“Good-bye, again,” he told Caroline Ottway. “Good-bye, sir.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet in Athens,” she said. “I hope you’re going to have the same photographer with you. His pictures of Yucatan were so good. He had a Greek name, hadn’t he?” Her eyes were laughing again. “Stefanos or Steve something-or-other, wasn’t it?” George Ottway took his wife’s arm. “Caroline, I’m afraid we are keeping Mr. Strang from his evening’s engagements.” And to Strang, “It was kind of you to help my wife home with her load of magazines. Good-bye to you.”
Strang walked down the long street, even forgetting to look at the house with the almond tree inside its high wall until hewas far beyond it, while he brooded over Caroline Ottway’s last words. So she had identified Yannis: she would find Steve’s full name in that damned book. Not that it mattered. When she met Steve tomorrow, she would melt him into telling her not only his name but his life story.
He was back at the little square by the town’s gate. The main street was more crowded than ever. He plunged into it, wondering if he would have the good luck to run into Steve. Or perhaps even meet Alexander Christophorou. Or see Miss Katherini and her strange household. Everyone else in Taormina seemed to be here, walking as slowly as possible, looking at the little shops, looking at other people.
Strang searched for half an hour and then entered a barbershop. He called his hotel, first, but there was no message waiting for him. Blast Steve, he thought irritably, why can’t he be on time, just for once? He had his haircut, in a thoroughly bad temper.
For he was beginning to worry. There were just too many Greeks gathered together in Taormina. Coincidence? He would like to believe that, and enjoy the pleasant, relaxed night he had planned for himself. Instead, after dinner, he walked around the narrow dark streets, climbed innumerable steps, sat at café tables, looked into restaurants and a couple of night clubs, made three telephone calls to his hotel. There was no sign of Steve.
Exhausted, worried, and depressed, he returned to his hotel around midnight—and that wasn’t what he had planned, either—to find the unexpected. “Signore Strang,” the porter called to him, “that message you have been expecting—it came only ten minutes ago. By telephone.”
He took the slip of paper and unfolded it. The message was simple: “Weather disappointing. Delayed. Kladas.”
Yes, that’s Steve, he thought wearily: one cloud missing and he can’t get the composition he wanted for the sky. “Thanks,” he said to the porter, and made his way through the dimly lit cloisters. From the distant hotel bar came the strange effect of a samba tune played by a sweet mass of Strauss violins. But tonight, completely wasted, didn’t put him in any humour even for the incongruous. He wasn’t worried and depressed any longer; he just felt foolish and a little baffled.
He decided to have a drink in his room, and read a magazine article on “Night Life in Paris.” And so to bed.
6
Bright sunshine and blue sky, for a late breakfast on a terrace high above a sparkling sea, were a good remedy for last night’s gloom. As Strang drank his third cup of coffee and looked at a small orange tree displaying its golden fruit against the distant background of Etna’s snow-covered peak, he decided he would mix a little business with a good deal of pleasure. He would spend the morning at the beach.
He took his swimming trunks, a magazine, and a taxi, for the constant twists and turns of the snakelike road around gardens and villas trebled the journey down to the blue sea. Straight distances, here, would be measured not as the crow flew but as the stone dropped.
The beach was a small crescent of sand, guarded by immense black rocks jutting out of the clear waters. Today, most people were of the bob-and-splash school, so it was easy to count not only heads, but torsos and
“Perhaps we’ll meet in Athens,” she said. “I hope you’re going to have the same photographer with you. His pictures of Yucatan were so good. He had a Greek name, hadn’t he?” Her eyes were laughing again. “Stefanos or Steve something-or-other, wasn’t it?” George Ottway took his wife’s arm. “Caroline, I’m afraid we are keeping Mr. Strang from his evening’s engagements.” And to Strang, “It was kind of you to help my wife home with her load of magazines. Good-bye to you.”
Strang walked down the long street, even forgetting to look at the house with the almond tree inside its high wall until hewas far beyond it, while he brooded over Caroline Ottway’s last words. So she had identified Yannis: she would find Steve’s full name in that damned book. Not that it mattered. When she met Steve tomorrow, she would melt him into telling her not only his name but his life story.
He was back at the little square by the town’s gate. The main street was more crowded than ever. He plunged into it, wondering if he would have the good luck to run into Steve. Or perhaps even meet Alexander Christophorou. Or see Miss Katherini and her strange household. Everyone else in Taormina seemed to be here, walking as slowly as possible, looking at the little shops, looking at other people.
Strang searched for half an hour and then entered a barbershop. He called his hotel, first, but there was no message waiting for him. Blast Steve, he thought irritably, why can’t he be on time, just for once? He had his haircut, in a thoroughly bad temper.
For he was beginning to worry. There were just too many Greeks gathered together in Taormina. Coincidence? He would like to believe that, and enjoy the pleasant, relaxed night he had planned for himself. Instead, after dinner, he walked around the narrow dark streets, climbed innumerable steps, sat at café tables, looked into restaurants and a couple of night clubs, made three telephone calls to his hotel. There was no sign of Steve.
Exhausted, worried, and depressed, he returned to his hotel around midnight—and that wasn’t what he had planned, either—to find the unexpected. “Signore Strang,” the porter called to him, “that message you have been expecting—it came only ten minutes ago. By telephone.”
He took the slip of paper and unfolded it. The message was simple: “Weather disappointing. Delayed. Kladas.”
Yes, that’s Steve, he thought wearily: one cloud missing and he can’t get the composition he wanted for the sky. “Thanks,” he said to the porter, and made his way through the dimly lit cloisters. From the distant hotel bar came the strange effect of a samba tune played by a sweet mass of Strauss violins. But tonight, completely wasted, didn’t put him in any humour even for the incongruous. He wasn’t worried and depressed any longer; he just felt foolish and a little baffled.
He decided to have a drink in his room, and read a magazine article on “Night Life in Paris.” And so to bed.
6
Bright sunshine and blue sky, for a late breakfast on a terrace high above a sparkling sea, were a good remedy for last night’s gloom. As Strang drank his third cup of coffee and looked at a small orange tree displaying its golden fruit against the distant background of Etna’s snow-covered peak, he decided he would mix a little business with a good deal of pleasure. He would spend the morning at the beach.
He took his swimming trunks, a magazine, and a taxi, for the constant twists and turns of the snakelike road around gardens and villas trebled the journey down to the blue sea. Straight distances, here, would be measured not as the crow flew but as the stone dropped.
The beach was a small crescent of sand, guarded by immense black rocks jutting out of the clear waters. Today, most people were of the bob-and-splash school, so it was easy to count not only heads, but torsos and
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