Gwen has dreadful dreams, replete with monsters and odd forms of execution, and years ago she became habituated to sleeping pills and has taken them off and on ever since. I’ve never asked Helen about her drug usage; I assume she partakes now and again. But Helen does not behave as if she uses downers, as Gwen calls them.
As I ruminate on Helen and drugs, I’m struck by a brilliant idea—I could write a crime story based on the alleged suicide of a twin. Pills, of course. The truth of how the twin died will become the object of Stan Green’s quest. He must discern whether or not the twin had a natural unnatural death, a true suicide, or whether it was foul play, and the surviving twin sister—I’ll make them twin brothers, to disguise Helen—actually and cleverly did her—him—in, by mixing up some pills, let’s say.
How can I think like this? I am a grotesque creature.
Chapter 7
I walk to the window and discover Helen standing on her terrace, looking in this direction. I wave and we agree in sign language to meet later for dinner. She seems excited. Could she possibly have found out about my meeting John the other day? How could she? That is paranoia.
Nectaria has set up a shower on the roof for those of us who have been here forever. It is remarkable how being on the roof, on top of the world, as Yannis likes to exclaim—his innocence exists in such expressions—on top of the world and naked as a buck, with the sun still strong but not hot, with cool water drizzling down one’s body, how one feels safe and clean, truly clean. Pure. I soap thoroughly and scrub here and there, over and over. A Lady Macbeth I am not, because my hands are clean, there is no blood, not even a stain, no visible sign. I am not, I convince myself, a bad man. And when I towel off and breathe the fragrant Cretan air, air that brilliant ancients also breathed, why I know myself to be in a line of humanity of which I can be proud. I wrap my terry around me and descend to my apartment.
I splash my face with the after-shave Gwen sent me, English Leather, which is, I am sure, one of her subtle jokes. I put on my lemon-yellow Brooks Brothers shirt, my yellow-and-white cravat, my white linen jacket, and I am as good as a Graham Greene character or even Greene himself. I often like to dress for dinner, especially after having been rather solitary. In a sour mood, Yannis will stay home, but he will show up later, as he usually does, I am sure. He ignores me as I leave the apartment, but I am inured to him at the present moment.
Roger is seated at a table far from Helen and me. He seems to be in a pensive mood. He’s reading a Greek newspaper. He is unhappy, poor dear; he supported the junta and its regime, and liked to say that on this he and the Greek people agreed. Both he and they, he will still insist tiresomely, knew the country needed the restoration of order and a strong hand. What battles Roger and I have had about the censorship of news! Roger could be reading about the wreckage of a Bronze Age ship, recently discovered off Hydra; it is thought to be the earliest known ship-wreck ever found. Probably Roger wishes he had gotten there first, to grab the spoils.
He and I barely nod to each other. It’s a mode either of us might adopt which means nothing. Helen has clipped her hair back and seems even younger and more vulnerable. Christos bends over her and takes her order, looking down her shirt, I think. She doesn’t, of course, wear a brassiere. Occasionally Helen glances at Roger, who has also only nodded to her; she is not used to this from him. I explain, not caring if he hears, that this is not unusual for Roger and she must not take his behavior personally. She says nothing.
I ask what has she done today. Helen has taught two English classes. I believe she landed the teaching job by lying; she must have told the school she had a college degree. It’s a real drag, Helen says. Her students have to learn how to write
As I ruminate on Helen and drugs, I’m struck by a brilliant idea—I could write a crime story based on the alleged suicide of a twin. Pills, of course. The truth of how the twin died will become the object of Stan Green’s quest. He must discern whether or not the twin had a natural unnatural death, a true suicide, or whether it was foul play, and the surviving twin sister—I’ll make them twin brothers, to disguise Helen—actually and cleverly did her—him—in, by mixing up some pills, let’s say.
How can I think like this? I am a grotesque creature.
Chapter 7
I walk to the window and discover Helen standing on her terrace, looking in this direction. I wave and we agree in sign language to meet later for dinner. She seems excited. Could she possibly have found out about my meeting John the other day? How could she? That is paranoia.
Nectaria has set up a shower on the roof for those of us who have been here forever. It is remarkable how being on the roof, on top of the world, as Yannis likes to exclaim—his innocence exists in such expressions—on top of the world and naked as a buck, with the sun still strong but not hot, with cool water drizzling down one’s body, how one feels safe and clean, truly clean. Pure. I soap thoroughly and scrub here and there, over and over. A Lady Macbeth I am not, because my hands are clean, there is no blood, not even a stain, no visible sign. I am not, I convince myself, a bad man. And when I towel off and breathe the fragrant Cretan air, air that brilliant ancients also breathed, why I know myself to be in a line of humanity of which I can be proud. I wrap my terry around me and descend to my apartment.
I splash my face with the after-shave Gwen sent me, English Leather, which is, I am sure, one of her subtle jokes. I put on my lemon-yellow Brooks Brothers shirt, my yellow-and-white cravat, my white linen jacket, and I am as good as a Graham Greene character or even Greene himself. I often like to dress for dinner, especially after having been rather solitary. In a sour mood, Yannis will stay home, but he will show up later, as he usually does, I am sure. He ignores me as I leave the apartment, but I am inured to him at the present moment.
Roger is seated at a table far from Helen and me. He seems to be in a pensive mood. He’s reading a Greek newspaper. He is unhappy, poor dear; he supported the junta and its regime, and liked to say that on this he and the Greek people agreed. Both he and they, he will still insist tiresomely, knew the country needed the restoration of order and a strong hand. What battles Roger and I have had about the censorship of news! Roger could be reading about the wreckage of a Bronze Age ship, recently discovered off Hydra; it is thought to be the earliest known ship-wreck ever found. Probably Roger wishes he had gotten there first, to grab the spoils.
He and I barely nod to each other. It’s a mode either of us might adopt which means nothing. Helen has clipped her hair back and seems even younger and more vulnerable. Christos bends over her and takes her order, looking down her shirt, I think. She doesn’t, of course, wear a brassiere. Occasionally Helen glances at Roger, who has also only nodded to her; she is not used to this from him. I explain, not caring if he hears, that this is not unusual for Roger and she must not take his behavior personally. She says nothing.
I ask what has she done today. Helen has taught two English classes. I believe she landed the teaching job by lying; she must have told the school she had a college degree. It’s a real drag, Helen says. Her students have to learn how to write
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