3

Yannis enjoyed his visits to the Victoria Market as the best part of his work. The bustle of vendors and buyers excited him and made him feel that he belonged and was respected. He liked everything: the earliness of the day and the bargaining; the cries of ‘out of the way’ as barrows and hand trucks were pushed through the crowd; the hamburger stands; the crated fowl in the poultry section; the sparrows; the mountains of fresh vegetables and the open cases of fruit.

He derived pleasure from the Chinese and Italian growers who rubbed shoulders as equals with the local men; from the sunlight streaming in between the stalls on the puddles of rain and the shiny oilskins of the truck drivers; from the casual greetings and the enquiries of ‘how’s she going?’ He loved the dawn cafes with their clamour and steam and with newsboys dashing between the tables; the incessant ringing of bells, honking of horns, shouting of prices, laughing and cursing. He breathed it in hungrily—to him it was life. His favourite piece of literature was the fifty-year-old signboard setting out the bye-laws and regulations for stallholders.

But what he liked most of all was to drink in a certain public house which opened its door illegally to specially recommended long-distance drivers and early traders, when other hotels were still conventionally shut. This was an honour that did not come to everybody, and a kind of freemasonry went with it. Access to the place was gained through a warehouse yard and a passageway of corrugated iron fencing. There was not much risk because the police had not raided it for years, but the men who frequented this pub had a pleasant sense of comradeship and shared adventure.

Today it was especially good because it was his wedding morning. His friends were slapping him on the back, calling him a poor bastard, making well-meaning jokes at his expense and expecting him to stand them drinks. Most of them knew that he was not doing well and was operating on an overdraft, so they let him off lightly.

Among the customers leaning up against the bar were a few Greeks who had earned the privilege by being old residents and good fellows. Two of these were his particular mates.

Paul Stephanou was an elderly market gardener from Keilor who still brought his produce in once a week. He shared Yannis’ love for football, and was a selector with him and a leading light in the Salamis F.C., of which Alexis Joannides was President. Constantinos Farmakides, an ingrown bachelor, made a good thing out of handling special lines like artichokes, kolokassi and red cabbages for the restaurants. He belonged to the same political club as Yannis, being the manager of Kypros. He had a reputation as a radical and an individualist. He had never made a secret of his admiration for EOKA and it was said that he was trying to shape his walrus moustache to resemble Colonel Grivas’.

‘Meet a friend from our country,’ Constantinos said to Yannis. ‘Criton, this is Mr Joannides.’

A slight, swarthy-looking young man held his hand out formally. ‘Very pleased to meet you. I already have the pleasure of being acquainted with your wife, though she does not know my name. We arrived on the same boat, last week. May I offer my congratulations?’ His voice was soft and well modulated.

‘Good, good,’ Yannis said. ‘And how are things at home?’ The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Neither good nor bad, but on the whole more bad than good.’ He drew a finger across his moustache, looking straight at Yannis.

‘Criton finished the Gymnasium only last year,’ Constantinos explained indulgently. ‘You can see he’s an intellectual. You are, Criton, aren’t you? An intellectual?’

Criton turned and gazed at him thoughtfully, estimating whether it was meant as banter. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

The word Gymnasium produced an unpleasant reaction in Yannis’ mind. Like leaves prematurely shaken from a tree, the Nicosia students had been swept up in the fight for independence; this was clear even from the censored newspaper reports. He looked on their doings with suspicion: daughters and sons of the bourgeoisie, dabbling in romantic politics instead of using the advantages of their education to help the people.

Criton seemed able to read his thoughts. ‘Mr Farmakides is mistaken. I want to work with my hands, if I can.’

Paul Stephanou, the market gardener, put down his glass and looked at him quizzically. ‘But Constantinos says you’re also an artist?’

‘I draw,’ Criton answered.

‘And he plays soccer,’ Farmakides added. ‘He was a reserve winger with Apoel, at home. A junior, of course.’

‘Well,’ Yannis said, ‘as to football you’ve come to the right man. But I suppose you want a job?’

Paul Stephanou grinned into his beer. ‘Why is it so important to work with your hands, young man? It isn’t like that in Australia. There’s no shortage of workers.’

‘His papers aren’t quite in order,’ Constantinos said gently.

Criton was smiling again. ‘They are and they are not. They’re all right as far as my landing permit is concerned. The trouble lies somewhere else.’

Yannis guessed what he was driving at. Migrants from the island had their documents issued through Athens, and in addition a good-conduct certificate was required from the Cyprus authorities. There was something likeable, though, about this young man. He was probably not cynical but only shy. And being shy himself, Yannis felt more friendly.

‘Then the problem,’ suggested Paul, ‘is that you think you’ll be safer as a labourer? That’s possible. But unless you’ve murdered someone, I wouldn’t worry too much.’

‘I haven’t murdered anybody,’ Criton said.

‘You don’t look like a murderer,’ Paul agreed. ‘I should imagine you’re better with a pen than with a gun.’

‘This is the point,’ Constantinos put in. ‘He draws well; I’ve seen what he can do. He’s clever. He doesn’t have to rupture himself to make a living. Yannis, have a talk with your brother. He’ll fix him up with something suitable. Tell him he plays football.’

‘Not a bad idea, Yannis,’ said Paul. ‘Your brother can only say no.’

They were standing a little apart from the rest of his friends, and Yannis was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There were others drinking his beer. He ought to mix with them. ‘I can do that, naturally,’ he said, ‘if that’s what our friend wants. Can you meet me at the club sometime?’

‘Your home is your club now,’ Paul remonstrated jovially.

Criton arranged to see Yannis towards the end of the following week. He had undertaken to go to Shepparton with an orchardist who had offered him a fortnight’s work and a chance to see something of the countryside; he explained that he did not like to go back on his word. Yannis offered to let him load his truck for him. He did not need much help but thought it would be auspicious, on this day of all days, to put a few shillings in the way of a countryman. Later, however, when his old and peeling utility had been stacked high and he took out his purse to pay, Criton excused himself and said he could not accept money for such a small service. It left Yannis momentarily perplexed, but he decided that it was to the young fellow’s credit, and did not insist.

When he returned home shortly after eight, Mrs McNamara was hosing down the shop. She was a slight, motherly Australian woman in her sixties, lately widowed, who worked with him for a few hours every day without the knowledge of the Pensions Department. It had been arranged that until Anna had settled in she would make herself useful to her upstairs. Possessed of a placid temperament, but active and curious, Mrs McNamara knew better than her employer how to do those small things that were profitable, like placing a few panniers of early strawberries just outside the shop door and keeping some tissue paper handy to wrap up fruit that was beginning to go soft. She called Yannis Johnny and had taught him to call her Mrs Mac. She, too, had protested at the idea of no honeymoon.

‘Your wife’s up already,’ she announced. ‘Wouldn’t let me do the breakfast. You had better watch out. And a bloke came from your brother with the presents.’

Yannis found Anna in the kitchen, dressed in a blue summer frock she had kept back for this morning. She looked fresh and rested and was singing a song he had not heard for fifteen years. The smell of coffee and of eggs frying welcomed him. He kissed her and sat down contentedly.

The presents that Alexis’ man had brought round were already unpacked. Alexis and Elena had given some jewellery for Anna and a lot of expensive china. Mama had given Anna one of her remaining heirlooms, a Turkish shawl, which would show off her milk-white complexion. Among the other gifts one stood out. This was an icon of the Three Theologians, in a silver-chased frame, beautifully made and rather rare, the gift of the Barwings, to which the Professor had attached a note. Yannis did not want religious ornaments in his house and he hoped that, after a while, Anna would also stop wanting them. The Professor’s note would need a personal answer. Fortunately Anna was no illiterate. She wrote Greek quite well but not a word of English, except her signature.

He ate quickly and carelessly. He knew that his table manners were bad, but under his own roof he would do as he pleased. He observed how Anna ate. Like himself, she held her cup in both hands. She made a slight noise drinking. He had been afraid that she might make him uncomfortable in his own four walls, but was afraid no longer. She was fond of singing … He also liked music but had no voice. He thought of the night and spoke little.

Anna, too, ate in silence.

It was only now that she realised that the half-dream of the first week was over. She was serving her husband’s meal, and he had a good appetite. She was watching the movement of his mouth and chin. His lips were very red, as if stained with cherry juice. Two solitary hairs grew from his mole and dark hair was also growing in his ears. She had often cut her brother’s hair and she hoped Yannis would let her cut his; then he could not object to her using tweezers on the hair on his mole.

She filled his cup for a second time and said that Elena had sent word to say that her lost cross had not been found. She asked his permission to get Mrs Mac to telephone the church to see if it had been picked up there. But he shook his head and told her to leave it to him.

For the rest of the morning Anna was wandering in and out of the shop and upstairs again, looking at the fruit, in the Frigidaire and the boxes in the storeroom, and inspecting the shed at the far end of a dried and cracked small rectangle of lawn. She was wondering what could be made to grow here. She made a list of supplies that she needed for the kitchen and questioned Mrs Mac about prices. Her English was halting but she made herself understood. Sometimes, away from Yannis, she found herself standing by a window, looking at nothing in particular, or turning the ring on her finger. Before lunch she saw him go out.

When Yannis got to the church, Father Spyridon was in his office reading the Greek papers and picking his teeth.

‘Sit down, my boy,’ he greeted him. ‘I have been expecting you. We’ve found something which I believe belongs to your little Anna.’

He smiled, pulled the lost cross from under his cassock and laid it on the table.

The familiar way of address and the priest’s reference to Anna by her first name displeased Yannis. Undoubtedly she had gone to confess to this man, and the idea that she had shown him secrets which were closed to him was grating. He took the cross and thanked Father Spyridon, but did not sit down. He felt unreasonably provoked. That he had got married in his church did not entitle this papas to take a patronizing attitude.

‘I see you’re reading Eleftheria,’ he said, looking down with a cold smile. ‘I’ve been too busy to go through it yet. Has it already got the story of the Sydney communal elections?’

‘Naturally it has,’ the priest said.

‘And what’s the outcome, if one may ask?’

Yannis knew the outcome, but he would enjoy hearing it from Father Spyridon. The elections had taken place over the week-end and had resulted in a rebuff for the new Archbishop.

Father Spyridon cracked his toothpick thoughtfully.

‘Really, you don’t know? I imagine you would have heard before me.’

Half trapped in a falsehood, Yannis shrugged.

‘Yes,’ the priest said. ‘The figures are not very conclusive. On the whole they can be called a victory for …’ He was looking for a word that would not be too harsh and yet would express his disapproval. ‘A victory for prejudice,’ he concluded with a frown.

‘That means the Archbishop’s list has won?’ Yannis said drily. ‘I find it surprising.’

‘No, my boy. There was no such list. His Grace does not interfere in politics. Your lads have come out on top, more or less.’

‘Then what you mean is that prejudice has lost,’ Yannis said firmly, watching Father Spyridon’s soft hands, which a writer in Alexis’ paper had described as ‘gentle’.

‘I mean it won,’ the priest repeated. ‘But it’s not important either way. Elections are mainly about money, don’t you agree? Money doesn’t change anything. Endowments, funds … it all amounts to nothing. Whereas the whole world is crying out …’ He turned his hands up as if the answer to the world’s cry were hidden beneath them.

‘True,’ Yannis said. ‘It is crying out. It wants peace and bread …’

‘And love,’ Father Spyridon put in.

‘And love. But before it wants love it wants bread. So it comes back to politics. Whom you call our lads, they are the ones to understand about love. Love and bread,’ he repeated with relish, savouring the sound of the slogan. ‘Of course. Love and bread. Things are going well in Sydney.’

Father Spyridon’s patience was wearing thinner. He was not a meek man and he felt that Yannis was taking advantage of him; perhaps he was counting on his brother’s popularity.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘what do you know about love? That’s a big word, believe me. Love! It’s very big … It’s a great deal bigger than politics and the kind of love you are talking about.’ He decided not to become angry. ‘I forgot, you’re a husband now, a householder. I am sorry. Maybe there are some things about love that you know and I don’t.’

Yannis chose to take this as an insult. The pent-up tension of the last few weeks had not yet found full release. He retorted:

‘If your reverence please to leave my personal affairs out of the discussion … Thank you.’

‘What?’ the other said, taken aback.

‘To leave my personal affairs out,’ Yannis said again, more loudly. He had made ‘reverence’ sound peculiarly insinuating.

‘Indeed? You want me to leave them out?’ said Father Spyridon, who had not intended to include them. ‘And why, if one is permitted to enquire?’

‘Because they concern only myself.’

‘I see! You think they concern only yourself. Then I will tell you that it is not so. Nobody’s personal affairs concern only himself. That goes for you too.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘Whether you agree or not, they concern all believers. What you and I do affects all.’

‘Please explain,’ Yannis said. He was still standing in front of the table.

‘I will.’ Father Spyridon’s voice was trembling slightly. He had not wished to say what he was going to say, and something within him warned him that it was a mistake. ‘The smallest thing affects others. Even how a person dresses. It can be good or it can be bad.’

Now Yannis was taken aback. ‘What’s wrong with the way I dress?’

‘Nothing in particular. Not with your dress.’

‘So …?’

‘If you really wish to know, I did not very much like the way your bride was attired yesterday. Would your mother have approved if she could see?’ He raised his hand to the level of his chest. ‘Too low. I know it is the fashion, but it’s not right. Not for a wedding. It’s disrespectful to the Church and to womanhood … Yes, and to me,’ he concluded, dropping his hand.

Yannis could have struck him. It was unjust, and injustice was what he hated most. He had forgotten that it was he who had first started the baiting: for a few seconds he was speechless. All he could bring out when he found words was ‘Ah, you Kalimafki! You stove-pipe hat!’

Father Spyridon had never worn a Kalimafki in public since coming to Australia. The insult did not smart.

‘Consider it reasonably,’ he began once more. ‘Our women are exposed to a thousand temptations. The Church has to try to set an example. A girl arrives from home, she’s brought up in the old way; people expect her to have modesty. I don’t blame your wife, of course,’ he added in a conciliatory tone. ‘An excellent girl.’

For Yannis, this was the last straw.

‘God curse you,’ he said with deep-felt bitterness. ‘Neither she nor I will ever darken the door of your church again. You talk about modesty? You?’ He laughed scornfully, as if the old man was a famous rake. ‘Modesty! You imagine you’re still living in the middle ages, and I suppose as far as you’re concerned, you are.’

He leaned against the table, searching for a final epithet, but too angry to find one. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘you’ll never amount to anything in the Church! You’ve got as far as you’ll ever get! What can a married priest become? Just a Kalimafki! You should have controlled your appetites … Modesty! My wife may dress as she likes.’

Father Spyridon was eager to limit the mischief. But he had no chance. Yannis had withdrawn to the door and from there launched his last attack.

‘People like you bring misfortune. They always have, right through history.’ But this was too solemn. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I advise you to let your beard grow. A miserable tuft like yours doesn’t bring much profit. Let it grow to here’—he touched the region of his belt—‘and see if you don’t get better tips. I know a papas in Sydney who’s got a decent footsack, and every time he holds out his paw they drop him a fiver.’

He went out, considering himself avenged.

For the next week or two Yannis was not in his club, though he was itching to tell his version of the interview. Anna’s needs were keeping him occupied.

He had enrolled her in an English class for women, run by a Greek association in the city. Anna had enjoyed the first two lessons. He drove her down after work and fetched her again in the utility, and on the way back they would stop at some small café for an espresso or an ice-cream. Anna would discuss the teacher and her fellow students, one of whom had been on her boat and was waiting to be married. This led her to her family and her village, sometimes talking sadly and sometimes with animation, while Yannis, unused to women, listened and thought that she must have had a happy childhood. She had a picture, taken when she was small, the work of a travelling photographer, in which she appeared surrounded by her sisters, a serious, business-like little creature with thin legs and an intent expression.

On the first Friday after the wedding he took her to a night soccer game at the Showgrounds, where Salamis was playing in the preliminary match. There she saw a new side of Yannis’ character. Dozens of people knew him, Greeks as well as others, who filled the stand of the long, arc-lit arena. Pale and silent at first, he suddenly burst into shouting, and at half-time had simply left her and went down among the team to praise, abuse and advise. For the next fifty minutes he was never silent. Anna knew nothing about football, but the atmosphere was jolly, if somewhat frightening.

She asked him to let her accompany him to the Market. He refused: the Market, he insisted, was not for women. The truth was that he did not want her there, because this was a part of his life he did not wish to share. But on the first Sunday, ignoring the fact that they were invited to dine with his family, he made Anna prepare a hamper and drove her on a long outing to a beach near Mornington, and from there to Arthur’s Seat. The weather turned showery in the afternoon, he somehow managed to lose his way, and the fine view right across the Bay was obscured by mist.

Anna guessed that such expeditions were not really to Yannis’ taste. His driving made her nervous. She returned with a headache; the day had been a failure.

Criton phoned soon after to say he was back, and Yannis arranged to introduce him to Alexis at his brother’s club. It was a place to which he rarely went, because it belonged to the Cretans. Gambling was heavy there and food expensive, but a few of the more well-to-do Cypriots frequented it as tolerated outsiders. The club had a slightly unpleasant reputation—he had heard that it was sometimes used for assignations.

It was situated in a lane off Lonsdale Street. When Yannis approached there were the customary knots of young Greeks on the pavement outside the restaurants, joking together, arguing and talking about politics and women. They spent whole hours like this, or studying the notices in the windows advertising Greek films or meetings. When girls passed they would politely get out of the way, but smile ironically. A handsome boy with the languid movements of a hermaphrodite was selling vernacular newspapers.

The weather had changed with the abruptness of Melbourne caprice. A cool wind was arriving from the south, driving away the humid closeness. The temperature had dropped by twenty degrees in a few minutes and, though still warm, the evening air was as refreshing as a bath.

But inside the packed and smoky club it was still hot. Shirt-sleeved men were drinking coffee and retsina was served in plain cups. Near the curtained plate-glass window members were crowded round the tables watching others play tavli. The clatter of the small dice and the determined planking down of the stones made a familiar, homely noise. Further back, near the kitchen, a second room opened to the right, separated by a green plush curtain. Here men were playing dice and Greek rummy. The press was even more dense but, as always where there is gambling, talk was subdued.

Criton was already waiting. A sports coat flung casually over his shoulders, he was standing against a wall under the portrait of King Paul, a half-empty glass in one hand. Under his free arm he carried a large folder. Yannis, walking through from the street, thought that he looked even darker than at their first meeting; the up-country sun had tanned his skin. As he stood there he was studying the expression of a large-faced, heavily built and completely bald man in whose enormous hands the beaker with the dice nearly disappeared. This man was professionally known as Leonidas, the Lion of Sparta.

The Lion of Sparta was a wrestler who had dominated the Australian circuit as long as people could think back. He came from Crete and long ago had been a seaman. The extravagant mobility of his features compensated for a comparative absence of speech. He was not naturally taciturn but his voice was unduly high-pitched. In anyone else this would have mattered little, but in a wrestler it was ridiculous, yet common enough, since the gods often avenge themselves in this way on men of great strength. His real name was Papadopoulos. His friends called him Daddy, and when he was not busy as a fighter he earned his bread as guard and confidential messenger to Alexis Joannides, his employer, promoter and Maecenas. Daddy Papadopoulos was a passionate gambler, but because he was passionate he was unlucky and lost more than he won, which made him a popular opponent.

Yannis went up to Criton and ordered coffee for both of them. They talked for a while about the work in Shepparton. Criton said that he was just beginning to get used to it when it came to an end, but Yannis got the impression that he was pleased to be back. The young man replied to his questions carefully, taking time over his answers and looking straight into his eyes.

Half an hour later Alexis came in, in the company of Mr Kondos, the editor of Eleftheria, a curly-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses and the air of a barrister. Daddy, upon the entry of his master, wanted to stop playing, but Alexis motioned him to carry on. The two newcomers settled down at Yannis’ table and he made the introductions.

Alexis was in extremely good spirits. During the afternoon he had received a cable from New York, clinching two deals: one for the importation of a new gladiator, an American-born Greek with the fame of a marvellous showman, and the other for a singer from Greece, Maritsa, a famous diseuse of the Athens cabarets who was actually a refugee with a Hungarian accent. The wrestler and the artiste would make their Australian début in the Festival Hall on Independence Day in March. It was a coup.

Yannis had already mentioned to his brother what he wanted him to do for Criton. He had warned him to be tactful, but Alexis began by asking him straight out for his views on the political situation in Cyprus.

Criton countered by suggesting that the editor of Eleftheria was better informed than he, to which Mr Kondos responded with a smile that showed a prominent gold tooth. Criton, in the same aloof manner which Yannis had noted before, added that he did not think he could write well on politics. Cultural affairs were what interested him; therefore he would understand it if Mr Joannides had no offer to make. He went on, underlining his words with a deprecating gesture of his beautiful hands, that he had won a few prizes for essays and poetry.

Yannis watched his brother closely. The young man, unknowingly, had struck the right note: the way to appeal to Alexis was to show independence, since it always challenged him to overcome it. His respect for intellect was genuine, fortified by his experience that talent rarely put a good price on itself.

‘I am told you sketch,’ he said. ‘May I see?’

Without waiting for permission he leaned over and took up the folder which Criton had laid on the table, opened it and picked up a sheet. Yannis bent forward and saw that it was a charcoal drawing of two monks in a village street, looking down the road at nothing in particular. It was a curious little picture which, for no obvious reason, made one smile. Kondos, having been handed the sketch, wiped his lips, removed his spectacles and held it close to his eyes.

‘Monks,’ he said. ‘Good.’

The second drawing was a nude. Alexis stared at it hard because the subject, whoever she was, was not young and comely. She could have been a peasant. The head was partly averted but from the figure it was clear that it represented a middle-aged woman. Her stance suggested a certain lassitude, but the lines were firm.

‘Who’s the model?’ Kondos queried.

‘Nobody. It’s chiefly from imagination, so to speak.’

Alexis shot him a quick glance and turned the sheet over. On the back was a pencil sketch of a donkey foal, rolling on his back. Most of the other drawings in the folder were of animals, but one showed the rear view of a policeman on a horse, irreverently.

‘How good are you with cartoons?’ asked Alexis.

‘I’ve done some caricatures,’ Criton admitted, ‘but I have lost them.’

‘Do you work fast?’

‘Fairly fast, if I have to.’

‘Well, could you do a quick sketch of our friend there?’ Alexis nodded in the direction of Daddy Papadopoulos, whose game had come to an end and who was now sitting by himself watching them morosely from the next table, his chin resting in his heavy palm.

Criton drew out an empty sheet and borrowed a pencil from Yannis. Looking only fleetingly at the subject and licking his moustache occasionally as he worked, he produced a sketch in a few minutes. Papadopoulos had not stirred or given any sign of awareness.

Alexis began to chuckle and then, throwing himself back in his chair, to laugh loudly. Criton had drawn the Lion of Sparta in such a way that his whole face was borne down by his naked dome, like the stem of a mushroom by its umbrella, squeezing eyes, nose and mouth into the lower portion. He had caught completely the child-like petulance and autonomous existence of the eyebrows. The piece was unkind but arresting, and the more startling because nobody had told him that the sitter was a professional wrestler.

Daddy reached across and said: ‘Let’s have a look …’

As he studied his portrait his bored expression gradually vanished. He scratched his head, let out a disgusted hiss and then returned it. Criton gave him a placatory wink but received no response.

Kondos said: ‘That’s not bad. If you could also supply a drawing now and then for our advertisers, we might do something together. What do you think, Alex?’

‘I’d like to see how he can write,’ Alexis said. ‘This is what I suggest. You’ve just been up the country. Do us a story about Shepparton and put in a couple of sketches, perhaps of a Greek fish shop. We’ll pay for it in any case, and if we like it we’ll have another talk and work something out. What do you say?’

‘I can do that.’

‘All right. Don’t make it too clever, though.’ He rolled up the sketch of the Lion of Sparta and gave it to the editor.

‘I’ll pay for that one too,’ he said. ‘We might use it some day.’ Turning to Papadopoulos, he said banteringly: ‘You have no objections, Daddy?’

The wrestler said: ‘Of course I have. This is a nasty picture.’

‘Don’t be so touchy,’ said Alexis. ‘It’s quite flattering. I’ve just told them that I’m bringing Johnny Zavallis over from the States to fight here. I’ll match you with him. You can take it out of him, then.’

‘Zavallis?’ Daddy said. ‘I’ve seen pictures of Zavallis. He is half my size. He’ll get killed and you’ll have wasted your money.’

‘You will kill him?’ Kondos said, smiling round the table.

‘He’ll more likely kill you,’ Alexis said. ‘He’s younger.’

Yannis was beginning to feel ill at ease. He did not like provocative exchanges.

‘Nobody will get killed,’ he said. ‘It’s all a fake, anyway.’

‘Try it sometime,’ the Cretan said sombrely.

‘Let’s play a little, now we’re here,’ Kondos, who was a sophisticated gambler, suggested. He knew that Alexis, in his expansive mood, would have no objection.

‘I’ll play with this artist,’ Daddy said, becoming suddenly animated. With a gesture he invited Criton to sit down with him. ‘Let us see how good his courage is.’

Criton was about to say that he never played dice and had no money, but Alexis forestalled him. ‘This is for the sketch,’ he said, taking three pounds from his wallet and pushing them into Criton’s hand. ‘You must give him a chance to take a little from you for drawing him like that.’ He expected that beginner’s luck would help the newcomer to win.

Yannis settled down to play tavli with the editor while Criton and Daddy Papadopoulos were throwing dice. Alexis sat between the two tables, straddling a reversed chair. He still felt carefree and relaxed.

Criton’s mind was not on what he was doing. He would have preferred to watch the others and take in the atmosphere, for the company of older men, especially of strangers, excited him. He could not afford to lose because all he had in the world was nine pounds, including the three from Alexis, and he was anxious to pay two weeks in advance for his room in Port Melbourne, recommended to him by a lorry driver. The best thing would be to go home and start thinking about the article. He had not told Alexis that he had brought back more than a dozen rough sketches from his trip. Mostly they showed men working. This, next to animals, was his favourite theme.

He was looking for a chance to end the game but others were gathering around the table. They recognised him as an amateur from the way he rattled the dice. His absentminded playing annoyed Daddy, who saw in it more arrogance. Criton was losing, but careless losing always takes the pleasure out of winning. When Criton threw a double six Daddy congratulated him sardonically.

Suddenly there was a commotion near the door. ‘Police!’ said a clear Australian voice. From the front room came the scraping of chairs and the noise of many men rising and speaking together.

‘Police again,’ said the waiter who was just then coming through from the kitchen. Passing between the tables he glanced resignedly at Yannis. ‘Another raid. They’ve been round the clubs like flies for a whole week now.’

The guests in the partitioned section sat quietly for a few moments, listening. Then, with a common instinct, they left their seats and made a rush for the kitchen; all except Kondos and Alexis who, paying no attention to anyone, had got up and entered the front room on which a strange silence had now descended. Yannis hesitated only briefly before joining the stampede in the opposite direction. He had nothing to fear or to hide, but he wanted no dealings with the police, least of all in this club, away from his home ground. Running through the pantry unpursued he caught up with Criton, who had snatched up his jacket and folder to flee with the rest, some half a dozen gamblers in their shirt sleeves. To the right, amidst a clatter of falling dishes, an unseen man was laughing as if he were being tickled. Papadopoulos was coming up behind Criton, carrying a handful of small change and one of the dice and cursing in his falsetto like a depraved child. The proprietor pushed past, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

The club was located on the ground level of an old three-storey building. On the floor above were offices and a meeting hall. Higher up still were the workrooms of a continental tailor. Criton was suddenly alone at the bottom of the stairs with no idea which way the others had run. He was looking for an exit to the back, but there did not seem to be one. Nobody was following him.

Cautiously he walked up the stairs. Orientating himself by the sound of water trickling in a cistern he came at last to a lavatory on the second landing. The door was not locked. He entered and shot the latch. Sitting down on the seat he pulled out a cigarette. Everything was silent. He was angry with himself for running away. It was time to stop running.

Feeling for matches in his coat pocket, Criton’s hand touched something heavy and metallic. He drew it out and held it in front of him, breathing hard. It was a revolver. Somebody had slipped it into his pocket in the rush down there … it could have been Daddy. Or a complete stranger. In the darkness he could hear the beating of his own heart.

He made sure the door was securely locked and, when his fingers were steady, struck a match. The revolver was new, stub-nosed and short. There was nothing to identify it except the name of the maker, engraved on the butt—Steyr. The match flickered and went out; he lit another. The safety-catch was on. When the second match had burned nearly to his fingers, he lit his cigarette from it and by its glow pulled down the cartridge slide. Coppery, a single bullet shone in his palm. He replaced it and pushed the slide back. The gun was clean and Criton could smell the oil. This was a piece of bad luck. He felt like crying.

For several minutes he sat, wondering what to do and afraid to go down. At last he wiped the weapon with his handkerchief and wrapped it in a torn page of newspaper which was lying on the floor. Climbing up on the seat he pushed back the lid of the cistern, taking care to make no noise. He explored with his right hand and could feel sludge against his thumb, and then the water, up to the plunger. If he put it there the gun would interfere with the working of the cistern and they would find it in the morning. Something warned him against letting this happen. He stretched higher and followed the pipe with his hand. Under the ceiling it looped round a beam, making a small space. Nobody seemed to have touched it for a long time, for grime and dust lay thick. He let the parcel drop softly into the shelf-like cavity and dried his hands.

When he came down the club itself lay in darkness. Only in the kitchen the lights were still on. Somebody was cleaning up. A man and a woman were talking in Greek. He noticed that behind the stairs was a door which before he had taken for a cabinet. The light from a lamp in the lane fell through the chinks. He tried it, and was in the open.

At the corner Yannis stood talking to Mr Kondos and to another man whom he did not know. Seeing him coming, they called Criton over. Kondos was making fun of the raid. In his view the gaming squad was in one of its inexplicable periods of activity or, more likely, the licensed restaurateurs had put them up to it to stop competition. Nobody had been arrested.

Yannis asked Criton’s forgiveness for the trouble into which he had led him. On the spur of the moment he enquired whether he had anything important to do. After what had just happened Criton was no longer so anxious to be alone, and when the other invited him to come home with him and have a glass of beer he accepted without protest.