Nightspawn (11 page)

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, and had she said, drop dead, I would have commanded my heart to be still. But she said nothing, and shook her head hopelessly. She stood up. On the table something which gleamed among the litter of books and papers caught her eye. She picked it up and examined it curiously. It was a small oblong silver box, perfectly smooth, without a catch or clasp on the closely-fitting lid. I sat sprawled deep in the armchair, my chin on my breast, watching her. I wonder if my tongue was hanging out.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

I held out my hand.

‘Here, let me show you.’

I took the box and pressed a thumb and middle finger against both sides. With a tiny click, the lid sprang open. I closed it again and gave it back to her. She pressed it with the heels of her
hands, but it would not open for her.

‘It’s just a small thing,’ I said. ‘There’s a knack to it.’

‘Teach me.’

I shook my head.

‘I’d be thrown out of the magicians’ union.’

We stood together and looked through the window. The sun trembled on the brink of the hills, shaking the sky with a last fury of light. It went down, the gold become crimson, the dry hills aflame. I was weary; each of my bones seemed to have its own private ache. Something flashed in the corner of my eye. Helena had drawn her hand above her head. I made a grab at her, but too late. With a little grunt for the effort, she flung the box through the window. It tore a neat hole in the centre of the pane, and disappeared. The glass shivered around its wound, and the pieces came slowly apart in long wicked spikes. I caught her by the shoulder.

‘You stupid bitch.’

She tore herself away from me, and lifted her hands to protect her face. We glowererd at each other, teeth clenched.

‘Look —’ I began, but she flew at me, and her nails ripped my cheek. I leapt away, trying to hold my balance, and with an open fist I caught her a crack on the side of the head which must have loosened a filling or two. The knot of her hair flew asunder as she whirled away from me. A rug slipped under her feet, and she crashed to the floor. There she lay motionless with her head in her arms. I touched my cheek, and my fingers came away bloodied.

I flung open the door and went clattering down the stairs, and reached the street in time to meet a small boy coming from the lane with a dented but unbroken silver box in his little paws. He halted in fright at the appearance of this toothed creature with arms spread bat-like above him, and whipped the box behind his back. The presence of mind the little bastard could muster.

‘Little man, may I have my box?’

He looked at me silently with round brown eyes. I put my face in front of his and breathed brimstone at him.

‘Give. It’s mine.’

‘No.’

‘Sweet Jesus. Look, I warn you.’

‘No, I won’t, it’s mine, I found it.’

There was a light patter of steps behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see Helena slip out of the doorway and disappear into the dusk. I gave a shriek, and caught the child by the throat. His eyes opened very wide, and his tongue came out. I reached down behind him and wrenched the box from his hands (please god he will some day beget a battalion of retards and die roaring after a long life of unmitigated failure), then threw him to one side and fled down the street with my knees knocking against my chin and the silver prize clutched to my breast. Behind me the child let out a roar. Helena was gone. Again. My heart.

I walked to the harbour, through streets luminous with the last light of day. The shops were closing, the owners sleepily
gathering
in their wares. The dusk rang with the far clear shouts of children, and those other cries, less easily identified, which seemed to reverberate above the roof tops, sounds that were out of time and place, that carried with them other times and places, the voices of nightingales and kings.

The white liner calmly rode at anchor beyond the harbour bar, and by the pier two yachts were anchored. The water barely stirred, bearing another island, another harbour on its back. Down there were windows washed with blue, the palest green, and boats drifted upside-down on the hulls of their progenitors. People came and went, came and went, their voices flying out across the bay to the other shores and islands. The trawlers were already setting off for the liner, bearing the first cargoes of mail and baggage, and the mysterious things which, with the rats, are the first arrivals on an outbound ship. The lights were coming on in the tavernas, and the nightclub on the hill was sending down the first strains of music, calling its few revellers. Hold this overworked twilight for a little longer, just a little longer.

I strolled along the waterfront, looking idly at the souvenirs,
the postcards, the miniature plaster lions of Apollo. My steps took me toward the police barracks, which crouched in the shame of its drab grey stone, flanked on one side by the sea, by the astonishing geometry of the little blue-domed chapel on the other. I paused below the barracks steps, with my hands in my pockets, and craned my neck to peer through the open doorway. A large gaunt room was there, dimly illumined by the dying light from the sky which crept through a grimed mean window set high up in the wall. From where I stood, I could see the head and shoulders of a fat policeman in shirt sleeves, with his hands behind his head, bent as though in prayer over an ancient black typewriter. At intervals he emerged from his concentration, and his arms would drop and pounce upon the keys. The sharp little blows ravished the silence, and danced across the room like so many exclamation points. Beside his machine there stood a cabinet of gleaming steel. One of its drawers gaped,
overflowing
with dirty crockery, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The man at the typewriter stood up, punching a cramped arm, and touched a switch behind him on the wall. The light which he called forth was hardly brighter than that in the window, and the naked bulb dangled from the ceiling like a fat yellow tear. The policeman squinted at it, and shook his head. He caught sight of me, and we looked at each other in silence. A dog barked, a child squealed, and a little bell tinkled in the chapel. The sequence of sounds had about them the ineluctable precision of a mathematical formula, and, like the product of the equation, boots thudded somewhere inside the room, and an unintelligible phrase slithered down the steps. The fat policeman turned from me to the invisible speaker. He laughed, and nodded, and sat down again, tucking up the sleeves of his shirt. Strange how these inconsequential moments stay with one through all
vicissitudes
, doling out a little comfort now and then on the long journey from cave to grave. I turned, and walked away.

The taverna was crowded with diehards left over from a wedding feast held that morning. There was shouting and singing, and rampant smashing of crockery. I made my way to the bar. Constantinou, the proprietor, stood behind it in his usual pose, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the
counter. He was a tall, diffident man, with the gentlest of smiles. He lifted his eyebrows at me, and was polite enough to ignore the wound on my cheek.

‘Ouzo,’ I said. ‘A bottle.’

‘Eh?’

I shouted my request.
Crash,
there went another plate against the wall. Constantinou looked to heaven, and set the bottle before me.

‘You leave tonight, yes?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not leaving.’

‘It’s a pity.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘We shall miss you.’

Crash.

‘I’m not leaving. I said, I’m not leaving.’

‘Yes. You’ll have a good journey, the sea is calm tonight.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Me? No, I could never leave the island.’

‘Yes, but I asked, how much? For the ouzo. How much?’

He lifted his hands, shoulders and eyebrows, and pushed out his lower lip, his way of saying, who cares.

‘Take it for your journey,’ he yelled. ‘A gift.’

I laughed, and shook my head ruefully, but said only,

‘Efcharisto,
Constantinou.’

‘Kali
andamosi.’

I made my way out to the little square, where extra tables had been set up, but still not enough to cater for the throng. A familiar voice wound its way to my ear.

‘And there were such flowers, you would …’

She sat at a table near me, her back turned. She was talking to … my Jesus, Erik. Over her left shoulder he was looking at me, his face betraying not the slightest sign of recognition. Helena made a gesture with her hands, and I went away.

In the little shop by the further pier, I bought a piece of cheese and a loaf of bread. As I was leaving, the island girl who had served me said,

‘Have a good journey.’

Before I could turn to speak she had fled in confusion to the
back room. Outside, the painted lanterns which hung below the eaves came suddenly, wondrously to life, laying tender stains of light at my feet. With my provisions tucked against me, I went slowly out along the pier. At the end, where the green beacon flashed, I sat down behind the sea wall and laid out the meagre meal on the stones. I broke a piece of cheese and bit a chunk from the bread, and with my arms folded, and my legs crossed before me, I looked across the harbour. Over there, by the white yachts, the red light winked at its partner above me. The sky was of the palest blue, with one star burning faintly. The water lapped at the sea wall. I took a drink of ouzo, and ate another piece of cheese.

A figure left Constantinou’s and started slowly along the quay, making toward me. The sea was running with shadow now as the breathless twilight ended. A strange violet light hovered over the village and the hills. The white houses and the little chapels were touched with a glowing rose tint, and a burnt lilac lay in the crevices of shadow. The fishing boats rolled gently by the quayside on the brittle green water. The bronze tolling of a bell came down the hills and crossed the bay, drawing in its wake the other evening sounds. Erik walked slowly out along the pier, studiously ignoring me. He was wearing his suit, the green of which gave an echo to the water. Around his neck was tied an exotic red silk scarf. I chewed a piece of bread and watched him approach. He put his hands into his pockets and turned to the sea, whistling softly as he looked at the red beacon blinking. At length he came and sat beside me. We glanced at each other, and then considered our feet. I offered him the bottle, but he shook his head. He took a piece of cheese and nibbled halfheartedly at it. The lights of the quay were coming into their own as darkness fell out of the sky. Erik took a flat silver case from his pocket and selected a cigarette. He passed the case to me, and I took one also, examined it, and nodded. We watched the smoke drift to the edge of the pier, slide over and drop down to the water.

‘Where did you get the scarf?’ I asked.

His fingers went to the flimsy piece of cloth, and he said uncertainly,

‘You think it foolish?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

We sat for a while, sustained by silence, riding its calm evening deeps.

‘I see you were talking to Mrs Kyd,’ I said.

‘No, she was talking to me.’

‘Oh. Leaving tonight, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘With Andreas?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Going on the yacht, eh?’

‘Yes. Your cheek …’

‘Walked into a door.’

‘Ah.’

Across the quay walked Julian and the boy. I recognized their white clothes. Helena joined them at the pier. They stopped for a moment to give directions for the stowing of their luggage, then they clambered into the skiff and were whisked across the harbour to their yacht. Erik said,

‘She is going away?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m going away too. Erik.’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did Aristotle want us killed?’

‘Aristotle want us … did he want us killed?’

‘Then why did you kill the sailor?’

‘He would have killed us.’

‘Why?’

‘He likes to kill.’

That tense was interesting. I glanced at him. He was
frowning
at his hands.

‘But Aristotle must have —’

‘I don’t know,’ he cried. ‘I don’t know.’

He brought out from the pocket of his suit a moth-eaten pair of black woollen swimming trunks. They were too big for him, and when he put them on, and stood up, his scrawny frame looked even more emaciated in that ridiculous gear. He went
and dived into the water, making hardly a splash. I stood and watched him. Down there he was almost graceful, his long thin figure sliding through the liquid darkness with perfect ease. After a few strokes he came out again, shaking his head and spitting uproariously. On the seaweed-covered steps, he slipped and bruised his knee. We sat down again, and Erik examined his wounded leg. He cleaned his spectacles with a dirty
handkerchief
and clipped them behind his ears again.

‘What will you do?’ he asked, clawing at his hair.

‘Go back to Rabin’s. I never intended to do otherwise.’

‘And what about the girl?’

‘What about her?’

He shrugged, and lapsed into silence. I threw the last crusts of the loaf toward the water, but before they could reach the surface, two seagulls came down like flashes of light and took them in their beaks. We watched them soar away, two
beautiful
beasts, and then Erik said sheepishly,

‘Perhaps, just a small drink, to wish us both luck.’

I handed him the bottle and listened to the liquor gurgle in his throat. He gasped, and wiped his mouth. I made the motions of a toast, but could find no suitable words. Erik belched, and immediately the liner’s siren sent up an outrageous echo. He stood up and put on his suit again, over the wet trunks.

‘Isn’t it strange how all these things work together,’ I mused. ‘The wind lifts the waves, and the waves pound the shore. These strange cycles. People too, with their cycles and reversals that cause so much anguish. It’s amazing.’

I looked at Erik. Erik looked at the sea. I went on,

‘Imitating the seasons, I suppose. The rages and storms, the silences. If only the world would imitate us once in a while. That would be something, wouldn’t it? But the world maintains a contemptuous silence, and what the heart desires, the world is incapable of giving.’