What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of folk, this pious morn?

(Keat’s ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn)

It was late morning on the fifth day of Simon's holiday. He lay on a towel on the beach - at his secret cove some five miles to the east of town - and was restless.

Package holidays were always the same, he thought. On the first day you arrived and checked into a hotel. On the second day everything was exciting and new; the town and its surroundings were awaiting exploration and life seemed full of possibilities. The third day was fun. The fourth day was pretty much the same as the third day, and on the fifth day you started getting bored.

What day was it? He wasn't too sure. The days merged into each other like the blue sky merged into the blue sea. He had arrived there on the Wednesday so - he ticked the days off on his fingers - today must be Sunday. He had discussed the whole problem with William that morning.

It was after breakfast, when he was sitting at the wooden table under the plane tree in the town’s main square - sipping alternately a cup of Turkish coffee and a large glass of water - that William had approached and sat down opposite.

“Deep in thought?’ he had said.

Simon sighed, “Well, everything seems so weary, stale, flat and - ,” he raised high a languid arm, indicating the town and its surroundings, “ - and, you know, unprofitable.”

“Feeling a bit glum then?” said William.

Simon indicated the postcards spread out on the table, and told William about Cathy, her letter and her disappearance.

“She’s such a red herring - a dead end, ” he said gloomily as he spoke of his meeting with Socrates and his visit to Athens, “and then there are the postcards,” he continued, “I’ve sent half of them off. Of course, they’ve been sent to different people, but when you put them together. You know? It’s a story. Cathy’s there now. I cannot get rid of her. You are a professor. It’s what that poet said about the moving finger having writ and not being able to go back and change one little bit of it.”

William grimaced, ‘Simon please.”

A twanging sound came from the cafe behind them.

“What’s that noise,’ continued William.

“It’s the waiter, practising his bouzouki,” said Simon.

“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter,’ sighed William.

“But he is getting a little bit better,’ Simon replied.

“Oh, please, William groaned, “ its Keats. I was quoting from Keat’s ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn.’ But forget Cathy. There are many more fish in the sea.’

‘Is that Keat’s too?’ Simon said.

‘SIMON!”

Thankfully, at that moment, Zorba ambled over.

‘Raki,’ he enquired.

“Something sweeter” enquired Simon of William.

There was no reply.

“A bottle of white wine then,” said Simon.

As they awaited the appearance of the bottle, William explained about Keats and the urn.

“’Sylvian historian, who canst thou express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme.’

After reciting the lines, he explained, “You see, Simon, the urn is telling us a story in pictures - pictures frozen in time”, he then continued:

‘What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both.’

Keats imagines a story.”

“But what legend did Keats describe?” enquired Simon.

William changed the subject. He peered at his glass and lifted it to the sunlight, ‘Why, the Greeks even gave wine sacred properties. Plato’s Symposiums were really drinking dens in dark rooms where wine was sipped in a ritual.”

Simon raised his glass and peered at it, ‘But wine is just a drug,” he said.

‘Possibly,’ replied William, “but we are given evidence of such a ceremony in the pictures painted on Greek vases - maybe resembling the images Keats describes on an urn that he saw in the British Museum.”

They finished the wine and William headed off to meet Prudence. ........

Now Simon glanced around the cove. What legend had William meant? What picture on the urn? What wouldn’t William tell him?

Elizabeth and Douglas lay on a towel close by. Envy filled Simon's breast for he knew full well why he was bored and restless. On other occasions he would have enjoyed the peace and quiet of the beach, but Polly was somewhere else and where Polly was, was fun.

It had been that look on her face; not that look from the beach at Mataala the previous afternoon, but later - after she had left the coach when she had turned around and smiled before disappearing into the maze of streets in the capital. That look had kept him awake most of the night like the hot sirocco that had suddenly blown through his hotel bedroom.

Polly had laughed at him. There was no doubt of that. She had known full well that he had wanted to follow her. There had been something of contempt -almost of derision -in that look. But had there not been something else in the smile? Something in the sly turn of the head and the swing of the legs - something of the 'Come follow me?' Or was this something - something that a night of wishful thinking had placed there? It was difficult to decide. Those particular looks on the face of a girl were somewhat similar.

Simon's thoughts raced.

If only he had not fallen down those steps at Phaestos? Perhaps if he had chased after her through the twisting streets and bought her some flowers? He wanted to know. Or did he? A rejection would be final. Would he then still be able to enjoy her company? Would she still smile at him?

Polly was a flirt. But he was so beautiful and had obviously enjoyed the attentions paid to her on the beach. That look on her face then? When she had caressed her breasts. Was it an invitation to all gathered there? Were all included in her smile?

And then there was the Greek waiter.

Elizabeth and Douglas lay on a towel; Elizabeth so innocent in her boyfriend's arms. How could he tell Douglas that he had seen the waiter pick her up on the beach a few days ago? In a way, it gave him hope. What if Polly knew of the waiter’s wayward nature? And, if she knew, what then? But, in the taverna all that day, she had seemed oblivious to the attentions that the Greek had paid towards the other girls. Simon grasped at straws. Perhaps she and the waiter were just good friends?

The days had been building up nicely. There seemed to be some logical connection between events. Familiar faces and familiar scenes. It was becoming just like home - reassuring and the sun blazed down. But now the threads had broken. Had Polly broken them? It troubled Simon. Had he become possessed? Just being in her company, just standing near, made life joyful and exciting - and the beach where she wasn't seem drab.

Simon sighed and looked around the cove. Indeed, the day had begun without much promise.

After William had left the cafe in the town’s main square, early that morning, Simon had wandered aimlessly down to the quay where had had bumped into Douglas. They had strolled - arm in arm - up the promenade to the Midas Hotel to pick up Elizabeth before deciding what to do for the rest of the day.

At the hotel, they found Elizabeth asleep on one of the couches by the swimming pool. After yawning, she informed them that Suzy had arrived early that morning on her moped, but had left soon after, taking her mother to the hospital.

On the way back into town, Simon, with a pounding heart, had poked his head into the office of the 'Hermes Travel Agency' on the promenade. But a sign on the door announced that it would be closed until lunchtime.

The bus station had been devoid of buses and there were few boats in the harbour, so he, Douglas and Elizabeth had decided to hitch a ride back down the coast road to Simon's cove - where they had spent the morning.

Now Simon peered at his two companions. They were even further occupied. It would seem as though he would be left to his own devices all that day.

Of course, he could inspect another ruin? Or he could go for another walk? Here was beautiful, but every twist of the road promised a better view. But perhaps not! In this heat it required considerable effort just to heave oneself out of bed and drag one's enervated body down to the nearest beach.

The hedonistic life certainly began to pall - at least it do so without the requisite company.

Simon sighed. He had kissed Suzy - just a peck on the cheek when they had said goodnight at the youth hostel. And he had danced with Polly! He felt a sense of loss - of fear and a hot shiver. And then there was Mrs Robinson! He sighed once more while he rummaged through his shoulder bag looking for entertainment. There was a book to read - and there were postcards and a notebook. He remembered the previous events. So much happened by chance - chance meetings and chance encounters. With the advantage of hindsight, he could see that Mrs Robinson had been a mistake. Another dead end. But there was little he could do about it now. Once set on a particular course, life seemed to follow its own weird pattern.

A postcard fell on the beach and Simon picked it up. It was a photograph of a statue of Aphrodite. A headless torso - and the folds of a white dress which exposed one full breast. On the rear of the card was inscribed his list with Mrs Robinson's name close to the bottom. It would be sensible to cross it off altogether. He wondered what would have happened if Elizabeth had not been asleep in her bed when he had escorted her mother back to her bedroom?

The thought of Elizabeth - of her body half wrapped in a thin, cool, white sheet - so much more potent than her naked flesh near him - brought an image to Simon's mind. An image of Polly anointing her breasts with oil. Where she could be now?

Polyhymnia twisted and turned on her bed in her little room on the top floor of the 'Hermes Travel Agency'. She glanced at her watch. it was late morning and she had still not fallen asleep. Ariadne, the black-eyed receptionist, would soon turn up to open the agency for the afternoon. Damn! There would be no siesta now. And she knew that Spiros had offered to help out on her uncle's boat that day.

It was all her father's fault - her sleepless night and morning. Yesterday evening! What a scene! First it had been the usual obsession, accompanied by the usual fit of the sulks.

"Hah! Though shalt worship no other God?" he had shouted, "Poppycock!"

The white, leather-bound volume had been flung across the cave.

"Its all the same thing. Can't they see? The fools!"

Polyhymnia had waited patiently until her father had finished his tirade. She sighed. There was sure to be a storm after the passing of a few days - when his angry breath finally seeped out of the ground into the sea air.

She knew the tantrum was merely a matter of family pride. Zeus was fully aware that the whole family had to work now that they could no longer rely on offerings and sacrifices for their daily bread. But what had it been this time?

How the arguments has raged at the monthly council at their villa on the lower slopes of Mount Parnassus.

Look, Zeus had roared, “They’ve even incorporated an argument by design! It had not happened like this?”

But all creeds had been aghast at Darwin; all creeds had been in danger.

“Where did we do wrong?” he had sighed.

“But we have adapted too” said Melpomene, ‘In two thousand years, all they’ve produced is Father Christmas and look what we’ve done.”

Indeed, as empires and civilisations had ebbed and flowed, the sisters had increased their number from three to nine - each taking on a particular area of expertise. At an opportune moment, a bathing hour had been disturbed; and the dropping of an apple on a head been orchestrated at just the fortuitous second. What more could they do?

How the arguments raged with Calliope arguing ‘a priori’ here and ‘a posteriori’ there until all their heads had spun.

"What do you mean? Only 10%.?" he had roared.

So that was it! Her job as a freelance literary agent.

"But, papa, a girl's got to live."

"Bah, All they do is write about you anyway."

He had raged all evening.

"And what do you mean by invoking me in the middle of the afternoon? I was fast asleep."

"I'm sorry, papa, it was a mistake."

"Oh? Let's hope not. You must be more careful.”

Then her father had complained with a wag of his little finger, You must remember the family's reputation."

Even he could not resist a snigger.

"What about the first time, eh?"

Polyhymnia blushed. He had been right on both counts. In a way she was pleased that inspiring had been put on a sound financial basis; it had even been suggested that she join a trade union to protect her interests, but her job hardly paid for the rent. Indeed, she had promised to help out at her uncle's travel agency because the family was expanding its business, but she also needed the money. And that first assignment - the first in which she had deputised for her sister, Erato. She had received an urgent summons from Scotland. Macsomebody or other. What a funny little man. She would never live it down. As a result, she had lost some of her confidence and for a long time she had been reluctant to take chances. Still, yesterday had only been an automatic reflex - that libation - no harm could come of it.

But no! Her stomach suddenly lurched. What had she done? In her incantation she had called on all her sisters. Zeus had probably put out a red alert; all would have been summoned! Her heart beat faster. After a few horrific moments, she calmed down. She need never tell them it had been a mistake. Her father would keep quiet for the sake of the family's reputation. If she kept mum, and didn't reveal who had invoked them, her sisters couldn't possibly find out . Really! Life was too much!

Polyhymnia turned on her stomach and buried her face into Spiros's shoulder. She tried to forget and to sleep.

Simon looked around the cove for some sort of distraction - something that would occupy him for the day - something that would rid his mind of the almost naked Polly.

Above, in the distance, on the coast road, he saw Zorba's makeshift cart and Zorba staring out to sea - down at the cove. His figure was rather comforting in a way, as though he was looking after them - he the shepherd and they his sheep.

Simon then looked out to sea.

Out in the bay, lay anchored a mysterious ship. Where it had come from and where was its destination? He had swum out to the ship many times that morning, climbed up the anchor chain and dived into the clear, blue sea.

A girl had done likewise - swimming out to the ship and then back to the shore. They had taken it in turns - almost a competition. She now lay on the beach sunbathing, She seemed vaguely vaguely familiar. She smiled in his direction. Had she waved too? Wasn’t she the chambermaid who had cleaned out his room?

There - on the towel - sat the girl alone.

Simon had spotted his morning’s entertainment. Perhaps she was Greek, with her brown skin, dark eyes and full figure? Now was the time to put into effect all that he had learned on Aphrodite Beach.

She was smoking a cigarette.

Simon searched through his shoulder bag, found his phrase- book and thumbed though the pages. Ah, just what he required. Just the phrase. Have you got a light, please?”

He produced an unlit cigarette, put it into his mouth and once more searched shoulder-bag - carefully pushing his box of matches to the bottom. He then peered inquisitively around the cove. Good! She had been looking his way.

Simon picked up his towel and belongings before sauntering across the beach -not risking a dip in the sea. There would be no time for a preliminary sortie - or the toe dip and torso swivel. A direct approach seemed best. He held up his unlit cigarette and smiled. She looked at him encouragingly. This would be easy! But wait a minute? Something had gone wrong. It was far too easy! He recalled the black-eyed girl at the travel agency and Greek girls were notoriously unapproachable.

But it was too late to retreat now. Simon took a deep breath. Courage! It was time to make the approach. A few strides and he was standing over the girl. Fortunately, he had taken the precaution of placing a finger on the right page of the phrase-book so all that was necessary was too look down and concentrate on the phonetics.

"Tee ora fevyee to telefteo treno sass?" he said as he looked into her dark eyes.

It worked! The same glow appeared on her face that had suffused the cheeks of Elizabeth and Suzy when they had been confronted by the waiter in the taverna. This girl too had turned to stone. She too seemed riveted to the spot - absolutely transfixed - but she had not produced a light.

What next?

Simon looked down to repeat the phrase. His eye fell on the English translation. 'What time is your last train?' It produced momentary dismay and confusion. No! In his haste, his eye had skipped to the wrong Greek phrase.

He peered at the girl - over the pages of the book. She seemed puzzled but, nevertheless, there was a certain look of interest on her face. Her eyebrows had shot up and there was some sort of inquisitive expression around the corners of her mouth. It seemed worthwhile to pursue the advantage for she had gathered her possessions together and looked at them - and then up at him - with longing.

What now?

They continued to stare at each other.

The cicada had stopped chirruping and there was a silence on the beach. Simon gazed, enraptured, at the girl's straight nose, white teeth and brown hair. In that quiet moment he was reminded of the Greek waiter - the successor in all his ventures. Jealousy raged though his breast. Why should the Greek have all the fun? He looked at the girl - at her breasts, her hips and her sunburnt legs. What could he say? "0... like zee Greek?" The Greek ...hat? What was so firm, ripe and luscious that you wanted to touch and caress? What was so soft, warm and lovely that you wanted to hold close and hug? He glanced through the phrase-book. Nothing seemed quite appropriate.

The girl seemed to be making a move. She glanced furtively at the coast road and began unbolting herself from the beach. Hurriedly Simon picked on a phrase. There was a dry lump in his throat as he croaked his way through the Greek words.

"Deaskedassa parah polee," he politely said.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the words had the desired effect for she had re-rooted herself to the spot. She seemed to be trembling slightly and her breath came in short gasps. The phrase certainly provoked a response. Perhaps this scribe this interpreter of human desire and passion - the author of the phrase-book, knew a thing or two?

Simon wondered what he had said? He looked at the English half of the book. 'I've enjoyed myself tremendously?' Well, perhaps it gained something in translation?

What was needed now was a word of endearment something encouraging. He studied the phrases. 'I know a good discotheque'. 'Do you live with your family?'. 'Do you live alone?'. 'I'd love to, thank you'. It all seemed so forward - so suggestive. But didn't he want to suggest something? In desperation he mouthed his way through another sentence.

“Efkaresto,” he mumbled, "eetan mea eepothee vrada."

A small grin appeared on the girl's face and the corners of her mouth twitched. She gathered her possessions together and covered her breasts with a towel. She looked beseechingly at him. My! This one certainly worked! What had he said this time? Simon consulted the phrase-book. 'Thank you, its been a wonderful evening'.

He watched in frustration as the girl slowly inched away, giggling nervously. She clutched all her possessions in her arms before racing away up the little track to the coast road.

Zorba smiled with satisfaction when he saw his daughter scrambling up the little track towards his cart. He had promised to collect her on his way back from his mother's farm. She had wanted one last swim before returning to school.

Zorba was pleased with her. His daughter had turned out to be a real, hardworking girl - just like her mother. She was certainly worth the cost of her education.

He glanced down at the cove. Much of it was still unclaimed territory. Virgin soil. Ah, such a piece of land he would like to give to his son. Zorba reflectively sucked on his pipe. Now, surely, was the time to expand the family business.

A gloom appeared on his face when he thought of Spiros. Where was he now? The boy hadn't returned home the previous night. No doubt he was at the tour office on the promenade. Hah! Chasing after that English girl. Damn that boy! He had better watch out. That was all. Yes! If Spiros wasn't careful he would leave the whole family business to his daughter and not just give her a dowry.

"Hallo, father."

"Ah, Maria, my dear."

Zorba hugged his daughter as she climbed aboard the cart. He started the engine and they slowly putted back into town. There was no hurry. She didn't have to leave until the evening - when the ferry departed.

"Bad Luck, Simon. What did you say to her? When is your last train?"

Douglas roared with laughter.

"Why don't you give it up?" he continued, "Its bad for your health."

"Hah, very funny."

Simon picked up his towel and belongings.

"Hey, where are you going?" Douglas shouted as Simon started to climb up the track.

"Back to town," he shouted back, "Maybe I'll have something to eat? Or look for a bus. Go somewhere?"

"Wait a minute. We'll come. won't we, Elizabeth?"

There was no reply. Douglas looked down at his girl friend. She lay on a towel purring softly. Her body had turned to the same colour as her nose and beads of sweat covered her skin. She seemed to be asleep.

"Elizabeth," he softly enquired, “Are you coming?"

"What? Oh, um. "

She turned over on her stomach.

Douglas had hitched his way across Europe; down through Italy to Brindisi; crossed the Ionian Sea, the Greek mainland and made his way to Crete - all in four days . He had caught the traveller's bug and, despite the evident attractions, did not want to spend his holiday on the beach.

"Look," he pleaded, "You can't spend all day on the beach? Please?"

She purred.

"Its no good, Simon," he shouted, "She'll be comatose until lunchtime. You go on ahead. Maybe we'll see you later?"

But Simon had already climbed onto the coast road.

He waved goodbye as he started the long, five mile walk back into town. Someone stopped and gave him a lift. Soon he was back in the town's main square where he sat at the wooden table in the town’s main square under the plane-tree. After he had eaten his lunch, he sipped a beer.

It was early afternoon and the day had continued without much promise. Even the beer seemed flat. Neither awnings nor parasols had been erected and the cafe was almost deserted. Where was everybody? Without people, awnings and parasols, the square seemed colourless.

Soon it would be the siesta, but Simon was not tired. Where could he go? He consulted his map. He could spite the heat and walk along the coast to the west of the town? There might even be some tavernas on the way. Yes - he could reach ‘Elounda’ before dusk. The name sounded familiar. Hadn't ‘Elounda’ been the setting for a television series? But no - he wanted adventure.

He had also paid a visit to the bus-station where he had picked up a bus-timetable. A few buses were running that afternoon. There was a regular service to ‘Kritsa’ about ten miles away - a village in the mountains. There was a bus to ‘Vai Beach’ on the easternmost tip of the island. He could make it one way and, if he took his sleeping bag, spend the night under the stars among the palm trees. There was another service to ‘Ierepetra’, through the plain of greenhouses, to the southern side of the island. On the otherhand, he could just sit here and have another beer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw a sudden blur of colour moving rapidly across the square. People seemed to brighten. There was the hum of conversation in the air.

It was Polly!

She looked different. Dressed in a summer frock, she scampered along, swinging her bag. Even her hair was done in a different way. She wore no ear-rings but the whole square still brightened under her presence.

She was magic!

But where was she going?

Simon paid for his drink and impulsively - no, compulsively followed her down the Main Street. He dodged in and out of the shops to avoid being seen. In a few moments he had reached the harbour, just in time to see her board a boat near the kiosk on the quay.

A canvas cloth hung over the boat's wheelhouse gaily announcing 'Spinalonga' in large, coloured letters. There was a small party of tourists in the boat, sitting on the benches clamped to its deck. Two girls in bikinis reclined languidly across the hatches to the hold, sunbathing, and reading through their huge sunglasses. They were protected from the sun by a canvas awning that stretched from the mast to the bowsprit.

Painted in blue and red, the boat stood out among the white yachts in the harbour; it was slightly larger than the surrounding caiques and fishing smacks which wallowed in the white foam that gurgled from its stern.

But the boat was about to depart!

Simon recognised Niki in the wheelhouse. He suddenly remembered that Suzy had pointed out the boat as belonging to him. It must have something to do with the tour office?

He rushed down the promenade. The travel agency was still open. He burst through the door, skidding to a halt in front of the desk. The Greek girl with the smouldering eyes sat behind the counter.

"You vant Pollee?. she enquired with a sweet grin.

Simon snarled. But - on the notice board above her head and scrawled beneath Sunday - large letters proclaimed ‘Excursion to Spinalonga Island’. He pointed wildly to the board, remembering the words of the coach driver the previous day.

"Eeserah! Eeserah!" he shouted.

She yawned.

"Ow ees Ed?"

"'What ?"

Simon was confused. Ed? Who was Ed?

He impatiently drummed his fingers on the counter top. If she didn't hurry he would miss the boat.

"Ahow ees your Ed?" she repeated.

The girl pointed to her scalp.

"Oh, its fine, wonderful, " sulked Simon.

She slowly thumbed her way through a wad of tickets and produced a rubber-stamp and an ink-pad.

"Tickets? Duo - one for Meeses Rhrobinshon?"

She winked conspiratorially.

Damn! So his fame had spread. Polly had told. He ought to leave now to avoid further heartbreak and disappointment. He wavered. But it was too late. The girl had started to write out the tickets.

'Okee," he replied, not forgetting to shake his head up and down instead of from side to side - as was the local custom when inferring the negative.

He pointed to himself.

"Ena! One! "

The girl produced a ticket and slowly stamped it.

"Not to treep these time, eh?"

She smiled sweetly.

Simon glowered as he grabbed the ticket out of her hand.

"I’ll pay you later," he shouted.

Then he rushed down to the harbour and leapt across the gangplank - a wooden board with a rope as railing - just as the boat was about to depart. If he could not possess Polly, at least he could enjoy her for the afternoon.

After the passing of a few minutes, Simon had recovered enough of his breath to look around the boat. But that was odd? The party seemed to be in various stages of decomposition. He saw red, blistered skin. And there was a bandage covering a jaw - and there was a patch over one eye. Some lips had peeled raw. And there was a scab and a sore patch exposed - and there was a nose half gone red. Where could this gaily painted boat be going?

Simon heard the word "lepers' whispered and his heart stopped beating. It couldn't be? He peered around the boat and inched his way towards the rear. With extreme caution, stepping carefully over infected legs, he made it to the stern and peered over the side. With luck - if the tide was in the right direction - he would just about make it to the shore.

Just before he prepared to dive, Simon glanced at the wheelhouse, for one last look at Polly. Perhaps he might be able to save her?

Niki stood, hands on the wheel. He stared manfully at the horizon and appeared to be his usual, virile self. Simon inspected the boat. The party seemed jovial enough? He grinned sheepishly at the two girls in bikinis -who peered disdainfully through their sunglasses as he tripped over their blackening sunburnt legs. He crept back to his seat. And there was Polly in the wheelhouse. What harm could possibly come to her?

The boat chopped peacefully through the blue waters of the bay. They hugged the coast and passed a few small islets. Soon the Midas Hotel was a mere, white spot in the distance and Spinalonga Island came into view.

Simon followed to the rear of the party as they were guided around the tiny island. It was the most beautiful place. Surely this must be Shelley's 'Isle Under Ionian Skies / Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise?'

The only village on the island was certainly wrecked. Simon half-listened as Polly gathered them all in a circle about her in the main-street - and began her spiel. He stared glumly at the surrounding sea. She hadn't noticed him. Just a grunt and a smile. Perhaps it had been something he said? But he had only wished her a good afternoon?

Thalia coughed loudly. One of her party wasn't paying any attention. He just stood to the rear and stared out to sea. She remembered that, as they had clambered off the boat, he had come up to her and said: "Hallo?"

She was sure that they had not met before.

She had been a bit snappish, she supposed, but then she wasn't in a very good mood. He'd gone quite pale.

Thalia had taken over that afternoon's excursion as a favour to her sister, Polyhymnia at what she thought of as rather short notice. She had not even seen Polyhymnia that morning. She had wanted to speak to her - to find out who had invoked them all. It didn't happen very often. She hoped that it was somebody new and exciting. But Polyhymnia had still been in bed.

Thalia frowned. She had taken the excursion over just so it seemed - that her sister could laze in bed with that boy, Spiros. It was too much! As if she did not have enough on her plate? And she was unprepared. She'd never conducted this particular excursion before. Comedy was her speciality.

That morning she had rung up Melpomene at the head office poor Melpomene, whose responsibility was tragedy - and, despite the wailing that had comedown the line, she had managed to understand the gist of Spinalonga's history.

Now she explained to the party that, when the island had been abandoned by lepers - the island had been a leper colony until the 1950’s - the Cretans from the nearby coast - being a superstitious lot - had landed and razed the village to the ground.

She reached out to the remains of one of the blackened door-frames to illustrate her point. It came away in her hand and with a roar of falling timber, plasterwork and a cloud of dust. The door-frame crashed about her body, leaving her clutching a piece of splintered wood.

It was difficult to decide who was the first to succumb. A large, red-faced man with peeling lips, near the front of the party, spluttered and gagged.

Simon, who had been gazing out to sea, missed the primary stage of the infection. Polly had snubbed him -she had looked through him as though they had never met before -

He heard the crash and turned around just in time to see the first victim keel over and, holding his stomach in, hit the ground and roll over.

The contagion spread rapidly.

Tears appeared in people's eyes as clutching their ribs, the party collapsed by the roadside.

Simon was horrified. And what their guide? She stood in a pile of rubble, staring at a piece of wood in her hand. There was a distant, puzzled expression on her face. He felt his lips twitch and felt a slight pain in the stomach as his ribs shook.

He hadn’t touched anybody? How could he have been infected? But the primary stage of the infection soon passed.

Those members of the excursion party still able to stand, left their companions propped by the wayside, and followed their guide up a path to a Venetian fort, which was the only archaeological site on the island.

Simon followed cautiously at a distance.

Soon they reached the burial grounds. The lepers had been buried in concrete boxes in a quiet corner of the fort that looked out to the sea and the mainland.

Thalia gathered the remnants of the party about her, and stood authoritatively on one of the concrete graves. But, before she could open her mouth, the coffin opened and, like a sea-saw, turned on its centre. She grabbed at the top of the lid to no avail. With a wail, she slipped slowly into the coffin.

Now the party was hit by the secondary stage of the infection. Either they lay comatose or suffered quiet convulsions on the ground.

Being at the rear of the party and the last to succumb, Simon was spared the worst. As their guide scrambled out of the grave, dazed, clutching a necklace of bones, his stomach lurched frighteningly - but he was spared the full agony suffered by his companions. He was thus able to follow the blushing guide as she strode up a path that led from the fort to a track around the perimeter of the island.

Thalia stopped half way up a hill. She peered about. Only one person had followed; there was only one person to listen. Nevertheless, she was a professional, and continued her spiel. She stood on the track that edged a cliff that fell straight down to the sea as she described the tragic story of the last arrival on the island.

She spoke of a young, pretty girl, barely infected by the disease, who, on her first day - at the impact of seeing the lepers in the village - had rushed up this very track and flung herself off the cliff.

"At this very spot," explained Thalia.

To illustrate her point she dramatically flung out an arm.

"Wooah - arrgh."

The impetus shot her straight off the edge of the cliff.

Simon spluttered and held his ribs, which ached uncontrollably. Christ! It really hurt! Tears were streaming down his face. He gasped for breath and his lungs heaved, but he managed to crawl to the edge of the cliff and peer over.

The guide clung to a shrub a few feet below. Blue eyes peered solemnly up.

Simon nearly choked in what might have been the terminal stage of the infection, but he reached down a hand and managed to pull her to safety.

He followed at a safe distance as she strode back down the track, collecting causalities all the way. First those in the graveyard, then the fort and,finally, those still propped by the wayside in the village.

Those still suffering, held on to the shoulders and arms of those recovered and the party managed to limp and stagger back to the landing quay where they found their guide standing alone, ready to usher them into a circle.

"No more,” they all entreated before she could open her mouth, “It’s too much - please, .. no,” they all begged as she began to suck in a lungful of air.

Thalia inspected them sorrowfully. Didn't they want to hear what she had to say? But, in the end, she relented. "Well, allright,” she said, "Let's go for a swim instead."

With relief, the party clambered aboard the boat, which chugged off around the coast. Soon Niki dropped the anchor-chain in a small bay close to another islet.

It was lovely diving off the boat into the clear, blue water. A few hours and all were refreshed and had recovered from their excursion to the island of Spinalonga.

Niki opened some five-litre containers of wine and a few bottles of spirits.

"Raki? Raki?" he enquired of Simon, pouring out a huge tumbler full of clear liquid.

Simon gulped it down. He nearly choked.

"You no walk today?" continued Niki.

He refilled the tumbler.

Soon Simon's head spun.

The afternoon passed peacefully while the party lounged, swam and sunbathed around the boat. The sun was beginning to sink before Niki pulled up the anchor-chain in order that they might begin heading back around the coast to the town.

The boat moved slowly though the water.

Simon sat reading near the guide who lay sunbathing on a bench. She was gazing out to sea at the setting sun. Suddenly she pointed to one of the small islets they were passing.

"Agrimi," she said.

Simon was startled. Had she spoken to him? It seemed so. He felt himself turning to stone and his cheeks burned. He wanted to bolt over the side of the boat, but felt rooted to the deck. What could he say? What had she said? What was what in Greek? He remembered.

"Tee," bleated.

"Look, agrimi," she repeated and again pointed to the islet.

He spotted a small animal crouched still near the peak of a hill. It turned, startled, towards the boat and then bounded, with great agility, up the hill and out of sight.

"Oh, its shy," said the guide.

She explained that agrimi were a species of wild goat found only in the Gorge of Samaria. She further explained that, though excessive hunting, the herd had been depleted and the islet was an animal sanctuary.

Simon remembered his walk though the beautiful Gorge and the time when he had first set eyes on the girl - the time when she had trodden on his fingers. Did she remember? It seemed ages ago that it had happened. Had his heart beat so then? If only time could be frozen.

He stared at the islet for a few moments, hoping to see some more of the animals. So he had seen some goats in the Gorge?

He was about to ask some more questions of the guide when he looked down to see her quietly sleeping on the bench. A tumbler full of the clear liquid lay beside her. So he was not the only one to be so affected?

She seemed different. The same face and figure, but different in subtle ways. Simon gazed at her half open mouth and the dimples that had suddenly appeared on her cheeks. Should he wake her with a kiss? Her bosom slowly lifted as she breathed. Her bosom under a thin, cotton dress that was rucked up to her thighs. He wanted to reach out, slide his hand along her brown legs and touch her.

Should he wake her? What could he say? He had not yet exhausted the potential of his phrase book, so he thumbed through the pages, in search of inspiration. What did the scribe suggest for such occasions as these? Ah! 'What is your telephone number?' He mouthed the words silently. ‘Peoss ena 0 areethoms telephono sass?' It certainly had a ring to it. But what would he want to say over the telephone? What could he possibly say to her that he could not say to her now? He looked through the phrases in despair. I'm lost, could you show me the way to -- 'I’ll call for you at B.'

No - he would let her sleep on.

Simon could no longer concentrate on his book and stared around the boat in frustration.

The two girls -the ones dressed in sunglasses and bikinis - still lay sunbathing across the hatches. They had not bothered to join the excursion party and had remained on the boat. They were reading. What books could be so interesting? What could possibly be more interesting than the surrounding scenery?

Curiosity overcame Simon's shyness. He staggered nonchalantly over.

"Excuse me," he enquired, "I wonder, what are you reading?"

One of the girls peered at him through her sunglasses.

"Jesus,” she said, "Can't you do better than that?"

She quickly returned to her book.

The girl had obviously misunderstood his intentions. But, all the same, Simon resolved to discard his phrase book at the earliest opportunity. Too prolonged an exposure to its contents had addled his brain. He inspected the girls and smiled with aesthetic satisfaction. The awning that stretched from the mast to the bowsprit had not quite fulfilled its protective function. Both girls were exposed to stripes, crosses and spots of the suns rays that filtered through the rough, makeshift canvas. In the morning they would be decorated by a most pleasing abstract design. It would be crass to disturb them further.

But what were they reading? Simon glanced at the titles. 'The Exorcist' and 'Omen 2'. The girl on the right, the one who had spoken to him, had only a few more pages to read. Perhaps they could do a swap? He too had nearly finished his book.

The book had been given to him by his grandfather - to whom he had paid a visit just before he had departed from England. His grandfather who, had returned to England where he had become a modest, but reputable, man of letters. Later, at the front door of his house, he had thrust a paperback into Simon's hands as a parting gift.

"One of those modernist writers,” he explained, "I've just reviewed it."

He had added, ‘And I hope you enjoy it," before he gave Simon his blessing.

Now Simon glanced at the cover. 'If On A Winter's Night A Traveller' by Italo Calvino. He had found the book quite absorbing, even though the binding had been loose and he had lost a chapter overboard on the ferry from Athens. Perhaps, if he searched hard enough, he might be able to find another copy in the bookshops in town?

He prepared to continue his reading, when he saw a girl leaning elegantly against the tap-rail. She produced a cigarette and tucked it into the end of a long cigarette holder. She searched through her shoulder-bag for a few seconds, frowned, and then peered inquisitively around the boat, holding her unlit cigarette questioningly in the air.

Simon's breath quickened. Here might be his chance and, besides that, he wanted recompense for his rebuff from the two girls in sunglasses - and, also, he had only one week of his holiday left - and if he wanted a holiday romance, he ought to be exploring all the possibilities.

Thus Simon made excuses for himself. He peered at the girl for a few seconds, and then walked over to her and produced a box of matches.

“Allow me” he said.

“Oh, thanks.”

Simon noted, with satisfaction, that she was turning to stone. A hot flush appeared on her cheeks and she stopped in mid-sentence, peering over his shoulder. Wait a minute? Simon’s heart pounded. He knew, before he turned round, just who it would be.

Out of the engine ream rose Spiros. His t-shirt, covered in oil and grease, resembled, in texture and colour, the tones of his skin. His muscles rippled and bubbled in the sun just like an incredible hulk.

"Ooh, Spiros," cooed the girls in sunglasses.

In honour of his presence, these sunglasses were removed, mirrors produced and hair artfully arranged. Simon despaired. So Spiros was their afternoon excursion.

Spiros saw Polly's sister asleep on one of the benches. He had heard from Polly that her twin sister would be conducting that afternoon's excursion. It was why he had offered to help out on her uncle’s boat. (Thalia, though she seldom made an appearance and ran things quite capably from the main office on Mount 0lympus, was in charge of entertainments at the Midas Hotel and booked artistes for the evening cabaret.)

As far as Spiros was concerned, Polly's sister was a person to know. One needed contacts, after all. What with his singing and dancing lessons - and his practise on the bouzouki -and his family name - might she not offer him an audition for the hotel? And then? Who knew? It could be one of the nightclubs around Athens, near the airport. And then where?

Spiros ran his hands over his t-shirt, then smoothed down his hair. He smiled a few practise smiles before slithering over to the bench where he tweaked Polly's sister between the thighs.

Thalia woke with a squeal and a giggle.  

But Thalia knew of Spiros.

"Hands off Spiros, " she said in Greek and then looked at him in sorrow, for she remembered his grandfather. All the sisters had all been fond of Zorba - Zorba the Greek - and he had never been less than a gentleman. Euterpe had even forsaken her flute and learned to play the 'Santuri' in his honour.

“He’s mythical’ said Calliope who was only called out in the most extreme cases, when maximum encouragement and inspiration were required.

“ Most definitely emblematic’’ Euterpe had added.

“Certainly iconic,’ said Polyhymnia.

“Possibly titanic? Thalia had suggested hopefully.

“Oh, Thalia,’ they had all groaned but it was seriously considered at the next council meeting whether to give Zorba some sort of honorific title.

“Like a knighthood or sainthood?” suggested Thalia.

But she wondered sometimes. She glanced at Spiros. Well, there was something about the nose that reminded her of their distant relation, Adonis. And there was something of Hermes, her uncle, around the mouth and forehead.

Soon Spiros, at the ship’s bar bar was surrounded by a host of girls.

Simon sighed. Not that he had any objection to the Greek being treated as a sex-object. One had to give and take, after all. But it seemed as though half his country women were being seduced by this 'homme fatale'. So this was holiday romance? All he wanted, at that moment, was to be the Greek -to be close to the guide. He had to admit that there was something attractive about Spiros. He was bursting with spontaneity, the joy of life, exuberance an the characteristics of his island.

Simon knew that he, himself, was full of caution - the reserve and inhibition of his island race. How could he compete? How could he win the favours of the girl? An image of her on the beach - anointing herself with oil - filled his mind. The vision reminded him of something he had seen before. He could not quite place it. He remembered. In the office at work. A’ Pirelli‘ calendar that had obstinately refused to turn to September. It was the same pose. The same caress of a girl offering herself to the sun on a distant sandy beach. It was a photograph pinned up in his mind. Caressing herself - self-absorbed yet invitingly? Had he been inspired to by a piece of cheesecake?

Now Simon could no longer bear to look at the couple. (Oh, the legs and the slope of her back.) He returned to his seat, determined to put them out of his mind and concentrate on his book. He opened the pages at random. The print blurred in front of his eyes. The sun shone down. He could not read.

And what had Prudence said?

Prudence had seen him reading the book when they had stopped at Neapolis for refreshment - on their way back from Phaestos the previous afternoon. Then they had discussed the book in the coach.

"But, Simon," she had argued, "Its all plot. Novels are about people, their lives and relationships. Novels are about realism."

Prudence then told of another book that she had read in which the author had so constructed his plot that the chapters could be read in any order.

"Its all a gimmick, “she had complained, mark my words, it won't last."

The boat was now approaching the town and had nearly docked at the harbour.

Simon took one final swig from the bottle of spirits. Hah, realism, he thought, taking another swig, if he wanted to know how awful life was, all he had to do was to open his front door. He donned his black-tinted sunglasses and headed defiantly up the gangplank. Life suddenly seemed full of imaginative possibilities.

The boat had almost docked and he missed his footing on the gangplank, and hit the water at fifteen miles an hour.

"Waaagh!"

Simon had bought his sunglasses from the same shop at which he had purchased the sackful of postcards. Any air of mystery the glasses might have imparted - any glamour - was soon cancelled out if one could barely see though them, or so he later thought. He had tried to find the shop again - to ask for his money back - but both the shop and its strange white-bearded proprietor had disappeared.

It was only later, as he sat at the table in the town square under the plane trees and suzy was seated opposite him, that she had explained proper sunglass technique to him.

“But, Simon, she had explained patiently, aghast at the sheer ignorance of the male race,’ You don’t put them on your ears.”

She produced her own pair of sunglasses from her bag.

‘You put them here.” she explained, perching her glasses fetchingly on her head,’ or here,” and she dangled them from one ear, “or here,’ and they were artfully suspended from a chain around her neck.

Suzy further explained the significance of the various brands and their pecking order and where each should be prominently displayed for best effect.

“But we never learnt such things at school, ” said Simon. “All I learnt was how to string a sentence together and barely so.”

“Practice,” sniffed Suzy, twirling her sunglasses with expertise,’ practice makes perfect.”

William was waiting on the quayside. He was waiting for Prudence to arrive with a car they had hired - at her insistence. Well then, he thought, she could collect it and she could drive it. She had become restless.

“I enjoyed that evening in the taverna two days ago, “ she had complained,” why can’t everyday be like that?”

“Ah, happy happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu” said William.

“William?” said Prudence.

‘Keat’s ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn.” replied her husband.

‘Well, there is something in what Keat’s writes,” she said.

William, who had no wish to be marooned in chapter three, had suggested further exploration, upon which, she had demanded a car.

He passed the time arguing with a beautiful, wide-eyed, six-year old Greek girl in a kiosk. They argued about the price of the previous Thursday's English newspaper.

"But, my dear girl?" he queried.

He had managed to knock her down by a few hundred drachmas and was contemplating asking her if she would care to accompany him to England, where she might glance through his portfolio of stocks and shares, when he heard an agonising scream come from the direction of the quayside.

The scream sounded familiar so he ambled down to the water's edge where he peered down into the bay.

A pair of brown eyes inspected him solemnly.

"My dear boy, I might have guessed it was you," he said as he offered Simon a hand and helped him scramble out of the water.

As he retrieved Simon's shoulder-bag, he enquired with some concern: "So you do intend to make a habit of this?"

It was lucky that the question was rhetorical for Simon could not have replied even if he had wished to. He spluttered and gasped and his stomach heaved.

A few plastic tables and chairs edged the quayside - as yet unfestooned by awnings and rows of coloured lightbulbs. He flopped gratefully into the nearest chair. It was only too close to the quay's edge and it’s rear legs slipped. The chair executed a graceful double back-somersault into the bay.

Simon did likewise.

Just as he hit the water,he caught a glimpse of Spiros pointing a derisive finger in his direction. The Greek was giggling with the guide who held a hand over her mouth. And, even worse, he saw some disdainfully huge sunglasses and a long, elegant cigarette holder peering over the side of the boat. Then, thankfully, his head disappeared beneath the waves.

Oh, let me sink down forever, he silently prayed, let me never come up.

But it was not to be. Niki fished him out.

"Ees nice day for swim, eh?" he enquired as he slapped Simon on the back and deposited him on the quayside like a sodden, dripping beached squid.

A crowd had gathered from nowhere. Greeks, as ever more indolent than their holiday guests, had stopped their minimal occupations and gossiped excitedly. Something had happened!

Simon turned to William for support. But William was of no possible use for he sat on one of the plastic chairs with tears streaming down his face, holding onto his ribs and shaking uncontrollably.

Who could he turn to? Simon faced the boat. Perhaps she had not seen? Perhaps she was sympathetic? Perhaps she did not care? But no! The guide was doubled up on the deck of the boat. He saw Spiros put his arms around her and help her to her feet. He saw the Greek kiss her.

An uncontrollable emotion sped from Simon something that rebounded off the boat and came back as though it had crossed the sound barrier. If only he had taken her in his arms - when she was weak and vulnerable - when he had helped her to safety from the edge of that cliff. Told her that everything was all right? Told her that she was beautiful? But what happens? You save a girl’s life and this is all the thanks you get.

He rose to his feet and stood on the quay filled with regret, shame and remorse for he had lost her now. The same body and the same siren's smile that had enticed him - that had made him dodge eagerly in and out of the shops that afternoon, now sent his feet in the opposite direction, retracing his steps in the full knowledge that her eyes, the colour of the sea, were behind him.

“What mad pursuit. What struggle to escape,” said William to Prudence who had arrived with the car.

They saw Simon walk away from the quay.

‘Keats,” said William.

“Ode to to Grecian Urn?’ asked Prudence.

“Hah! What wild ecstasy?” said William.

Simon stumbled across the quay and neared the main street. It would not be too far to the town’s main square and his seat under the plane tree.

A little, brown girl ran out of the kiosk on the corner and tugged at him with a familiar little arm. She offered him something held in a grubby, little hand.

She spoke.

"Want a towel, mister?"

Simon looked down at her pretty, little head as she smiled up at him. How sweet! How charming! His heart was filled with emotion.

"Ees only five hundred drachmas," she said.

Simon snarled

The little girl was puzzled.

"No? We 'av yellow? Green? " He pushed the little arm away and staggered down the main street. If only he could reach the hotel? If only he could reach his bedroom and lock the door!

As he made his way down the street, the shops, closed and shuttered, seemed forbidding. They were different - even menacing.

The siesta was over, but the town was not yet adorned in its finery for the evening parade. The streets were empty. Indeed, few tourists ventured here before dusk . Stripped naked of awnings, bars, cafes, tables and chairs, the poverty of the shabby streets failed to satisfy a desire - a desire to escape, for a few weeks, into a web of romantic illusions.

But a few Greek men sat silent on isolated chairs outside their cafes, smoking and sipping their cups of black coffee and a few Greek women sat outside their shops, knitting. They stopped at Simon's passing. Figures came out of the shops and stared. A family peeked down from a balcony. A baby wailed.

Simon remembered his first view of the town from the deck of the passenger ship as it entered the bay - when the town had seemed to resemble a huge, white spider squatting over the quay. Had it now devoured him? And why had he felt that strange premonition? Was there something he had not understood? He despaired. The town had beaten him. He wanted to go home. He had lost.

He caught a sudden glimpse of his reflection in a shop window and awful reality hit him. A piece of sea-debris clung, like a scar, to his forehead. Who was he? Just an awkward, English tourist who had fallen into the bay. His arm hurt. There were two red marks on his skin. He had probably even been bitten by a crab. He was a leper.

As if to mock his presence, Niki manfully, strolled down the main street. Should he have spent his time on the beach, anointing his body with oil, in a vain attempt to emulate him? Would he thus have won Polly?

Where were his hopes and ambitions now? Sodden and sunk to the bottom of the harbour with his shoulder-bag. Pieces of flotsam to be washed up on the beach that night.

Barking dogs and children dogged his footsteps as he slowly continued down the street. Would he ever reach the end?

Ah, at last! There was the cafe corner and his table under the plane tree. He sat down at his favourite table.

‘Raki?”

Zorba beamed,

“Parakalo.” said Simon

Soon relief was at hand.

"Oi - you!

‘Um?” said Simon.

It was Suzy. He sobered slightly.

"'Ere," she continued, "What did you do with Mrs Robinson? She's got sunstroke."

Simon remembered. It had been extremely hot at Mataala and Mrs Robinson had fallen asleep on the beach. God, that was only yesterday. Her sunstroke was his fault. He forgot his own problems.

"Is she allright?" he enquired.

Susy's eyes mellowed slightly.

"Naw - just a bit burned, that's all."

She inspected Simon. He seemed to be in a state of extreme agitation.

"Something wrong?" she said.

It was better to be honest, Simon thought, somebody would be bound to tell her.

"I just fell into the harbour water," he explained, "It was an accident."

Suzy thought that his hair looked odd.

"Um. Your hair's still wet, " she said, "'Ere - let me."

She produced a towel and rubbed his scalp vigourously. Then she stood back. His hair looked even worse and stuck out all over his head. He had also caught the sun and turned deep red with orange highlights around the nose. There were black rings around his eyes which seemed full of tears.

Suzy was tempted to get out her pencil and draw for she was reminded of a clown.

"Come on,” she said, " tell me all about it. Where've you been?"

As they sat down Zorba came out of the cafe, beaming.

"Raki? Raki?" he said.

“Ohm, Raki, Raki,” said Simon absentmindedly for he was thinking that women were nice sometimes. So sympathetic. You felt you could tell them anything. He looked up into the air and thought for a bit.

Zorba reappeared with some glasses and a carafe of clear liquid.

""Well," said Simon thoughtfully, “lt all began when I was about four years old, and - “

He half closed his eyes and continued while they sipped their drinks. Soon he heard a choking sound through the haze of his reminiscences.

“Is anything the matter, Suzy?" he enquired.

"Ch, nuffing, carryon," said a distant voice.

”As long as I'm not boring you”

“Oh, no - not at all please go on. I'm listenin'""

Simon had reached the age of about eleven when he heard a sound rather like a dehydrated wasp. What could it be? He stopped in mid-sentence and opened his eyes, ready to swat. He peered to the left and to the right. Where had Suzy gone? She seemed to have disappeared. He looked down. There she was. She had almost slipped off he chair. Her head lay cradled in her arms and she was fast asleep. Simon gulped down a few more glasses from the carafe.

"Simon, what's the matter?"

Simon raised his head and blinked. He must have dropped off for a moment. It was Douglas who had spoken. He had Elizabeth in tow. Simon saw them through a red haze. He wiped away the moisture that seemed to have collected in his eyes.

"Simon, please," said Elizabeth, "Cheer up. You're on holiday."

She turned away and gave one of her sniffs.

It was allright for them, thought Simon, they could do it all the time. Why couldn't he display emotion? Polly, the girls on the beach, in the travel agency, on the boat, Mrs Robinson, Suzy and now Elizabeth had sniffed at him. So this was holiday romance? And he was supposed to be enjoying himself too?

Douglas spied the carafe of liquid on the table. He and his girlfriend had just returned from the cove and were in search of refreshment. Having walked virtually all the way into town, they were very thirsty.

"'Can I have some?” he asked, picking up a glass and the carafe.

Simon nodded a vague assent.

Douglas poured out a large glassful and gulped it down. He spluttered and choked.

"Jesus Christ,'" he spat, "Have you been drinking this?"

Simon nodded glumly.

"And her?'"

Simon nodded again. His head swam. His eyes seemed to rattle up and down in their sockets.

Douglas raised his glass to the sky and inspected it with curiosity. The stuff really brought tears to the eyes. What could it be? Some form of neat disinfectant? He picked Suzy's head off the table and peered into her face.

"Addictive?'" he enquired of Simon.

Simon nodded carefully. Whoops! Despite his care, the town swam. Trying to keep one's eyeballs steady was rather like trying to centre the mercury on a spirit level.

"Suzy! Wake up!" shouted Douglas as he slapped her around the face.

"Bzzzz,zzzz, ..”

"Either she's fast asleep or she's drunk," he pronounced.

"Oh, how disgusting," sniffed Elizabeth.

Douglas let Suzy's head fall on the table. Her ear-rings clanked against the table-top.

"Douglas, don't do that," hiccuped Simon, "You've probably knocked her out”

He looked at Suzy’s head with affection. He had grown rather fond of it. And he'd never seen her in clothes before. Clothes now seemed rather odd. She wore a red jacket and a mini -skirt. He was especially fond of her ear-rings. They reminded him of his youth. He had owned a Meccano set when he was a boy. He picked up her head and peered into her eyes.

"Suzy? Suzy? Are you all right?” he said.

At that moment Spiros and the beautiful guide walked past.

"Eh, Amigo."

Spiros slapped Simon on the back and Simon turned round to gaze into the guide's blue eyes. They had a sobering effect. He let go of Suzy's head which fell onto the table-top with a bang. With a groan she slid off her chair and slithered to a heap on the ground.

Spiros took hold of the carafe, sniffed and took a huge swig.

"Hah, Raki, ees for men,” he roared.

The couple disappeared into the interior of the cafe. They reappeared a few moments later, with some soft drinks, and sat at a nearby table.

"Simon, why did you order this?" said Douglas, taking a few experimental sips from the carafe, it’s hardly nectar?"

"I don't know,” replied Simon vaguely, "They always seem to bring it when I say hallo."

"Well, don't say hallo anymore,” said Elizabeth, grabbing the carafe out of her boyfriend's hands.

Elizabeth glanced furtively at the couple seated at the nearby table. She was not sure whether she was pleased or not to see the waiter. Why had he taken her to the beach the previous afternoon and then disappeared with that girl in the evening? Couldn't he make up his mind?

Elizabeth had never met anybody like Spiros before. He reminded her of a statue she had once seen in a museum in Rome when her parents had taken her to Italy. It had been a statue of a youth. She had found the statue quite beautiful - and so was Spiros.

Simon also glanced furtively at the couple. What had he secretly hoped for on the boat that afternoon. Had he wished to woo her with the highest ideals? To win her with the loftiest aspirations? What had happened? The whole afternoon had degenerated into farce.

Thalia recognised English tourist. Oh dear! She had nearly forgotten that he had saved her life. It had been very noble of him. She should thank him. But nothing would have happened. She was immortal. In some mysterious way she would have been saved. It was lucky that nobody else had seen. They might have recalled the event; given it some strange magical or supernatural meaning. She should, after all, have been crushed to death on the rocks below. And then his second fall in the water? Why, if she did not have so much work on her plate, she might have offered him some help with his timing.

She winked conspiratorially at the English tourist.

Simon’s spirits rose. Polly had winked at him. But her look was somewhat different than before? On previous occasions he had felt uplifted she had illuminated life. Now he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Douglas inspected Simon. He was a medical student; thus his professional curiosity soon overcame his native reticence.

"Simon, may I?"

He took Simon's pulse. Hum? Perspiration? Irregular heartbeat? High pulse? What could be wrong? He touched his companion's forehead and wished that he had brought a thermometer.

"Not sleeping lately?" he enquired.

Simon nodded.

"Too many late nights?"

Simon nodded again.

"And this?"

Douglas indicated the carafe.

Simon nodded vigourously and then wished that he had not.

Elizabeth had gone into the interior of the cafe and now returned with some large cartons of orange-juice.

Douglas took them out of her hands.

"Here, Simon, drink these, " he said.

Simon did so and the ache in his eyes and the throbbing in his head began to subside.

Douglas had made his diagnosis and now he pronounced his prescription.

'"What you need, Simon, is a good holiday. Get away from it all."

“Very good,’ said Simon.

Hah, holidays, he thought. What could one do on holidays? Write postcards? Go for a swim? Read a book? Laze on the beach? Eat a lot? Drink a lot?Relax? Meet people? Gawp at girls? Chat them up and, if one was lucky, make love to them? He'd done all that. Well, almost. It was all pleasurable enough but, unless a situation or a person grabbed you, or you grabbed it, setting events on a particular course or towards a particular goal, you were forced to repeat the same day in an infinite variety of possible permutations.

He wanted to go home. Could he endure many more days of this? Having fun was far too much like hard work. Happiness was only for Americans. Happiness was written into their constitution.

'"Simon?"

'"What?.”

Ah, my dear boy. Thinking again?"

It was William who had ambled up the main street.

"Here you are,” he said, "You forgot this."

He handed over Simon's shoulder-bag and sat down.

'"My you look a bit rough, " he continued sympathetically, "Feeling a bit under the weather?""

"Yes - what he needs is a good holiday,"' chimed Douglas and Elizabeth.

Simon ignored them and glanced through the contents of his bag. Little damage seemed to have been done.

A ferry's siren hooted. Down the main street to the bay, ferry could just be approaching across the horizon.

"Ah! A sea-cruise, " said William, "Just the thing."

He patted Simon on the shoulder.

"New stimulus, my boy. Come back refreshed invigorated.”

He swept out his arms and breathed deeply for he had begun to enjoy his holiday.

Simon sorted out his postcards. His notebooks were a bit damp. Things had got into a mess. Perhaps if he went away for a few days, they would have sorted themselves out? He brightened up a little.

William continued: "You never know who you might meet - what you might see?"

Simon concurred. Let someone else make the decision. Let life make the chances.

"Yes," he said.

William and Douglas escorted Simon down to the travel agency on the promenade to see what was on offer for the evening.

The black-eyed, Greek girl still sat behind the counter. She seemed bored and yawned when they entered.

While Simon and Douglas leafed through some leaflets, William bravely approached the girl and enquired of the possibilities of a short sea-cruise to another island.

"Santorini, perhaps?" he suggested.

"Ees nothing tonight,”the girl said, yawning again.

Just then the ferry's siren loudly hooted. She pointed a lethargic finger out of the window.

"Only boat to Samos."

Simon and Douglas peered out to the harbour. A ramshackle boat was berthing at the furthest point of the bay.

"But there must be something - going somewhere?" said William to the Greek girl, refusing to give up.

"I know, “ she replied, visibly brightening, "You take ferry boat tonight Samos. It stop at Rhodos. Stay a few days - come back - um --" She busily consulted her books.

"-- Come back Tuesday night. Ferry stop here Wednesday morning."

“Simon, what do you think?” said William, "A few days in Rhodes? Sounds nice?"'

Simon thought about the prospect. He had not been to Rhodes before and had not spent much money on travelling. He could easily afford the fare.

"Well, yes," he agreed.

"Ess for him?" enquired the girl.

"Yes?" said William, confused, for she seemed animated for the first time.

She consulted her books in a businesslike fashion, then sweetly replied: "He can come back following Friday - main ferry -Athens - Patmos -Rhodes - then -- "

She slowly counted on her fingers and then drummed them impatiently on the counter-top.

" -- Then you stay away four - no -five whole days."

Simon took one last look at the girl before they departed through the door.

As they waited for William and the tickets, Simon leaned against the door-post. Had the right choice been made? The wink from the guide haunted him. Should he stay? If there was the remotest chance? But at that moment he hated all things - especially all things coloured brown.

He felt something tugging at his arm.

"Hey mister, you want smoke?"

A little, brown boy below him put two fingers in his mouth and pretended a few satisfied puffs through some cherubic cheeks.

Simon looked down.

"No - go away."

The little boy clung to his arm.

"Ees good stuff."

Simon tried to thrust the boy away.

The boy only clung to him with renewed strength, exerting a pincher movement around his forearm.

"Please, mister - you buy?"

Where had this urchin come from?”

"Ees Turkish?"

"No - go away, please."

Simon tried desperately to shake the crab-like boy off him. They waltzed along the promenade and, in the melee, Castor appeared with frantic barking. Simon pointed to Castor and then to the boy.

"Castor - go -get"

Castor backed away and sat on his haunches with a puzzled expression. His tail beat the ground and he panted excitedly. He licked his lips and searched through his limited vocabulary.

"Sit?" "Stay?" "Come?" "Fetch?" Those he knew. But "go?". No. He'd not come across such an unspecified command before.

Then Spiros and the guide walked past, arm in arm, on their way to Aphrodite Beach.

Spiros laughed.

"'Ees Turkish - go - you try."

The beautiful guide laughed too and agony hit Simon. It was the end. He looked down at the little boy who had a plaintiff expression on his face. For a second he felt some sympathy for the boy. Here was someone who was altogether smaller, thinner than himself - and then he kicked him.

A jeep roared to a halt in front of the travel agency.

Simon quailed. Instead of some vengeful Greeks, Prudence got out.

'"SIMON! That was unforgivable."

She went over to the little boy who was rolling on the ground in agony.

He whimpered.

"Missie, you buy?"

She put her arms around him and, with a few kisses, helped him up.

""Why, of course, my pet," she said, ""How much?"

"You buy? Two? Three?"

"How much?"' she repeated.

He thought through his tears and sobbed.

"Two hundred drachmas?"

Prudence glowered at Simon while she exchanged money for whatever was in the little boy's hand.

"Thank you, missie," said the little boy, running away in the direction of the kiosk.

Prudence saw William emerged the travel agency.

‘Simon’s going on a holiday,” he said.

That’s nice’ said Prudence. “I’ll pack some food.”

"I've got a deck ticket. You'll be in Rhodes very early next morning, " William said to Simon.

He inspected the harbour and the party.

"'Look," he continued. “We’ve got quite hours before the ferry departs. Let’s all have a meal.”

The party concurred.

They all climbed aboard the jeep, only stopping to to pick up Suzy whom they found staggering down the main street.

Prudence parked near the main square. Simon suggested that they all go to his hotel first - to have an aperitif while he packed.

"But its lovely, said Prudence as they entered the Hotel Sophocles.

She had not known what to expect when Simon had led them through a few twisting streets and then turned through a small door, past some potted plants, into a courtyard.

There were three stories of balconied rooms surrounding the courtyard. All the rooms had shutters which were painted blue and green. A few trees grew in the centre of the courtyard and there was an overpowering scent of blossom and greenery from shrubs and flowers which grew in tubs and pots. It was a garden that somebody cared for and the hotel was spotlessly clean.

"I wish we were staying here, " she whispered to William enviously, "Where did you find it, Simon?"

"Oh,"he explained vaguely, "I suppose it found me."

He explained that an elderly relation had given him the address of a travel agent in England who had booked the room for him.

"Of course," he added, “You only get breakfast."

Simon led the party to a secluded corner where there were some tables and chairs. Zorba, who was taking an evening off, away from his taverna, appeared and took orders for drinks.

Simon disappeared with him, into the hotel, to make sure that he understood it all and joined the party a few moments later. Now they were seated around a table enjoying the cool, scented air of the courtyard.

Douglas sat next to Suzy.

"That's quite a bruise you've got on your forehead?" he said, "What have you been doing?"

"Oh, nuffin' much."

He got out a handkerchief and dabbed her forehead.

"Well, its mostly dirt - "

"What have you and Lizzie been doin’?" asked Suzy.

"Oh, nothing at all," said Douglas, "We've spent all day on the beach."

Elizabeth gave one of her loudest sniffs.

A hush descended on the scene. Then, thankfully, a waitress appeared with their drinks. It was Zorba's daughter, Maria - the chambermaid. An even more powerful hush descended on the scene. Prudence had never seen such a beautiful girl. Slightly overdeveloped, she thought, but stunning nevertheless. And what a décolletage!

The girl giggled profusely when she saw Simon and her décolletage shook.

"Ees Simon?"

"Ah, another one of your conquests, I see?" said William .

Simon lit a cigarette.

The girl shrieked.

Putting a hand to her mouth and wobbling dangerously, she served the men first. The breathless hush continued.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Suzy?" sniffed Elizabeth.

"Aw, just me deep breathin' exercises, II replied her friend, "What are these?" she said, changing the subject, "Fings on sticks?"

Zorba had provided some side dishes to go with Simon's rather extensive order of whiskies, gins and cocktails. There were pieces of squid, octopus, shellfish, bread, cheese, olives - green and black -nuts, pineapple and much more.

"Well, Simon. I don't think we need go much further for a meal," said William as he disappeared into the hotel, looking for Zorba and another round of drinks.

He returned a few moments later. Soon Zorba appeared with a huge salad bowl containing greenpeppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, radishes, celery and chives. Soon Maria added a bowl of rice and peas in which were buried pieces of meat lamb and chicken, flavoured with sage and oregano. What with a huge basket of freshly baked bread and several bottles of white-wine, there was plenty to go round.

Suzy had also disappeared and returned with a loud: "Yippee!"

She bopped away by herself in a corner for a few moments.

"Suzy, please," begged William, "Your energy, its making me quite dizzy."

Suzy sat down.

"They've got a small room for me," she explained, "There - up at the top. I'm movin' out of the Youth Hostel."

She was quite pleased. She had travelled down from Paros and Ios to Crete and, wherever she went, she had collected a crowd of Greek youths. At first she had enjoyed it, but now they had started to follow her around the town and collected patiently outside the Youth Hostel at night. She peered around the courtyard. They wouldn't be able to follow her in here. She tucked joyfully into her year's supply of vitamin C.

Simon drank some of the white wine. He half listened to the gossip and laughter around the table. Only a few hours ago he had fervently prayed for the day to end and now he wished that the evening should continue forever. All the threads that had broken seemed to have joined up again. And now he was leaving the island.

As if in answer to his thoughts, William proposed a toast.

"Here's to your journey, Simon."

William raised his glass.

Suzy gulped and swallowed a large piece of meat.

"You leavin'?" she coughed.

“Well, yes," replied Simon, 'I'd better just go and pack."

He returned a few moments later with his shoulder bag.

"Huh, believe in travelling light, do we?" huffed Suzy

"1 only need a pullover in case it gets cold in the evening," explained Simon, "I'm only going away for a few days."

"Oh, I see," said Suzy.

There was a silence.

"Hum, well, I think its time to go,”said William, looking at his watch, "The ferry departs in one hour. “

William took charge.

'Prudence - you help Suzy move from the Youth Hostel - and we'll take a walk down to the jetty.

Simon helped Suzy on with her jacket.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Simon, what do you think I am?” said Suzy, "1 can manage."

“ Er - oh - no - of course you can, said Simon

"Huh!"

William coughed.

"Let's make a move?" he said.

Simon explained to Zorba that he would be gone for a few days and then accompanied William, Douglas and Elizabeth as they strolled down to the jetty where the ferry was moored. There was a taverna nearby and they sat sipping drinks until Suzy and Prudence roared up in the jeep.

"Here's something for the boat," they said, handing Simon a basket.

They were just in time for the ferry's siren hooted. The party headed down the quay.

Simon said his farewells. He promised them that he wouldn't do anything that they wouldn't do and that, furthermore, he would look after himself.

"And, my dear boy," said William, waving a finger, "Don't talk to any strange women."

"No," entreated Douglas, “its bad for your health."

"Hah, “ said Suzy, "He couldn't ---”

Her retort was drowned by a rude blast from the ferry. Smoke came from a funnel and the water in the bay began to churn.

Suzy raised her face and aggressively approached Simon. The episode with the coat was still fresh in his mind. He took a hasty step back.

"Wooah. “

"No - Simon, my dear boy."

William grabbed him as he teetered on the edge of the quay.

The ferry began to raise its ramp and close its doors. Simon hurried aboard and rushed up to the top deck.

The ship's engines rumbled and then the mooring lines to aft were released off the bollards on the quay. The ferry lurched and Simon's heart left him. There was a wild screech as the ferry hit the side of the jetty. The aft swung away, the boat wallowed, and the bow swung round, smashing into the jetty once more.

Oh no! Not again! Simon rushed to the stern. He remembered a previous occasion when he had wished to catch a ferry to Piraeus and then the airport.

"Ees no boat,” a waiter had explained , sitting in a taverna on a quay, "Ees sunk in bay."

“But what about my plane? I'll miss it?"

"Siga, siga. Another boat tomorrow."

The waiter had shrugged his shoulders and returned to his paper. Simon gazed down into the boiling, churning water. He could jump? No it was too late. He couldn't change his mind now. He stared helplessly at the quay and saw William, Prudence, Douglas and Elizabeth climb into the jeep. There was just enough room for Suzy to sit on the tail-board. with her legs hanging over the back. The ferry began heading out of the bay. Simon just had time to see Castor, barking, race up the quay after the jeep as it headed back to town - and jump onto Suzy’s legs.

It was now very dark. On the deck, tied with string, were stacks of plastic chairs. They were ominously lit by lightbulbs suspended from bare flexes. The stacks of chairs resembled seed trays as though about to depart and propagate the other islands.

People had left the railings, from where they had taken a farewell look at Crete and had sorted themselves out into various groups. Some spread themselves out in rows of sleeping-bags and makeshift tents - their territory for the night . Some strummed guitars. Others talked, or disappeared to the bar for drinks. Others ate makeshift meals.

It was as though part of the island had detached itself and set out over the sea.

Simon sat on one of the benches by the railings, under the shade of an awning and one of the light-bulbs. He searched through his shoulder-bag and retrieved a paperback given to him by William on the quay. He glanced at the title. 'An Introduction to Greek Mythology'. He began to read, nibbling at the food Prudence and Suzy had thoughtfully provided and swigging from the bottle of duty-free whisky William had given him.

'"Eh, Anglica?"

He looked up. A man lurched past in braid and a peaked cap.

"Ees Capitino?" said Simon

"Where you go? Samos?"

Simon informed the captain that he was getting off at the next stop and offered some of his food and drink. A large plastic cup was produced. Simon filled it to the brim.

"Ah - vhiskey - ees very good," said the captain, downing the contents.

Simon filled the cup again. He grinned sheepishly and waved as the captain tottered past him, into a door up to the wheelhouse.

"Ah, Anglica, thank you, " shouted the captain as he closed the door.

A few moments later there was a sudden roar of the engines. The boat lurched and wallowed.

"Jesus Christ," said a voice in the darkness.

A hand grabbed the bench for support.

"Don't worry," consoled Simon, "He can probably do it blindfold."

Sure enough the engines settled to a contented thud. Simon settled to his book. After an hour, he looked up. A Greek sailor was slowly and carefully painting some railings. Out to sea the stars shone. Beyond the dark horizon were islands. Simon thought of these wonderful Greek islands. The Saronic and the Ionian islands around the mainland. The Dodecanese up which they were heading. The Cyclades and the Sporades in the Aegean. All the same, yet marvellously different. About one thousand and five hundred islands. One of the largest coastlines in the world. A giant holiday camp spread out over the seas of Greece.

A group of tourists had started a makeshift disco to the stern of the boat and leapt up and down, clutching cans of beer - leaping onto a bench just below where a flagpole hung.

Simon watched quietly as the old Greek sailor with a wizened face went over to the flagpole, pulled down the Greek flag and asked the tourists to remove themselves from the storage compartment on which they were stamping. He then reverently folded up the flag and placed it inside. Then he slowly returned to his painting.

Simon gazed out to sea.

"Put-te, Put-te, put-te, II went the engines accompanied by "Burr, thwak, burr, thwak, burr, thwak, from a loose piece of railing. "Chip-pe-te, chip-pe-te, chip-pe-te-te,” went something else. The stars beat down. "'Bang, bang, bang,” went the engines. "Swoosh, swoosh, wissh, swoosh,” went the sea.

It was cold. Simon climbed into one of the lifeboats that was covered by a tarpaulin. It seemed the safest place to be. For hours he listened to the music of the ship and the music of the sea and gazed up at the stars.

Then he fell asleep.