The village of Ai Saranda, when Patrick reached it after a long drive over mountain roads that twisted and turned, and then across a fertile plain planted with vines, was beginning to expand. In addition to the original old whitewashed cottages there were several square new concrete houses with flat roofs, and a grocer’s shop which displayed detergents in the window.
In the centre of the cluster of buildings a huge eucalyptus tree cast a shade under which were arranged some tables and chairs, and across the road was the kafenion which owned them. Patrick parked further up the road and walked back towards the kafenion. He took a seat at one of the rickety tables. A few old men, some in baggy trousers and all wearing boots, were already sitting at another table. They looked at Patrick curiously. He said ‘kalimera’ and felt rage at being rendered inarticulate.
A middle-aged man wearing an apron came out to attend to him.
‘Ouzo, parakalo,’ he said, and asked the other if he spoke English.
‘Two—three words,’ said the Greek, with a shrug.
‘Ime Anglos. Den katalaveno Ellinika,’ recited Patrick in a carefully learned phrase.
‘Ah—Eengleesh—how are you?’ said the Greek, smiling warmly. He shook Patrick’s hand with vigour. ‘Anglos,’ he told his other customers.
It seemed to be a magic word. The older men all started smiling, and one levered himself to his feet, came across, and announced that he spoke English very good.
Patrick, who had begun to wish that he had asked Ursula Norris to accompany him on this mission as interpreter, took fresh heart. Someone would be able to find Ilena for him.
‘What is your town in England?’ he was asked, and there were cries of ‘nai, nai,’ over Oxfordi.
He was mercilessly cross-examined.
‘You are married?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Ah—you have a sister—po, po, po,’ Much head-shaking, and commiserating murmurs all round.
‘Yes, I have a sister.’ Patrick was puzzled, and then light dawned. They would be expecting him to look about for a husband for Jane before finding a wife for himself, in the Greek fashion.
‘She is married – two children. Yes, she has a son,’ he told them.
This went on for some time. When they had dragged out of him every detail of his family circumstances, he felt it was time to make an effort of his own.
‘A friend of mine was in Crete during the war. Alec Mudie. He came to Ai Saranda. Do you remember him?’
Yes, of course – they all remembered Alexis. So strong, he had been, so brave, so gay. He had been back to visit them several times since then, but not for some years now. How was he?
At the news of his death, all fell silent. Patrick explained about Alec’s wife and her long illness and that this was the reason he had not come. He spoke simply, for Petros, his translator, clearly had linguistic limitations. It all took time, and much ouzo was consumed during the discussion.
At last Patrick asked to be directed to Ilena Pavlou’s house.
At this there was sudden silence.
‘She has gone away,’ said Petros, at last.
Patrick looked round the group. No one met his eye.
‘Where to? She is not dead?’
No, she was not dead. But no one wanted to say where she was. Perhaps they did not know. Well, what about Yannis?
‘Ah, Yannis. That one.’ Heads were shaken. He had been a headstrong, ambitious youth, Patrick was told.
These were valiant old men. If Yannis had rebelled against the current regime they would not disapprove; Alec had implied that this was what must have happened.
‘Yannis had been in prison?’ Patrick tried. Perhaps he could force them into disclosing something.
There was a silence. Pride was involved. A mutter of ‘po, po, po,’ came from one man, then Patrick heard ‘nai, nai.’ He found it hard to remember that this meant ‘yes’ in Greek, since it sounded so negative.
A short staccato conference took place, and finally Petros spoke.
‘Kirie Grant, we tell you what we know. Yannis is coming here one year ago. He is very—’ Petros searched for the word he wanted. ‘His clothes. Very new. Very expensive. He is in a big car from Iraklion. He take his mother away. She cry. She do not want to go, but he say come, I have money, you help me.’
‘Where did they go?’ asked Patrick, after a pause in which all the men looked away from him. They clearly feared that Yannis was engaged in a dubious enterprise and had involved his mother. ‘Athens?’
No one answered. Then more excited talk broke out and what seemed to be further argument, though most Greek conversation was carried on at this pitch. Petros and one old man seemed to be urging one course against the rest, and in the end they prevailed. Petros spoke.
‘The wife of Manouli—’ a nod towards the oldest man ‘—she is the friend of Ilena. She has a letter.’ Pause. Patrick waited. ‘She is on an island, doing work, but it is not hard. She has much comfort. Yannis is working for a shipping firm. He is well paid and can support her.’
‘That’s good, then.’ But it was not, that was plain. The men did not approve of Yannis’s new prosperity. Anyway, if he was thriving, there was no need to seek him out.
‘Which island?’ Patrick asked.
In the end they told him.
He drove away still puzzled by their reticence.