It was the next day and late afternoon. Again Simon sat in the café corner by the town's main square. The café was conveniently near to his apartments - in the Hotel Sophocles just around the corner - and he had been sitting there since lunchtime.

"YASOU!”

What?”

Simon looked up. "Yasou?" he queried, “Oh no, I mean - ."

He stopped in mid-sentence and gazed nervously at the waiter who stood before him.

"Kalymira?" enquired Zorba, “Raki?"

He beamed down at the young Englishman

"Kalymira?” Oh dear." Simon hesitated. “Oh yes, I know what that means,” He breathed deeply, “ Ah, ha, a good-day.”

He rummaged through his shoulder bag. It was nearly empty. But little would be needed for the day's entertainment. There was just two hundred drachmas in a purse; a towel; postcards, a pen and a notebook.

"Ah, here it is."

He sighed with relief. There it was under the towel. Just what he needed - a phrase book.

"Um, yes." he mumbled.

Zorba waited patently while Simon thumbed through the pages.

"Ah, ha - Ena beara, parakalo," said Simon.

He slowly ordered a beer then lazily watched the waiter as he circumnavigated the tables. The beer was a long time coming, but he was quite content just to watch the town come to life after the noon siesta. As the day had progressed, the few wooden chairs and tables beneath the plane-tree by the café-corner seemed to have multiplied - spawning strange plastic and metal offspring. By late afternoon these new tables and chairs had spread half way across the square.

Those small, wooden chairs closest to the café entrance seemed to be the preserve of the older Greek men - who were as gnarled and wrinkled as the overhanging olive trees which gave them shelter from the sun. As if by tacit consent, the visitors restricted themselves to the new, plastic offspring.

Simon wondered if the whole town operated under the same principle as the spreading tables and chairs?

He had first seen the town from the deck of the passenger ferry as it entered the bay. Then it had seemed to resemble a huge, white spider whose squat body hung over the quay. A few spindly legs clung to the mountain slopes, while others dipped gingerly into the sea and yet others inched along the shore-line feeling for safe footholds.

It had been a premonition. Close too, all the streets disappeared into a maze of unfinished buildings - the concrete shells of what Simon presumed were the tavernas; hotels; souvenir shops; bars, cafés and apartments yet to be. He wondered if - like the plastic tables and chairs - the new buildings were mere accretions which could be disassembled at night and stored away only to be resurrected in the morning? He hoped so.

Nevertheless, it was still a magic little town and it was very pleasant to sit there in the square, though Simon did rather envy the older Greeks their olive trees. But, over his head, spread some young, green vines. It was late July and the leaves and rich, plump fruit - fresh and ripe for the picking - hung suspended from a trellis. They gave him partial, if not complete protection from the sun.

He waited patiently for his drink, picking up a pen and idly doodling on the back of a postcard. Meanwhile, the waiter ambled slowly towards his table.

"Ena beara?”

"Parakalo."

Simon thanked the waiter.

Simon envied the practiced flick with which the waiter prized the cap off the beer bottle. He took a tentative sip.

"Merci,” he said.

Zorba ambled away leaving the Englishman alone with the foaming glass and his thoughts. Simon dug out another handful of postcards. These were of island scenery.

“Do you really need all of those?"

A voice came from a nearby seat,

"Can't I have some'?"'

Simon looked around, startled. A huge back-pack parked on the seat next to him indicated a new arrival, and the sickly pallor of its owner the country of origin.

“My name's Douglas,replied the newcomer, adding "You've a large family," as he swept a hand across the postcards on the table.

Sinon laughed as he handed over a fistful.

“I got them as a job-Iot," he explained, they're a bit yellow at the edges, but quite serviceable.”

Over another beer they discussed the weather, the town and the journey. Douglas confessed that he had not yet been able to find a place to stay. His friendly, freckled face promised an agreeable companion and, noting the sleeping bag, Simon decided to share his secret.

The previous day he had taken the local bus to the east of the town. Five miles along the coast road, down a slippery path, he had discovered a small cove. A sandy beach nestled among shady trees and a small taverna at the rear sold cold drinks and snacks.

He drew a small map on the back of one of the postcards indicating the spot Then, swearing Douglas to secrecy, he handed it over.

Douglas rose,

“Well, Goodbye then, Simon.

They decided to meet next afternoon on Aphrodite Beach.

Simon happily watched his new companion head towards the bus station. His holiday was certainly looking up. That morning he had taken an excursion to -the Gorge of Samaria on the southern side of the island. It had been a very enjoyable trip.

At the head of the Gorge of Samaria a mountain rose. By some strange trick of early morning light, its peak seemed to resemble a face. The face of a kindly, old lion - or a vengeful Greek God - thought Simon after walking its eleven mile length.

He had begun the steep, two mile descent to the foot of the Gorge early in the morning. The rest of the party had enthusiastically bounded down the vertical path before him. Soon they were out of sight. But he was glad, for now he had the Gorge all to himself.

At the foot ran a stream of cold, clear water over white pebbles and smooth boulders. On either side rose huge mountains; their slopes covered with beautiful wild flowers, colourful shrubs and green pine-trees. The mountain peaks were barely visible in the hazy morning sun and the walls of the Gorge were so close together that the stream was in perpetual, cool shade.

On the descent, Simon fancied that he had seen some goats. Just for a moment high in the mountain passes - small doe like creatures, who disappeared the moment they were spotted. They bounded away with bursts of agility. To such goats Pan might have played. Perhaps his flute could just be heard over the quiet buzzing of the cicidae?

Simon bathed his arms and drank of the cool, refreshing mountain water,thinking that in such surroundings, Ariadne and other nymphs of legend might well have frolicked and bathed. All was surrounded by calm. He was seized by a feeling of euphoria. Everything was all right. ‘Siga, Siga’ It was such a feeling of peace .Nothing could ever go wrong. It had always been like this. It would always be like this.

His reverie was suddenly destroyed by a stab of pain. Foolishly he had let one of his hands rest on the boulders that provided a convenient crossing point to the paths on either side of the stream. Someone had trodden on his fingers!

"You clumsy ---."

Simon shouted and gazed up in a rage of hurt which soon turned to astonishment. How dare he place his insignificant hand under the foot of so beautiful a creature?

“I”m sorry,” he mumbled.

A young girl stood silently before him dressed in a simple, white tunic. Was it a Greek costume or a t-shirt tied round her waist with, a piece of string? (Whatever it was - neither cloth covered her golden-brown legs.) The inscription across her pithy breasts 'WOMEN ON TOP' seemed to suggest the latter. Before Simon could decide, the girl strode away. She climbed across the boulders and down the stream, swinging her legs with all the agility of a mountain goat.

Later, as he sat at the table under the plane tree in the town’s main square, Simon reflected upon the moment as he sipped at a glass of Raki in his hand. Had It been a panic attack, he wondered? Hot flushes? Trembling limbs? The world had swayed. He felt sudden need to grab hold of something. A rock? His hand inched towards the biro on the table. Again, he sipped at the glass of Raki. What had he felt? Fear? No! It was such a feeling such as St Paul might have had on the road to Damascus.

Polyhymnia strode briskly over the pebbles and down the stream. She hardly looked where she was going and barely glanced at the stones beneath her feet. Damn! That was why she had not seen the hand.

It had disturbed her thoughts.

Polyhymnia was furious. The previous night at the Adonis Taverna on Aphrodite Beach. How could he?

"Allo Missie’ “o-where you from?"O where you go?"Ow like zee Engleesh rhose."

From the moment she arrived it had been like a Greek chorus. Spiros had been different - or so she had thought. More charming, much more handsome - and he had such a distinguished grandfather! But it was the same with all the boys. As soon as the evening progressed, the conversation changed. Spiros ignored her and talked with her friends. They even seemed to dance together.

She now wished that she had taken her usual holiday with her cousins at the family villa on the lower slopes of Mount Parnassus. But then there would have been that eternal family bickering.

How dare he treat her like one of the ordinary girls? She wasn't a piece of fuck fuck. Didn't he know who she was? No how could he? Why she wasn't even English! Come to think of it, she was more Greek than he was.(Englishness was a mere matter of convenience - no need to produce those bothersome papers of identity) A working holiday at her uncle's travel business 'Hermes Tours' on the town promenade.

Why, Spiros was only a waiter - no better than she! Polyhymnia strode angrily down the Gorge Gorge and up the mountain paths. She would teach him - but he was so handsome..

Simon nursed his injured fingers and stared at the figure of the retreating girl. Soon she was out of sight. But had he not seen her before? Handing out leaflets on the town promenade?

"Best trips in town" "Come and see" "Tours! Tours" "Boat trips" "Yes! All the sights" "Excursions" "Phaestos" "Knossus"

Despite her northern accent she was obviously English - like a beautiful siren he had thought. It had been she who had sold him the excursion to the Gorge of Samaria the previous night.

After the morning's excursion, Simon had returned to the town in a state of dream-like shock. Sitting in the café by the town's main square, sipping his Raki, he pondered on the day's events.

The excursion had involved a night trip to Khania - on the north west coast - before crossing the island before dawn the following morning. Thus he had not seen much of the island scenery, save a vague impression mountain passes and twisting roads. There had been no access by road to the sea-mouth of the Gorge, so the journey had involved a short boat trip along the coast to Khora Sfakion - a nearby village. This village possessed a track leading to road that crossed the mountains. These mountains virtually divided the island in half.

Chugging its way though the blue sea the small boat had pulled into Loutro - a hamlet on the coast. The boat's colourful arrival, in white foam under the blue sky and grey rocks, was the main event of the day and the whole population had thronged the quay.

Among the welcoming crowd, Simon thought he recognized some faces from a previous holiday.

”Steven! Shiela.” he had shouted

The boat pulled away almost immediately. The churn of the engines and the sudden movement had nearly catapulted him over the tap-rail. But the hamlet had made a vivid impression on Simon - as vivid an impression as the girl had made upon him in the Gorge. There were a few tavernas; pensions, cottages and a small beach bathed in white light. Paradise!

Simon now wished that he had looked around and found such a small village at which to stay. Instead he had booked flight, voyage and accommodation as a package from a travel agent. But he could not complain. The agent had given him a generous discount for a late booking. His room was bare, but adequate. A bed, shower and washing basin was all that he required.

It was now approaching evening and Simon felt hungry. He paid for his drink and returned to his apartment in the Hotel Sophocles where he changed for dinner. Soon he was seated at the Café Bacchus in the main square - next to the café corner. He inspected the menu wearily for he had previous experience of Greek cuisine. Indeed, there was little choice on the menu. It was more a choice of which organ - the stomach, head, kidneys or liver - to inflict damage for the night.  

He also knew full well that whatever he ordered, he could well be served the same thing. Eschewing, for the moment, the goat stew, he ordered chicken. A few moments later there was a squawk from the area of the kitchen. Simon smiled with inward satisfaction. No more would that damned cockerel awake him and his fellow travellers at such an unholy time.

The meal finished, Simon returned to his favourite seat by the café corner. He sipped an ouzo.

It was now several hours into the evening and the square had filled up. The café opposite had too spawned its metal and plastic offspring and the whole square was now a writhing mass of people, chairs and tables. He wondered what would happen when the two cafés met? What strange objects would be formed from that unholy alliance? Would the whole square seize up? He hoped so. The mopeds, cyclists and a few small cars were beginning to take short cuts in between the tables. Indeed, one particular motor cyclist, indicating a left turn into the main street, had come perilously close to sweeping his postcards off the table and the pen out of his hand.

The church clock struck ten.

Simon rose. There would be time for a stroll through the town and and a night-cap on the quay before retiring to bed. The square was set at some distance from the harbour and was linked to it by the main street. This street was now ablaze with colour and resembled, in no small manner, an Eastern bazaar. Older Greek women, dressed in black, sat outside their stalls, knitting. Their wares were spread out underawnings and along the shop fronts. Even the plane-trees growing out of the pavements were festooned with woollen garments - suspended from the branches.

Simon wandered down to the harbour.

He bought a packet of cigarettes from a kiosk in a central position. These kiosks seemed to sell everything that even the most obdurate tourist might require. He wanted a local brand of cigarette and handed over a note.

"Karelia, parakalo," he said.

The little girl who served him was totally charming. The Greek children were beautiful, he thought. What warm, friendly smiles and those lovely, round, innocent eyes. There was a moment's distraction as the girl handed him his change. She gabbled furiously in Greek to an older lady sitting on a wooden chair by the kiosk. Simon presumed her to be the girl's grandmother. She looked very picturesque, shrivelled and dressed in black from head to toe. How charming. Local colour.

"Wait a minute?"

He had handed over a five hundred drachma note and only received the change for one.

Simon gazed at the little girl in the kiosk. A grubby little hand was held under the counter. She smiled sweetly.

"You little ----."

He glowered.

"No problems, signor."

"No problems?"

The little girl smiled with unconcern as she handed over the missing notes. The old lady looked on impassively as he walked further along the promenade.

Along the quay were now set tables under brightly coloured awnings. Rows of coloured light bulbs hung, suspended from their bare flexes. These bulbs, and the lights of the hotels and shops surrounding the harbour, reflected in the calm water where bobbed a few caiques. A few white yachts, stars and the hills behind, completed the scene. It was quite beautiful. In the distance could be seen the white frontage of a huge hotel. Its lights formed a solid, square reflection in the water of the bay, and its bulk stood out in sharp relief against the dark, brooding hills.

Rows of youths were strung across the top of iron railings. They serenely gazed upon the evening parade of lovers, families and children. All enjoyed the cool, night air - so refreshing after the heat of the day. The night was so beautiful that Simon suddenly felt sad that he was alone. He thought of joining the youths on the railings with their grandstand view of the evening parade. He strolled down the promenade practising the machismo walk. God! Was it difficult without high heels! There -a swing of the hips stomach out front. (The display was necessary for it was well known that, in this part of the world, a paunch was a token of wealth and virility. Simon had no wealth and no paunch. No matter, he consoled himself, a small, but noticeable beer gut would have to suffice; though it was clear, from the paunches around him, that his was of little consequence.)

“Bravo, Bravo,” came from the crow, “Bellisimo”

Simon bowed graciously

For the second time that day, he smiled with inward satisfaction as he noted the swiveled heads, the smiles and the excited gossip from the railings. Practice would make perfect.

At the end of the promenade was the shop that sold 'Hermes Tours'. A few steps led to a dark interior and blackboards outside advertised the latest excursions. Simon stopped in his tracks. There was the girl!

She was beautiful.

A simple, white evening gown with one fold draped across a shoulder and another gathered in a gold bracelet above a breast, graced her slender figure. As she stood under a lamp-post, a pair of golden ear-rings sparkled so brightly that she seemed to be surrounded by a golden aura. She could not be English. The nose was too straight. Surely the noses of English girls tended towards the pert or the retrousse? But it was now or never. Simon was glad that he had changed for dinner and swung his jacket nonchalantly over his shoulder. It was now or never - before he lost his nerve.

Polyhymnia stood in front of 'Hermes Tours' selling her wares. She always dressed up for she was only paid commission on those tours she sold. Never mind, she always sold more than the other girls. Hephaestus had done her proud this year. He had always been her personal favourite of the step-brothers. And those ear-rings he had forged out of some old armour? How they sparkled! She shook her head and they flashed attractively in the light of the lamp-post.

But there was Spiros coming down the promenade. She would show him. He could not avoid her now.

"Spiros," she shouted, "Come here."

A handsome youth turned around.

"Missie?" he said.

Missie? Polyhymnia fumed.

"Of all the -," she swore under her breath.

She grabbed Spiros by the arm and kissed him on the lips.

"Hey - Missie?"

He tried to pull himself away.

"You and me - dancing," snarled Polyhymnia.

There was little Spiros could do but abjectly concur. Polyhymnia held his forearm in a hammer-lock.

Simon walked down one of the paths that led off the promenade. How could he have been so stupid? What on earth made him think that she might? The Greek boy was handsome. There was no doubt about that. He had caught the flash of white teeth in the sparkling of an ear-ring.

He hid behind a plane-tree and spied on the couple as they headed, arm in arm, towards the town. His heart beat heavily and his shirt stuck to him with perspiration. Thank God she had not seen him. As if to add to his disappointment, Poseidon sent out a sudden gust of wind. It blew empty bottles of mineral water and garbage against the beach where bobbed the day's detr tus with the night tide.

It was suddenly quiet. The cicidae had ceased their chirruping. Simon disappointedly kicked a rusty can under some reeds. What moment ago had seemed magical now seemed less than commonplace.

He continued distractedly along the road to the west of the town, wishing fervently that he had gone to the Lake District instead. Walking in a daze, and hardly noticing his surroundings, he reached the Midas Hotel.

A huge coach with black-tinted windows pulled up by the hotel's wraught-iron gates and, with a hiss of air-conditioned brakes, nearly ran Simon down. The sharp 'schliick' of opening doors awoke him. He turned round and recoiled in horror!

Vivid black stripes ran down the side of the coach. They proclaimed 'Zeus Tours' and resembled forked lightening. A radiator grill resembled the teeth of a dragon. Did it hiss fire? Steam spurted out of the vents.

A hot, steaming belly disgorged the beast's pale, frightened quarry while an underbelly vomited out their remains - baggage and suitcases. A lonely bucket and spade rolled disconsolately in the gutter. Then, with a frightening hiss and roar, the coach drove away.

Simon was temporarily distracted by the sound of an arguing couple.

"William, please don't row,”came a plaintive voice.

"Row, Prudence? ME?" came an anguished retort.

A child wailed and the wrought-iron gates opened. The pavement, that for an instant had milled with people, emptied like a sieve. The gates slowly closed as the Midas Hotel swallowed its prey.

All was quiet once more.

“Oh! Young man?"

A petite, middle-aged woman stood next to a trunk on which sat a young girl. The woman seemed nervous.

”What me?" said Simon, pointing to himself.

Nobody else was in sight.

The woman nodded so he approached.

”You wouldn't be so kind as to give me a hand?" she pleaded.

The girl removed herself from the trunk and Simon dragged it over to the wrought-iron gates.

"Thank you, that was most kind, " said the women, producing her purse.

"There's no need," he replied.

"Oh.”

I'm Mrs Robinson."

"I'm Simon."

They shook hands.

"And this is my daughter, Elizabeth."

Simon's heart skipped a beat as the girl's nose swiveled in his direction and her face suddenly became illuminated by the lights of the hotel forecourt.

"Oh, hallo," he said.

She sniffed and turned away.

Mrs Robinson's eyes travelled the distance from her trunk, across the courtyard, to the hotel's entrance. Her eyes then settled on Simon.

"I don't suppose you'd care for a drink?" she inquired.

He apprehensively followed her gaze and stammered profuse apologies saying that he must really get back to town but perhaps another time?

”Oh yes. That would be fun.” said Mrs Robinson.

She seemed disappointed.

Simon waved goodbye as he headed back along the coast road. He turned round once and caught the girl staring in his direction. She sat on the trunk. Then the gates of the hotel opened and they entered.

As he walked along the road, Simon's spirit's lifted. The hotel might well repay a visit the following morning. After all, Elizabeth was a very pretty girl.

It was well past midnight before Simon reached the town. He had walked the whole two miles and now the harbour was nearly deserted. The kiosk was still open, though this time an old man peered out of the serving hatch. Out of curiosity, Simon bought another packet of cigarettes - with another large note. The same trick was repeated. He angrily demanded his change. a few moments the old man gabbled furiously.

"Me, Signor?" he complained.

There was a look of innocence on his face.

Simon demanded his change again.

“Karemata, parakalo," he shouted.

There was no reply. He glared. The same unconcern that he had seen on the face of the girl appeared before him. Simon glared some more.The visage seemed to crumble. Beads of sweat and oil poured down.

Course, peasant features blurred into shape.

"Mistake, Signor."

As the old man handed over the money he shrugged his shoulders.

This time Simon was annoyed. He strode angrily down the main street and turned the corner to his hotel. Having only been there once before, and the town looking different at night, he soon lost his way. Seeing some lights in the distance, he headed in their direction and found himself in Hades Street.

Hades Street consisted of a grimy row of bars and discos, lit by neon signs that had none of the charm and innocence of the rows of naked light bulbs festooned across the bay. Western pop-music blared out of loud-speakers.

In order to cool down and to find his directions, Simon went into one of the bars where he ordered a drink. It was an angry little place. The town was a sea-port. Men with sex-hungry eyes - violent - eyed the few girls in the bar, who had equally sex-hungry eyes.

Finding that he was only a few streets away from his hotel, Simon sat outside. Opposite flashed a neon sign 'THE MEDUSA DISCO'. Its dance floor could just be seen from the street.

Simon was aghast. The girl from the promenade and the Greek youth were dancing alone. She danced beautifully, lost in the rhythm of the music. The earrings, the white evening gown and the gold brooch glittered mesmerisingly in strobe lighting. He watched distractedly

Polyhymnia was glad that she had taken those dancing lessons from her sister, Terpsichore. She twirled and pirouetted with reckless abandon.

Simon could watch no more and staggered down the road. The combined effect of beer, ouzo, wine and brandy from the bar made him quite drunk. As he passed one of the shabbier hotels a little arm seemed to come out of a door and tug at his jacket.

"Want a good time, mister? Sister? No problems."

He pushed the little arm away. He had no idea where he was. One cobbled street led into another cobbled street. It seemed as though hours passed. The streets were deserted. Wild cats from balconies hissed and scratched as he passed. Dogs growled out of doorways and dogged his heels. The lights of the town suddenly flickered out.

Was this hell?

Ah - water - the harbour - there - some plastic tables and chairs. Landmarks. A remembered doorway. Flower-pots that seemed familiar. A hand?

Simon had no idea how he got back to his hotel that night.