fighting it.”
“But your friends—”
“Not friends. Friend. One friend. A long time ago. And I’m not a V.I.P. Until about six months ago I was just a very ordinary G.I. stationed in Vietnam. Explosions don’t frighten me—I’m used to them. I just don’t like getting hit in the face without hitting back.”
“Stephanos apologized. He’s not a violent person, really. He was frightened for me. You weren’t expected.”
“I gathered that. Do you still say you don’t know what the explosion was about?”
“I must say that. Even if the police came and took me to Bouboulinas Street I would say that I know nothing—I hope.”
“Is it really that bad here?”
“It’s worse. But that’s not a problem for an American, is it?” There was a note of sarcasm in her voice. Then she smiled quickly. “Shall we talk of something more pleasant? Is she really so beautiful—this Rhona Brent?”
“She is very beautiful.”
“And did you know her well?”
“I once knew her as well as a man can know a woman.”
“You loved her then.”
“I think so. There’s nothing so unusual about that, is there? Don’t you have a lover?”
Katerina was a beautiful woman, too. She had to know that. “Not now,” she answered. “There are other things to think of. I work. I study languages. There’s always some use for intellectuals. We’re needed to show tourists the crumbling glories of Greece.”
“And the tourists are pretty rough on you, I suppose.”
“Sometimes. One gets used to it.”
“Are Americans the worst?”
“Americans? Oh, no. Americans tip well and are very friendly. Some of them are too friendly at times, but one learns to cope.”
Brad shivered. “I think I just felt a draught,” he said.
Katerina laughed. “No, please, I didn’t mean you.”
“Wait until you know me better,” Brad said.
“I should offer you something to eat but I’m afraid I have nothing but some cheese and bread. Americans like steak.”
“That gives me an idea. I was on my way to dinner when I got lost tonight. That’s why I was standing where I was, when Stephanos ran into me. Trying to get my bearings and find a restaurant. When you hear from Stephanos let’s go out to dinner together.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You should! You’re supposed to be nice to tourists, aren’t you?”
“Then I suppose it’s all right. Yes, I would like to go with you. When I hear from Stephanos.”
She was nervous. She walked back to the window and looked out at the street again, and then she walked about the room, straightening ashtrays and magazines. She saw him staring at the photograph of King and asked bluntly:
“Why was he murdered, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “I suppose because he made us think and thinking is painful to some people.”
“He wasn’t a Communist?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. Frightened people will call anyone a Communist. They would call Jesus Christ a Communist if he came back wearing that beard.”
She laughed bitterly. “A Communist or a homosexual.”
“You sound like the mayor of Los Angeles running for reelection,” Brad said.
“And you fought Communists.”
“I was a soldier. I fought the enemy. I’d do it again.”
“If they were Communists.”
“Especially if they were Communists.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Politics is so confusing. My father died fighting Communists. We were—we are Royalists. Now my brother is hiding in the dark. Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t the Generals and the politicians let people work and live and be happy? Stephanos is studying law at the university. I am very proud of him. I study languages and art. I would like to be a painter. These are good things to be and to want—”
The knock came at the door. There was quick fear in her face and then she regained her composure and crossed the room. She opened the door cautiously—then wider as she recognized the caller. It was a boy of
“But your friends—”
“Not friends. Friend. One friend. A long time ago. And I’m not a V.I.P. Until about six months ago I was just a very ordinary G.I. stationed in Vietnam. Explosions don’t frighten me—I’m used to them. I just don’t like getting hit in the face without hitting back.”
“Stephanos apologized. He’s not a violent person, really. He was frightened for me. You weren’t expected.”
“I gathered that. Do you still say you don’t know what the explosion was about?”
“I must say that. Even if the police came and took me to Bouboulinas Street I would say that I know nothing—I hope.”
“Is it really that bad here?”
“It’s worse. But that’s not a problem for an American, is it?” There was a note of sarcasm in her voice. Then she smiled quickly. “Shall we talk of something more pleasant? Is she really so beautiful—this Rhona Brent?”
“She is very beautiful.”
“And did you know her well?”
“I once knew her as well as a man can know a woman.”
“You loved her then.”
“I think so. There’s nothing so unusual about that, is there? Don’t you have a lover?”
Katerina was a beautiful woman, too. She had to know that. “Not now,” she answered. “There are other things to think of. I work. I study languages. There’s always some use for intellectuals. We’re needed to show tourists the crumbling glories of Greece.”
“And the tourists are pretty rough on you, I suppose.”
“Sometimes. One gets used to it.”
“Are Americans the worst?”
“Americans? Oh, no. Americans tip well and are very friendly. Some of them are too friendly at times, but one learns to cope.”
Brad shivered. “I think I just felt a draught,” he said.
Katerina laughed. “No, please, I didn’t mean you.”
“Wait until you know me better,” Brad said.
“I should offer you something to eat but I’m afraid I have nothing but some cheese and bread. Americans like steak.”
“That gives me an idea. I was on my way to dinner when I got lost tonight. That’s why I was standing where I was, when Stephanos ran into me. Trying to get my bearings and find a restaurant. When you hear from Stephanos let’s go out to dinner together.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You should! You’re supposed to be nice to tourists, aren’t you?”
“Then I suppose it’s all right. Yes, I would like to go with you. When I hear from Stephanos.”
She was nervous. She walked back to the window and looked out at the street again, and then she walked about the room, straightening ashtrays and magazines. She saw him staring at the photograph of King and asked bluntly:
“Why was he murdered, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “I suppose because he made us think and thinking is painful to some people.”
“He wasn’t a Communist?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. Frightened people will call anyone a Communist. They would call Jesus Christ a Communist if he came back wearing that beard.”
She laughed bitterly. “A Communist or a homosexual.”
“You sound like the mayor of Los Angeles running for reelection,” Brad said.
“And you fought Communists.”
“I was a soldier. I fought the enemy. I’d do it again.”
“If they were Communists.”
“Especially if they were Communists.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Politics is so confusing. My father died fighting Communists. We were—we are Royalists. Now my brother is hiding in the dark. Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t the Generals and the politicians let people work and live and be happy? Stephanos is studying law at the university. I am very proud of him. I study languages and art. I would like to be a painter. These are good things to be and to want—”
The knock came at the door. There was quick fear in her face and then she regained her composure and crossed the room. She opened the door cautiously—then wider as she recognized the caller. It was a boy of
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