Chapter 2:
Better to Let Him Die

The light in the square dazzled, flashing back off the marble paving, too bright even under the large parasol advertising Samian ouzo shading his table. Steve stuffed the letter back in its envelope and concentrated on rinsing the fine coffee grains out of his mouth with the by now tepid water from the accompanying glass. He’d swallowed the sludgy grounds: an involuntary action of surprise at recognising the spidery handwriting. He swilled the water round his mouth, then spat it onto the paving where it instantly evaporated.

It was before nine but he felt the beginning of the day’s sweat staining the creased cotton of the shirt under his armpits. He was surprised to get the letter, hadn’t thought Thompson knew where he was, and the postal service here was irregular at the best of times, which these were not. He didn’t want to read it here and besides, it was so long, more like an essay than a letter. But his real reason was that he feared its contents. He wanted no reminding of his Skendleby ordeal, he’d come here to escape.

He had been taking his usual full Samiot breakfast of Greek coffee, water and a small glass of raki in the old triangular square in Karlovasi when Mandrocles, one of his students who earned some extra money as an assistant janitor, brought him the letter. He owed his temporary post at the University of The Aegean to a previous postgrad student with whom he’d had a brief affair during an excavation on Cyprus some years ago. Unusually after his liaisons, they’d stayed on good terms. Lucky, because her father was well connected in the Greek higher education bureaucracy. In his desperation to get work away from Britain, Steve had tried all his contacts, and she’d produced a result.

It helped that he had a solid reputation in Europe as a fine field archaeologist, if unreliable and careless as an administrator, or lover for that matter. There wasn’t much for him to do at the university, about which the most imposing thing was the name, but Steve was grateful to be there. He spoke reasonably fluent if ungrammatical Greek, even though everyone immediately switched to English when he was around. He liked the lifestyle; he had no personal responsibility and little in his work. In fact, he’d had to hustle to become involved with a survey of Neolithic and Pre-Neolithic activity on the island and with the new archaeological museum in Pythagoreio. This suited him; he could move around the island and work almost entirely without supervision. The bi-weekly change of the island’s tourist population brought him a regular supply of short-term partners and no obligation or responsibility. He still had nightmares and his hair remained white; but he felt he was beginning to rebuild his life and, more important, to feel safe.

He liked Karlovasi, its faded prosperity, the disused and dilapidated warehouses and merchant’s houses that fringed the sea contrasting with the restless and lively student quarter. He liked the shabby little university and the cafes; but this time he was not going to get involved with any of his students. The consequences of that in a Greek community were too serious. So, he lived on the other side of the island in a small fishing village that doubled up with tourism to make ends meet. He had taken a long-term letting of an apartment overlooking the sea from a Dutch woman married to a Greek boat captain.

He loved the murmur of the sea brushing the shingle below his window, the infinite view over the constantly changing water where on clear days he could see Patmos. Loved the brooding presence of Mount Kerkis, either baked by heat or obscured by cloud. The place calmed him, soothed his fears, his relationships in the village were casual with no obligation beyond a polite friendliness on either side which suited him just fine.

Suited him so well that one night drinking ouzo with Captain Michales under the stars, watching the green and red harbour lights flashing on and off, he mentioned that he wanted to stay permanently and become Greek. Michales made the facial gesture of incomprehension at the strangeness of foreigners that’s part of the Greek DNA, then, rearranging his craggy face into an even more intimidating expression, he leaned forwards and delivered the longest speech Steve had heard from him.

“Listen, Dr Steve, you could live here amongst us for a hundred years, two hundred years even, and you would still not be accepted as one us, would never be treated as one of us.”

He’d leaned back and favoured Steve with one of his surprisingly warm, if rare, smiles before continuing.

“But for you, I think, that is not so bad. Have you seen how we treat each other? Especially in winter, after the tourists go home and we are tired of being polite and having to speak English or German all day and all night. When the seas are too rough to fish and everything is shut down and the only place to go is Lekatis bar to drink. See how we are then, look, see over there Ephialtes who you say you like so much. Well, last year he broke a chair over the head of Stefanes, his friend, just because he had thrown a scrap of meat to a dog and Antonis did not like that one dog. Since then they not speak and that is what is like. No, you could not become one of us.”

He paused, deep in thought.

“But maybe you just stay and be treated like now, like honoured guest, not part of family or one of us. Believe me, that is much better for you. No feuds, no lawyers, no hitting, we keep you out from all that: for you just laughter and drink. Now I have arranged your life, so you will buy me one ouzo, then we go home.”

Afterwards they’d finished the ouzo and gazed at the headland across the bay to the east, where the sky was imperceptibly beginning to lighten and the pre-dawn breeze was ruffling the surface of the waters. Steve stumbled the few short yards home, banging into parked cars and scooters, then fumbled for what seemed ages to get his key into the lock before falling, fully clothed, onto the bed. He woke next day with a foul taste in his mouth and a splitting headache, but without the feeling of anxiety that was his usual waking companion; he didn’t exactly feel good, but didn’t feel frightened either and since the horror of the Skendleby excavation that was as good as it got.

Pulling out of the memory, Steve left some euros with the bill on the saucer and walked across to the periptero to buy some cigarettes. Like at most Greek street kiosks, there was an animated conversation taking place between the owner and the customer at the counter. The voices were raised and a fine range of shrugs, facial grimaces and expansive hand gestures were on display. In England it would have looked like the last stage in a verbal exchange before the first punch was thrown, but in Greece it was a normal transaction and probably between long standing friends. To Steve it was now routine, and he passed the time while the conversation gradually petered out in trying to improve his knowledge of written Greek by reading the headlines of the national and local Greek newspapers on display on the carousel.

The news was grimly familiar, the same two topics spread across each front page: the economic crisis and the alarming spread of wild fires. This latter was seen as a symptom of dramatic change in world climate, which had caused the unusually dry winter and the intense heat of early summer accompanied by gale force winds. Each of the papers took an apocalyptical tone; wherever Steve looked he saw scare stories, and according to his Greek acquaintances, this wasn’t alarmist journalism: there was plenty to be scared about. The global financial crisis hit Greece particularly hard, and in a land of sharp divisions, with a recent history of civil war, the fear of anarchy loomed large. Although there were some, particularly the young, who welcomed the prospect of rapid and violent change.