Cretan Teat. Brian Aldiss
The thin white beam destroyed the atmosphere. Langstreet went to the rear of the chapel. There was only a cubby-hole, no ikonostasis: clearly this family, Family Paskateris, had not been of the wealthiest. In the cubby-hole lay a few brown candles, slender as willow twigs, and a rather damp box of matches. Getting a match to strike, Langstreet lit the wick of a candle. Its frail glow warmed the preoccupied lines of his face, making of it an ikon in the surrounding gloom. He carried the candle back to where the monk stood.
‘Would you permit me to remain here alone for a moment, please?’ he asked.
‘I shall remain outside.’ As the monk opened the door, Langstreet had a glimpse of the thicket of olive trees, hieroglyphics of age as they slipped into darkness. The door shut. He was alone in the old chapel. He crossed himself.
No windows punctuated the rough stone walls of the building. Four cane-bottomed chairs huddled together in a corner, refugees from family congregations. There came to Langstreet’s mind the thought of his family’s fortunes, his parents arriving in England, a foreign land, his mother dying – that pain, still attendant on him – his father’s remarriage into a wealthy Scottish family, his own marriage to Kathi. That change of nationality a generation ago: it was brought about by the tides of history. This chapel must have represented security, piety, to a family facing the changing fortunes of time.
Langstreet was moved to kneel on a damp patch of carpet. Clasping his hands together, he uttered a short prayer.
‘Great Lord, I thank you that I have been able to emerge from the darkness of an evil history into the light of goodness, through your good guidance. Here in this humble place where you still dwell, I beseech you to remain with me while I endeavour still to make restitution for the past. And I pray that my dear wife may come to understand these things which I do in your name. Amen.’
Whoever the generations had been, worshipping here, they had certainly experienced no diminution in the desire of the outside world for olive oil. But slowly their means of processing and distribution had fallen behind the technological advances elsewhere. Now the olive-crushing machines in Kyriotisa – those old-fashioned engines Langstreet had briefly glimpsed in the town – supplied their oil to Italy, where it was bottled and sold as genuine Italian oil. There was no longer a name for the Kyriotisan olive oil which once had been praised in Constantinople.
Shading the candlelight from his eyes, Langstreet rose to his feet and gazed about him. He felt the brooding presence of God. The door had no lock on it. Thieves were unknown. But there was nothing worth stealing.
The light shone on the rough-hewn stone walls, some of which had been plastered. Here, an artist-monk of long ago had attempted some religious decoration. Perhaps at about the time the Fourth Crusade was wreaking havoc in Constantinople, a monk had set out on the journey to Christian Crete, glad enough to escape the chaos in his city. It was apparent at a glance that he had been a poor artist, perhaps the best the Paskaterises could afford. Nor were the rough walls conducive to fine art. However passable the results had been when fresh, the centuries had been about their slow work in destroying colour and form.
One painting in particular claimed Langstreet’s attention. It was formally headed Agia Anna and showed a woman suckling an infant. He took the candle closer, sheltering its flame with his hand.
The woman, St Anna, had had her eyes scratched out, the vandalism obliterating most of her face. The ugly child she was clutching sucked at a teat resembling an aubergine. It protruded from St Anna’s garments somewhere about the lower rib cage. It was clear that the artist, holy man that he must have been, had scant personal knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.
After gazing at the painting with reverence, Langstreet called in the monk, to ask him who St Anna was.
‘Anna is auntie of Jesus. The Blessed Virgin Mary, she dries up her milk, so she gives Baby Jesus to his auntie for suckle. Here you see him at the breast.’
‘The aunt of Jesus? I don’t understand. What is the evidence on which this painting is based? It seems sacrilegious. It’s not in the Gospels.’
‘No, no. Not in Gospels at all. You find him in Protovangelium of James. In Constantinople was erected a church dedicated to Anna by Emperor Justinian. Is getting dark, sir.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting.’ Langstreet placed a thousand drachma note in the cubby-hole, extinguished the candle, and followed the monk out into the open. Staring down at his boots, he said, ‘I find it wonderful. A revelation.’
The monk closed the door firmly. ‘Only one more such painting exists in all the world, sir. They tell it is in Romania or Bulgaria, or thereabouts.’
Once they were in the car, the monk said, ‘I am only poor man, with no education. So I must live in Kyriotisa for all my life. You must speak to the priest for more better information, sir.’
‘Thank you. You have been very helpful to me. Perhaps I may be permitted to buy you a bottle of wine when we get back to Kyriotisa.’
The monk waved a hand with nicotine-stained fingers in a rough but courteous gesture. ‘Sir, is not necessary. I am glad to help you, as British helped us in the war.’
Langstreet drove the Punto back across the mountains to Paleohora. The road twisted and turned as it sought a way to the sea. He encountered no other traffic on the way. At one point, he drew into the side of the road, climbed out and walked a short distance to sample the loneliness. Stars shone overhead. The moon had yet to rise. This place was unaltered from earliest times; he stood as if on a shore marking the boundary between bygone and modern worlds.
The sky overhead still retained some light, whereas the gloom of night had already settled over the land, emphasising its antiquity. In the distance, a line of land had been raised to resemble a giant hip, teasing Langstreet’s fancy into imagining that he had trespassed on the sleeping body of some ancient being. He had stepped momentarily back from the ages of a Christian God into a time where women gave gods suck.
Hunching his shoulders, he walked briskly back to the car and the present day. He slammed the Punto door. Accelerating at once, he headed for the isolated lights of Paleohora.
Going down to breakfast next morning, I did my best not to limp. Out on the balcony, at the far table, smoking over a cup of coffee, sat Ingrid. She was alone, looking spruce and calm. I recalled that her daughter did not eat breakfast.
She gave me her usual smile, cynical yet warm, acknowledging, accepting, the follies of the world.
‘Were you disturbed by the burglar in the night?’
‘I thought I heard something.’
‘I guess it frightened you off coming to see me.’
‘Crete is known to be a violent country.’
‘And England not so?’
‘We’re just a little country with a big language.’
‘You should visit Denmark. We’re a little country with a big hospitality.’
‘I should like to enjoy your big hospitality, Ingrid.’
‘Let me give you my address. Lisa and I must leave this morning.’
‘I’ll come and visit you, if I may.’
‘I hope your leg will be better then.’
After breakfast, I sat in my room and began to write notes for my novel, until Boris came and suggested that we swam. When I returned to the foyer, I found that Ingrid and her daughter had already left.
Well, it was not important – just a mild flirtation, in which much or little had been said. That seemed to be about all I was capable of these days. What do you expect?
Nevertheless, I found myself dwelling with some tenderness on her features: the narrow temples and mild almond eyes, with the cheeks broadening out to accommodate a generous mouth. And her hair, dyed no doubt, swept back in good fashion, leaving a wing of fine quality over each ear. Inevitably, I then slipped into speculating