Lunch in a storm

Greece in July is always hot and dry, right?

Think again.

We’ve just been lunching at the Καφέ Κεντρικών in Ναύπλιο, watching the rain lash down. The only place I have seen more intense rain was in Singapore, in the rainy season. In Singapore, it was at least warm. Here, I started to wish I’d brought a cardigan.

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The waiters are very good at dealing with the rain. We were sitting under large awnings, and there were canvas gutters between the awnings of each table. The rain ran down the awnings, along the gutters and poured down in cascades outside the covered area. We felt well protected from the elements.

Unfortunately, there is a slope on the beautiful, marble square. It leads towards the café. The square is large and collects rainwater rapidly. I was lunching with my feet in 5 millimetres of fast-flowing water. Although I wouldn’t choose to eat lunch like that every day, as a holiday treat it was rather special!

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This wasn’t even the first storm of the day. The first had been at about 2 a.m. Zeus was banging off lightning bolts in all directions, one of them seeming to strike the Old Citadel directly above us. We waited for a chunk of masonry to plunge through our roof. When it failed to materialise, we reckoned that perhaps we weren’t quite as well loved by the gods as we’d thought (for, those whom the gods love, die young). We would probably live to fight another day. We ignored the lightning, and went back to sleep.

In the late morning, we walked up over the hill past the Old Citadel. Zeus appeared to have spared that, too. There is a very picturesque path around the headland of the peninsular. We strolled along beside the sea, intoxicated by the sweet, spicy scent of pine trees and cactus fruit. The water was calm, the small waves making a chuckling noise as they broke in pools and chambers worn in the rocks by the eddies of a thousand years. All was calm.

Then we looked the few miles across the Gulf of Argos, and the clouds hinted at what was in store for us.

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Still, it’s bright now. The sun keeps pretending that it would like to shine, and objects once again have shadows. Perhaps a siesta would be good; it was a large lunch (I have never eaten four fried eggs at a single sitting before) with twice as much beer as we’d intended…

That special place

Jim and Liz Nightingale, have just become ‘empty nesters’. This gives them more freedom, of course, but how do they want to use that freedom? Will they enjoy it together, or will they drift apart? And then they holiday together in Greece, in the small city of Nafplio. They bring turbulent emotions to that special place. What will they take away?

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On their first evening in Nafplio, Liz and Jim Nightingale entered Plateia Syntagma, Constitution Square, from the passage beside the archaeological museum. They walked under the majestic plane tree at the entrance to the square, and looked along the row of cafes and shops that stretch the entire length of the north side.

Children played in the square, chasing footballs, riding bicycles and launching ingenious flying toys, whose coloured lights, red, green, and blue, flashed in the dark and silken sky.

The cafes were packed.

A couple stood up to vacate a table right under the plane tree.

“Quick, Jim,” said Liz, nudging him in the direction of the empty seats. Jim resisted.

“Hadn’t we better check out the other cafes before making up our minds?”

Liz pushed past him and sat down firmly. She smiled at him and said, “Nothing could be nicer than this, Jim.”

As the waiter wiped the table, Jim sat down grudgingly in the seat opposite Liz.  She ordered two coffees, in Greek. The waiter smiled and asked, in Greek, whether they would like anything to eat, ice-cream or fruit salad perhaps? Liz declined.

“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the dinner very much, Liz.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, Jim. I was tempted because the taverna seemed much less crowded than the others. I suppose that should have been a giveaway really. But fancy that waiter lecturing you because you didn’t finish your meal, as though you were a naughty child! I admired your restraint!”

Jim slapped at his arm.

“Bother these mosquitoes.”

“Just ignore them, Jim. Have you been bitten yet?”

Jim unbuttoned his sleeve and inspected his forearm.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. I shouldn’t like to think we’d put up with the smell of that awful repellent for nothing.” She stretched back against the cushion on the wicker chair. “Isn’t it blissful to sit here warm and comfortable at half past ten in the evening?”

Jim grunted. His shirt was dark with sweat under the armpits.

The following morning, Liz woke early, as usual. She slipped out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Jim. She looked at him with tender concern. He worked so hard during term-time, and was tired out by the time of the holidays. And now that he was nearing fifty it took him longer to recover.

She dressed, and went lightly out into the sunshine. Her brightly patterned sun-dress fluttered in the breeze.

Now, where was the minimarket? Down this street? And then left. Yes. She bought bread, butter, milk, croissants and oranges. That should do. If Jim fancied a fry-up they could go to one of the cafes later.

As she walked, she thought about the argument she’d had with him a few days earlier, when he’d told her that he wanted to try for a post as deputy head-teacher. ‘What a mess!’ she said to herself. ‘I wish Jim didn’t want this job up in Macclesfield! I’m desperately worried for him. He’s so conscientious, and I’ve seen what the strain of being a head of department has done to his health. But I daren’t tell him that, or he’ll go for the job just to prove that he has the strength for it.”

As they sat eating breakfast, Liz said, “I went into the bus station. There’s a bus to Mycenae at ten o’clock. Shall we visit the archaeological site today, do you think? It was one of the places you particularly wanted to see.”

Jim smiled at her. “Organising me again? You really enjoy finding your way round new places, don’t you?” Liz bit her tongue and said nothing. If she didn’t arrange trips when they were overseas, they wouldn’t do anything at all; and she’d told Jim so only a few days before the holiday.

“Yes, let’s go to Mycenae then.” Jim hesitated a moment, then added, “I do appreciate you doing the planning, you know.”

Jim made an excellent companion for a visit to the antiquities. He was a history teacher with a gift for bringing the past to life. As they strode up the ramp to the Lion Gate his words clattered like armour, and tramped like foot soldiers marching behind their gold-encrusted king. Liz listened intently; she was very aware that the roots of her own discipline of mathematics were largely based on the works of the Ancient Greek philosophers. It was such a pity, she thought, that so much of history was about rulers, wars and battles rather than ideas.

That evening they dined at a taverna away from the seafront. The tables lined a passage between two buildings, and were covered by awnings. Bougainvillea spilled from balconies, making the walls gay with their blooms. Jim seemed preoccupied, then, while they were sharing a Greek salad, he suddenly said, “Can we talk about that possible new job without getting angry, Liz?”

“I’m sure I can. I’m not sure you can, Jim.”

Jim laid his hands on the table, palms down, fingers spread, and looked fixedly at them.

“You see, Liz, when I was passed over for the deputy headship last year I felt hurt, badly hurt.”

Liz laid the fingers of her right hand lightly on Jim’s left hand. “I know, Jim. I know you were.”

“I felt resentful that somebody younger should be given the post, after all the work I’d done for the school. This opportunity that I’ve been told about gives me a chance to put that right.”

“But it’s up north, Jim. I don’t want to leave Sussex, I don’t want to leave our beautiful home, and I don’t want to give up my job. I know I’m only a class teacher, but I love what I do. I turned down an offer of promotion when you were a new head of department so that I could support you. Don’t you think my professional career deserves consideration too?”

The waiter appeared with their main course. Jim was silent. Liz thanked the waiter in Greek, smiling. He smiled back. “You speak good Greek!”

“Just a few words. I’m looking forward to enjoying my meal!”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“This is so much better than yesterday’s food,” exclaimed Liz.

“Yes it is, isn’t it? You know, Liz, I really want this job. It’s the best opportunity I’m ever likely to have. It would give me the chance to put some of my ideas into practice instead of just proposing them in staff meetings and having them rejected. Do you grudge me that?”

“Of course not, Jim. But I’m just saying that when we make a decision about it, we must consider everything. It’s not just your job, it’s our lives. There’s the house, and our friends, and the things we do. Don’t these matter to you at all?”

Jim laid down his cutlery.

“Well, of course they matter, but the job is so important, Liz. I don’t think I would be exaggerating if I said that my work is what gives meaning to my life.”

There was silence. The waiter, from his station by the door, looked to see whether they were ready for him to clear the main course.

Liz spoke quietly. “So what meaning do I have in your life, Jim? What about Clive and Susan our children?”

Jim gestured impatiently. “You know I didn’t mean that, Liz!”

“Clive is newly married. Sue is expecting her first baby – our first grandchild, Jim – and you sit there and tell me that your work is what gives meaning to your life. I’m astonished. I’m astonished and deeply disappointed.”

The waiter approached. “Have you finished. Didn’t you like the food?”

“I’m sorry. The food was very good, but we’re – thinking of other things, I’m afraid. Jim, have you had enough?”

Jim waved away the plate.

”Well, I want a coffee. How about you?”

“I suppose so. Yes. Thank you.”

“Two coffees, please. No sugar.”

“So what do you want, Liz? If you don’t want me to try for promotion?”

“I just want to see more of you, Jim. Let’s have some fun in the evenings. Play bridge with friends. Go to the pub.”

“And when would we do that, Liz? You’re always with that chap Frank, fund raising for your precious operatic society.”

“I’d be happy to do less of that if I could see more of you, you know. And I’ve been trying to persuade you to find a date for a romantic dinner ever since you cancelled our anniversary dinner!”

“You’re still holding that against me?”

“I’m not holding anything against you. I’m just pointing out that I’m trying to see more of you. I would prefer you to be giving less time to your work rather than more. And a new job would demand more of your time for years. What’s in it for me, Jim?”

“You were very attracted to Frank once, weren’t you? And he moved down south a few years after we did. Don’t tell me he didn’t choose where to live with no thought of you!”

Liz went white.

“How dare you. How dare you! I have never been unfaithful to you. Never! Now go away. And don’t imagine you’re sharing my bed tonight. You can sleep in the spare room. That should suit you; you can have the air-conditioning on all night and bolt and bar the windows against those mosquitoes who terrify you so much!”

Jim stood up.

“You’ve got the cash to settle up?”

Liz nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

Jim gave her one final look, and pushed his way between the other tables. Liz sat still. The waiter came over to collect the cups.

“I’d like another coffee, please.”

“Straightaway.”

A little away from her, the staff had arranged tables to accommodate a party. It looked like four generations of a family; a young couple with a toddler and a babe in arms; four adults in middle life, and an old lady, dressed in black, but laughing heartily, and downing glassfuls of retsina in a single draught.

‘Why can’t our life be like that?’ wondered Liz. She shook her head.

She wandered to the seafront, sat down at the cafe ‘Napoli di Romania’, and ordered an ouzo, without ice. The small boats rocked and bumped against the harbour wall, bouncing on the waves. It was breezy and some of the locals were wearing cardigans, but Liz didn’t feel cold. She looked across at the Bourzi, the island fort, illuminated by floodlights. She looked beyond, and saw the lights of shops and houses and cars a few miles away on the far side of the Gulf of Argos.

She took a large swallow of ouzo. The taste and the warmth filled her mouth and spread down into her stomach. Had she been rather hasty in assuming Jim was accusing her of infidelity?

“Oh, bother the man!” she said.

The couple on the next table looked round, and she realised she’d spoken out loud. She didn’t know whether to feel irritated, embarrassed or amused; so she took another gulp of ouzo.

It occurred to her that there were things she’d never done on holiday, feeling herself constrained by Jim’s preferences.

‘Stuff him!’ she thought, being very careful not to open her mouth this time. Even so, she glanced at the couple next to her as if they could somehow have overheard.

The cocktail bar on the main street was packed with youngsters, young men in tee shirts and dark, tight jeans; young women dressed as though for carnival. Liz, using a blend of tenacity and charm, found herself a seat and ordered a Manhattan.

About one-thirty in the morning the music became more rhythmic and louder. Liz had nearly finished her third Manhattan, and was chatting in Greek to a man in his mid-forties.

“Come on,” he said, suddenly rising to his feet, “Let’s dance!”

Liz looked up at him, startled, then she smiled and stood up.

She was a good dancer; and so, she realised, was he. Deducing that some of his steps were from traditional dance, she copied him. Some of the young folk started to cheer and clap. She suddenly understood that some of his steps were meant for the man, and looked at him for a cue as to what she should do. With hand gestures, he indicated appropriate movements. She attempted them, laughing out loud with delight.

People stopped in the street to watch. The bar staff joined in with the clapping. Onlookers took up the dance.

The music stopped. The crowd applauded. Liz’s partner seized her round the waist and held her tightly against him. His face pressed against hers, as he sought her mouth with his.

Liz was very tempted. Her body throbbed. Excitement filled her in a way she’d completely forgotten. Nevertheless, “No,” she said. The man looked at her in surprise and disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” said Liz. “I don’t want anything more than the dancing.” She looked him very directly in the eye, and hoped that her ability to maintain discipline in the classroom would be sufficient to keep him at arm’s length. For a few seconds longer he held her, then released his grip.

He bowed.

“Then I must respect your wish, madam. You are an excellent dancer; thank you! And you are very beautiful.” He sounded wistful.

He strolled away. Liz watched his trim figure become lost in the throng.

‘Liz Nightingale, you are a little drunk. It’s time to go home.’

Despite the neatness with which she had danced, Liz found it difficult to walk steadily. The streets became narrower and darker. Liz was not a nervous person, but it crossed her mind that walking alone in the back streets of a foreign city at two in the morning was possibly not the wisest thing she had ever done.

The steps up to the apartment were steep and uneven. She stumbled and bruised her shin.

“Ow! Ouch! Bugger!” The exclamations were (more or less) sotto voce. Then she giggled, and sat on the step rubbing her leg until the pain eased.

She fumbled with the key as she tried to insert it in the dark. “Don’t drop it, Liz,” she muttered. Even when she finally had it in the lock, it didn’t want to turn. “If Jim’s locked the door, I’m going to make a lot of noise!” Then she remembered that she had the key to the side door, not the front door. She was giggling again as she sneaked in.

The door to the second bedroom was closed, and she could hear the air conditioning running. She went into the main bedroom and switched on the light. The empty bed was a melancholy sight, with her half-unpacked suitcase sitting on it. Jim’s suitcase had gone. Liz looked into the wardrobe. His clothes weren’t there. “Sulking. How childish.” She enunciated the words very clearly, but they still sounded slurred. She moved her suitcase onto his side of the bed, pulled off her clothes and lay on the bed. She was asleep within seconds.

“Jim. Make me a coffee, love, would you…” She opened her eyes. Jim wasn’t there. She was curled up next to her own untidy suitcase. It was hot, the sun outside was brilliant. Her mouth was dry and sticky, with an unpleasant taste. Her head throbbed. She fumbled in the case for her dressing gown.

As she ran herself a glass of water she noticed that the door to the second bedroom was ajar, and the air conditioning wasn’t running. Jim had gone out.

She was on her second coffee and third glass of water, just beginning to feel that some dry toast might stay in her stomach, when Jim returned. He looked at her, slumped dishevelled and pasty-faced at the dining table.

“I packed some Alka-Seltzer. Would you like some?”

“Mmm. Horrid taste, but yes, it would probably be a good idea.”

As she sipped the Alka-Seltzer, Jim said, “Can I make you some toast? Perhaps with a little honey?”

“No honey in the cupboard.” She massaged her throbbing temples.

“I’ve bought some. And some peaches.”

Liz looked up. Peaches were her favourite. Jim held one out for her to inspect. It looked delicious, and felt perfectly ripe. She took the fruit and bit into it. The sweet juice dribbled down her chin; the perfume of the fruit filled her mouth and nose.

“I’ll make the toast,” said Jim, handing Liz a tissue, and laying a plate on the table in front of her.

“There’s a bus to Argos every half hour,” he said. “It goes from outside the booking office. I thought we might go there today, if you’re feeling up to it?”

Liz wiped her mouth.

“Jim,” she said, “We’ve got to talk. We can’t just pretend yesterday didn’t happen.”

“Do you feel well enough for that?”

Liz recognised the concern in his voice.

“I dare say I’ll cope somehow.”

“Liz, I wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to imply that there was anything – improper – between you and Frank. But I dislike the man, and, well, I’m a bloke and I get jealous. You’re very precious to me, Liz.”

Liz folded her arms, and sat in silence. The noise of cicadas clattered in through the open window.

“That’s not actually enough, Jim,” she said at last. “You as good as accused me of being unfaithful to you. In my book that’s the worst insult of all. I try to live a life of integrity, and you tell me that you think I may have cheated you in the most profound way possible. Don’t you understand at all who I am?”

Jim sank onto one of the chairs. He looked out of the window, his gaze fixed far beyond the trees that bordered the terrace. He thought back over their life together. He couldn’t remember a single occasion when Liz had acted without integrity. And he’d only half-noticed. How could he have taken her so much for granted?

He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, Liz. I know there’s nothing between you and Frank, and that you’ve never been unfaithful. I should never have said what I did. Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true.”

They sat in silence a while longer, and then Jim said, “I heard you come in last night. I was concerned about you. I crept into the bedroom. You’d left the curtains open, and the moon was shining brightly. You were asleep, and you looked so beautiful. I’d been feeling angry, but when I saw you, and realised again how much I love you…” He stopped to steady his voice.

“Come here, Jim,” said Liz softly. She held him gently and waited for the pain to ease.

“I got very drunk last night, Jim. I went to the cocktail bar and made an exhibition of myself dancing in the street. And the Greek who’d been dancing with me tried to kiss me. Luckily for me he understood that no means no. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”

Jim nodded. “It certainly wasn’t sensible. It could all have got out of hand.”

“Yes, I know. Still, I’m paying for it now; at least for the drunk bit. Why are hangovers so much worse when you’re older? Let’s give Argos a miss today; I don’t fancy too much bright sunlight for a while. Perhaps we could visit the archaeological museum today?”

“Sounds good. I hope you’ll be fit by tomorrow, though.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I bought tickets for ‘Antigone’ at the ancient theatre of Epidauros.”

“Oh, Jim, that’s fantastic! Thank you! Oh, wow!”

Jim grinned. “I hoped that would please you!”

They spent a quiet day. Pizza for lunch at Café Kentrikon, a visit to the museum, a siesta. In the evening they crossed the peninsular and then strolled under the pine trees, with their heavy, resinous scent, around the promontory, and out along the breakwater. As they walked back along the harbour front, they mingled with smart Greeks wearing their best summer outfits, and with cheerful Dutch families, and chic French couples. Liz led Jim to ‘Napoli di Romania’.

“Here’s where I started my binge,” she confessed cheerfully.

“I expect you’d prefer a soft drink tonight. A fresh orange juice, perhaps?”

“Actually, Jim, I would prefer an ouzo. I can drink orange juice anytime, but I don’t have many opportunities to enjoy ouzo by the wine-dark sea. Ouzo, please.”

As they sipped their drinks, and nibbled the peanuts that had come with the ouzo, the sun sank towards the mountains in a blaze of rose-gold glory. The sea was completely calm, stretching before them like turquoise-grey lacquer, highlighted with gilding.

“You know, Jim, we’re going to have to sort out this business of the job. I don’t want to stop you applying. If you decide to try for it and succeed, I will go with you and support you. But I think we should be very careful in weighing up the pros and cons. And, in all fairness, I think we should consider my career as well as yours.”

They looked at the people walking along the promenade, showing off to each other.

“Thank you, Liz. I appreciate the support. Having thought about it last night, I agree that we need to take everything into consideration.”

They reached simultaneously for the nuts, and then both laughed.

“After you,” said Jim.

“No, go on Jim. They’re more your thing than mine.”

Jim helped himself.

In front of them, the strolling crowds played out in miniature the pageant of life in all its diversity, joy and angst. Pride, love, self-regard were all there.

“I haven’t given you all my reasons for being wary of this job, Jim.” Liz took a deep breath. This was a gamble, she felt, but one that in the present circumstances was worth taking. “I think that you would make an excellent head-teacher. I admire your ideas, and I admire the heck out of your ability to inspire people. The thing is…”

She paused. The last sliver of the sun slipped below the mountain peak; the western sky glowed even as the sky above them darkened. Jim waited quietly.

“The thing is, Jim, I’m afraid of what the effort would do to you physically. Being head of department affected you badly, and I fear this would be even worse.”

Jim put his hands behind his head, and reclined in the rattan chair.

“I hate to admit it,” he said, “But I think you’re probably right. It was my only concern about the post.”

The waiters were lowering the awnings, and Jim had to bend his head to avoid the canvas.

“Liz? You won’t think I’m a…failure, if I don’t try for this post? I feel it would somehow be letting you down.”

“A failure, Jim? I would never feel you were a failure! Your example has inspired me throughout my career, not to mention our marriage. And, Jim. I want to say I’m sorry. I was horrid to you last night. I said some nasty, vicious things. I’m really sorry.”

They clasped hands. The last light faded in the west; but the whole evening stretched before them.

 

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The Thieving Goat

The goat lurches further up the hill, with my hair in her mouth. As though dragged I follow two paces behind. It’s not, of course, my natural hair that she has stolen; the nanny goat is just out of reach with the wig that I wear to cover my nakedness. Thank God I’d had a scarf in my handbag, so that I can preserve at least my decency if not my looks.
I cast a distracted glance at the café. Two old men in dark, rumpled suits sit hunched there, nursing cups of strong Greek coffee and surveying the street with infinite cynicism. Surely they must have seen the goat grab my wig, seen my desperate struggles to conceal the fact that I am as bald, almost, as an egg?
Fighting apprehension, I step towards the goat. She sidles away from me. Should I try to rush her? It feels risky. If she bolts I will never see my hair again. On the other hand, she might start eating it at any moment.
Perhaps I could pretend that I’m not interested? I look away, and take a few steps towards the pavement, trying surreptitiously to come behind her, out of her sight. I throw a would-be casual glance in her direction. She stares back, with a most knowing expression, a sneer in fact, upon her face.
Abandoning pretence I glare directly at her. She stares at me, unperturbed, insolent, and shakes the wig from side to side. I can almost believe that she is taunting me.
“May I help you?”
A man’s voice startles me – I have been concentrating so hard on the animal, that I haven’t heard his approach. The man is tall, 6 feet I guess, and wears a casual shirt and shorts. His hair has faded to a gentle grey and his dark brown eyes are humorous and kind. He carries a jute shopping bag. I hope fervently that he doesn’t realise the ugliness concealed by my scarf, then dismally realise that he can hardly fail to guess – the goat is, after all, carrying the evidence in full view.
I stand there, tongue-tied, while he continues smoothly “Would you like me to retrieve your property for you?” My gratitude for his kindness is tempered by an agonising doubt as to whether there was a hesitation before the word ‘property’. His English is excellent but the timbre of his voice tells me that he is Greek.
Anger at my ridiculous predicament prompts me to reply in Greek, “Ef haristo – thank you, that would be most kind.”
“I shall need to make Nana pay attention to me. I wonder whether you would mind moving away a little? Perhaps you might like to sit down at the café?
Obediently I move away, then halt.
“Can I buy you a coffee? Or a beer?”
“Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
I sit down at the café. The old men glance briefly in my direction and exchange words. Their voices sound harsh and they interrupt each other apparently angrily, but I know Greece well enough to understand that close friends often speak to each other like this. My Greek is good enough to work out that they are wagering on whether my rescuer will retrieve the hairpiece. I perspire with embarrassment, and concentrate on watching the pursuit.
The man stands poised, alert and vigorous. The brilliant sunshine paints him with light. The muscles of his arms and legs are taut and well-defined.  There is a bunch of carrots in his hands. He doesn’t offer them to the goat so much as dare her to come and take them from him. The animal watches and hesitates, clearly tempted.
“Giving away your dinner, Professor?” jeers one of the old men. He and his companion cackle, and throw sly glances at me.
The goat suddenly tosses her head and turns to make off, but with astonishing speed my matador is beside her, grasping the tether around her neck.
“Parakalo? Please? You want to order something?”
“Oh! Two Greek coffees, please. Without sugar.”
I’ve missed the action. The goat is wandering up the street with a mouth full of carrots and my friend is approaching with a smile. My hair is nowhere to be seen.
He sits at the table, reaches into his bag and hands me the wig. It is damp and sticky with goat saliva, but seemingly undamaged. I feel dizzy with relief.
“Thank you. That was so kind. You must let me buy you some more carrots,” I babble, as I tuck the pathetic hairpiece into my handbag. He smiles.
“I’m afraid the market has closed now; but it’s no problem. I don’t really like carrots – I only eat them because they’re good for me; at least, that was what my mother taught me. By the way, I should introduce myself. My name is Agamemnon.”
“I’m Susan – Sue, that is.”
Agamemnon gives a little bow of acknowledgement.
“Where did you learn how to catch goats?” I ask.
“Oh me, I’m a peasant. I was brought up with goats and olive trees.”
I feel myself relaxing. What a pleasant person this Agamemnon is, I think. “It was very impressive. I’m so grateful.”
He smiles, says nothing and sips his coffee. “Without sugar; the best way. You are a woman of good taste.” His easy manner makes the remark a compliment rather than condescension.
“I can’t believe you’re a peasant,” I venture.
“Can you not? My roots are firmly in the soil. But there, I’m teasing you. My family are peasant farmers, but I am an academic. Sometimes the old skills come in handy, though. I dream occasionally of retiring to a patch of land with a few olives, a vine or two – and a goat, of course.” His grin is boyish, mischievous. I find myself grinning back.
“I’m a teacher. At least, I was; I’m not sure that I shall go back after my sabbatical.” I pause, but without the usual sense of unease that makes me hurry to fill a silence. “The gentlemen at the end table called you ‘Professor’. Is that right? Are you a professor?”
Agamemnon nods. “Professor of twentieth century music at Athens University. It’s my passion, my life.”
‘How nice,’ I think ‘to be able to speak openly like that about one’s deepest feelings. How satisfying to have a job that fulfils you like that.’
“This is a wonderful country,” I say. “It gives me such a sense of peace. The – continuity of human experience going back millennia. It’s tangible, somehow. When I am here, I can believe that something of me will transcend my physical death.”
Agamemnon looks intently at me. “And yet our modern nation was born in violence and warfare. The struggle for political freedom has continued to this day.”
I see anger and sadness in his eyes, faintly, like a reflection of things that happened many years earlier. I don’t want to pry, but I feel an impulse to draw closer to this man, who seems so open and yet enigmatic.
“I’m not sure that the violence matters. When I was in the city of Argos I saw that underneath the modern construction lie layer upon layer of earlier buildings. The site has been occupied continuously for four thousand years. Men and women have been living there, growing olives, trading, creating beauty, yes fighting sometimes, but also loving, raising children, caring for family. People very like me, feeling the same way, dreaming the same dreams, growing old, but passing on the flame to the young.” I stammer as I finish my speech, feeling unaccountably moved.
“You have been very ill, I think,” suggests Agamemnon.
Christ, how dare he! How dare he invade my privacy like this!
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken, it’s none of my business.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not.”
Why am I like this, becoming so angry when people want to know me too intimately? What possible harm could it do to talk openly to this warm, considerate human being about my struggle for life? Was this why Bob walked out on me five years ago – because I wouldn’t let him be close to me?
“Perhaps you would let me take you to dinner this evening to make amends?”
“Oh, no! If anything I should entertain you, to thank you for rescuing me from the goat.” What am I saying? A moment ago I was all set to stalk away at his impertinence.
“No, really, that was a pleasure. A chance to prove to myself that a few of my youthful skills remain.”
We sit together in silence for a few minutes. My agitation subsides in the face of Agamemnon’s tranquillity.
“I had cancer, breast cancer,” I blurt out. “The chemotherapy made my hair fall out. It was all so horrible. I hate talking about it.”
Agamemnon says nothing, simply reaches across the table and gently takes my hand. I am astonished, not at the gesture but at the fact that I do not immediately recoil. I don’t quite know what to do, so I do nothing. That is to say, I do not move, I am not aware of even thinking – but I feel, I experience. I take pleasure in the touch of another human being for the first time in many months.
Suddenly, I am talking; about the fear of death and of disfigurement; about the pain, and the sickness and the weakness that the chemotherapy brought. About the struggle to maintain my sense of self-worth, already battered by my husband’s desertion several years before my illness.
“I told myself that I had to survive for the kids’ sake – although they’re grown up now, they don’t really need me. I pushed them away, so that it wouldn’t be unbearable for them if they lost me; but I fought to live so that I could stay close to them. I felt very lonely.” I think of the desert I had inhabited, the self-imposed exile in Greece. How strange that I should consider it an exile! Until just minutes ago I had regarded it as a holiday, a convalescence, in a place that I loved.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been gabbling too much.” I fall silent, my hand still enfolded in Agamemnon’s. I look at our hands. His is strong, with fine fingers. Mine is pale, bony, showing the ravages of the treatment. I look at his face. There is a hint of mischief in his eyes.
“Now you’re being English again,” he exclaims.
“And all the better for it!” I riposte; and somewhere between his teasing and my reply I realise, with joy and wonder, that lunch will be just the beginning.