“It is. I want to make friends with her as quickly as possible.” She smiled again. “I bumped into her once, this morning, but she did not stay to talk. Is she shy or proud? Or frightened?”
“Is something wrong?” he asked sharply. Mimi started walking towards the other shop. He had to follow her, even if he didn’t want to go near the place, to get her answer. “Look, I don’t think we should go in there.”
“Why not? The sooner I meet her the better.”
“Don’t girls ever talk to each other quite naturally?” he asked in exasperation.
“If she sees we are friends, she will trust me much more.”
“You know, Mimi, this is not an easy situation.”
“I know. Jim told me all about it.”
“He did, did he?”
“He also told me to take care of Veronica.”
Craig halted at the shop window, looked at a death mask of Agamemnon, several models of windmills, fishermen’s striped shirts that owed more to the Riviera than the Mykonos harbour, guide books, glossy oils of storm-lashed rocks, replicas of the Parthenon, hand-loomed cloth that was at least authentic. Was Mimi’s interest in Veronica only a short cut to Maritta Maas? The French were chiefly interested in her, he remembered.
Mimi was watching him with a small sad smile, as if she guessed his doubts. “I won’t draw her into danger, John,” she said very softly. “Let me worry about her. Meanwhile. You can’t.”
“All right,” he said, and stood aside to let her enter.
Mimi was saying over her shoulder, her voice now bright and clear, “You know, these materials are really beautiful. Magnificent texture—and look at this design!” She pointed to the hand-loomed cloth displayed against the walls of the small room and took off her sunglasses to study its patterns and colours.
But he was looking at Veronica, barely six feet away from him. She glanced up from some notes she had been making at a table where the shopkeeper had cleared a space for her. Beside her was a slightly battered book, almost like a ledger, with handwritten paragraphs in Greek and French and English. As he came up to her, he caught a glimpse of one heading: Room for rent. She closed the ledger quickly, dropped her pencil and note-book into a large straw bag, and faced him—confused and startled and yet, he felt, delighted. She wore a simple dress of blue linen, the colour of the sky over Mykonos. Her arms and legs were bare and tanned; her dark hair was brushed smooth, falling to one side of her forehead; her lips, parted in that wonderfully real and spontaneous smile, were coloured a soft but glowing pink. Then, as he stood there, looking at her, saying nothing, the welcome in her face died away, first in the blue eyes then in the lips. The smile became a formality, her face guarded.
“Hallo,” he said casually, “I thought you’d have been swimming this morning. Or painting. How’s the work going?”
“Too many distractions, I’m afraid.” She gathered up her bag from the table, seemed to be leaving. Yet she hesitated. Something is wrong, he thought; Mimi was right. Something is troubling Veronica. But what?
Craig looked at Mimi, who had wandered back to him. “Here’s someone else from Paris. Mam’selle Marie Aubernon—Miss Veronica Clark.”
“From Monterey, actually,” Veronica said as she shook hands with Mimi. Large blue eyes met large grey eyes. They seemed to like what they saw, or felt. “I’m only on a prolonged visit to Paris. I’m studying art there.”
“But so did I! And then I stayed on. I came from the Auvergne originally. Do you know it?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to visit it.”
“Mountains and mists. And rain.”
“And folk songs.”
“You like music, too? But of course—” Mimi addressed Craig, “Now, don’t laugh at me—I often do my best work with a stack of records playing beside me.”
“Perhaps that’s what you need,” he told Veronica, “to get inspiration started.” Well, he thought thankfully, the two of them seem to have hit it off. Mimi’s warmth was real enough when she let it rise above that cool, detached exterior. It was time for him to move on. The small room was becoming crowded with the three new customers who were strolling in. Two were English, a quiet couple. The third was by himself, middle-aged, broad in face and shoulders, dressed in shorts and a striped shirt hanging loosely over his solid waistline, still wearing his sunglasses so that Craig couldn’t be sure of the direction of his eyes. I saw that man, Craig remembered, strolling up and down outside this shop, as if he were waiting for someone. And as that thought struck him, Craig noticed how still Veronica was standing, her eyes on the man’s back. Automatically, he asked, “Where is Maritta?”
“Somewhere in town, seeing friends. I—I had some shopping to do.” Veronica glanced again at the stranger, who was interested now in model windmills.
“So have I,” Mimi said quickly. “But I’m completely bewildered. The shops are so—so separated. Some don’t even look like shops! I need sun-tan lotion, film for my camera. And you can tell me where these materials are woven? You see, that’s my business now—I’m a decorator, and fabrics are my special thing. Do you know where the looms are? On this island itself?”
“Right in town.”
“You know the street? Would you show me?”
“Of course. When would you like to—”
“Now. Why not? Or have you some engagement for lunch?”
Veronica shook her head.
“Then will you lunch with me? Unless, of course, Mr. Craig—”
Craig smiled for Mimi. I could wring your pretty little neck, most lovingly, right here and now. “I’ve had enough shopping for one day,” he told them. “See you around.” He paid the smiling woman, who kept shop with such hopeful patience, for the half-dozen postcards he had picked up; someone ought to buy something, he had thought, as the English couple left without finding anything they wanted and the man in the striped shirt still poked and touched and handled and wasted time. Craig moved to the door. Then we’ll see whether that man is interested in me, he thought; or is this Maritta’s idea of how to keep watch on Veronica when she strays alone into town? He stepped into the narrow street, put on his sunglasses, began walking slowly towards the bay. But he hadn’t drawn off the man in the striped shirt. The man was still staying near Veronica.
It was just after noon. At once, the streets were deserted, all work stopped, everyone indoors. Only a few bemused visitors still wandered around, trying for camera angles in the white silence. Now’s the time, thought Craig, and left the big square at the end of the front street, choosing the steep road which would lead him up on to the hillside. Above the town there were groupings of houses and dovecotes, small white cubes set down on harsh grey earth, with long walls of rough grey stones forming terraces to hold whatever soil there was from slipping into the bay. He sat down with his back to one of those walls in order to get off the sky-line—the hillside was as bare as that. There must be other ways to Maritta’s house. Certainly, he couldn’t dare approach it in daylight. Still, this was the time to get his bearings. And admire the view. It was magnificent: deep blue sea, other islands, high blue sky, white clouds.
He had only walked for ten minutes, but he was far enough up on the hill to see all the houses, sparsely scattered, that stretched along its wide flank. Some of the houses followed the curve of Mykonos’ small bay; others climbed high above it. He got out Partridge’s map and compared it with his own. Just there, Partridge had pointed. That was the area high above the north end of the bay where the yachts sheltered. He could see five or six houses in that direction, spread over the steep slopes of barren ground. But which house? Partridge had been deliberately vague, just to keep him out of trouble, no doubt. Partridge’s map was good, well detailed. But houses were only indicated by dots, and the house which Maritta’s dear kind Uncle Peter had rented could be one of five, at least.
He took out the binoculars and brought them all up amazingly close. Too close. What he could be doing to someone, someone could
be doing to him. So he swung around in the other direction, facing southward—more bare hills and the road leading to the beaches; and then he looked directly ahead of him, over the town, westward. But he was still keeping the pattern of the view to the north end of the bay in his mind. There were two houses, well separated from each and any other, that had paths leading down to the road around the bay. For that reason alone they were his likeliest candidates. One of them had some kind of small building on its far side—perhaps a cottage or one of the ubiquitous dovecotes. Otherwise, from this distance, they were much the same. They even had brave attempts at gardens—he had seen rounded tops of trees inside their white walls. By contrast, the rest of the houses above the bay stood bare, open. If I were someone like dear Uncle Peter, he thought, what would I rent? Protecting walls, shading trees, and a road however rough and rugged right down towards the yacht anchorage. He put away the glasses and his maps; lit a cigarette, lounged against the grey buttress at his back, and watched the drifting clouds sending their shadows chasing over sea and islands. Then he rose, dusted off his trousers and shirt, walked down to the town. The small excursion had taken only half an hour altogether. A wasted half-hour? No, he decided. He hadn’t found what he wanted, but he had learned that by night he could easily find his way on those ribbon paths that followed the stone terraces right across the length of hillside. And he had seen a view.
He found a quiet taverna on the shady side of the big square where a few of the local men, regulars obviously, were grouped around a couple of tables. They looked at him gravely, accepted him with a nod when he made his good day with “Kali mera sas,” and returned to their discussion. The talk was always in a low steady murmur, he noticed, just as the drink before them was always a glass of water with an occasional small cup of coffee. There were a couple of fishermen, some men from the harbour, a carpenter, a few old men, and possibly the driver of the taxi that stood on the other side of the square beside three small carriages with bonneted horses. Or mules. The ears twitching through the holes in their straw hats looked very pronounced, even from this distance. It was a peaceful scene: sunlight viewed from shadow, men’s voices harshly droning, horses dozing, a taxi waiting for an afternoon hire to the beach; and dominating it all, from the centre of the deserted square, was the bust of a strong-faced woman who stared defiantly out to sea, much in the way she must have rallied the fishermen of Mykonos, back in 1822, to sail out and fight the Turks. Craig settled in his corner, behind the screen of talking men, and looked out to sea, too. From here, he had a view not only of the front street right down to the breakwater, but of the several exits from this square. Opposite him, towards the shore, was the beginning of the road that led away from the town around the rest of the bay. That was the way that Veronica must take to meet the path up to the house on the hill. That was the way that Mimi would follow to reach her hotel.
He ordered lunch from a small boy in a large apron—rice and chopped veal wrapped inside vine leaves, served cold—and ate it slowly, studied his map, kept an eye ready for any movement along the front street or into the square, and finished a glass of resinated wine, amber in colour, revolting at first, but at least liquid and cool. If you drank it long enough, he thought, you’d probably begin to think this was the way wine should taste. Like those inland ranchers in Argentina who imported fish for Fridays from the coast, and before refrigeration was in use came to believe that bad fish was a delicacy. Like the grouse-eaters, too, in London, who had accustomed themselves to high game because once there was no other way to eat it.
There was still no sign of Mimi.
He made his half-cup of coffee last almost as long as the natives could. They were drifting away now. Only four men still sat around. And no sign of Mimi. I’ve guessed wrong, he thought. She must have cut lunch in town and gone back to her hotel. But if that had happened in the thirty minutes he had taken to explore the hillside up above the square, then it looked as if Veronica and she hadn’t got on so well together after all. Which meant, in turn, that Veronica was still more isolated than ever. Damn it, he thought, his worry now churning into anger, I’ll have to think of some plan of my own. If Mimi has failed, I’ll have to take some action. And what is Partridge going to say to that? Do as little as possible, that was his firm advice this morning. But since then, there has been a slight change in the situation here. If Veronica is searching for a room in town, what’s the reason behind it?
Calm down, calm down, he told himself irritably. Give Mimi another half-hour. Once you’ve talked with her, you’ll have something to go on. Then you can start thinking about some plan of action—if that’s necessary. You know the dangers; you know what’s at stake... He reached for a cigarette, lit it slowly, stared gloomily at the empty square.
Suddenly, he was aware of someone standing in the shadowed doorway beside him. He turned his head sharply, saw Elias. And how long has he been there? Craig wondered, both startled and annoyed.
Elias was surveying the peaceful harbour, as if he had just enjoyed a lengthy meal indoors and was speculating on how to spend the rest of a sleepy afternoon. But unless he had been sitting behind the stone arch that held up the small dining-room’s ceiling, or had been in the kitchen itself, Craig was positive that Elias had not been there when he had taken this outside table. Elias was speaking to the four men—friendly, desultory talk that lasted a few minutes. This politeness over, Elias looked at Craig, nodded. “Did you have a pleasant walk?” He pulled a chair up to Craig’s table, sat down and accepted a cigarette. “Very quiet,” he went on, glancing around the square.
“Too quiet,” Craig said, recovering his breath. Who told him I went for a walk, this morning? The same person who told him I was here?
Elias was now studying Craig. “Was it wise to climb up the hillside?” he asked gently, but there was sharp reproof in his eyes.
“Just normal tourist behaviour,” Craig tried. “Wanted to photograph the dovecotes and windmills.”
“You were not using a camera,” Elias said, looking pointedly at its case. He added magnanimously, if coldly, “You were very careful, that I must say.”
“Keeping an eye on me?” Craig asked with a grin.
“I’m in charge of you. For the time being.” Elias was not smiling.
“Oh?” Craig glanced across at the other men.
“They don’t understand English. Besides, they saw us arriving from Athens last night on the same ship. It is natural that we talk for a little.”
“Were you telling me that Partridge has left?” Craig asked very quietly. So he did find a way off the island, and more quickly than I expected.
“Almost,” Elias said. Even if his friends at the other table did not speak English, he seemed a little shocked by the direct question. “And you—how do you like Mykonos?”
“I’d like to be able to rent a house here some day.” If he doesn’t like it straight, I’ll give it to him sideways, thought Craig. And I’m not going to waste time either. Once he finishes that cigarette, he’ll rise, talk to the others and then drift off. “I saw two, with a fine view, up above the north end of the bay. They had trees, looked cool.” He watched the small smile spreading under Elias’ dark moustache. “Are they ever offered for rent?”
“One was rented this summer.”
“Oh?”
“But very expensive, I hear.”
“Well, you always have to pay for privacy.”
Elias was studying him, head slightly held to one side, fine dark eyes gleaming in amusement. He only nodded.
“Which one?” Craig insisted. “Oh, of course, I shan’t do anything about it, this year. But some time in the future—”
“I wouldn’t recommend it unless you like the sound of doves.”
So, thought Craig, the house had a dovecote. “Noisy?”
“In the early morning—impossible. Unless you like to be wakened with the dawn, of course.” He turned his head to see what had so quickly caught the American’s attention. Down
along the waterfront there was a group of visitors easily remarked by their fancy dress. The two young men—the bearded one was an English novelist, he had heard; the other, with the long shock of hair, was a French painter—wore yellow and red linen shorts, respectively. The three young women wore blue, green, and flaming pink: the American girl, Mimi and Maritta Maas, in that order. At least the American girl had the taste to wear a dress in public. Oh, well, bright colours made one’s job easier. Elias rose, paused with a frown as he noticed the baffled look on Craig’s face. Trust Maritta, Craig was thinking as he stared at the blonde girl in the pink trousers, trust her to complicate his simple plan. How did he manage to talk to Mimi, now? How long, in any case, had she managed to be alone with Veronica before Maritta had joined them? Long enough to get any information about what was going on, up in that house on the hill? Something was wrong, somewhere. He usually could shake off his premonitions, but this one had stuck with him ever since the meeting with Veronica. It was raising its nagging little voice again, even as he watched the group sauntering nearer and nearer, listened to the talk and laughter beginning to invade the square.
Elias shrugged, sat down beside the other men, and observed as they did, with a mixture of amusement and irritation, the strange behaviour patterns of those foreigners: the women wore trousers, the men wore little-boy clothes. If they came here saying that life was absurd, it was because they made it so. The only one he would worry about was the woman called Maas, but at present she seemed positively harmless in her gaiety and charm. She was giving the little boys some last-minute instructions as they halted to say goodbye. “Not a minute later than five o’clock,” she called over her shoulder as she walked on towards the taxi. “We mustn’t miss the sunset!” She halted to wait for the American girl in the blue dress whose hand was still held by the bearded Englishman. Ah, thought Elias, I can guess what is troubling Craig. He glanced at Craig’s table, and was confounded.
For Craig had seized the chance when Maritta’s back was turned to rise and wave to Mimi. The quick movement caught her eye. She stared across the wide square at the taverna then walked slowly on. Craig stepped into the safety of the room behind him, called for his bill.