1

At eleven o’clock in the morning the steamer entered the bay and made for the harbour. Kennedy and most of the other passengers came up on deck, to lean on the rail, acknowledge the fact of their arrival. Mrs Pouris didn’t though, and Kennedy thought this strange, after her patriotic sentiments during the voyage. Perhaps she had left her packing too late. One of the sailors began to attach strings of bunting to the mast, the Greek colours, white and blue. This was Piraeus then, the port of Athens; the usual installations, a few chimneys with industrial plumage, tawny hills beyond. He was glad to have arrived.

As the ship slowed, the breeze dropped and Kennedy felt a prickle of sweat on his upper lip. He had always been prone to sweating, and here, though still only the end of April, it was very hot. The sky, a pure blue earlier, had whitened and glazed in mid-morning and the water of the bay was the colour of oiled gunmetal. The ship’s wake was healed almost before foam showed.

‘Soon be on the old terra firma again,’ Kennedy remarked to several of the nearer passengers, none of whom quite looked at him and none of whom replied. He took out a handkerchief, somewhat discoloured, and wiped his mouth and palms. Then he walked forward a few paces, keeping near the rail, and stopped again on the covered part of the deck. From here he looked round once more for Mrs Pouris. Where could she have got to? She had not yet given him her address in Athens.

They were coming into their moorings now, to the accompaniment of much shouting from officers and crew, who continued to lack, in this final phase, the air of quiet authority which might, for an Englishman at least, have induced confidence in their management; contriving to look expert without suggesting competence. The sense of this, not however highly articulated, since most of Kennedy’s feelings remained in the undergrowth, the sense of potential disaster on the boat, had given him a certain pleasure throughout the voyage.

A small unshaven man in a white yachting cap jumped up and down on the quay, shouting. He made a gesture as if to ward the ship off. Kennedy had not had time to learn any Greek, but he observed with delight that a mistake had been made. There was a grinding noise as the ship scraped against the wall of the dock. That would cost more than his fare to put right, anyway. All breakdowns and untoward events, hitches in procedure, pleased him in some degree, aligning his personal irresponsibility with that of the cosmos.

A small group of people stood waiting below the ship, unmoving, gazing upwards, waiting to unload on the arriving voyagers their accumulated emotions. Around them swarmed those who might make money, conceivably: touts, pimps, porters, taxi-drivers, the agents for hotels. The gang-plank was down and the first passengers had begun to leave the ship. One or other group, the still or the mobile, would claim most of these, for whom landing meant a renewal of love or obligation. But not for him, Kennedy knew, with a faint, involuntary contempt. No one was going to profit in either way from his arrival. … Suddenly he saw Mrs Pouris getting off the ship. ‘Mrs Pouris!’ he called, smiling at her back, then again more loudly, ‘Mrs Pouris!’ But she did not look round, seemed in fact to accelerate. Surely she must have heard?

He glanced down over the side. The engines had stopped, water slapped against the hulk. He counted five oranges bobbing about in the dirty water. ‘Will passengers please leave the ship now,’ said a voice on the loudspeaker. Turning his head, Kennedy saw the pale young Greek standing alone at the rail quite close. He had been alone throughout the voyage. Kennedy had seen him occasionally in the bar and on deck, always alone, but had not spoken to him, concentrated as he had been on Mrs Pouris, whose eyes were the colour of raisins, who smelled of hot silk and lotions not immediately nameable. Each evening he had slipped through the barrier into the first-class section of the ship, to pace with Mrs Pouris up and down the deck. And now she had fled — there was no other word for it. She had received, perhaps, a warning, read a horoscope? Or, Kennedy wondered uneasily, perhaps he had not been sufficiently delicate in the insinuation of his poverty?

He had just decided to speak to the Greek when the latter glanced round at him and smiled, so there was a moment of what seemed recognition between them, something acknowledged in common. This was encouraging and Kennedy returned the smile promptly and on a larger scale. Perhaps something yet could be salvaged. His was a face constructed, it would seem, for smiling, broad, high cheek-boned, the wide mouth notched as it were for gradations of glee, curving up towards freckles and very round blue eyes. The eyes did not change much, whatever the degrees recorded below, and they had a lingering boldness of regard.

‘Bit of a crush down there,’ Kennedy said, hoping the other understood English. ‘Ce n’est pas encore possible de sortir,’ he added haltingly. A lot of them knew a bit of French. He had learned his as an army clerk at S.H.A.P.E. headquarters in Paris, before certain dealings had led to his dishonourable discharge. ‘No sense in going down there yet, c’est pas la peine …’

‘I understand English,’ the Greek said. He had a small oval face and very beautiful dark eyes. And he spoke English perfectly, without a trace of accent. One might just as well wait,’ he said. This linguistic accomplishment was unexpected, disconcerting, hinting at a familiarity with Kennedy’s countrymen, a faculty of assessment, that might be inconvenient. Kennedy paused, somewhat warily.

‘Just coming back from your holidays then?’ he said at last, in a congratulatory tone.

‘No, I have come for a visit. I am Greek, but I have been living in England for several years.’ He turned to look over the side again, at the passengers still descending. They were predominantly Greek. Speaking in loud tones, using their elbows freely, they jostled for precedence. It seemed to him that he remembered this fractiousness, this way of seeking in every occasion small personal triumphs. He was back among his people, many of whom were carrying huge Italian dolls wrapped in polythene.

‘That explains why you speak English so well,’ observed Kennedy, taking out his handkerchief. ‘It will be good to get on to terra firma again, won’t it?’ he added.

‘Les passagers sont priés …’ began the loudspeaker. Time was getting short.

‘Where are you staying?’ Kennedy asked. ‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’

‘Oh yes, I am going to live at my cousin’s house in Kifissia. That is near Athens, a suburb really.’

‘I’m not fixed up yet,’ Kennedy said, ‘I’m looking for a place to stay, just for a few days.’

‘There are some good hotels and not expensive, particularly in the neighbourhood of Omonia Square.’

‘To tell you the truth, old boy,’ Kennedy said, in a confidential manner, ‘I’m a bit short at the moment. Just for the next few days you know, till my money comes through. Even a cheap hotel …’

The other said nothing to this.

‘I thought from the first moment I saw you,’ Kennedy said, ‘that you were an understanding fellow. My name is Kennedy, by the way, Bryan Kennedy.’

‘Mitsos, Stavros Mitsos.’

‘Put it there,’ said Kennedy. He boosted his smile. ‘I’ve heard that the Greeks are a hospitable people,’ he said.

‘They are considered to be so,’ Mitsos replied. ‘I think it is time to be getting off the boat now,’ he added. He took a few steps towards the stairway leading to the lower deck.

‘Just a minute,’ Kennedy said, falling into step beside him. He hardly knew himself why he was thus persisting with such an obviously unpromising subject. It was not as though he were without immediate cash, even. But the flight of Mrs Pouris had inflamed his predatory instinct, he was possessed by a vindictive desire to make a touch before he got off the boat. ‘I know you are a complete stranger,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got something here I’d like you to see.’ He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and produced after a moment a frayed leather wallet. ‘I have several testimonials here,’ he said. ‘This one is from the Bishop of Jarrow, written in his own hand. Read it. I think you will be impressed.’

‘There is hardly time now,’ Mitsos said politely. He looked up at the pleasantly smiling face of the Englishman, striving as he did so to keep his impression general, preserve the other’s humanity, not succumb to the details of the features, the configuration of the nostrils, the large-pored skin, the shine of perspiration round the mouth. It had been increasingly difficult for him lately to spread his scrutiny over the whole area of anything without becoming helplessly impaled on the details. The man was very tall, well over six feet, and broad-shouldered. He had short untidy hair the colour of wet straw. His round blue eyes had a delinquent fixity of regard and his green tweed suit was too heavy, quite unsuitable for this weather. A man, on the whole, difficult to place. But no words or gestures he went in for now could redeem the gross haste with which he had revealed his needs to a stranger.

Mitsos left the rail and moved towards the head of the stairway. ‘They will be swilling the decks down,’ he said, ‘and they will swill us too, if we do not hurry.’ And in fact sailors had appeared with buckets of water. Reluctantly Kennedy restored the wallet to its place in his bosom and they descended the stairs together to collect their luggage from outside the purser’s office; Kennedy a single battered suitcase held together by a strap, and the Greek two rather sumptuous cream-coloured grips. He was a frail, small-boned person and had some difficulty in getting down the gang-plank with these. Kennedy did not offer to help. Immediately they were off the boat Mitsos began to look around for a taxi.

‘I was wondering,’ Kennedy said, without much hope, ‘whether you might lend me a small sum of money, to tide me over. Two or three pounds, say. Say three pounds. On the strength of that testimonial, which you are quite at liberty to read. I have several others from Justices of the Peace, Members of Parliament, and so on.’ His hand strayed towards his wallet. He had every confidence in the impact of these documents on any person who could be persuaded to read them, since he had written them himself, had expended, in fact, much labour on their composition. ‘Let me see,’ he said, ‘in drachmas that would be …’

Mitsos said, ‘I can’t lend you anything, I’m afraid. I am not carrying much ready money with me.’

‘I see, yes,’ Kennedy said. ‘Never mind, old boy. Just a thought.’

‘I’m sorry. You can come with me in the taxi to Athens, if that suits you.’

‘Really? No, but look here …’ Kennedy hoisted his suitcase, gave the dock a comprehensive survey in the hope of seeing even now some sign of Mrs Pouris. But they seemed to be the only passengers left.

A man detached himself from a group standing near the dock gates and approached them. ‘Oriste, kyrie?’ he said. ‘Taxi.’ He took their luggage and they followed him through the gates and out into the crowded street. Trolley wires netted the sky overhead and yellow trolley-buses trundled past continually. The glare of the sun on white buildings hurt Kennedy’s eyes and he was confused by the shouts of men selling peanuts and lottery tickets and by the loud conversations between passing pedestrians.

‘I’ve heard that word before, that word “kyrie”,’ he said. ‘In masses.’ He did not attend masses, but knew this word meant God, in whom he believed with a certain resentful clammine passed through his mind without any sense of impiety how marvellous it would be if he could have claimed divine authorship for one of his testimonials. ‘Noisy, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Greeks like noise, generally speaking,’ Mitsos replied. ‘Though I do not, myself.’

The taxi-driver opened the door for them and his golden molars flashed. ‘Oriste,’ he said again.

‘Now I think I must discuss the price with him,’ Mitsos said.

Rapid Greek ensued. Kennedy stood by. His was a resilient and essentially optimistic nature. Now he declined to consider the wounding behaviour of Mrs Pouris and the lesser rebuff he had received from Mitsos, and he suddenly felt delighted to be here and grateful to the thin-necked person with the carrying voice, whose face he had not properly seen, who had put him on to Greece; grateful to the impulse that had lasted long enough to set him down here, listening to an argument about a taxi fare conducted in an unintelligible tongue.

In the Chelsea Potter it had all begun. He had been standing there with a Guinness on a crowded Friday, wondering who to ring up. He had felt rich but chastened, with over seventy pounds in his pockets, commission from selling encyclopaedias from door to door to American service families, a job for which he had shown aptitude but which he had lost two days before through smelling of drink and making fairly determined overtures to some of the wives — the one with whom he had been most successful had subsequently complained. And then this voice from further down the bar: ‘You want to go to Greece, old man. I would, if I were single. Marvellous climate, bloody marvellous, four thousand years of history. Four thousand bloody years of history. They’re all dying to learn English over there. They need it, you see, being a commercial nation. Anyone could go over there and get a good living. You only have to be English.’ Which Kennedy indubitably was. There and then, watching the froth on his Guinness subside, he had thought, why not? Scraps of myth had come into his mind, culled from his haphazard but abundant reading; garlanded heifers and raped nymphs, marble columns, angular e’s. He would go. He would be a tutor. Amazingly his resolve had held, long enough for him to write his testimonials, get his ticket, look at summer suits without buying one; long enough to steer him through the people who would have liked to help him spend what remained of the seventy pounds. What remained of it reposed at that moment in his hip pocket.

Negotiation ceased, and they got in. The taxi shot forward, narrowly missing a group of small crop-haired boys playing with pebbles in the gutter, and inserted itself into the stream of traffic. Down the long straight road to Athens small box-like houses were strung out, many of their walls bearing advertisements for macaroni or Fixe beer. For some time they skirted a glittering sea. Numerous sections of the road were under repair and thunderous with drills. Half-naked men toiled in the dust which swirled up under the wheels of cars and buses. The taxi-driver drove nonchalantly, at great speed, one hand only on the wheel, the other arm outstretched along the seat. From time to time he turned his head completely round to make some comment. Kennedy felt frightened, and to lessen this feeling did not look at the road ahead at all, but only out of his nearside window. For this reason he did not see the Parthenon till Mitsos told him to look, and whatever he had been expecting it was not this delicate railing of pillars suspended above the noon haze of the approaching city, too remote to be quite believed in as a structure. Not that Kennedy had given much thought to the Parthenon beforehand; he was not much interested in monuments, but he decided now on a demonstration, possibly flattering to Mitsos, from whom he still had some small hopes of gain.

He said, ‘I’ve read a lot about it, of course, but …’ craning his head forward to look again. Mitsos watched him curiously. His pleasure and interest seemed genuine. Now he had slumped right down in his seat, twisting his large head to get a better view. No Greek would willingly have adopted so ungainly an attitude. Mitsos had never understood this physical carelessness of the English. His own body insisted on graceful reclinations. And what was this greed for an alien past?

The taxi proceeded more slowly now, among the thicker traffic of the city. They came out into Omonia Square. The fountains were playing there and the pavements were crowded. They went round the outer rim of the hub, selected finally the spoke of Stadion Street. Mitsos looked out of the window at rows of tall hoardings concealing, it seemed, areas of demolition. What had been there he could not now remember, though he struggled to do so, and this small failure caused him something like despair. Every lapse of memory or recognition seemed to threaten the purpose of his return, formed suddenly after so many years, his desire to readopt the city.

‘Where can I put you down?’ he asked.

Kennedy had been experiencing some disillusionment, travelling down this spacious but quite ordinary avenue with its shops and cinemas and restaurants. Though what he had been expecting he could not say. He glared sideways at Mitsos’ watch, conveniently exposed just now. Twelve-fifteen nearly. An awkward time. He felt thirsty. From the top pocket of his jacket he took a folded piece of paper. ‘This is where I want to go,’ he said, passing the paper to Mitsos. The address of the Cultural Centre was the only one of any use he had in Athens and he had made up his mind to go there first of all.

‘Ah, yes,’ Mitsos said. ‘That will be quite easy. The taxi will go up Vassilis Sofias. We can put you down quite close. A few minutes’ walk.’

‘Splendid,’ Kennedy said. ‘Perhaps I can give you a ring in a day or two? I don’t know anybody here.’

‘Athens is like a village, in some ways. We shall be sure to meet.’

‘Yes, but if I had your phone number …’

‘Here we are,’ Mitsos said. ‘This is where you must get out.’ He spoke to the taxi-driver and the taxi drew into the kerb and stopped. Kennedy disentangled his long legs from below the front seat and seized his suitcase.

‘Thanks again, old boy,’ Kennedy said. ‘We shall be seeing some more of each other, I daresay.’

‘I hope so. That is your way up, through there.’

Kennedy scrambled out and then leaned back into the taxi, extending his hand. They shook hands solemnly. Looking back as the taxi gathered speed again, Mitsos saw the Englishman standing tall and irresolute, holding his suitcase, his unseasonable green tweed suit patterned with the shadows cast by one of the acacias that lined the avenue. So much for that. He wondered about Kennedy for a few moments, then he forgot him completely. He stared out of the taxi window, rigidly holding off the sense of unreality that threatened to descend on him in the absence of familiar landmarks. I am coming home, he told himself.

Kennedy found the Cultural Centre without any difficulty. It was on the far side of a hot little square with a railed garden in the middle, planted out with large purple pansies. Cars going round it took the corners almost always too fast and their tyres made tearing, ecstatic sounds. Entering, he was immediately grateful for the coolness, the subdued light. The floor of the entrance hall looked like marble, there was a large gleaming reception desk behind which sat a plump, rather pretty girl with glasses. Kennedy advanced on her with respectful eagerness, noticing, however, that her eyes were fixed on his suitcase, which he at once regretted having brought with him: it was not the suitcase of a man to whom interviews are spontaneously accorded.

‘I have called,’ he said, ‘to see the Director.’

‘Have you an appointment?’ the girl asked.

Kennedy smiled and leaned towards her, putting both hands on the edge of the desk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t. I’ve just arrived from England, as a matter of fact. But I’m very anxious to see him …’ He had the gift of enmeshing certain people — and not always the least discerning — instantaneously in his life, his purposes and projects. The girl looked at the curve of his mouth. Her manner lightened perceptibly. Besides, there was nothing here for her to withhold: Mr Jennings would see this man, after the statutory waiting time had elapsed; he always saw them — why, she did not know.

‘Mr Jennings is engaged just at present,’ she said, ‘but he will be free in a few minutes if you would like to wait.’ She indicated a row of chairs against the wall.

Kennedy said, ‘Thank you very much, Miss… ?’

‘Diamantopoulou.’

‘Miss Diama …’ He made a comical face. ‘How was it again?’

‘Dia-manto-poulou.’

Kennedy continued the comical face. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said, and the girl laughed a little. He had found without knowing it a way of pleasing Greeks: by stressing the difficulties of their language. He went over and sat down on one of the seats, first placing the suitcase carefully against the wall. When he raised his hands to straighten his tie he saw that his fingernails were rimmed with black, and though this was their usual condition, the sight of them now caused confidence rapidly to leak away. He entered on one of his periodic moods of personal unworthiness, feeling not dishevelled, merely, but unclean. He should first have found a hotel and had a wash and brush-up, applied brisk friction to his dandruffed scalp, scaled the yellow off, untangled his armpits. Knees together on the hard little chair, perspiration cooling on his back, he glanced uneasily round the room and was soon able to blame what he saw for his condition. It was a room that undermined one, as ante-rooms do. The marble floor had a fishy gleam, the mahogany desk was too effulgent. The walls were glazed cream and bore pictures Kennedy had seen before, sailing ships at sunset and dawn, on seas resplendent or leaden. On a stand in one corner was a bowl of white and waxen lilies. The heavy swing doors shut out the noises of the square. The room in its sealed-off, menacing composure was familiar to him; he had waited in such rooms in his institutional childhood, waited for the attempt of authority to effect some inevitably painful dislocation of his personality — for this was always the purpose of such interviews, whether the voices were kindly or severe; held meanwhile in this glazed calm, knowing how far anterior to suffering it was, how impossibly far therefore from healing. … Through his heavy and uncomfortable body stirred some return of the stubborn hatreds of those days, the beginnings of hostility towards the much occupied Mr Jennings. …

The girl looked up with a vague expression and raised her hands to her hair. The gesture thrust upward her plump breasts. Under her thin black jumper the exact location of the nipples could be easily divined. Kennedy looked at them fixedly as an antidote, an evidence of organic life. She became aware of his gaze and lowered her arms again, leaning forward slightly in self-protection. She was not, however, annoyed.

‘You are coming from England?’ she said.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Perhaps you look for some teaching hours?’

‘That’s it exactly,’ Kennedy said. ‘I look for as many teaching hours as possible. How did you know?’

‘It is generally the reason why you come and look us up,’ the girl said, dwelling on the idiom somewhat proudly. She forbore out of kindness and the linguistic complexities involved to tell him of the long succession of derelict or eccentric Britons she had seen occupying these chairs in the two years she had been working there. She found this one rather attractive, in a dishevelled sort of way, but knew he would not get a job. None of them who came like this ever got jobs because those qualified for jobs never came like this. She did not know why Mr Jennings saw them at all.

‘All the posts of the institute are filled now,’ she said. ‘It is late in the year. You should come at the beginning of October. Now we have the diploma examinations only a few weeks away.’ She looked at him with a faint air of interrogation. It was an odd time to come.

Kennedy, who had never heard of the diploma examinations, maintained his smile with an effort. ‘That’s a facer,’ he said.

‘Sometimes I am hearing about works, private teaching.’

‘Are you indeed? My name is Bryan, by the way. What’s your first name?’

The girl’s mouth became somewhat less full at this directness. She replied, however, after a moment, ‘My name, it is Sophy.’

‘That is much easier to remember,’ Kennedy said, and the girl laughed again. Rapidly he began a process of calculation. He did not find her very attractive, but she seemed to like him and if what she said was true might prove a useful ally. On the whole she would be worth buying lunch for. He was about to ask her when she picked up the phone and spoke into it about him.

‘Mr Jennings will see you now,’ she said, looking up, a certain stateliness descending on her with the official phrasing. ‘You go up the stairs to the next floor. His door is on the right. You will see the name.’

‘Thank you,’ Kennedy said. He decided that he had better wait to see what emerged from the interview with Jennings; Jennings might very possibly invite him somewhere; home perhaps or to some good restaurant; a fellow countryman, just off the boat. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, giving her his maximum smile.

He mounted the stairs and proceeded down a red-carpeted passage, past a door which said ‘Administrative Officer’ and another which said ‘Assistant Director’, until he found the one he wanted: ‘H. Jennings, Director’. He tapped discreetly and put his ear close to the door. Listening there he became aware of the beat of his heart. For some reason he felt sure that the ‘H’ was for Herbert.

‘Come in! Come in!’ said a voice of such carrying power that Kennedy recoiled a little. After a further pause to pull himself together, he entered, closing the door with some care behind him, and found himself regarding a fattish, white-faced man with prominent ears, tiny eyes behind rimless glasses, and an expression of great blandness, who was sitting at a desk similar to the one below.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Kennedy said, with the brisk deference he had found best when selling encyclopaedias. He was somewhat disconcerted by the unathletic appearance of Jennings, having expected someone a bit bluffer, after the resonance of the voice. On the desk were papers, a bronze vase containing more of the funereal lilies, and a round papier-mâché tray with tea things and a plate of biscuits on it.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Jennings again. ‘Mr Kennedy, isn’t it? I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Do sit down; take a seat here.’ He articulated with a quite extraordinary, a loving, precision. The normal elisions of fluency were abandoned and each word came out separately with a little trimming of silence round it. Words thus treasured could never be lost, as other men’s were; they seemed to fall into a place prepared for them, like smooth round pebbles falling into putty. While Kennedy still hesitated he brought one bloodless hand from below the desk and indicated the chair before him with a courtly gesture.

Kennedy walked to the proffered chair with a firm tread, the gait of a man who has confidence in his credentials. Looking at Jennings he became aware of a pale inquisitional gleam behind the glasses.

‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr Kennedy?’ Jennings said.

‘Well, I have just arrived from England, sir,’ Kennedy said, in his best manner. ‘And I was wondering what the opportunities for employment in your institute were.’

‘Ah, yes, I see.’ The Director raised his upper lip slightly in a mild snarl. ‘This is rather an unusual juncture in the academic ah, session, to be seeking a teaching post. We conduct our recruiting normally at the beginning of the year. Not the end.’

‘Yes, I realise that, sir, and of course I know the diploma examinations are quite close upon us now, but circumstances, family circumstances, made it impossible for me …’

‘You are qualified, of course?’

‘Yes, I think I may say that I am qualified.’ Kennedy smiled modestly.

‘I mean, to put it in a more precisely delineated fashion, have you a degree?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Kennedy said, without hesitation. The lie agitated him a little, but Jennings paused at this point and lifting from the tray a brown earthenware teapot poured out tea into a blue willow-pattern cup, added milk and tweezered three lumps of sugar into it.

‘You will excuse me, I hope,’ he enunciated, stirring. ‘This is all I take for lunch. The worst thing you can do in this country is to have a heavy lunch. It induces a feeling of somnolence, a certain disinclination. …’ He snarled again, rather hideously. His teeth looked very false.

‘Quite so,’ Kennedy said, his eyes on the steaming tea. ‘The cup that cheers,’ he said. Jennings made no reply to this, but continued stirring for some moments, his eyes lowered. Kennedy wrenched his gaze from the tea things and looked round the room. On the cream walls were pictures of people with complex abdominal structures inhabiting some sort of inferno, and other pictures of what looked like undergrowth, with tuberous objects tangled up in it. In one corner was a marble bust of some personage with a Balkan moustache. While Kennedy watched, a fly settled on the bald head and began to crawl diagonally across it. From the open window behind Jennings, voices came up from the square, a sudden jangle of music, and more or less continually the urgent clamour of tyres as cars went on swerving round too fast. In a bookcase against the wall were books by people he had never heard of, Eckersley, Hornby, Gaterby, Glover: Essential English for Overseas Students, Basic English for Students from Abroad, Fundamental English for Foreign Students.

Looking back towards the desk he saw that Jennings had been following his gaze with what might have been an access of interest.

‘You are interested in Structures?’ Jennings said.

‘Very much so.’

‘I am writing a book about it. For anyone who considers grammar carefully, Mr Kennedy, there is a way of life to be found in it. A whole philosophy.’

Kennedy maintained a respectful silence for some moments, then he said, ‘I have some testimonials with me, if you would care to see them.’

‘Tell me,’ Jennings said, ‘do you adhere to the direct method in your teaching, or are you of those who believe that a certain knowledge of the students’ mother tongue is necessary?’

‘I’m all for the direct method, myself,’ Kennedy said promptly. ‘I think that when you come right down to it, direct methods are always best.’ In saying this he felt at least morally unassailable. They were shortbread biscuits, he noted. Jennings must have been nibbling one before he came in because there were crumbs on the lapels of his dark suit. ‘I’ve only been in the country a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘It’s a tiring journey, rather.’ He attempted a laughing tone. ‘They don’t give you much breakfast on these boats. Well, you know what these wogs are. All I had this morning was one of these cups of Turkish coffee. A couple of mouthfuls. And most of that was sediment.’ Surely now a buzzer would be pressed, an extra cup summoned.

‘Everything lies, of course, in the examples you choose,’ Jennings said. ‘If you had to explain the difference, let us say, between the Past Simple and Present Perfect tenses, how would you go about it?’

You old bastard, Kennedy thought. He had started sweating again. ‘I would need notice of that question,’ he said, aiming at a jocular, parliamentary tone.

‘But what examples would you take?’

Kennedy was unable to reply to this and for some time the two looked fixedly at each other across the desk.

‘I lived in Tibet. I have lived in Tibet,’ Jennings intoned at last. ‘The one describing an action completed in the past, the other describing an action in some way related to the present. I don’t think we can offer you a post here, Mr Kennedy.’

Kennedy made a motion towards his wallet. ‘I have a number of testimonials with me,’ he said, ‘as to my character and so forth, which you might like to see.’ He had provided himself with a set of secondary testimonials, people who had actually known him, to whom written reference could be made, though he had calculated he would be well out of Athens before any of the replies could be received: a ship’s doctor at sea for half the year; an ex-army major now an alcoholic of no fixed address; a retired headmaster who had died of a stroke while gardening; all of them, despite delirium and even death, asserting Kennedy’s brilliant gifts. Much care and concern for the concordance of style with character had gone into these compositions, and to see Jennings greedily reading them would have given him joy.

‘That will not be necessary, at this stage,’ Jennings said. ‘There are at the moment, in any case, no vacancies at the institute. None whatever.’

Kennedy met the pale eyes again. It seemed to him that their gleam had intensified. Jennings had never meant to employ him, then. Not at any time during the interview. Chatting thus with odd visitors was evidently one of his ways of passing the time. ‘I see,’ he said, and stood up.

‘Before you leave, call at my assistant’s office, will you?’ said Jennings, without moving. ‘His room is next to mine. He can give you a list of the commercial institutes in the city. In one or other of those you might conceivably find yourself a place.’

‘That is very good of you,’ Kennedy said, pausing at the door. His eyebrows felt charged with moisture. The insolence which was never far below the surface rose in him. ‘I want to thank you for your invaluable assistance and advice, old boy,’ he said loudly. ‘To a fellow countryman, just off the boat. To say nothing of the offer of refreshment,’ he added, lowering his head slightly. From this angle Jennings’ glasses reflected the light strongly. Kennedy closed the door rather sharply behind him.

The name of the assistant director was Robinson. He was a tall, thin man with close-set brown eyes, a boyish hair-do and a watered-silk bow tie of pale blue. He had a rather spurious briskness of manner, and a way of making his face go shrewd from time to time.

‘You want the list then?’ he said forcefully, after Kennedy had spent some time explaining that he wanted the list. ‘Well, to put you in the picture, we don’t guarantee the quality of these places. We merely provide the information. You must bear in mind that they are all commercial institutes.’

Kennedy nodded. He had come to the conclusion that there was nothing much to hope for from the Cultural Centre, and so was not disposed to be deferential. ‘You mean they aim to make a profit?’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s only common sense.’

‘That is not how we look at it,’ Robinson said. He tapped his teeth with a pencil. ‘Do you play the English flute, by the way?’ he said.

‘The English flute?’

Robinson narrowed his eyes shrewdly. ‘It is sometimes called the recorder,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘We have musical evenings — Wednesday evenings. There is a good deal of musical ability in the British community here. The person who played the English flute has gone to Chile. We were sorry to lose him.’

‘Yes,’ Kennedy said, ‘I can see he must have left a gap.’

‘Here you are then,’ Robinson said, handing him a typewritten list.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you a degree, by the way?’

‘Yes.’

‘What class?’

Kennedy fought briefly with temptation and won. ‘Second,’ he said.

‘I’m getting up a series of weekly lectures through the summer, starting next week actually. People talking on their own subjects. Greeks are invited too, anyone can come. That’s the idea really, liaison with the Greeks, cultural liaison. I regard myself as a cultural liaison officer. There is a woman coming to talk about her childhood in British India, her father dispensed justice at the gates of Jawnpore, it should be very good. Then there’s an extremely able man coming to talk about the “Harley Lyrics”. Wetherby Croft, perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

‘Of course.’

‘We still have some vacant dates. Is there something you know a bit about, in that way?’

‘It is paid, I suppose?’

‘There is a fee, yes.’

‘Never do anything for nothing,’ Kennedy said. ‘I took that in with my mother’s milk.’ He thought for a moment. He could not afford to turn up any prospect of money. ‘My special subject,’ he said, ‘is modern poetry.’

Robinson’s face went shrewd again. ‘Who would you consider,’ he said, ‘to be the most representative of modern poets?’

‘Well, let’s see now,’ Kennedy said, already regretting his rashness. ‘When you say representative …’ During his frequent and prolonged spells of unemployment he had read quite widely and he knew the big names. ‘There’s Auden and Eliot and Dylan Thomas,’ he said.

‘Ah, yes, but I was not thinking so much of that generation. Two of them are dead, and the other is an old man now with his main achievements perhaps behind him.’

There was a fairly lengthy pause.

‘Philip Larkin,’ Kennedy said.

‘Yes,’ Robinson said. ‘Larkin, of course, yes.’ He nodded encouragingly.

‘Malcom Rutherford,’ Kennedy said experimentally. Seeing that Robinson continued to nod, he added rapidly, ‘Iris Swann, Oberon Peel, Maxmilian Winter.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Robinson, giving at each name a little nod. Something had crept into his expression, however, a sort of anxiety.

‘Jennifer Poole.’ Kennedy was beginning to enjoy himself. Suddenly he remembered another real poet. ‘Ted Hughes,’ he said. ‘And there’s Gilligan, of course. We mustn’t leave him out.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Robinson, ceasing to nod. A silence fell. Robinson looked briefly out of the window. ‘I wouldn’t place him so centrally, myself,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Gilligan.’

‘Oh, wouldn’t you? More outside the main stream, as you might say?’

‘Yes, that’s it exactly. Well, all this has been most interesting, Mr Kennedy. No doubt we shall be getting in touch with you later on. You’ve got the list, haven’t you? Oh, and by the way, if you want any help on the more, er, practical aspects of living here, there’s a very useful person down at the institute. His name is Willey, John Willey. He has been on our staff several years now, though only on a locally employed basis. He could probably help you with accommodation and so forth.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Go any time after five and you’ll find him there. He is there every evening.’

Kennedy said goodbye politely. The sense of having scored heavily off Robinson had restored his temper. His suitcase was still against the wall, and Sophy was still at her desk.

‘I’d like you to have lunch with me,’ Kennedy said.