“Wake up, Simon, wake up."

Simon was running the gauntlet of a thousand Greek waiters. It was darkest night. The waiters lined both sides of a main street and flashed white teeth. They slapped him on the back with tea-towels as he ran towards a quay that never got any closer. The water in the harbour was black. A face appeared in his dream. He blinked. It was Zorba. No it was the waiiter. The shape blurred into the features of the chambermaid. But why was she in his dream?

"Simon, wake up."

Somebody was shaking his body. Simon groaned. His back ached. Where was he? He woke up. Was he In a lifeboat? Was he in a ship?

"Ehkete fotea parakalo?"

"What?"

He rubbed his eyes. It was Maria, the chambermaid, and she held an unlit cigarette.

"Have you got a light, please?" she repeated.

"Oh, yes, of course."

Simon rummaged through his shoulder-bag and produced a box of matches. Something jarred. He looked at Maria reproachfully.

"But you speak English?"

She sniggered.

"Oh very funny. But what are you doing here?" he enquired, peering around the ferry.

"I'm on my way to school."

"Oh?”

Simon was confused for a moment.

"But what are you doing here on the deck?"

"I like to watch the dawn," she replied, flinging a coat around her shoulders and departing to the rail like Greta Garbo wanting to be alone.

Simon joined her. How had he the temerity to approach her on the beach? People seemed so different with clothes on. Now she seemed even more beautiful and mysterious.

They stared out to sea. The sea was dark and beautiful and Maria's hair blew fragrantly in the light wind. There were the beginnings of silver crests on the black waters and a phosphorescent light hung in the air. It was cold, Both watched as the edge of a white rim of light peeked over the horizon.

Something else dawned on Simon.

"How long before we get to Rhodes?" he said.

"Rhodes?"

Maria laughed.

"Its that way."

She pointed to the stern. There was a distant land mass to the east and he wondered if it could be Turkey?

"Where does the boat stop next?" he enquired

"Cos, I think?"

"Hum. Can I get off there and catch a ferry back to Rhodes?"

"I don't know?" Maria shrugged her shoulders, "Maybe not till the next day?" she suggested.

The ferry's siren hooted.

They stared across the bow. The rim of the sun was now lifting over the horizon. In its disc they saw the low outline of black, rocky hills. The ferry was approaching a land mass.

"We must be docking,” said Simon.

Maria glanced at her watch.

“No - that can't be Cos."

The engines rumbled beneath and the boat gave a sudden lurch. A bleary-eyed man staggered out of the wheel-house.

"Wait a minute, I'll find out,” she said.

Really, Simon thought, she had got a bit of a nerve. Just waking him up to ask for a light.

Maria returned with the captain. She explained to Simon that the ferry would be stopping at a small island near Rhodes to make a few deliveries. She spoke to the captain in Greek, pointing to Simon. The captain replied to Simon in English.

"Ah, Anglica. No problems. I put you off there."

He pointed to the island.

"You get ferry back to Rhodos in afternoon. Not long - take maybe three - maybe four hours. He patted Simon on the back. "Ah, vhiskey - ees good,” he added as an afterthought.

Simon thanked the captain.

“We stop in half an hour,” the captain replied.

He saluted as he lurched back to the wheelhouse.

Simon now found out that Maria was Zorba's daughter. They spent the next half hour chatting.

It transpired that she was sharing a cabin with her father who had disembarked at Rhodes to attend a conference of hotel managers. She was going on to Patmos to see some friends and then on to Myconos for a short holiday, before flying to England where she was studying Hotel and Catering Management at a North London Polythechnic.

"But that's not far from where I work,” said Simon.

Soon they had exchanged addresses.

"Call in at the shop.” he suggested.

"I will, and here -- "

Maria handed Simon the name of the villa on Myconos at which she would be staying.

" -- You come?" she said, "There's plenty of room. You can sleep on the roof. Its much more comfortable, eh, than lifeboat?"

Simon declined. "But thanks all the same."

The Greek girl was beautiful.

"You are very lovely, “he added.

Maria spoke some words in Greek.

"What does that mean?"

"You are very lovely," she replied.

"Wait a minute?"

Simon rummaged through his shoulder-bag and produced a pencil and notebook.

"You are very lovely?" he queried.

Maria repeated the phrase while he scribbled it down. Well, you never knew, he thought, it might come in handy? He bit on the end of his pencil and thought some more.

"You have lovely eyes?" he enquired.

Maria spoke some more Greek. Simon asked some more questions and scribbled down all her replies. And then the ferry's siren hooted.

They had sailed around the coast, which seemed totally barren, and were pulling into a small harbour completely hemmed in by hills. The slopes of the hills were covered by small, white houses.

"Oh, Maria?"

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"What?"

Maria was confused for a moment but Simon stared studiously at his notebook, pencil in hand.

"Oh, " she replied.

She muttered a phrase in Greek and he jotted it down.

The ferry docked.

"Goodbye, Simon. Maybe I'll see you in England?"

“Yes, I hope so."

He shook her hand and climbed down to the car deck where he was unloaded with a few cars. A few minutes later he stood on the jetty with the black, shiny limousines which looked rather sinister in the shadows of the morning sun.

Simon waved to Maria who leaned over the railings of the passenger deck. The ferry pulled away and, soon, she was out of sight. He turned to the quay. The harbour was beautiful. It stretched around the bay. On the other side of the jetty were some Greek fishermen who sat on the quay doing something that looked very professional to nets. The sun rose very picturesquely over the hills but, apart from the slowly moving sun, the whole island still seemed locked up for the night.

The view was lovely. It was a small, deserted fishing village on an unspoilt Greek island and Simon strolled in wonder around the few streets.

It was still blissfully quiet in the early morning light when he returned to the quay, where he nearly stumbled on a crack in the jetty. He looked down. The quay had jagged lumps cut out of it. He was staring straight down into the clear, green waters of the bay and saw some small fishes darting into the jagged gap - who stared impassively back.

He glanced up at the village straddling the hills. Trees grew out of some of the houses and other structures had crumbled to bits. He wondered if, by chance, he had landed on a ghost island.

At the furthest point of the harbour, near the fishermen, was a tower with a clock-face. It was only six o'clock. It was dawn, Next to the tower was berthed tanker and next to that, oddly, was berthed a destroyer. Simon shivered. The whole place had an eerie, surreal atmosphere. The fishermen stared in his direction as he passed, then they shrugged and returned to their nets.

On the hill near the tower was a mosque with a bright blue dome. A path led up to it.

Simon walked up the path which curved around the promontory of the bay. He passed some new apartments and a shipyard in which a few small caiques lay half constructed. Keels were open to the sky. And there - around the headland - was a taverna and a small beach.

The green water beckoned. The sun had risen enough for its rays to warm the skin so Simon removed his pullover and dived off a rock into the sea. It was so clear and calm that he shared his swim with the fish. He swam around the headland to look at the village. It was still quiet. He returned to the beach, spread out his towel and got out William's book. The taverna would soon be open and, soon, he reached the chapter on Zeus.

Simon read for a bit and then fell asleep.

He woke to a roaring in his ears. The sun, in the middle of the sky, was heading straight for the beach. He just had time to see the red, flaring mass turn black before he rolled over to avoid the impact. There was a tremendous explosion as the sun smashed into the earth.

Simon choked on bits of rock and dust and tried to stand up. The sun was retreating once more into the sky, He stood, paralyzed. The sun returned once more, speeding faster and faster. With a roaring in his ears he dived to the ground as the sun crashed into the earth. This time he rose fast, grabbed his towel and shoulder-bag, and ran through the clouds of dust and sun-debris. Could he escape before the sun struck again? He ran straight into the arms of two, burly Greek workmen.

"Hey - what you do?" they said.

Simon stood confused and panting as they gabbled furiously at him and then pointed to the beach. What did they mean? What had he done?

"Anglica?" enquired one.

He nodded.

"Ah," said the Greek.

He threw wide his arms.

"Ees dangers."

Then he pointed once more to the beach.

Simon stared across the bay.

A platform on the sea had worked its way around the coast. On the platform was a crane, from which hung a chain with a large, metal ball attached. The crane operated with a roar of machinery. It swung mightily and the ball hit the rocks to the left of the beach - just where he had been sleeping.

The Greek workmen pushed Simon onto the path, grumbled and disappeared with some pick-axes and shovels.

Simon rested on a rock for a few moments, to recover his breath, before walking back to the harbour. Soon he had crossed the headland and passed the church with the blue dome.

According to the clock-tower, it was now nearly eleven. The fishermen still sat by their nets smoking, but Simon wondered if he had returned to the same village? The white harbour was now a profusion of colours. Along what had been a deserted quay were spread tables and chairs over which colourful awnings had been erected. Shops were now open. In a corner, near the tower, was a taverna. Next to the taverna was a little kiosk that probably sold everything. Waiters bobbed in and out of buildings. The sleepy, little fishing village had begun the day's occupation.

Simon sat down at one of the tables at the taverna next to the harbour, near the destroyer. A waiter appeared. Simon asked for a cup of coffee and some rolls. Whilst he was eating, he overheard voices drifting loudly. The voices sounded familiar.

"Simon? Is that you?"

He looked round in confusion. Surely he couldn't know anybody here? His fame couldn't have spread this far? He prudently moved his chair a few feet away from the quay's edge.

"Simon?"

A lady was approaching; she approached from a table that had been half-hidden by the kiosk. From a distance she resembled Aunt Edna. No! It couldn't be?

"Ah - Simon, I thought it was you."

The lady now towered over him. It was Aunt Edna! She was unmistakable with her sensible shoes, bonnet and walking stick. Indomitable. Pythonesque.

"Simon, what on earth are you doing here?"

“What am I doing here?” thoughts flashed across his mind, "I'm on holiday," he said bleakly.

"I know. We got your card, " said a male voice.

It was Norman, Simon's uncle who joined them. He wore khaki shorts.

"Hallo, my lad."

"But what are you doing here?" asked Simon.

Norman explained: "Took a short package to Rhodes. One week. Snap decision. Very reasonable. Cheaper than Blackpool. Arrived yesterday. Took day trip here -- -," he inspected the harbour.” -- Very nice, I must say.""

Simon digested the facts as he followed his uncle's gaze. It was just about possible. He'd sent a few cards off five days ago. But if Aunt Edna and Norman were here, he might as well have stayed at home?

"Not starting another one of your stories?" enquired Aunt Edna, "That postcard? Unusual, don't you think, Norman?”

“Yes, dear.”

“A story on the back of postcards? Everybody gets a little bit of it?"

'"Well," said her husband.

“Yes,” said Simon

"'What you want is a bit of action - not those poovy archaeologists” he continued, leaning back on his chair, “Plenty of material here. Used by the Special Boat Section during the war. Raiding parties. Very dramatic. Hand to hand fighting up there."

He indicated some ruined buildings.

"Village bombed. Hit main water supply."

Simon interrupted.

"But how do you know all this?"

"Here in 1943. Crete."

"Oh?"

Simon regretted his unkind thoughts about his uncle's khaki shorts.

"Yes," continued his uncle, "Never found the water supply again. Have to bring water by boat -- ..,” he pointed to the destroyer. “ -- destroyer must be protection."

"But why?" enquired Simon.

"Don't know? Near Turkish coast? Cyprus not so long ago," Norman changed the subject. "Good plot, that's what you need. Secret agents. C.I.A. Good yarn. Sell it to the B.B.C," He lit his pipe and puffed,” and not too much of that kissing and stuff. Why? Might even do it myself."

Aspirations crushed, Simon looked around. There didn't seem to be any secret agents in sight. Perhaps he could fill the role himself? He searched through his shoulder-bag.

"Damn, " he said, "I seem to have left my Walther P.P.K at home."

"SIMON!" reproved Aunt Edna.

"What was that, my lad?"

"Oh, nothing."

There was a group of sunbathers heading up the path to the church. They carried a huge bag. Just the thing. Inside were Kalashnikov machine-pistols. Turkish Nationalists planning a surprise attack on the town's water supply; holding the town to ransom. He could save the town. But where was the heroine? Over there was a pretty Greek girl. Obviously the daughter of the mayor. They would surprise the tanker at night and he would overpower the terrorists. Now that would impress Polly. No - better stay here. Marry the mayor's daughter and retire into obscurity.

"Simon, stop that dreaming," said Aunt Edna, "You look starved. Lost some weight?"

Simon admitted that he was hungry.

"I'm not surprised," she said, inspecting the taverna with disapproval, “You must have some breakfast”

She firmly gripped her walking stick and marched into the taverna. Norman and Simon listened with interest. There was an argument and the sound of raised voices. Then a few Greeks emerged, shrugging their shoulders and they stared at the door in disbelief. From inside came the sound of busy frying. Soon a large breakfast of omelets, fried tomatoes, kippers and toast lay on the table.

"Now eat up," ordered Aunt Edna.

Simon and Norman tucked in while she fed titbits to dogs, cats, geese and chickens that had gathered at her feet.

A small ferry in the harbour hooted.

"Look, there's our boat," said Norman, "Its going already, “We'll have to dash “and don’t forget Heisenburg’s Uncertainty Principle’.”

Simon hurriedly searched through his shoulder bag; but searched in vain. He could not find the uncertainty principle.

“I don’t seem to have bought it with me,” he said apologetically.

“Really, Simon, said Aunt Edna, ‘’we no longer live in a Newtonian universe.”

“Yes?” said Simon,” but...’ he peered round the bay for inspiration and then at his aunt and uncle who were observing him, ‘...Ah, I see! An uncertain universe, Even the observers affect the event they are observing, by their very act of - of - ,”‘ he made a grasping fist in the air, hoping, perhaps, to clasp some disobedient atoms, “ -- act of - you know, well - observation - as it were,”

“Love - fifteen,’ proclaimed his uncle, Your service.’

‘But you?”

‘love - twenty”

“And it only has meaning in a scientific context,” said Simon.

“Love thirty” said his uncle,” and he fling an imaginary tennis racket at the sky, pronouncing, “Stoppard”

“Stoppard?” Tom Stoppard?” said Simon.

It suddenly seemed as though the universe had moved. Perhaps there had been a small earthquake.

“My Game, My service,” said his uncle.

“But which play? ‘Rosecrantz and Guldenstern are Dead?’” Simon hazarded, “ No - that’s probabilities - throwing coins?”

“Love -fifteen”

“Its too early in the morning, ” said Simon, “ and I’ll lose the plot - and the previous paragraphs won’t make any sense,” he looked his aunt inquiringly, as though she were an umpire, ‘And I don’t see why I lost the last point?”

“Oh! You men and your verbal tennis,” said Aunt Edna, “playing games. Toys for the boys. Bring in a woman.”

And they rushed off.

It was not until the smoke of the ferry had slowly disappeared over the horizon that it dawned on Simon that he had just missed the ferry to Rhodes. But had not the captain said there would be a ferry that afternoon? Another white plume of smoke appeared on the blue horizon and another ferry was approaching. He relaxed. It was not yet twelve and the breakfast had whetted his appetite. He also wished to assert his right to be identified as the author. Perhaps a morning stroll would help?

He walked down to the quay. There was a picturesque taverna in the centre of the harbour, near the jetty. He sat down.

"Hey, mister - you no sit there."

A squeal came from a waiter.

"Why?" asked Simon, confused.

The waiter painted to a white card an the table. 'RESERVIERT' was printed in huge letters. Also, on the table, was a dainty table cloth; wine glasses; a carafe of water; flowers in a vase, two sets of knives and forks and some tooth-picks in a glass.

"Shoo, shoo,” said the waiter.

Simon rose.

The waiter huffed, produced a cloth and dusted the chair upon which Simon had been seated. He urged Simon away and minced back to the taverna where he stood guard over the tables.

Simon moved to a chair at an adjacent cafe with bare, wooden furniture. The cafe was next to a travel agency advertising 'Zeus Tours'. Outside the agency were parked the two limousines which had arrived that morning.

The proprietor of the cafe appeared and Simon asked for a beer. It was still blissfully quiet and soon he sat sipping and enjoying the peaceful charm of the small, fishing village.

He noticed that the fishermen had moved their nets and had congregated around the jetty. They seemed excited. There was a sudden hoot. Simon gave a start. A small ferry had crept up unnoticed and had berthed at the jetty. It disgorged a seething mass of people; brightly coloured shirts; cameras slung around waists, leather hold-alls; luxurious hair do's, Bermuda shorts and paunches in plenty. It was a German tourist party from Rhodes and, soon, the harbour was a swirling mass of colour.

Simon huddled at his table.

The day's catch had landed and it was a big one.

One of the fishermen inspected a particularly portly madam as though she was suspended from a hook and about to be weighed. Then Simon caught his glance. The fisherman shrugged, grumbled and turned away. Simon felt as though he was a tiddler who should really have been thrown back in the sea.

The party sat down at the reserved places and began their meal.

Simon drank another beer.

Soon the party had finished their desserts and had drunk their coffees and brandies. Then they suddenly sat to attention.

A girl had emerged from the tour office.

Simon glanced over his shoulder. Oh no! His stomach lurched, It was an uncertain universe, indeed. The girl was severely dressed in a pleated skirt, wore glasses and had her hair piled up in a bun, but it was Polly! There was no mistaking that face. But why the disguise? And how had she travelled here? He had not seen her on the ferry? He waved as she passed. The guide raised her glasses, looked at him severely and swept by his table. Simon shrugged his shoulders. So what? By now, he knew she was of a fickle temperament. She bestowed her favours how, when, where and if she cared to.

Clio was in a hurry. She had only a few hours to complete her tour. She was worried too, and nervously inspected the harbour. It was undoubtedly picturesque but, from her point of view, there was little visible that she could use. She knew that her family had to expand their business and this meant they had to explore every possible avenue but, this time, they were really scraping the bottom of the barrel. She gritted her teeth.

She was of a natural, reserved disposition and her job lacked the glamour accorded to those of her sisters - of whom she was the shyest. It involved, for the most part,research and collecting facts. Her responsibility was history and, in a way, the whole family relied on her expertise, for she did the groundwork and took her job very seriously.

The previous week she had invited herself to lunch with Ares and Athene at the family villa on the lower slopes of Mount Parnassus. After coffee and brandy, Ares, with eyes agleam, had told all that he knew and Athene had given of her prudence and wise counsel. Clio had managed to obtain a few facts and that was about it. Never mind, they would have to do.

First she toured the tables, ticking peoples’ names off a list she carried clipped to a board. It seemed, to all seated, as though she was a schoolmistress completing the morning's roll-call All were present and correct.

Then Clio clapped her hands. There was a sudden silence. The party gathered in two's and three's behind her. She led them up a small side street by the tour office and then up some flights of steps.

Simon followed cautiously at a distance.

It seemed as though they climbed a thousand steps. One twisted street and more steps led to another twisted street and more steps. As they rose higher, the steps got narrower and the houses at either side got smaller and smaller. The village came to resemble a cubist painting of interlocking squares and simple colours - with the occasional small, white church with a blue dome.

They climbed past some of the bombed out buildings. Simon heard something of the hand to hand fighting during the war. The guide indicated those houses which had been fortified and she pointed out the remains of the building that had been used as the British Headquarters. The smashed buildings resembled gashes torn out of the cubist painting.

Once they stopped to rest- at a point where the village below and the mountain ridges above could be seen.

The guide spoke.

The Germans had landed at dawn by an adjacent bay. They had crept up a ridge and began sniping from the uppermost houses.

The guide dramatically swept out an arm.

And there was placed a British gunner, alone with a Bren gun - at a strategic point above the bay. Then, led by a detachment of the Special Boat Section, some three dozen airmen, aided by the native population, had forced the invaders to retreat.

The party followed meekly behind as she spoke. But then it was time to stop climbing, for the highest point of the village had been reached. The tiny harbour, and the island, spread itself out before them. Nearby was a flat space occupied by a few tables and chairs. The space was enclosed by little houses, a taverna and a hotel.

All listened quietly as the guide told of the last brave British stand. Somehow the native population had been warned and had fled to a monastery on the other side of the island. Then the bombardment began. From dawn to dusk, Stukas whined down from the sky at two hour intervals and dive-bombed the village.

Her voice was hypnotic. It seemed to grow in strength as she spoke in cadences.

For two whole days the bombardment had continued. Finally, the British had been forced to withdraw. Simon viewed the scene and could only compliment the Germans on their efficiency. In just a few days they had contributed much to the tragedy and grandour of the Greek landscape - as great a contribution as had taken other civilisations thousands of years to achieve.

And then the attack started.

The opening shot came from a ‘Pentax’ with a telephoto lens mounted at a strategic position above the bay.

"Click, click," it went.

Then two cini-cameras kept up a steady bombardment from a defensive position near the hotel. One of these cini-cameras, mounted on a tripod was fast fed film cartridges from a hold-all.

“Whrrr, whrrr," it went.

There were some sharp ‘snaps’ and ‘clicks’ from an ’Olympus’ and a ‘Lieca ‘which mounted vicious independent sorties - invading side streets to the left and right. A ‘Canon’ with a telephoto lens had climbed onto the balcony of the hotel and sniped at random. But the main artillery was directed at the village beneath.

"Bang, bang, bang," went the shutters.

These shots were accurate for the range had already been estimated by the strategically placed ‘Pentax’. This ‘Pentax’ was now joined by a motorized 35 Mill ‘Nikon’ which kept up covering fire at the surrounding ridges.

"Brrr, brrr, click, click, click," it went.

Some of the troops turned to the darkened streets. Simon hid by one of the tables and covered his ears.

"Whop, whop, brrr, click, bang, bang," went the steady, incessant bombardment.

There were strange flashes of light. Spent flashbulbs ejected and exploded on the ground. Simon spotted a small child who had been caught in the crossfire of the ’Brownies’, and ‘Instamatics’. The child was trapped in one of the bombed out buildings.

"No -no!" he cried.

He rushed to the rescue. He swept the wailing infant into his arms and carried him back to his table where he hid the infant behind a chair.

Then, at last, the bombardment ceased.

Clio clapped her hands signalling that the attack was over. The troops reformed into pairs before beginning the long descent down the steps.

Simon listened to the steady click of the excursion party's heels as they returned a corner and marched back to the harbour. He surveyed the retreat from one of the tables by the taverna. Soon it was calm again. The view was beautiful and so quiet after the sound of battle. But, through the chirruping of the cicidae, he heard a distant sound.

“Phut, phut, wheop, wheop, ching, ching," it went.

What could it be? Perhaps someone had deserted from the the tourist party? The sound came from the taverna.

He entered to investigate.

Two crazed, Greek kids were maniacally firing at a couple of ‘Space Invaders’ placed against a wall. Another boy zapped frantically at a pin-ball machine.

Simon brought a beer from the Greek proprietor who was watching a game of football on a huge, colour television set in a corner. He departed wearily from the dark, flickering interior and sank down at a table outside in the bright sunshine. But how had they carried the machines up to the top of the hill? How had they manouvered up the steps and through the tiny, twisting streets? Not on the back of a donkey, surely? It was a matter to ponder while finishing the beer, before sauntering down to the harbour.

The village had now returned to its drowsy state of a sleepy, fishing port. The quay was deserted again. But what had happened to the tourist party and where was the ferry?

Simon entered the travel agency.

"Excuse me, where is the ferry to Rhodes?" he enquired of the Greek girl who sat behind a counter.

She looked up from her book.

"Ees gone," she said.

"But it can't have gone, “remonstrated Simon, "Its only just got here?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Ees gone."

"Oh?

There was a few minutes of silence.

"But is there another ferry to Rhodes?" he asked.

"No boats today - come back tomorrow."

She returned to her book.

“But how can I get to Rhodes?" he continued, - I want to get there tonight."

The girl looked up annoyed.

"Maybe you catch that ferry - "

She pointed to a distant plume of white smoke on the horizon.

" - Germans go to other side of island - to monasteree."

“Oh?"

Simon paused.  

"Then how can I get there?"

The girl grinned happily, yawned and stretched her arms.

"Boat," she said.

Simon tried to keep calm.

"But you said there were no boats?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders again.

He sighed for it seemed as though he would be stuck on the island for the night.

"Where can I get a room?" he said

"No room all full. Many tourists. High season."

There was a full minute of silence while Simon digested the information.

"Maybe they put you up at the monasteree,” suggested the girl cheerfully.

Simon clenched his hands together.

“But I can’t get there,” he wailed, "No boats."

She shrugged her shoulders and returned to her book.

Simon was aware that he had lost the argument and that his knuckles were turning white. Hw wished that he had brought his sleeping-bag. At least there would have been the beach for the night. But, on the othe rhand, he reflected, her had no wish to be clobbered by a steel ball. Perhaps he could sleep in one of the bombed out buildings?

He walked out of the travel agency with as much dignity as he could muster and passed the parked limousines. One gave a tentative roar at his presence 'Taxi' was now inscribed on a card tucked into the windscreen, But there must be a road to the monastery?And how had the ‘Space Invaders’ made their way up the hill? And had not the guide mentioned that the native population had fled across the island to avoid a bombing raid?

Simon hurried around the harbour. He bought a map at the little kiosk that sold everything and opened it out on one of the tables at a nearby taverna.

It was a very small island - not more than five miles wide and less than twenty miles across. There was a meandering, thick, red line across the centre of the map. It was linked to thinner squiggles that petered out in the hills or led across to some of the bays. A square section identifying the few symbols on the map informed the reader that thick red lines indicated motorways.

Simon hurried back to the travel agency. The limousine purred outside. At his approach, its engine gave a throaty roar. A swarthy face peered out of the driver's window.

"Taxi?" said the face.

Simon opened out the map and indicated the thick, red line.

"Where?" he enquired, "Oh - I mean poo?"

The driver picked up the map, turned it upside down and scratched his head.

"Ah!" he said after a few minutes.

He indicated a hill to the left of the village.

Simon noticed a red diagonal slash half way up the grey hill.

"Ees road," said the driver.

He smiled encouragingly.

In a second, Simon was inside the taxi and they roared off with a clash of gears. He luxuriated on the back seat - dreaming of a bed and a bath.

Five minutes later they stopped. The driver tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Confused, Simon got out.

"Phut, phut, wheop. wheop," came to his ears.

But he was back at the top of the village? He turned to the driver.

"But I want to get to the monastery?" he said.

Once more he unfolded the map and indicated a bay at the other side of the island.

The driver peered at him blankly.

"No road - ees no built."

"But it says motorway?" Simon argued.

The Greek inspected the map for a few moments.

"Ah!" he said.

He looked up happily, always ready to oblige.

"Ees way far motors. Eh? Motor way?"

Simon inspected the cheerful head poking out of the driver's window. If he lifted the window up sharply, he might just be able to guillotine the neck.Then he bit his lip. What had made him think that a motorway could possibly cross this little island?

"But," he said patiently, "If there is a road then you can drive along it?"

He stared at the driver in triumph.

The driver shook his head as though reproving a disobedient child.

"Ees new road."

"Um?" said Simon.

" Road ees no good," explained the driver.

He pointed to the map.

"Ees not ready - stop ‘ere."

He indicated a spot near the bay on the other side of the island.

"Ee’s old road then - that no good for car."

"0h."

A few tourists climbed into the rear of the limousine as Simon paid the fare.

"But then how can I get to the monastery?" he said.

"I don't know? Maybe you walk?"

The Greek wound up his window and trotted two fingers across the glass before he roared off down a side street that Simon had not seen before.

Simon entered the dark, flickering taverna, bought another beer, sat down at a table outside and consulted the map. The monastery did not seem that far away. There was still another five or six hours of light left and he walked about four miles in an hour. There might even be a passing donkey. He could thumb a lift. He bought some two litre bottles of table water from the proprietor.

, . . . . .

Simon later realised that he had made the rashest choice of his holiday. He could well have blamed the few bottles of beer he had consumed, but he knew full well that it had been the thought of confronting the taxi-driver again, or of walking down the thousands of steps to the harbour, that had been the deciding factor

First Simon entered the hotel and, pointing to the red line on the map asked the concierge the way. The Greek lady went out of with him. She nonchalantly pointed further up the village.

"You go that way," she said.

The steps and twisting streets continued, getting smaller and smaller as he climbed higher and higher. He asked the direction again and again. Some said this way and some said that way. It seemed that all the village streets led to the road that led to the monastery. Finally he found himself above the village - a white blur it seemed - at the foot of the hill. Looking to the left, he saw the next bay with a gorge leading down to the blue sea. A road cut across a valley and climbed another hill. He soon reached the road and began to cross the island.

After a few hours he removed his shirt. It was sopping wet. The sun now blazed down. Simon realized too late why driver had refused to take him. The driver had been far more concerned for the suspension of his car than for the plight of a stranded, British tourist. The road was unmade. It was just a track blasted though the hills - rubble and dirt barely compressed to flatness.

Simons calves began to hurt for he was used to smooth English roads, but the view was wonderful.

The map was inaccurate. There were two roads that criss-crossed the island. One was the new road; the other was old and seemed to be a donkey track. This was obviously the scenic route. The track meandered through olive groves and farms, presenting shade and panoramic views of gorges; ravines; valleys, mountains and blue bays. The new road just cut through red rock.

Simon first followed the donkey track.

It led upwards. He came across tiny white churches perched up in the hills. Crosses were the only symbols on the map. One church had a sign 'NEROS'. Water? He entered. There was a little well in an alcove. He pulled up a bucket and drank gratefully for he had already finished one of the bottles of table water. Later he found concrete, rain-water traps buried beside the tracks.

Simon walked on and on. He found the new road and followed a new path. After another two hours he sank down, exhausted. He had thought the new road might take a shorter route, but there was no shade. It was blinding hot. Well! He had wanted adventure and now he had got adventure. He was lost! A scorpion darted from under the rock upon which he was sitting. A little, green lizard scampered across the road looking for cover. A row of red ants passed by, looked up and continued on their way. Not a single donkey had passed, nor a single person. The farms and churches had been deserted. Unspoilt the island was. Damn! Damn! The vultures would find his carcass and pick at his bones. Why? He had even forgotten his passport. Nobody would know who he was or where he had come from.

He continued. The road cut through a small hill. Its escarpment afforded some protection from the sun.

Simon hid, gratefully, in its shelter.

The sun was sliding down the sky before he rose again, but there followed another two agonised hours of walking in the heat. By now he had drunk up all his water and his throat swelled. The road suddenly stopped in a pile of boulders. There was no way around. And there was a vertical drop to the valley below.

Simon retraced his steps. Then a bell tolled across the valley. There, in the distance, he saw a shimmering blue bay and a building with a tower. It must be the monastery? His heart lifted at the sound of civilisation. So near - but how could reach it? There must be a way down the valley?

He peered down. A concrete box lay half buried just below the roadside. A few steps led down to small, padlocked door. He climbed around the structure among wild, dusty flowers and weeds. Two black slits, like eyes cut out of the concrete, looked menacingly across the valley which dropped beneath. It was a gun-emplacement strategically sited to fire across the valley to the sea - to protect the bay. A relic of the second world war.

Simon sank down beside it, worn out. He was nearly asleep when he heard the sound of whistling.

A handsome Greek youth passed by.

"Kalespera, " said the youth.

"Kalespera, " croaked Simon through parched lips.

"Neros?"

The youth sat down next to Simon and offered his drinking flask. Simon drank gratefully. The water was cold and fresh. He indicated the monastery across the valley.

"You go there?" he asked.

The youth nodded.

Simon shrugged his shoulders and opened out his palms to indicate that he was lost.

"Katheeka,” he said.

After five days of holiday a few more Greek words had come back to him.

'"Poo eene monasteere?” he added.

"Ah - you lost." The youth smiled.

"Come - with me."

Simon followed obediently down the valley. After a few hundred yards the youth began to scramble down the beginnings of a path. Now Simon realized why he had not been able to find the old donkey track. When the builders of the road had dynamited the hill for the new route, boulders had crashed down the valley and obliterated the old pathway.

The new road just stopped in a rock.

The Greek youth scampered blithely across the boulders. Simon followed in his footsteps as best he could. The youth stopped and turned round.

"Anglica?" he enquired, "'Oliday?"

Simon nodded, out of breath.

""London?"

"Yes?"

The youth was wistful.

"I like to travel. See world? Maybe I join Navee?"

He glanced at Simon as if to ask for his consent.

Simon could only mutter a vague assent.

"Well, yes," he suggested, "That sounds like fun."

Soon they had crossed the valley. A small hamlet was passed and then they were walking along a ridge above the bay. The lonely monastery was sited at the centre and, In front of the building, was a small quay. The bay was surrounded by green, wooded hills. It was beautiful. The view was only marred, in Simon's eyes, by the sight of a plume of white smoke disappearing over the horizon. It was the departing ferry, Would he ever get off the island?

Then they standing on the quay in front of the monastery.

Simon thanked the youth.

"You join the navy?"

"Okay, mister. I must" he replied, "You 'av nice 'oliday."

He cheerfully waved before retracing his steps across the ridge.

Simon turned towards the monastery. On either side of the church stretched square blocks of what seemed to be army barracks. He peered into one of the rooms that faced the bay. Clothes hung from a line outside the window. The tiny room had just one bed and scraps of food covered a table. There were candles and an icon of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall. A child lay sleeping on the bed with a finger in his mouth.

Near the monastery sat some old men under trees by some treseled tables. They were immobile and stared at the setting sun. They wore the same clothes that Simon had seen men wearing in the cafe by the port near the plain of greenhouses. Behind these men was a small shop. He entered to ask about the ferry.

"Tomorrow," they said

He bought a beer and sat outside, sipping and enjoying the sunset. He smoked one of the last of his cigarettes. The beer and the cigarette tasted wonderful. Soon his walk across the island was forgotten.

Night was approaching. A generator suddenly hummed and spluttered. Light-bulbs and lamps flickered to life all around the quay.

Simon wandered into the cool courtyard of the monastery. Priests, dressed in black and brown robes, strolled about. He glimpsed the interior of the chapel - gilt and brass like the lamp display at Woolworths. He tried to enter but a strong arm at the door prevented him.

"Tha eethela domateo?” asked Simon.

"You no come in, replied the Greek. His strong arm pushed Simon away. Though the face seemed friendly enough Simon an could see that he would not be allowed in. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing? He thought that he had asked for a room.

"I'm hungry. Pee no?" he said.

The Greek pointed to a low building on the hill past the monastery.

"'Esteatoreo - there.""

"Thanks. “

Simon passed the barrack-like buildings. He entered the toilet- a large, square hut. It was one of those on which you squatted - just a hole in the ground. The floor was swimming in excrement and sodden toilet paper. When he pulled a chain, water squirted across the floor, shooting excrement all over his shoes.

In disgust, he walked down to the beach to wash his feet in the sea and clean his shoes. Pieces of broken bottles and debris were buried in the sand. The bay was a sham. Its beauty was only skin deep. But he could see that the bay was enclosed. Rubbish was allowed in but there was no tide to sweep it out again.

A lighthouse stood on one promontory and a windmill on the other. A large moon reflected on the surface of a white road that lead around the bay. It must lead somewhere? Perhaps to a hotel? Wide, white concrete slabs fitted perfectly together. It was a masterpiece of engineering! Simon wanted to take off his shoes and feel the refreshing smooth surface. It was one of the finest roads he had seen in Greece.

He strolled around the bay admiring the sunset, the Greeks fishing and a schooner that had sunk romantically in the harbour. He passed the promontory and the windmill before crossing the headland. Then he cried in exasperation. The beautiful road ended in a rubbish dump!

Goats bleated at his presence. Bells, made out of old tin cans, hung around their necks. The cans rattled and tolled miserably. Down the adjacent bay, rubbish slipped down a hillside into boiling, black water. It stank. Simon was suddenly hit by a swarm of black flies. They stung his eyes. He brushed them away and fled back to the monastery.

The taverna was deserted apart from a man reading a newspaper. Inside was deserted too. Tins of food and bottles covered the walls like a supermarket. Simon sat outside and waited for someone to appear. Should he ask? The man reading wore the proverbial white shirt and black trousers. Perhaps no meals were sold after the departure of the ferry? It was most likely that the Greeks cooked their own food. Hunger overcame Simon's shyness. He waited no longer.

"Um - tha ethela fayeeto?" he enquired..

The Greek glanced at his watch and Simon wondered it it was too late or too early.

The Greek shrugged.

"Moussaka,” he said.

Simon ordered that and a beer.

The food appeared much later. It was old, dry and tasteless and the beer was far too sweet. But the bay in the night was beautiful. A white yacht with sails was creeping into the harbour.

Simon found a pencil and took some notes, in case he forgot. He surveyed the romantic bay. The white yacht had berthed at the jetty. He made out the shapes of figures who had begun to climb towards the taverna. He heard English voices and laughter. A girl was leading them. It was Polly! That girl was everywhere.

After she had seated the yacht party and ordered their meal, Urania nibbled at her nails. Who was that Englishman alone? What was he doing She saw few tourists at this particular spot after dark - none after the excursion parties had inspected the monastery and had returned to Rhodes. The Englishman was busy scribbling things into a book and her professional curiosity was aroused. She felt a sense of kinship. Perhaps he was writing something? You never knew. Why? He often seemed to look thoughtfully around the bay and up at the stars.

Urania was the most unfortunate of her sisters, although she made a very comfortable living conducting flotilla parties and yachts around the Greek islands, and she was always in demand. Sailors wondered how, at night, she found her way from island to island just by looking up at the stars. But her skill was not surprising for Urania's responsibility was astronomy. Stars were her own speciality, She felt, nevertheless, that her professional capacities were thus under-used. She quite enjoyed conducting yachts around the islands, but the job lacked intellectual stimulation and she had been on the same yacht for over a week.

Uranla noticed that the Englishman was looking at her and smiled as though knew her. She smiled back. At least he had a new face and she wasn't doing anything in particular that night.

"Hallo," she shouted across the taverna, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"What?"

Simon glanced behind him. There was only a brick wall. No other people were about. She must have meant him.

"Oh, yes. Please," he said, ignoring the snarls from the sailors.

"Goodbye, boys," said the guide, "I'll see you later on."

She ignored their mutterings and grumblings which increased as she took some bottles of wine and plates of food from their table.

"Polly? -- ,” Simon rose and pulled a chair away from the table, " --What are you doing here?"

She sat down.

"I didn't see you on the ferry?" he continued.

Urania paused before replying. Polly? Did he mean her sister, Polyhymnia? Her family made few public appearances? And it had always been understood that none of the sisters should be seen at the same place and at the same time. Nine, identical beautiful girls would cause a sensation and it had been decided - both for the sake of her family and for the sake of mortals - that there should be some doubt of their existence. She had been especially cautious this year. For some reason, this particular summer, there was a massive concentration of her sisters around the seas of Crete.

Simon continued: "The boat from Crete? You remember? On the promenade?' And before?

Urania decided to take a chance. Twin sisters. That could easily be explained.

‘Polly?” she said, ‘Oh, you must mean my twin sister?”

Comprehension dawned.

“So there are two of you. How smashing. I did wonder how you got around so much.”

The guide smiled.

"I'm Uri."

"I'm Simon."

They shook hands.

Simon sipped the wine and pinched some of the food as Uri gossiped maliciously about the sailors and made derogatory comments about the appalling service at the restaurants of monasteries on moonlit bays. Soon he felt quite refreshed. This was Greece. Beautiful, contradictory,impenetrable, exasperating roads that led to nowhere, and then a sudden, delightful surprise. Just at that moment everything went black.

"Hey," he wailed, "Who turned the world off?"

"Not to worry," said Uri, "Its the generator. They turn it off after midnight.

She lit a candle but need not have bothered. Thousands of stars shone down from the sky. It was wonderful. Uri's eyes were star-like points. She now seemed very Greek. But Polly had said that she was English? Or so he had been told by William?

The crew of the yacht had finished eating and glowered at Simon.

'"We're going," they said, "Are you coming, Uri?"

“No," she replied firmly, "I'll join you later. We've still two bottles of wine."

They muttered and grumbled but disappeared down to the yacht,finding their way by torchlight.

The waiter locked up the taverna, leaving the couple alone.

"Kahleneekta," said Uri to his back.

The waiter muttered a reply and they watched the beam of a torch head back towards the monastery.

Now there was silence. With the crew and the waiter gone there seemed little to gossip about. Simon tried to think of something to say - something that would restore the magic.

"Kalenneekta," he said, "Goodnight. That's a beautiful word and you speak beautiful Greek."

She smiled.

Simon continued: "Are you English too? Like Polly?" God, that was mundane. "I mean, but of course, you must be. But you look so Greek?"

Uri laughed. "You are half right. Well-we have spent a lot of time abroad. I've got an Arabic passport. But we were born in Greece."

Well yes, thought Urania, they were truly international. A long time ago they had all felt that they had been forcibly carried away in the baggage cart - like spoils of war - when Greece had been plundered of her art treasures not so many centuries ago. They had even multiplied - now they were nine - when plundered by the Romans. But now she had to admit that they had been well treated - and with respect. In fact, at a time when they had been almost forgotten in their own country, they had been given new, complex and even more provocative roles to play; especially by those Englishmen who had taken all the sisters to heart. Why! They had even been able to wear some pretty clothes ! She had got quite sick of her white gown. She noticed that her companion was at a loss for words.

"You might say that we are European twins, " she said.

Simon and Uri discussed life, literature, Greece and art. Later, Simon could barely recall what they had spoken about. Something about preconceptions - the associations of art, history and culture - the distorting mirrors through which you viewed a country.

"The Greece you bring with you?" suggested Simon.

"Yes - you could say that."

But it was still here, thought Simon, to be discovered and re-discovered. It took time, trouble and effort to get there. Not an airplane - just this walk. and he was here now. Sitting by a beautiful bay with a beautiful girl.

For some reason the wine, the scenery or the beautiful girl - he found himself confessing of his love for Polly.

"Of course, you are beautiful too," he said, adding "Well, naturally, I know Polly's the sort of girl men rob banks for, but you still can't help hoping."

He looked at Uri hopefully.

"Oh,” she said, "Many men have fallen in love with Polly -- “

It was true. Urania could remember all of the sisters' boyfriends and lovers. The men and the women; the misshapen; the beautiful; the poor and the rich, the powerful and the talented. All had sought their favours. (After all, all one had to do was to believe) She glanced at Simon. Well, she thought, a girl had to take her chances where she could nowadays.

" -- And its a free country," she added.

Simon laughed. "Well we all do silly things on holiday. Things we normally wouldn't do at home - even fall in love."

"What do you normally do at home?" said Uri.

"Oh, nothing special. I work in a bookshop," he replied absentmindedly, wishing that he was a film producer or something exotic.

"So you like books?"

Uri then remembered that she had seen the Englishman scribbling down words earlier on.

"Do you write? she said

"Well, nothing much. I was just scribbling notes for a short story."

"What's it about?" said Uri in her professional inspiring voice.

“I had this idea you know of a team of archaeologists from the future. They inspect the remains of a tourist resort,” said Simon.

"Hum! What did they find?"

Uri asked the question patiently like a doctor trying to find out the symptoms of a disease.

Simon stared out to the deep, dark seas and then up at the stars.

"Not a lot really."

"Um?"

"Well, the artifacts of a civilisation devoted to the pursuit and provision of pleasure. - "

He turned to Uri.

“ -- Just knives, forks and tin-openers."

“It doesn't sound like a lot of material," mused Uri, "But why did the civilisation end?"

Simon sighed. "Oh, I don't know? There could be many reasons,” he peered around the bay and the monastery, “Badly built? An earthquake? A world recession? People just going somewhere else? Pollution - most likely. What do you think?"

“Um? -- “ Urania thought for a bit. She couldn't really do anything apart from offer advice and encouragement and she was poaching on Polyhymnia's territory. “-- But surely? There are many other things you could write about Greece?" she said.

"Oh, I know,“ Simon replied with enthusiasm, but thinking that the conversation was getting far too serious, “I’ve thought of lots of imaginative interpretations of a package holiday. I've worked out quite a few plots and stories. And ---but..well,..you know.. "

His voice dwindled.

"Oh dear," said Uri.

She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. The trouble was he hadn't really given her a lot to go on.

"Um Yes” she inspired provisionally, “Sounds like a good idea. "'

Simon thought that Uri was looking at him in far too business-like fashion, he found that he was confessing all under her gaze. He continued speaking.

"I have thought of recurring themes - sub-texts, you know? - and all the plots seem to link together. But every time I start in the morning, whatever path I take, whichever direction I go, things look vaguely similar and I always end up at the place from which I began?"

He noticed that Uri appeared confused.

“It does seem a labyrinthical plot,” he added apologetically.

"A maze?" said Uri,

"Yes - you could say that."

"'Um."

Uri sipped her wine. It could be a possibility.

'What you need is someone like Ariadne," she suggested.

"Why?" replied Simon.

"You remember Knossus?"

He confessed that he had not been there. '"But I am going back to Crete. I'm sure I'll go,” he said.

"No - I mean the tale of Theseus. How Ariadne gave him a ball of wool to tie to the entrance of the maze so that he could find the exit after slaying the Minotaur."

"Minotaur? Exit?"

Simon's head spun.

“Yes - that's it!" Uri clapped her hands together. "Yes - why don't you give a legend a contemporary setting? Include it in your story? Make it the thread holding all the other threads together?"

"Hum, sounds promising," said Simon,

"Well, that's everything settled," said Uri with a contented sigh.

She felt pleased with herself. It was quite a good bit of inspiring at such short notice. She glanced at her watch and rose from the table.

"Look, its getting late," she added, “1 don't have to get up early in the morning but -- .,

.'Oh, neither do I, " said Simon.

" -- But I do have to get some sleep." she finished.

Simon was disappointed for he could have stayed up all night. “But look,” he said, trying to prolong her presence for just a few more minutes, "There's some wine left. Let's drink a toast - a libation?"

"What shall we drink to?"

"My holiday romance? With you here tonight?”

"That's sweet. But let's drink to the completion of your story."

They raised their glasses to the sky and drank the wine down.

"And now," said Uri, "Where are you staying?"

“Oh. I had hoped to stay at the monastery but they wouldn't let me in?"

Uri pointed to his legs. "1m not surprised,” she said, That's because you are wearing trousers."

”Oh?"

"It is a religious building, you know?”

'"I didn't think of that.”

Uri laughed. "Hah, you foreigners.”

She sighed.

"Well, they are all asleep now. You can't wake the Father."

Simon glanced around the taverna. There was a sheltered courtyard to the rear.

"I think I'll stay here for the night. Its all locked up but at least its out of the wind."

You can't do that---," Uri shivered. “----It will get cold later."

"And,” said Simon, “I’ve left my sleeping bag in Crete. "

'"I know, " she said brightly, "I'll show you something. Come with me."

Simon followed as she left the table. He picked up his shoulder-bag and they climbed up a path at the rear of the taverna. Soon they were walking up a hill though a forest of pine trees. At times Uri gazed up at the sky. The stars seemed to reflect out of her eyes. They illuminated a way across tangled tree roots, thickets and a bed of pine cones. Often Uri looked back and winked.

Higher and higher they climbed. Where was she taking him? How could she find her way? They walked for hours. At last they came across a familiar - to Simon's eyes - concrete structure. Somehow they had crossed the valley. It was the gun-emplacement looking out over the bay.

Uri kicked the door open.

"See!" she exclaimed.

Inside was a bunk and some straw.

Simon thanked his guide. He remembered the chambermaid on the beach.

"Efkaresto eetan mea eeporothee vrada," he said.

He repeated the phrase in English. Perhaps she had not understood.

"Thank you, its been a wonderful evening."

Uri smiled.

An image of his uncle flitted though his mind. Admonishments. Advice. The uncertainty principle, Then Maria on the boat. Her useful phrases

‘Uri” he said.

‘Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Weli, if you do it in Greek.” she said.

Behind her spread the bay. On the promontory, in the dark distance, pulsated the red beam of the lighthouse. It was on the edge of a black circle of water. Simon could hear the waves gently rustling. Uri's eyes sparkled and her mouth was half open. Mesmerized, he reached forward, put his arms around her cool shoulders and kissed her.

He sucked in a mouthful of stars and lost consciousness.