Read Online My Brother Michael by Mary Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Stewart
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Chrissa, and as we passed a lighted shop he glanced at his wrist. ‘It’s nearly seven now. Could you bear to dine in half an hour’s time – say at half past seven?’
I gave up. ‘Whenever it suits you. But isn’t that fearfully early for Greece? Are you so very hungry?’
‘Reasonably. But it’s not that. I – well, I’ve things to do and I want to get them done tonight.’
‘I see. Well, it won’t be too early for me. I only had a snack for lunch, and I was too frightened to enjoy that. So thank you. I’d like that. At the Apollon, you said? You’re not staying there yourself?’
‘No. When I got here the place was full up, so I got permission to sleep in the big studio up the hill. You won’t have seen it yet. It’s a big ugly square building a couple of hundred feet up behind the village.’
‘A studio. An artist’s studio, do you mean?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what it was used for originally, but now it has a caretaker, and is let out to visiting artists and
bona fide
students who can’t afford to pay for a hotel. I suppose I’m up there under slightly false pretences, but I wanted to be in Delphi for some days and I couldn’t find a room. Now that I’m settled into the studio I find it’ll do me admirably. There’s only one other tenant at present, an English boy, who’s a genuine artist … and good, too, though he won’t let you say so.’
‘But surely you’ve a perfectly good claim on the studio, too?’ I said. ‘After all, you count as a student. And as a classicist you’ve a
bona fide
claim on any concession. It’s not a question of “false pretences” at all.’
He sent me a sideways look that I couldn’t read in the darkness. He said rather shortly: ‘I’m not here to pursue my classical studies.’
‘Oh.’ It sounded lame, and I hoped it hadn’t sounded like a question. But the syllable hung there between us like a dominant awaiting resolution.
Simon said suddenly, into the darkness straight ahead: ‘My brother Michael was here during the war.’
Chrissa was below us now. Far down to our left as we climbed along the face of the bluff the lights of Itea were strung along like beads under the thin moon.
He said, in that expressionless way: ‘He was in the Peloponnese for some time, as BLO – that’s British Liaison Officer – between our chaps and the
andartes
, the Greek guerrillas under Zervas. Later he moved over into the Pindus region with ELAS, the main resistance group. He was in this part of the country in 1944. He stayed with some people in Arachova; a shepherd called Stephanos and his son Nikolaos. Nikolaos is dead, but Stephanos still lives in Arachova. I went over to try to see him today, but he’s away in Levadia, and not expected back till this evening – so the woman of his house told me.’
‘The woman of his house?’
He laughed. ‘His wife. You’ll find everyone has to belong, hereabouts. Every man belongs to a place, and I’m afraid that every woman belongs to a man.’
‘I believe you,’ I said, without rancour. ‘I suppose it gives meaning to her life, poor thing?’
‘But of course … Anyway I’m going down to Arachova again tonight to see Stephanos.’
‘I see. Then this is a – a sort of pilgrimage for you? A genuine pilgrimage to Delphi?’
‘You could call it that. I’ve come to appease his shade.’
I caught my breath. ‘Oh. How stupid of me. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
‘That he died. Yes.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, in 1944. Somewhere on Parnassus.’
We had wheeled up on to the last stretch of the road before Delphi. To our left blazed the lighted windows of the luxurious Tourist Pavilion. Far down on the right the thin moon was already dying out in a welter of stars. The sea was faintly luminous beneath them, like a black satin ribbon.
Something made me say suddenly, into the dark: ‘Simon.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you say “appease”?’
A little silence. Then he spoke quite lightly.
I gave up. ‘Whenever it suits you. But isn’t that fearfully early for Greece? Are you so very hungry?’
‘Reasonably. But it’s not that. I – well, I’ve things to do and I want to get them done tonight.’
‘I see. Well, it won’t be too early for me. I only had a snack for lunch, and I was too frightened to enjoy that. So thank you. I’d like that. At the Apollon, you said? You’re not staying there yourself?’
‘No. When I got here the place was full up, so I got permission to sleep in the big studio up the hill. You won’t have seen it yet. It’s a big ugly square building a couple of hundred feet up behind the village.’
‘A studio. An artist’s studio, do you mean?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what it was used for originally, but now it has a caretaker, and is let out to visiting artists and
bona fide
students who can’t afford to pay for a hotel. I suppose I’m up there under slightly false pretences, but I wanted to be in Delphi for some days and I couldn’t find a room. Now that I’m settled into the studio I find it’ll do me admirably. There’s only one other tenant at present, an English boy, who’s a genuine artist … and good, too, though he won’t let you say so.’
‘But surely you’ve a perfectly good claim on the studio, too?’ I said. ‘After all, you count as a student. And as a classicist you’ve a
bona fide
claim on any concession. It’s not a question of “false pretences” at all.’
He sent me a sideways look that I couldn’t read in the darkness. He said rather shortly: ‘I’m not here to pursue my classical studies.’
‘Oh.’ It sounded lame, and I hoped it hadn’t sounded like a question. But the syllable hung there between us like a dominant awaiting resolution.
Simon said suddenly, into the darkness straight ahead: ‘My brother Michael was here during the war.’
Chrissa was below us now. Far down to our left as we climbed along the face of the bluff the lights of Itea were strung along like beads under the thin moon.
He said, in that expressionless way: ‘He was in the Peloponnese for some time, as BLO – that’s British Liaison Officer – between our chaps and the
andartes
, the Greek guerrillas under Zervas. Later he moved over into the Pindus region with ELAS, the main resistance group. He was in this part of the country in 1944. He stayed with some people in Arachova; a shepherd called Stephanos and his son Nikolaos. Nikolaos is dead, but Stephanos still lives in Arachova. I went over to try to see him today, but he’s away in Levadia, and not expected back till this evening – so the woman of his house told me.’
‘The woman of his house?’
He laughed. ‘His wife. You’ll find everyone has to belong, hereabouts. Every man belongs to a place, and I’m afraid that every woman belongs to a man.’
‘I believe you,’ I said, without rancour. ‘I suppose it gives meaning to her life, poor thing?’
‘But of course … Anyway I’m going down to Arachova again tonight to see Stephanos.’
‘I see. Then this is a – a sort of pilgrimage for you? A genuine pilgrimage to Delphi?’
‘You could call it that. I’ve come to appease his shade.’
I caught my breath. ‘Oh. How stupid of me. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
‘That he died. Yes.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, in 1944. Somewhere on Parnassus.’
We had wheeled up on to the last stretch of the road before Delphi. To our left blazed the lighted windows of the luxurious Tourist Pavilion. Far down on the right the thin moon was already dying out in a welter of stars. The sea was faintly luminous beneath them, like a black satin ribbon.
Something made me say suddenly, into the dark: ‘Simon.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you say “appease”?’
A little silence. Then he spoke quite lightly.
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