if the couple would be locked in one another’s gaze, pay no attention to anyone else, and stay for hours, and even if the tip, either fantastically large or fantastically small, was anyone’s guess, because such couples almost always handled money unmindfully.
Bread, olives, a dish of olive oil, a bottle of mineral water, and a bottle of retsina were brought to the table. In a heavy Greek accent, the waiter who put them down said, “In how many minutes—hours?—tsall I come back to take your order?”
Harry looked at Catherine, who merely smiled, and he said, “Twenty.”
“Minutes or hours?” the waiter asked, knowingly. Harry didn’t answer. “If you want sooner, call me.”
After he left, he came charging back, beginning to speak as he was halfway across the flagstones. “Forgot. Spessal dinner tonight. Oktopadi on grill, kotopolou fornu, salat, very good.” He turned to go.
“Wait,” Harry commanded, and, turning to Catherine, asked, “Would you like that?”
“What is it?”
“Marinated octopus on the grill, chicken from a clay oven. The octopus, like many people, is better than either its name or its appearance.”
“Yes,” she said, and then, to the waiter, “I’ll have that.”
“Two, then,” Harry told the waiter, holding up two fingers, like Winston Churchill. “
Duo.
”
“When the waiter disappeared, Catherine asked, “You know Greek?”
“A little.”
“Demotic Greek?”
“Enough to get by as a tourist. I was in Greece before the war.”
“Doing what?”
“Supposedly studying.”
“Studying what?”
“I was a graduate student, what they call an ‘advanced student.’”
“Where?”
“Magdalen College, Oxford.”
“Aha.”
“What
aha?
”
“Just
aha.
What were you doing?”
“I wanted to write a doctoral thesis on the Mediterranean as a historical force unto itself. The civilizations that ring it have so much in common other than just the olive, and half of what they are they owe to the sea. It’s certainly worth a book, which would be interesting, beautiful, and sensual.”
“You wanted to write a sensual doctoral thesis?”
“I did.”
“You expected it to be accepted? I majored in music at a girls’ college in Philadelphia. . . .”
“Where?”
“Bryn Mawr.”
“Aha.”
“And I’m not exactly Ph.D. bait. But even I know that you could never get something like that through.”
“You think I didn’t?”
Her jaw dropped a little, but she kept on with her train of thought. “It would collapse the professoriate.”
“You say that because, you see, you’re a girl, and girls don’t have what boys have, which is a goat-like capacity to bang with the head against heavy objects that will not move.”
“Isn’t that pointless?”
“Yes, except that, once in a million times, it does move.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“In general?”
“We have time.”
“I was the class of ’thirty-seven. . . .”
“Where?”
“Harvard,” he answered, like someone anticipating being struck. It was always that way.
“Oh no,” she said, very annoyed.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, but he knew why.
“Harvard boys think they’re semi-divine, and they aren’t. They used to ride down to Bryn Mawr like Apollos in their chariots.”
“I wasn’t like that,” he stated. And he wasn’t.
“I know.” Then it dawned on her, and she said, “You’re eight years older than I am.”
He did the arithmetic. “You were graduated last year?”
“Yes.”
She seemed much older than twenty-three, and she thought that he seemed much younger than thirty-one or -two. The shock, however, was only momentary. “To write on the Mediterranean that way, how many languages would you have to know?”
“One.”
“How many do you know?”
As he spoke, he counted on his fingers.
“That many?”
“All badly, except perhaps English. Unfortunately, I don’t know Turkish.”
“What a tragedy,” she said.
Bread, olives, a dish of olive oil, a bottle of mineral water, and a bottle of retsina were brought to the table. In a heavy Greek accent, the waiter who put them down said, “In how many minutes—hours?—tsall I come back to take your order?”
Harry looked at Catherine, who merely smiled, and he said, “Twenty.”
“Minutes or hours?” the waiter asked, knowingly. Harry didn’t answer. “If you want sooner, call me.”
After he left, he came charging back, beginning to speak as he was halfway across the flagstones. “Forgot. Spessal dinner tonight. Oktopadi on grill, kotopolou fornu, salat, very good.” He turned to go.
“Wait,” Harry commanded, and, turning to Catherine, asked, “Would you like that?”
“What is it?”
“Marinated octopus on the grill, chicken from a clay oven. The octopus, like many people, is better than either its name or its appearance.”
“Yes,” she said, and then, to the waiter, “I’ll have that.”
“Two, then,” Harry told the waiter, holding up two fingers, like Winston Churchill. “
Duo.
”
“When the waiter disappeared, Catherine asked, “You know Greek?”
“A little.”
“Demotic Greek?”
“Enough to get by as a tourist. I was in Greece before the war.”
“Doing what?”
“Supposedly studying.”
“Studying what?”
“I was a graduate student, what they call an ‘advanced student.’”
“Where?”
“Magdalen College, Oxford.”
“Aha.”
“What
aha?
”
“Just
aha.
What were you doing?”
“I wanted to write a doctoral thesis on the Mediterranean as a historical force unto itself. The civilizations that ring it have so much in common other than just the olive, and half of what they are they owe to the sea. It’s certainly worth a book, which would be interesting, beautiful, and sensual.”
“You wanted to write a sensual doctoral thesis?”
“I did.”
“You expected it to be accepted? I majored in music at a girls’ college in Philadelphia. . . .”
“Where?”
“Bryn Mawr.”
“Aha.”
“And I’m not exactly Ph.D. bait. But even I know that you could never get something like that through.”
“You think I didn’t?”
Her jaw dropped a little, but she kept on with her train of thought. “It would collapse the professoriate.”
“You say that because, you see, you’re a girl, and girls don’t have what boys have, which is a goat-like capacity to bang with the head against heavy objects that will not move.”
“Isn’t that pointless?”
“Yes, except that, once in a million times, it does move.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“In general?”
“We have time.”
“I was the class of ’thirty-seven. . . .”
“Where?”
“Harvard,” he answered, like someone anticipating being struck. It was always that way.
“Oh no,” she said, very annoyed.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, but he knew why.
“Harvard boys think they’re semi-divine, and they aren’t. They used to ride down to Bryn Mawr like Apollos in their chariots.”
“I wasn’t like that,” he stated. And he wasn’t.
“I know.” Then it dawned on her, and she said, “You’re eight years older than I am.”
He did the arithmetic. “You were graduated last year?”
“Yes.”
She seemed much older than twenty-three, and she thought that he seemed much younger than thirty-one or -two. The shock, however, was only momentary. “To write on the Mediterranean that way, how many languages would you have to know?”
“One.”
“How many do you know?”
As he spoke, he counted on his fingers.
“That many?”
“All badly, except perhaps English. Unfortunately, I don’t know Turkish.”
“What a tragedy,” she said.
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