The House in Zanthos

By Brian Hamnett

War and Civil War tear apart the generation of the 1940s, shattering families but sustaining loyalties. We follow the Creighton and Kazanis families from defeat in Greece and the flight from Crete, through the war in Egypt and Libya in the Western Desert, and thence into the Greek Civil War. Ancient civilisations lie in ruins around them, as the new civilisations destroy each other. The generation of the 1960s, for their part, will discover how brittle their desire for liberation can become. When they look back at their predecessors, they wonder whether the two different generations ever be able to understand one another.

In 1960, this is the dilemma of Sylvia Creighton, student of the Ancient World, and her new friend, Alexander Kazanis, sceptical of those Classical ideals, who meet for the first time at their fathers’ house in Zanthos, on the Greek coast. Sylvia rapidly finds that she is out of her depth in the world of Modern Greece. Even so, Greece is as beautiful and enticing for her as it had been for her father in the 1940s. The vicious military coup in 1967, however, shatters the dreams of the younger generation, and Greece becomes a prison.

Personal and political relationships overlap and conflict. The scene moves from Zanthos to Athens and Northern Greece. There, and in Paris and London, Sylvia and Alex learn of love and survival in times of strife. Yet, many secrets will remain undiscovered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Hamnett
• Release date: Apr 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916352919

Book preview

ONE

Constantine - in London? Sylvia wanted to know more.

Why don’t you come to ‘Alvaro’s’ and have lunch with us? She stared at her father. Her heart leapt.

I was beginning to think I’d never meet this Constantine of yours.

Jonathan’s face coloured. Now you will see him with your own eyes, Sylvia. She had not noticed that smile before.

I can’t wait.

Oh, he knows all about your passion for Greece, Sylvia.

"I wish you’d tell me about your experiences there. You never do."

It’s too far back.

Twenty years. 1940 is not that long ago.

Oh, it is, Sylvia, it is.

I’ll get it out of Mr. Kazanis, then. She watched his face.

Jonathan found it strange to hear Constantine described as ‘Mr. Kazanis.’ It made him laugh, and he shook his head in disbelief. Constantine is full of surprises, Sylvia. Be on your guard.

‘Was he a stranger, this man Jonathan Creighton, her father?’ Sylvia had never really known him, not in all her twenty years, but since she had left school, she saw more of him now than ever before. Why? - she wished she knew. Suddenly, she had found herself in her father’s orbit and no longer in her mother’s. But did she trust him? This man had begun to weave a spell over her and she felt dizzy, unable to hold back her curiosity, her awe.

I’ll pick you up at 12 o’clock, Sylvia, she heard her father say. Is there anyone you want to bring?

No, Sylvia couldn’t imagine anyone else she wanted to share father’s legendary Constantine with. She intended to exclude even her closest friend, George Barton, from a meeting of such significance. Curiosity had made her callous, and it shocked her, but she did not repent. Instead, it forced her to examine what she really thought of George and of herself. Sylvia shook her head, unable to think or speak. This new form of herself was confusing her.

12 o’clock, then.

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‘Alvaro’s’ Portuguese Restaurant at 12.45 was already filling up. Sylvia looked across this sanctum of her father’s, into which she had never before been admitted: the white tiles half way up the walls had blue galleons and fishing boats, fishermen hauling nets, little village churches, engraved across them. She had never seen anything like that before and those scenes danced in her imagination, making her wish to be on those prancing ships. Above the tiles, mirrors caught every fleeting image, every changing movement of the people below. Even the mirrored ceiling reflected everything that went on below. Sylvia felt herself guided across the floor by her father’s pressure on her arm. A stranger, laughing and then talking at the top of his voice in a language she did not understand, was waving to them. No one in the restaurant paid any attention at all to the level of noise in the place. She had suddenly left England. The back-slapping went on for some time. What was all that about? she wondered. Yet, as Sylvia looked swiftly around, the scene fascinated and attracted her. She stood transfixed, excited by the intensity, unable to remember who she was or where she was. Her entire life had just been undermined.

Constantine! Her father stretched out his arms in a grand gesture.

She had expected Constantine Kazanis to be dark, her idea of the typical Greek, but he was fair and again her illusions dissolved. He clasped her in his arms, kissed her on both cheeks, and held her by the shoulders so that he could study her. She didn’t know what to do, but her eyes got the better of her and she found herself meeting his glance. ‘This man knows all about me already! And I know nothing about him!’ He took her face in his hands and leaned over to kiss her forehead in a curious kind of blessing. Then, they sat down at the table. She caught sight of the two men in the mirrors, their eyes fixed on each other. ‘They want to discuss me in that language they know I don’t understand! Modern Greek – will I ever speak that?’

Constantine, congratulate this clever young lady, she’s going into her final year at university this October.

Sylvia listened to Constantine’s approving response.

She’s reading Classics. Can you imagine?

Then, why have you never brought her to Greece – your other homeland, Johnny?

Sylvia stared at them, her consternation visible, but they were not looking at her.

I try to tell her Classics is a waste of time. You can’t talk any sense into her, can you, Con? She won’t listen to me.

Sylvia stared at her father indignantly, but she could see that Constantine was brushing aside what he was saying. He’s on my side, she thought, and she laughed with pleasure, delighted to have such an important ally. Father thinks I should switch to Economics and help him out in the Adriatic Shipping Company of Leadenhall Street. She made it sound like Deadenhall Street and she revelled in Constantine’s delight. ‘This man is utterly unpredictable, and he knows my father inside out. Better than I do.’ They started to talk in Greek again. Her eyes caught the mirrors. The blue and white village scenes, churches, boats pulled up on the beach, nets mended, diverted her attention from the two older men. Since they had sat down at the table, the restaurant had begun to fill up. Evidently, it was popular with the Portuguese community. She caught sight of the waiter on his way to their table.

Jonathan and Constantine had seen him, too, and broke off, to greet him. The headwaiter arrived, and the four of them were lost to her until she found a menu placed between her hands and heard the young waiter describe the dishes of the day. The fish dishes sounded particularly interesting, and he then left her to think about what she would order. She glanced across the table at her father and Constantine. The headwaiter evidently knew them very well: ‘Alvaro’s’, then, the regular meeting place for her father and Constantine. Mother’s never mentioned ‘Alvaro’s.’ This must be their lair. How long have they been coming here, and why don’t I know about these things?

Jonathan suddenly remembered Sylvia was present. Sylvia, this is João Antônio. He owns ‘Alvaro’s’ The proprietor had been recommending them wines for their meal. Jonathan said to her, ‘Alvaro’s’ has one of the best cellars in London.

João Antônio turned towards her. Afterwards, if you like, I’ll take you down and show you.

Oh, you should let him show you, Sylvia, Constantine said. Portuguese wine is one of the best kept secrets.

João Antônio laughed modestly but said with pride, We have a splendid selection from Dão, excellent Bairrada, and some lovely new finds from the Alentejo.

Not to mention their white Port, Jonathan said.

Why is the Restaurant called ‘Alvaro’s’? Sylvia ventured to ask the proprietor.

After my grandfather. He had a magnificent restaurant in Oporto on the riverside - with a wonderful view - but he decided to leave Portugal during the early 1930s. In London he started up again. From small beginnings, but soon other exiles arrived. My grandfather, Alvaro Monteiro, didn’t like the atmosphere in Portugal then, which was getting worse. Jonathan and Constantine were nodding their heads, understanding what he meant, but Sylvia was already out of her depth.

João Antônio could see her puzzled expression. The dictatorship - Salazar - yes? My grandfather didn’t like police standing at the bar snooping on his customers, many of whom he’d known for years and who would come there because in ‘Alvaro’s’ they could talk freely. My father and mother were already compromised and planned to leave for Mozambique, where there was less control, but I, the middle son, begged my father to let me go with my grandfather, and in the end, he agreed. João Antônio laughed and gestured as if to indicate that it had been the inescapable hand of fate.

You know, this restaurant always reminds me of voyages, discoveries, caravelles on the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean, wind filling their sails, Constantine said. That strikes a chord in a Greek. Then his expression changed. We have our own diaspora, as you know. The Kazanis family, for instance, he turned to Sylvia, had a branch in Constantinople but they moved to Alexandria in the 1880s because they thought Egypt would be safer. They founded the Kazanis Egyptian Bank. Most of that money went into the Shipping Company.

How did you find out about ‘Alvaro’s’? Sylvia wondered aloud.

Through Carlos, João Antônio’s youngest son. He came to work with us at the Shipping Company several years ago. Very capable lad.

Do you go back to Portugal? Sylvia asked.

Oh, yes. We come and go, because the police have no records on us, and we are now British citizens. Grandfather was astute enough to leave early. He saw the writing on the wall, as you say. Naturally, we are Portuguese to the core but now London is our home.

It all reminds me of Greece, Constantine said. In Greece, there are no guarantees, either.

Sylvia’s head was swimming. She wished she had someone to explain to her what they were talking about. The University Literary and Debating Society certainly hadn’t gone that far into things, and as for Greece, she had never thought of her favourite country – the one she had still never visited - like that.

Greece still has a long way to go, Constantine was saying.

To Sylvia, Greece now began to seem a precarious and dangerous place.

I mean, he went on, we still have to see whether elections will be allowed to result in a peaceful change of government.

Well, it would be terrible to see another dictatorship in Greece, her father said, - whichever side it comes from.

Sylvia heard herself cry. Dictatorship in the land of Pericles and Demosthenes!

They all stared at her in amazement. The waiter was leaning over them with his order-pad, and João Antônio wishing them a good meal.

When the waiter had left, Constantine continued to peruse the wine-list. Sylvia watched him. ‘Constantine is one of the family - the family I have only just begun to join.’ He suddenly looked up and caught her studying him. He smiled at her and began to ask her about herself. And you have never been to Greece? Sylvia, that is a scandal!

She felt ashamed.

And so, you should feel ashamed, Constantine was saying. I blame Jonathan. He gestured in her father’s direction. Jonathan is a wicked man. Did you know that, Sylvia? Jonathan is a very, very wicked man. Constantine pointed at him.

Me?

That man should have brought you. Only, he refuses to come himself. I have given up trying to persuade him. All these years! It is a complete waste of breath. The smile turned immediately to despair. Sylvia felt as though a shaft had pierced her body. She was being brought into a picture which she as yet could not make out. Jonathan, that man there who is your father, does not believe in life.

Jonathan had turned away.

"Well, I shall come instead," she heard herself say. It was too late to unsay those words.

Maybe I’ll come next year, Constantine, Jonathan said.

In eleven years you have still not come.

"I shall come, Constantine. I promise. Give me time."

The house we bought in Zanthos is still there -

Sylvia had heard nothing of that before.

- in case you have forgotten, Johnny Creighton - empty most of the year, of course.

Jonathan smiled lamely. With his eyes closed, Jonathan saw the roof of the house in Zanthos, the blue church domes and the white houses, the mountains behind the town and enclosing the bay, the sea changing colour with the sunlight through the day. There would be thin cloud in March and November, Spring rains, wildflowers in May. He saw the stark, burnt hills of summer, and their clothes drying on the line stretched across the roof. He could hear the sounds coming from the streets and the songs of birds in the dusk when they gathered on the telegraph wires along Odos Hermou and sang as loudly as they could. Ayios Athanasios, ‘which dated from the eleventh century’ – Ariadne was always telling him things like that – stood out at the eastern part of town, its dome already sparkling when they’d go up on the roof early in the morning. That’s when you know it’s going to be a fiercely hot day.

We shall all be dead before Major Jonathan Creighton sets foot in Greece again. Constantine touched her hand. This September, Sylvia, just before you go back to university, you must come to Greece. My son, Alex, will be there to receive you. In September, he always stays at the house in Zanthos.

Sylvia could not believe she was hearing this. She saw her father staring at Constantine in amazement.

Constantine went on regardless. Alex says that September’s the nicest month of all. If you like, you could go there and visit him. Sylvia caught her breath. He is about your age - no, maybe, a couple of years older. There is plenty of room in the house. You will be quite safe. He is a perfect English gentleman – in so far as any young Greek can be. He stopped and directed a fierce glare at her father, which threw her off course completely. We bought that house after the war - to live in, Constantine said, smiling with pleasure as Jonathan’s face reddened. Sylvia then caught the dark look Constantine reserved for her father. Sylvia had no idea what he meant. Alex, of course, can only bring himself to go there for a month. He can’t bear to be away from Athens for any more than that. ‘Athens is where the action is’ - that’s what he says. I don’t agree. But is there anything that boy and I do agree on? Well, Sylvia, you’ll see what sort of person he is. Sylvia glanced at her father and noticed how intently he was listening to this. Always meddling in dangerous things that get him into trouble.

A typical Kazanis, then, Jonathan said.

Constantine raised his empty wine glass. To your return to Greece, Jonathan. His smile drenched in irony. Sylvia watched him, shaking his head in despair: he was far away.

1941

At the temple, some schoolchildren were rehearsing a play with their teacher, a man about his own age. Constantine stopped to watch; the teacher came over to speak to him. Ah, by your uniform, Captain, I see you’ve come from the patrol boat in the harbour this morning. Constantine offered him a cigarette, Constantine Kazanis, he stretched out his hand, then they both lit up, noticing for the first time the British officer strolling over to where they were standing. He saluted the Greek Naval Captain and nodded respectfully towards the teacher. What are they rehearsing? the British officer asked them.

The play is called, ‘The History of Minos, King of Crete,’ the school-teacher replied.

Oh, the foreigner said, not without a certain diffidence, which made Constantine smile at the implied supposition that this young Englishman might know who that was.

I play Zeus, the teacher said, grinning in self-mockery.

Who plays the Minotaur? Constantine asked.

Oh, that’s a special part. We have a fierce-looking man who lives on the other side of the island - he’s been in jail several times - he specialises is terrible monsters. He plays the Minotaur. Half-man, half-bull in real life as well. Very frightening. A complete ogre.

The schoolchildren now joined them in a circle, curious to see who the two officers were, but, when they heard their teacher describe the man who would play the Minotaur, they were laughing, as some of the boys imitated the actor playing the Minotaur, and the others pretended to shudder with fright, when he threatened to devour them in his Cretan labyrinth.

The children were now silent, gathering closely together so that they could inspect the two officers more closely. Constantine’s own curiosity was getting the better of him: why was the Englishman in Aegina at that time and what exactly were the British intending to do by appearing out of the blue in Greece?

Minos, the king of Crete, is in love with Aphaia, the teacher was explaining, and this is the temple of Aphaia. Jonathan seemed amused to see the children nodding their heads as though in agreement. But she throws herself into the sea. Then, Pasiphae, his queen, falls in love with a bull and gives birth to the Minotaur. Minos builds the labyrinth to keep the hideous bull-man out of sight. But the Minotaur is always hungry, and to keep him from rampaging through Knossos, Minos feeds him the best of Athenian youth. There you have it, a beautiful Greek legend, the teacher smiled. The ogre devours the gilded youth.

Does all that have a particular meaning? the Englishman asked him.

Constantine, caught the Englishman’s bemused expression, and stepped closer to hear the answer.

A complicated, Greek love story, if you like, the teacher smiled. You can give it whatever meaning you like - or none. It depends how you see the Minotaur, he said. He is the destroyer.

But why have you chosen this particular subject? Jonathan asked him. It seems so savage.

Constantine was standing right next to Jonathan. Their shoulders touched, and, looking first at Jonathan and then at the teacher, he said, Isn’t this the Age of the Minotaur, the one we live in now?

Exactly, the teacher said and took the children back to the ruins and the rehearsal began once more.

My name is Kazanis, the Greek Captain said, offering his hand to Jonathan. Constantine Kazanis. The white uniform, bleached and ironed, felt like a folding case, and enclosed his body in a disagreeable way. He was sweating, as the midday heat rose across the town. They both knew that the war would be their topic of conversation. Constantine invited Jonathan to join him for lunch and they walked back to one of the restaurants which had swordfish on the menu.

Shame it has to be March 1941 and not some normal time in human existence, Jonathan said to him, as they walked back to the jetty to wait for the ferry that would take him back to Piraeus.

I have to stay on Aegina another three days, then I, too, return to Piraeus, Constantine said. Why don’t we continue our conversation there? Over Jonathan’s shoulder, he saw the Piraeus ferry veer toward the Aegina bay. Captain Creighton, look, here’s my card.

Jonathan took the card.

You’ll probably find me at home. There is no sense in Athens that the country might be attacked at any moment.

They shook hands, as the ferry from Piraeus made for the harbour. Constantine walked with him on to the jetty and waited until the ferry was ready to sail again. He wondered whether he had at last met someone he could talk to - but of all people, an Englishman. True, the Kazanis ranged far and wide – Constantinople, Smyrna, Alexandria – but they never had much contact with the English. Jonathan Creighton – did he really think Johnny Creighton could ever become his friend?

Sylvia has never heard or seen such goings-on before. ‘What on earth was it all about?’ She looked across the table first at her father and then at Constantine. I suppose I could go to Zanthos, but I am travelling with friends, you know. Her voice sounded feeble; she was trembling with excitement and determined not to show it. I suppose I could make a deviation and meet up with them again later.

We are your family, Constantine said. Only Jonathan is missing.

Sylvia wondered what Zanthos would be like. Somewhere down on the east coast of the Peloponnese, they told her, best to come in by sea. Her excitement grew. ‘What would Alexander Kazanis be like?’ A younger version of Constantine? Her stomach turned in apprehension. ‘Why am I committing myself to the unknown? What does that say about the kind of person I am?’ Sylvia’s growing sense of adventure overcame her. Perhaps she oughtn’t to go. She looked at the two men in turn; they had momentarily forgotten her. ‘I go!’ She must have no doubts. This would be a discovery and in Zanthos she would leave her friends behind. Where was her courage? Well, it would only be a deviation of a few days and then she’d be back safely with her friends, and everything would be back to normal again. ‘I go!’ ‘Embrace the unknown!’ – a voice spoke inside her. Her heart beat furiously but she tried to hold herself together. As coolly as she could, Sylvia glanced around the restaurant, stifling her excitement, hopeless she admitted. She could hardly hear herself think with the noise of the place. The mirrors made the full restaurant seem twice the size. Now and then, she caught the sounds of her father and Constantine – ‘Con’ – talking vigorously in Greek. She snatched a surreptitious glance at them. There ought to be plaque on the wall in ‘Alvaro’s’ - 29 May 1960, when Sylvia Creighton first took decisions and began to understand about real life.

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Mother, he had this Greek friend with him – Constantine – a friend from the war, I suppose, but they never talked about that. Do you know him?

I know about him, dear – but I’ve never met him.

Oh? Father has mentioned a Constantine once or twice.

Mm.

Father took us to a wonderful Portuguese restaurant ‘Alvaro’s.’ Constantine said there’s a woman who sings Portuguese songs – and they’re all sad - late in the evening but, of course, we were only there for lunch.

Maybe you’ll get to hear those sad songs another time, dear.

Sylvia glanced at her mother but could detect no particular expression.

"Have you been to ‘Alvaro’s’?"

He’s never taken me there. It’s one of his private haunts.

Sylvia could not make out her mother’s curious smile.

That’s where he meets Constantine.

They talk business – or so I believe.

We didn’t talk business this time, Sylvia smiled. We talked about Greece. You remember, I told you George and I are going there – I’m so excited – to meet up with the Lawsons, our teachers, in Crete.

I trust those teachers are responsible people.

Yes. Sylvia would not be put off by her mother’s flat tone and penetrating look. It seemed to be fixed on something that had nothing to do with her. What did she see behind those eyes, Sylvia wondered, was it to do with the war? Mother, Constantine has a son – Alex – Alexander Kazanis.

Oh, yes.

And he wants me to meet him. Sylvia noticed a slight movement in her mother’s eyes, but the lips showed nothing: oh, how tedious her mother could be! Sylvia would not be distracted. Constantine says that Alex will meet me when our ship from Piraeus puts into Zanthos.

Zanthos? Where’s that? Is it on your route?

Well, not exactly. We were planning to go straight to Crete, but one ship does call in at Zanthos on the way. I’m planning to stop off there and spend a few days with Alex. Of course, I haven’t told George yet, or the Lawsons. And then I’ll go and join them again. Constantine says that Alex will be happy to show me round Zanthos.

I see. George isn’t going to like that, you know. You’d better be prepared, Sylvia.

Mother, I don’t live my life according to what George Barton likes and doesn’t like.

Catherine burst out laughing. Be careful you don’t start living it according to what your Constantine and Alex Kazanis like and don’t like.

Sylvia was shocked, indignant. She knew now how right she had been to listen to her father: what a killjoy her mother was! I thought Constantine was perfectly charming and I’m looking forward to meeting Alex. After all, I don’t have any Greek friends, do I? And this will be a start.

Why does it always have to be Greece, Greece, Greece?

"Well, I am a Classicist. That’s what I read at university, in case you’ve forgotten. She was amazed at her mother’s lack of interest in any of these great adventures. Sylvia could not hold back the indignation inside her. You don’t have any spirit of adventure, do you, mother? Not like father, not like Constantine. They’re marvellous."

Catherine turned her back and went towards the kitchen. She stopped and looked around. I’ll have a word with your father about all this.

But you and he are not speaking.

Now we are.

TWO

George, it all happened so quickly. First the Lawsons decide to rent an apartment in Crete, then the letter from Alexander Kazanis inviting me to Zanthos.

Your life is suddenly all a whirl, Sylvia. George Barton, panting in the Piraeus heat, kicked his rucksack forward as the ticket queue shortened. He was looking forward to meeting up with the Lawsons in Crete.

Sylvia positioned herself in line. Part of her would be sad to leave George - but Zanthos - Alexander Kazanis - her body convulsed with curiosity.

Are you really going to get off in this Zanthos place, Sylvia?

Sylvia couldn’t help smiling at George’s bemused expression. ZANTHOS - she held the ticket in her hand. She knew Alex’s letter by heart now – ‘when you leave the ship, follow the harbour until you see the ‘Restaurant Apollo.’ It’s on the front at the centre. You can’t miss it. I’ll be waiting for you inside. Don’t worry if the ship is hours late. It usually is. The Apollo stays open until the ship has left again.’ Alarm and anticipation weaved through her body.

George was leading her across the Miaouli Boulevard. The sun lay hazily across the oil tanks at the harbour entrance. None of the tawdry restaurants near the boulevard tempted them. Dust curled around their feet as the wind picked up. They went into a side street behind the row of shipping offices and sleazy hotels. They found a restaurant, ordered fish, tore at their bread and drank too much retsina. When George went to find the lavatory, Sylvia pulled out the ticket again. The ‘Karaiskakis’ - 6.30 p.m. It was too much! Sylvia’s head began to split. She put the ticket away hurriedly. For an ugly moment she saw herself through George Barton’s eyes and it frightened her so much that she struggled to put the thought behind her. She saw George coming back to the table, followed by the waiter with their food.

Did she dare to look into George’s face? Momentarily she felt attracted to him but the sensation passed. The sun had bleached his hair. The wine they had drunk was already making her drowsy and her thoughts ran amok. ‘In a way he’s quite a beauty - but what is it about him that puts me off? Is it because he never listens to anything I say? He will never listen to my voice, never – he’s incapable of it.’

The ‘Karaiskakis’ pulled into the open sea, behind them the dying sunlight, Cape Sounion already small in the distance. George watched her at the rail: he wished he had never heard the name Kazanis. She had wound her hair in a kind of knot at the back of her head, but long strands played over her eyes in the strong wind. George wondered whether he was in love with Sylvia Creighton, but since he was wondering, he supposed he couldn’t be. Yet, why was he so taken by her? Was it because she has these unaccountable passions? – like now with Zanthos, with Kazanis – when he understood nothing about her, when she became a different person - passions that had nothing to do with him. When he looked back at the rail, she had gone. Her sudden absence made him despondent. He did not relish the lonely trip from Zanthos to Crete. She unnerved him – he forced himself to admit it. She’d be off somewhere, and you would never know where – like now.

Full into the Aegean, the ship lurched and tossed for the next four hours, deck awash, the other passengers hidden below in the smoky cabin. George, too, found a lifeboat and clambered in for the night, the black sea cut by the wave crests, too menacing to stare at for long. From time to time, the siren blasted him awake, a landing in a place he did not care where.

Sylvia awoke under the tarpaulin of the rocking lifeboat into which she had clambered in search of warmth and sleep. The wind, though, had become louder than she had ever heard before, and she was afraid, but she could not go back. She could go nowhere but further on, either to Zanthos or down into the sea. The wind struck the bows again, but they did not split open. She pulled her coat tightly around her shivering body and her fingers caught the letter in her pocket. Zanthos - ‘best approached by sea – although, on the Karaiskakis, you’ll probably arrive after midnight.’ Sylvia’s fears gave way and her heartbeats warmed her body. She fell asleep again, exhausted by visions of temples and theatres, and of vales and hidden ports in the Peloponnese. She awoke again abruptly -where am I? - was it a dream? She felt ill, torn apart, mangled. How long had they been travelling in the turbulent ship? The wave-swirl rolled her inside the lifeboat, but she could find nothing to grip hold of. She forced herself to close her eyes but the name Alexander Kazanis drove relentlessly through her head.

Zanthos, Sylvia. George peered over her, the tarpaulin cover cast aside. He could hardly stand straight. Wake up, if you want to go there, Sylvia. He pointed towards the harbour lights, visible at the curve of the inlet. Zanthos was growing closer and closer.

Sylvia stood up, hurriedly gathering her things. You’ll be all right, will you, George? she heard the words slip from her lips. She didn’t know why she unexpectedly felt concerned about him. She turned away embarrassed.

Well, in six more hours, I may be in Crete, if that’s what you mean, he smiled at her. "Unless the Karaiskakis sinks somewhere between here and Crete. He helped her out of the lifeboat. They do, you know, these Greek ships," he laughed warily.

A launch bobbed towards the ship from the harbour entrance, followed by another one. The anchor splashed into the darkness. Sylvia had imagined that scene many times over but, as she prepared to disembark, she became all the more apprehensive. She followed the other passengers to the gangway lowered towards the launch. Soon she was on the launch, her meager possessions around her feet. She must have looked pathetic, she thought, as she limply waved back at George. She was shivering and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

As soon as the launches passed into the harbour entrance, they lost sight of one another. The ‘Karaiskakis’ weighed anchor and, siren blasting across the small port, pulled out in the direction of the open sea. Exhausted, George went back to his lifeboat and collapsed in despair.

Always the crowds at the harbour’s edge, no matter the hour, but Sylvia had the letter from Alex and no need of guides for board and lodging. Her legs swayed with the lantern lights along the esplanade, her shadow dissolved in the dark-blue water. She scanned the waterfront for the ‘Restaurant Apollo,’ but saw only white walls ghostly blue in the moonlight. The jetty crowds behind her, she put down her bag and breathed deeply. The ‘Apollo’ stood in front of her at the centre of the harbour, just as he had written. ‘But I don’t know this person, Alex Kazanis!’ She tried to calm herself, restore some semblance of dignity, so that she would not be caught off guard. Sylvia hesitated: how would she ever climb the five or six steps that led to the entrance of the ‘Restaurant Apollo’? She took a deep breath and walked towards them. She could see that the restaurant was nearly full. ‘How on earth shall I know what he looks like? He forgot to send me a photograph.’

The smell of frying fish, aubergines, tomatoes, oil, drew her inside. They reassured her that she still lived in the world. It soon felt good to be inside - cold in the night wind, warm among the people. Sylvia saw the open kitchen at the back of the restaurant and the pots and trays of food on the stoves. A plate of dolmades passed swiftly in front of her. She sat down, unable to do anything else. A tray of frosted glasses of water glided over her head. The short, fat waiter-boy in a grubby, yellow tee-shirt pressed alongside her chair and handed her the stained menu. He pointed to the main dishes and grinned at her. Suddenly he remembered something, turned to look across the restaurant and then back at Sylvia, examining her appearance. He said something she didn’t understand and then repeated it twice only louder. It was not like the Greek she had learned at school. Was her spiritual home a foreign country after all?

The waiter-boy turned away again and then beckoned her to follow him, but her legs would not carry her: she had seen where he was pointing, and she could not move. Her eyes followed the length of the waiter-boy’s arm and fixed upon the tips of his fingers. There sat the man who had invited her. She could not believe what she saw. His darkness, his intensity frightened her. She felt her heart break out of her body and escape into the smoky air. She watched him walk over to her table, his darkness caught in the light, and he was smiling at her, helping her out of her chair so he could kiss her on either cheek just as Constantine had in ‘Alvaro’s’ Portuguese restaurant. There the resemblance ceased. This man was as dark as an Egyptian, his hair shining black, his eyes drawing into her blood, exposing her, opening her out. How can this man possibly be Alexander Kazanis?

Sylvia?

She did not know what to say: was this perhaps someone he has sent? He sat down at her table, smiling broadly, as though hugely satisfied by something or other. When she looked, she saw food on the table and retsina already poured, the waiter-boy hurrying back to the kitchen, orders shouted around his swimming head.

Eat, Sylvia. Please. You must be hungry after the long voyage. His voice was soft, and she understood what he said. The surprise made her feel whole again. She managed to smile at him.

Thank you, she heard herself say - she wanted to say more but could think of nothing at all. "Are you Alex? She had never heard such a weak voice pass between her lips. Where was the forthright Sylvia Creighton of the Literary and Debating Society? This waif was some whisper of a girl from a secluded country town, one of those typical English women in flowery-pattern dresses and straw hats and with gardening-baskets on their arm. He was laughing. Who else do you think I am?"

She wondered whether he could read her mind.

Why are you so surprised?

You don’t look a bit like your father.

Thank goodness for that.

She wished her father were with her to see Alexander Kazanis: how much he would like Alex! The difference is surprising. She was no longer afraid: he would have seen her come in, watched her from that far corner of the restaurant, where he’d positioned himself for that purpose. All this she realized now, as she tried to balance her slice of fried aubergine on its way to her mouth. ‘He was sure from the first moment he set eyes on me that I was Sylvia Creighton - Constantine must have told him everything about me, described me, even.’ She felt useless, she felt ugly, she felt unable to rise to the occasion, but then she caught the warm smell of his body, as he leaned across the table to speak to her above the noise, the scent of cologne from his neck and cheeks. His hair, brushed back to the tip of his collar, shining against the candle. He was so dark, a rush of desire for him swept through her body before she could clutch on to anything. English phrases, designed to disguise, slipped automatically from her memory, but he only smiled at them because they signified nothing.

I’m told you have a passion for temples and theatres, he murmured in her direction.

She saw the friendly mockery in his eyes and she hated him for it but smiled back at him. Suddenly so silent, he said.

The waiter-boy squeezed between the tables. Alex grabbed his arm and ordered more wine, more bread. Sylvia could see how hungry he was too, hungry after the long, long wait for the ‘Karaiskakis’ to arrive from Piraeus. I wonder what you’ll think of this poor, Balkan country of ours, once you get to know it. His eyes danced in gentle mockery. I trust you’ll stay with us long enough to find out.

Balkan! she exclaimed indignantly. I never thought of Greece as Balkan.

He was already laughing as if she had said something utterly preposterous.

But Greece is the cradle of civilization! She struggled to get the words out. She had not understood what he meant.

He caught the look of incomprehension on her face. What sort of Greece do you suppose we’re living in, Sylvia?

I came here to discover the Ancient World. It already sounded absurd.

He slapped his palm against the side of the table in pure despair.

What a beginning! She looked at him, his forehead hanging over his plate. She wanted to go home, straight back to the British Museum, straight back to the Classics Library, and the Hellenic Society, where at least things were in the right proportion.

When he looked up, his eyes glowed with warmth. You’ll see. It sounded to her like a warning. She had lost the game before it had even begun, but she could not disengage. That terrible smile made her boil with rage, yet she was not angry with him, just unused to being so completely and unexpectedly massacred by another human being.

He looked into her eyes for an instant and caught her watching his lips as they shaped over the words he was speaking to her. He put down his glass and breathed deeply. He hoped she hadn’t seen that. ‘What has she done to me? On my own ground, she has dared to wander here, and within hardly half-an-hour I’m involved with this person. What can possibly come of such madness? And an Englishwoman! Heaven help us. No, this is not good, no, no, absolutely no. No!’

Alex could not stop looking at her. Greece and the Greeks are utterly unpredictable. Surely you know that? he said to her. ‘This façade of hers, does it ever crack?’ He laughed aloud and to his surprise she was laughing with him, as if they had known each other for a long time. Alex’s head beat furiously.

Sylvia’s excitement broke free and whatever armour she had worn collapsed about her feet. She was alone, herself only, and she knew he could see it, because he read her secrets in her eyes.

How is Jonathan? Alex asked her. She would have to think of an answer. I am so anxious to meet him.

Hidden from the wind that surged across the roof tops, they made their way up the winding steps through the centre of the town. Shadows of palm across their walls made the stark houses shudder. Sylvia stopped for a while to gather her breath and look back over the harbour far below.

I wonder where the ‘Karaiskakis’ is now, she said.

Why, do you wish you were on it?

Oh, no! She felt the pressure of his hand on her arm. They climbed further, stopping again and turning back to see how far they had come.

Alex pointed to the end of the bay. Panormos. There’s a village there. We’ll go there, if you like. Out to sea, over there to the right, an island, Karpathos.

They turned into the Odos Hermou.

Amalia, my sister, stays in the week after Easter. My father – now and then - he comes to Zanthos once every two or three years or so. He says he doesn’t like the place, and he’s always complaining the house is empty. Alex didn’t appear to give much attention to his father’s view.

Surprised, she looked at him in the darkness. ‘What is this curious relationship he has with his father? I thought Constantine loved Zanthos.’

Alex was speaking again before she had time to think anything through. I came with him once, when I was on leave from the Navy. For the first time, he sensed her looking at him. She couldn’t imagine him as a sailor. She saw him more as a poet. We have National Service here. You can put it off, but you can’t get out of it.

He stopped at No. 26 and opened the door. They stepped into a white hallway that led into a large room, which had a white ceiling with dark beams across it. He switched on the light and took her coat.

He caught