision the night before. She was young, probably not much older than I; but it’s hard to tell people’s ages in the islands, they grow old so fast.
I said, “Efkaristos,” and took the glass that had been offered to me. Usually the islanders responded with big grins when I said anything. This girl didn’t respond, except to duck her head, as if she were bowing.
My start and my stare had not gone unnoticed by Kore.
“They are so shy, these people,” she said, after the girl had left. “Like animals, fearful and silent. Prosit!” and she lifted her glass.
The German word, which I always associate with enormous steins of beer, sounded unnatural coming from her. I said “Cheers,” or something, and drank. The liquid didn’t taste like anything I recognized. It was a sweet, thick substance that made me long for a glass of water. Kore saw my grimace.
“A true antique, this wine,” she said. “I have made it as the Greeks and Romans did. Our wines to them would be vinegar, too thin, too sour. Theirs were sweet, so always they mix with water, with honey and herbs. It is interesting, yes?”
The wine was too sweet, but it was potent. Kore kept refilling my glass and urging me to drink up. She continued to talk, at first about Greeks and Romans and antiquities; but then the topic changed. As I listened, I was reminded of some of the nature freaks I had known back at school. I believe in a lot of that sort of thing, actually: the unity of living creatures, the great underlying life force, life and death as part of an unending circle. For what is death but reabsorption into the universe? And if the body is absorbed, what happens to the soul-the spark of life that animates the body and makes it something more than a collection of molecules?
I had heard it all before, from different people. The Hare Krishnas and the back-to-nature types, and my roommate, who was reading Sybil Leek and studying to be a witch-you name it, you can find it on a college campus. I knew about reincarnation, too. That was what Kore was talking about, although she didn’t use the word, but kept referring to rebirth. When I was young I used to think the idea made a lot of sense. It explains so many things-the seeming waste of life, only a few short years of enjoyment before you get old and senile and sick; the queer memories of things you couldn’t have experienced in your present life; the sudden, unreasoning antipathies and affections you feel for people and food and other things. It’s an old, old idea; a lot of people have believed in it.
“I had a boyfriend once, named Joe,” I said.
“Yes?” Kore said softly.
“He believed in reincarnation. He used to tell me we had been lovers in medieval Italy.” I giggled. “Like Romeo and Juliet.”
“But why not?”
“He used to quote me things,” I went on dreamily. “From Nietzsche and other people who believed in it too. He made me read that book about Bridey Murphy. I didn’t really believe it, but I’ve had some queer experiences. A couple of weeks ago when I was in Crete…”
I stopped. The room was getting hazy as the sun sank lower. Broad streaks of light lay across the floor like a carpet of gold.
“I’m getting drunk,” I said distinctly. “What’s in this wine?”
“You are not drunk,” Kore murmured. “What happened in Crete?”
“Funny,” I said. “Funny dreams, about the Minotaur and Theseus. I was there, watching them. And when I went to Knossos… They callit déjà vu. I’ve read about it. Scientists can explain it-”
“Scientists know nothing,” Kore said scornfully. “You know Knossos? What is so strange about that? You have lived before, you will live again. Many lives. One of them in ancient Crete. You were Greek, like me. Perhaps we know each other, then. I feel this.”
“Ariadne wasn’t Greek,” I said grumpily. “She was a Minoan, Cretan.”
“No. She lived in the last great days of the palace, after the destruction, after the Greeks came from the mainland and made a new palace and new dynasty in the ruins. What you see now in Knossos is the remains of this dynasty-all Greek. It is the Greek Minos who has subjugated Athens; to him are sent the boys and girls for the sacrifice; it is his daughter who loves the stranger prince. Only now are scientists learning this is true. You read, in the books-it is true! But I have known. Always I have known. Why do you shiver? It is not cold here.”
“It was horrible,” I said. “That slimy, dark, stinking hole… Why did I let him go? Hecouldn’t have found the way if I hadn’t helped him.”
I had not been aware that Kore had risen, but she was now standing beside me. Her hand was on my forehead.
“The sin,” she whispered. “It haunts you, all these years, yes? You must expiate the sin. Soon-”
The door opened with a sound that echoed like a pistol shot. I jumped halfway out of the chair. Kore stepped back.
Keller stood in the doorway. His eyes moved from me to Kore.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“She is not feeling well,” said Kore calmly. “I have told you, it was not wise for her to come down.”
Keller crossed the room with long, angry-looking strides. He reached for my wineglass.
“Why do you give her this? No wonder the child is sick.” He turned to a tall cabinet and came back with a glassful of clear liquid. “Drink this.”
I drank it. It tasted foul. As soon as I had emptied the glass, Keller dragged me roughly to my feet.
“Come to the window. You need air.”
The window was of the French type. It stood half ajar. Keller kicked it open and pulled me out into the courtyard. I was feeling better, but I was still staggering. We stood by the fountain, his hand tight on my arm.
“Breathe,” he said harshly. “Deeply. Again. That is-”
The sound-a blend of crack and whine and crash-cut through the last word. The crash was that of broken glass from the window behind us. Keller went down, dragging me with him. I thought he was hit, and tried to get to my knees; his hand slammed into my back, knocking me down behind the low parapet of the fountain. A fusillade of shots rang out, but these, unlike the first, came from the house. Turning, I saw Kore standing amid a sparkle of broken glass. She was holding a rifle.
Keller shouted at her.
“I cover you,” she shouted back. “But I think he has gone.”
“Stay here,” Keller said to me. He stood up and ran a zigzag course toward the gate on the south wall. My skin crawled, but nothing happened.
I stayed there. Kore stood in the doorway, the rifle at her shoulder. After a few minutes the gate opened again and Keller came back.
“No one,” he said.
I stood up, very, very slowly. Kore dropped the gun with a clatter and ran to Keller.
“He has hit you!”
“It is only a scratch,” said Keller.
We went back in the house. Keller seemed unconcerned about the reddening slash that had slit his shirt sleeve; he waved Kore away impatiently when she tried to fuss over him. She was as white as a dark-skinned woman can be.