Pascali's Island (14 page)

For some seconds he stood there. Long enough for the singing to recommence. Long enough for us all to meet his staring brown eyes and see the gleam on his features, like death-sweat. Then, very slowly at first, he began to keel over. One side of him seemed to be unsecured, so that he fell slightly sideways, with a strange effect of deliberateness, as if he had himself chosen the angle. One of the priests, with swifter reflexes than the others, stepped forward and made an attempt to catch the toppling saint, but the bier was in his way, and he was not quick enough. In the full blaze of altar lights and cynosure of eyes, Saint Alexei, O Alexei mas, as the local people call him, our Alexei, went thudding down on his face, and – here is the crowning disaster, Excellency, if you will forgive the bad pun – on impact with the stone of the chancel floor, his head came off altogether, snapped off clean at the neck, and went rolling down the steps, almost reaching the front ranks of the congregation. His headless form remained at the top, draped in its Assumption robe.

The singing had faltered, died away. There was a hush of consternation. I heard Mrs Marchant say something in abrupt exclamation at my side, and felt her take my arm. Then those immediately around me, men and women, turned and looked at me, and there was the same expression on every face: not accusation, but knowledge, the final knowledge of some utterly detestable creature. I thought I saw relief there too, as if this was what they had really been waiting for. Several people made the sign of the cross. They blamed me for the débâcle, Excellency. Now my treachery was confirmed. I was in the pay of the Turk and in league with the Devil. From spy to evil eye, a short step for these people. A man standing close by me – one Trikiriotis by name – suddenly stretched out his arm towards me, the fingers splayed and rigid. This is the curse of the five senses, Excellency. Others followed suit. I lost my nerve. I thought they were going to kill me. I turned, shaking myself free from Mrs Marchant, leaving her, unforgivably, alone and unprotected, and plunged blindly through the crowd. Somehow they parted for me. I rushed out of the church, down the steps, stumbling in my haste and panic, and so home.

That was some hours ago, Excellency. I have just opened my shutters. It is morning now. The sun has not risen yet, but there are preliminary stains on the sea. Setting all this down has calmed my fear, leaving me with a certain kind of resignation. Nothing really matters to me now but this report: and this report depends for balance and completeness, poignancy and point, on Mister Bowles. I knew that, from the beginning. Hence my efforts to make him real to your Excellency, to bring him before your eyes. And yet I cannot be sure that I have succeeded. His face is present now to my mind: narrow, long-jawed, with its reddish tan and the pale indignant eyes; the moustache, the smooth brown hair. Once again I am troubled by suspicions of him, by my sense of some discrepancy which I cannot define. I saw no books among his luggage. A man so interested in the past would carry books, surely, works of reference. Of course, there was the other bag, the one I was not able to examine, perhaps in there… My report began with him, he brought with him the taste of death, which has been in my mouth ever since. It must end with him too. The thought of dying with my report unfinished, of leaving Mister Bowles to pursue his destiny unregistered and unrecorded, is a very bitter one.

I slept till noon, Excellency, then ate the bread and peaches I bought yesterday. Peaches are plentiful this year and now is the time for them.

In the afternoon, in obedience to Mister Bowles's instructions, I went once more to see Izzet. I told him of the Englishman's request for a further meeting with the Pasha. He was curious, but I could tell him nothing. He said he would try to arrange matters for later today. So far I have heard nothing from him.

On the way back a rather odd thing happened. I ran into Politis, the cotton merchant, at the corner of Paradisos, and instead of ignoring me, as I had expected, he smiled and paused. 'You did not speak to us the other evening,' he said.

'Speak to you?' I said. I was bewildered. They had failed to speak to me, Excellency.

'Yes,' he said. 'At the Metropole. Now you have more important friends, eh?'

'No, not at all,' I said. 'Any time… I would be glad But Politis moved away, still smiling. Does he mean to be friendly? Could I possibly have been mistaken? If about him, then about all the others. No, impossible. It is a trick, a device to allay my suspicions until they are ready to act. A clever-move, but it will not succeed. I will not be lulled.

Below me, some distance along the shore, a group of young men. Two of them wrestling, Turkish-style, stripped to the waist. Higher up, where it is sandy. Too far to distinguish faces. Labourers, judging by the sun-darkened forearms and necks. I watched them for some time, locked together, shifting and heaving, neither of them able to get the advantage. Again the equipoise, Excellency – God continues to pay me with symbols for my attention to this visible world.

Beyond them the sea, pale in the shallows, deepening in colour as the water deepened, to a cobalt so intense the eye could not stay on it, was forced away, back to the softer hues of the shore, to the locked forms of the young men. Suddenly both fell heavily together on to the sand, extricated themselves there. When they got up, the game was different. Now one of them made stabbing motions towards the other. He had what looked like a piece of stick in his hand. He was simulating a knife or bayonet attack, and the other was warding off, evading, seeking to disarm. Their quickness and agility were impressive. Elemental too the postures of attack and defence, against the background of sea and rock.

Everywhere, in small things and in great, the world is rehearsing for violence, Excellency. Games on the beach, articles in newspapers, any casual conversation, all show the same impatience with peace. I saw it on the faces of people in church last night, mute, sad, a slow rage at inactivity – then the relief, the joy of hate, with which they turned to me. Everywhere a rising need for the gesture that shatters the glass.

Revelations, Excellency. I have just returned from the meeting with Mahmoud Pasha that Mister Bowles requested -it was not until this morning that we were able to go. Revelations. But I must get things in their proper order, must not allow Mister Bowles's amazing duplicity to throw my narrative into disarray. He is a trickster, Excellency.

He had the brown leather bag with him this time – the one I had seen him carrying when he descended from the ship. Worn, but of good quality. Of the type known as a Gladstone bag, I believe. I was curious about the reasons for this appointment and tried by various hints to draw Mister Bowles out, but he was obviously unwilling to discuss it. I did not tell him of Herr Gesing's proposition, thinking it more to my advantage to keep quiet for the time being.

The sentry offered no hindrance to our passing. The parade-ground, as before, was empty. We were met by an orderly, who showed us into the house – not this time into the reception room where we had been before, but into a much smaller room with a large desk, on which papers were scattered, and several upright chairs against the wall. There was no one here. The orderly asked us to wait. He seemed disconcerted at finding the room empty. He hesitated for some time at the door, then he went off down the passage, presumably to find some superior.

Mister Bowles and I had seated ourselves against the wall. But after a moment I got up again, moved casually over to the desk, and began glancing at the papers lying on it. I could feel his unspoken disapproval behind me – this was not the behaviour of a gentleman. However, I persisted. I have my own code of practice, and the acquiring of information ranks high in it.

There was not much of interest among the papers. Official correspondence for the most part, addressed to Mahmoud Pasha, some of it dated several months previously. It was obvious that the Commandant had no system for dealing with his letters. One I noticed because it bore the imperial seal, and contained a reference to a German firm, Mannfeldt GmbH, also the phrase 'terra rossa' which my eye hastily lighted on in the midst of the Turkish words. Beyond this was a map, with various marks on it in red ink. It was a local map, I realised after a moment: there was the line of Mt Laris, with the whole line of the coast on that side of the island, including the area containing Mister Bowles's temporarily acquired domain.

Mister Bowles coughed, I think to denote disapproval. At that moment I caught some flicker of movement outside. I glanced through the small window and was in time to see the figures of Mahmoud Pasha and Herr Gesing walking side by side in a direction away from me, the former in uniform, the latter black-suited. They were talking but not, it seemed to me, very amicably. In a moment more they had disappeared round the side of the house. Herr Gesing speaks Turkish, then – he has never admitted as much to me. Presumably taking his leave. I wonder what business brought him. On our previous visit, too, his name occurred, if you remember, Excellency.

I had only a few seconds more to look at the map, time enough, however, to see that a rough diamond shape had been traced out on it in red, lying horizontally, its eastern point beginning just above the ancient harbour.

I heard steps outside the door, Izzet's voice raised in anger. Instantly I moved away from the desk, and took up a position near the window – there was no time to regain my seat. I think Izzet was upbraiding the orderly for leaving us alone. A moment later he entered, looking not exactly flustered, but certainly less than calm. 'Please be seated,' he said, giving me a sharp glance. He went to the desk and looked over it quickly, but without touching anything.

Mahmoud Pasha entered, his bulk encased in dark blue dress uniform with silver brocade on epaulettes and sleeves. His face was dark red, congested-looking. Again I had the feeling that the interview with Herr Gesing had not been a friendly one.

When we were again seated, Izzet and Mahmoud Pasha looked in expectant silence at Mister Bowles. There was a short, uneasy pause, then Mister Bowles, in his usual plunging way, said, 'Well, the fact is, you'd better tell them I have found some objects on the site.'

'Objects?' I said.

'What does he say?' Izzet pointed his nose at me.

'On the site they leased to me.' Mister Bowles put one hand up, briefly, to his tie, and touched the knot. 'They are of considerable archeological importance,' he said. 'There's a lot of stuff there.'

'What does he say?' Izzet's thin lips twisted. He was getting impatient.

'He has found certain objects in the course of his researches.' I said.

'What kind of objects?'

Mister Bowles leaned forward earnestly. 'It is an important discovery,' he said. 'The point is that I want to ask them to change the lease so I can have the right to excavate the site. Of course I am willing to pay more for it – whatever they think fit.'

Inwardly marvelling, outwardly impassive, I translated this.

'Valuable objects?' Izzet said.

'He asks if they are valuable,' I said.

'Yes, I suppose so,' Mister Bowles said. 'It depends on the material. Of course I shan't know what there is until I start digging.'

For an appreciable period after this no one said anything at all, and this I could well understand. The blinding correctness of Mister Bowles's behaviour was dazing them, as it had dazed me. He sat there before us, with his bag beside his chair, like a marvellous monster of rectitude.

'Large objects?' Izzet said at last. 'Buyuk dir? A natural question. If they were large, of course, it would go some way towards making Mister Bowles's behaviour human and explicable: large objects could not be pocketed, removed surreptitiously-time was needed.

'I have them here in my bag,' Mister Bowles said.

'Small objects apparently,' I said to Izzet. 'He has them in his bag.'

The eyes of both Izzet and the Pasha leaped at once to the bag.

'I would be willing to double the sum,' Mister Bowles said. I translated this.

Mahmoud Pasha shifted his bulk behind the desk, and his chair winced. 'Let us see the objects,' he said. His eyes were still on the bag.

Without waiting for me to translate this, Mister Bowles began to unbuckle the side strap of his bag. It seemed to take a long time. Finally, when the brass clasp at the top had also been undone, he opened the bag. Then he paused again, surely with a showman's instinct, and said, 'Perhaps I could put the objects on your desk?'

'Certainly,' the Pasha said. 'Buyurun.' I had never seen him look so alert and generally exhypnos.

Mister Bowles got up rather awkwardly, still holding the open bag. He moved over to the desk. His hand went into the bag and emerged, holding something. The others were looking only at his hands, but I glanced up at his face, and saw him lick his lips in two quick movements of the tongue. He placed the object on the desk.

It was the marble head of a woman, pale honey colour, the size of a smallish human fist. And I had seen it before.

Recognition was not immediate, did not come flooding into my mind, but was achieved in a series of incredulous stabs, or pangs. The head seemed to palpitate, so intently did I eye it. But of course there was no doubt: it was the same head.

'I think this is the most interesting of the finds to date,' Mister Bowles said. After that small betraying movement of the tongue his face was quite calm again. 'I thought at first it was Roman,' he said to the red-faced and astounded Mahmoud Pasha. 'A Roman copy, you know. But the workmanship is extremely delicate, particularly in the treatment of the hair. I think it is Hellenistic work, almost certainly from the corner of a sarcophagus.'

With the same feeling of incredulity I heard my voice translating, purveying information about this head for the benefit of Mahmoud Pasha and Izzet; this head I had seen in his room on the evening of his arrival, before he had so much as left the hotel; this head he had undoubtedly brought with him to the island.

'Early third century BC,' Mister Bowles said, with what seemed genuine interest and pleasure. 'And look at the marble.' He picked the head up and displayed it to us. 'That is not local marble,' he said.