illicitly to a German museum and, despite all Theocharis’s efforts, no other figures had been located on the island. Until recently. At last Eleni Trypani, the archaeologist he’d been subsidising for years, had found some stunning figurines, and her excavation reports were optimistic about locating more. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure that Eleni Trypani was trustworthy. She wasn’t submissive like others who worked for him, and she was becoming distinctly difficult to handle.
The old man leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through the pure white strands of his shaped beard. He lowered his head, desperately trying to find other subjects to distract him. Now there had been the deaths of the two young people, the island would be sunk in sorrow for weeks. He asked himself if there would ever be an end to the young dying before their time, but he knew the answer well enough. There was no point in hiding from it. It was intrinsic to the place. Trigono was the final destination on the passage the island’s inhabitants worked to death, and many of them arrived prematurely. It had always been the nature of the place. He of all people knew that. He’d realised it since the time he spent on Trigono during the Second World War. The island was a sanctuary of death. The diary he’d started reading only emphasised that.
The face he’d managed to forget for almost half a century appeared before him again, the face of Lieutenant George Lawrence. Theocharis had fooled himself into believing that the Englishman’s shade had long ago been confined to the underworld like that of Achilles, the great warrior whose name Lawrence had appropriated and whose soul, according to Homer, had been reduced to a status lower than that of the commonest serf. But now the pale ghost had risen, brought back to life by the young woman’s questions. That accursed woman. What irreparable damage had she done him?
Panos Theocharis twitched his head, trying vainly to dispel the image of a fresh-faced, excitable young man in ill-fitting peasant clothes, and let out a long, low groan that made the trio of dogs prick up their ears.
Would the things he had done in the war never leave him in peace?
CHAPTER SIX
T HE ferry-boat
Loxandra
rounded a prong of low rock on the northern tip of the island. According to Mavros’s guidebook its name was Cape Fonias, The Murderer—it must have been the graveyard of many ships. The outcrop was topped by a large light on metal columns that had been built next to a crumbling pile of masonry. The straits between Paros and Trigono were said to be very unpredictable, and there had been a beacon on the cape for centuries. That was why the whitewashed village was called Faros, Lighthouse, rather than the standard Aegean name of Chora, chief village.
Mavros watched as the compact capital swung into view, some fishing boats riding at anchor in the shallow bay and others moored at the gently curving quay. The buildings were reflecting the morning sun, making it difficult to take in their contours. They rose up a gentle slope, crowned by the blue dome of what he assumed was the main church, the flat rooftops a jumble of TV aerials, chimneys and washing lines festooned with clothes. The only other area that wasn’t brilliant white was a line of brown stonework beside the church. He presumed this was the wall of the Venetian kastro , the fortified centre that had been impregnable until a gang of pirates in the seventeenth century bribed a merchant to let them in—they had subsequently massacred the inhabitants, including the traitor. The guidebook made the most of the island’s violent history.
‘Room? Room?’ a boy offered eagerly as Mavros stepped off the boat.
He shook his head. He’d been expecting a pack of hawkers to surround the ferry, but most of the downcast people on the quayside had congregated around the Greek passengers. A loud groaning broke out, interspersed by tearful kisses and
The old man leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through the pure white strands of his shaped beard. He lowered his head, desperately trying to find other subjects to distract him. Now there had been the deaths of the two young people, the island would be sunk in sorrow for weeks. He asked himself if there would ever be an end to the young dying before their time, but he knew the answer well enough. There was no point in hiding from it. It was intrinsic to the place. Trigono was the final destination on the passage the island’s inhabitants worked to death, and many of them arrived prematurely. It had always been the nature of the place. He of all people knew that. He’d realised it since the time he spent on Trigono during the Second World War. The island was a sanctuary of death. The diary he’d started reading only emphasised that.
The face he’d managed to forget for almost half a century appeared before him again, the face of Lieutenant George Lawrence. Theocharis had fooled himself into believing that the Englishman’s shade had long ago been confined to the underworld like that of Achilles, the great warrior whose name Lawrence had appropriated and whose soul, according to Homer, had been reduced to a status lower than that of the commonest serf. But now the pale ghost had risen, brought back to life by the young woman’s questions. That accursed woman. What irreparable damage had she done him?
Panos Theocharis twitched his head, trying vainly to dispel the image of a fresh-faced, excitable young man in ill-fitting peasant clothes, and let out a long, low groan that made the trio of dogs prick up their ears.
Would the things he had done in the war never leave him in peace?
CHAPTER SIX
T HE ferry-boat
Loxandra
rounded a prong of low rock on the northern tip of the island. According to Mavros’s guidebook its name was Cape Fonias, The Murderer—it must have been the graveyard of many ships. The outcrop was topped by a large light on metal columns that had been built next to a crumbling pile of masonry. The straits between Paros and Trigono were said to be very unpredictable, and there had been a beacon on the cape for centuries. That was why the whitewashed village was called Faros, Lighthouse, rather than the standard Aegean name of Chora, chief village.
Mavros watched as the compact capital swung into view, some fishing boats riding at anchor in the shallow bay and others moored at the gently curving quay. The buildings were reflecting the morning sun, making it difficult to take in their contours. They rose up a gentle slope, crowned by the blue dome of what he assumed was the main church, the flat rooftops a jumble of TV aerials, chimneys and washing lines festooned with clothes. The only other area that wasn’t brilliant white was a line of brown stonework beside the church. He presumed this was the wall of the Venetian kastro , the fortified centre that had been impregnable until a gang of pirates in the seventeenth century bribed a merchant to let them in—they had subsequently massacred the inhabitants, including the traitor. The guidebook made the most of the island’s violent history.
‘Room? Room?’ a boy offered eagerly as Mavros stepped off the boat.
He shook his head. He’d been expecting a pack of hawkers to surround the ferry, but most of the downcast people on the quayside had congregated around the Greek passengers. A loud groaning broke out, interspersed by tearful kisses and
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