Aphrodite’s Smile. Stuart Harrison
drink beer and forget his terrible day. To begin with, the engine on his boat wouldn’t start, and then, when he had managed to coax it into life and eventually put to sea, it was only to rip a hole in his main net after it became entangled with some piece of junk floating beneath the surface a mile offshore. In the end he had returned with barely enough in his catch to cover his costs and he was not in a good mood. ‘You talk too much,’ he muttered sourly to French, lifting his eyes from his almost empty glass.
Annoyed at having his train of thought interrupted, French frowned briefly. He was in full flight now, his imagination fuelled by the realisation of a dream he had pursued for almost a quarter of a century. ‘You will see, Spiro,’ he replied. ‘Even you will have reason to thank me, though of course gratitude is not what I seek, nor has it ever been.’
‘And pigs will fly,’ Spiro sneered. He was in the mood for an argument with somebody and this arrogant Englishman would do. He was sick and tired of hearing his crap anyway.
‘You are an ignorant man,’ French proclaimed. ‘You should stick to fishing, about which you at least know a little.’
There were a few chuckles around the smoky room, since it was common knowledge that Spiro was possibly the worst fisherman on the island. Spiro glowered from beneath heavy brows. ‘At least what I do is honest work, fit for a man. I do not waste my time with my nose stuck in books.’ He held up his hands for emphasis. His fingers were short and thick with calluses.
The Professor was an educated man, however, engaged in scholarly work, and for such men life was different. So though one or two heads nodded in sage agreement, most did not. Besides, Spiro had few friends.
French dismissed Spiro’s remarks with a wave of his hand. ‘I would not expect you to understand, Spiro, but some men, like myself, are destined not for the toil of workman’s labour as honourable as that may be, but rather we are driven to pursue knowledge through history, promoting understanding of ourselves through the understanding of our forebears. This work may look easy to you but it too has its difficulties, believe me.’
‘Difficulties!’ scoffed Spiro. ‘What do you know of difficulties? Do you put to sea every day even when the wind is howling from the south? When the waves toss the boats of poor fishermen like children’s toys and the cold freezes your fingers to the bone? Do you risk your life just to feed your family?’
Though it was an impressive speech, nobody in fact could remember Spiro risking anything worse than the possibility of a headache in the morning from drinking too much wine, and that alone would prevent him from putting to sea. French, however, barely heard him; he was addressing himself to a wider audience.
‘Consider the years of painstaking research that does not always bear fruit. Do you think that Sylvia Benton and her colleagues from the great British School of Archaeology in Athens simply stepped out one morning and made their discoveries in Louizos cave by mere happenstance? A site that is considered by many of my esteemed colleagues today to be the rival of Olympia and Delphi. Perhaps the very first site of panhellenic worship in all of Greece.’
Most people present had little idea of what precisely French was talking about, partly because he had a habit of slipping from Greek into his native English when he’d been drinking, though all of course knew of the cave at Polis Bay where a famous archaeologist from the thirties had discovered some pieces of ancient pottery. Nevertheless, to show their support a chorus of vocal approval rippled about the room.
But Spiro was not to be so easily beaten in an argument. ‘At least nobody can say that Spiro Petalas lives off the money his wife earns,’ he declared. ‘How can a woman respect a husband who cannot put food on the table, eh? And if a woman cannot respect her man, how can he satisfy her? Soon she will look elsewhere to find a real man, a man who can take care of her.’
It was true that French had lived for years primarily off the money that Irene earned and it was common knowledge that she had left him last year, as Spiro had indelicately reminded them. But though this might once have bothered him, it no longer did. ‘When the world learns of my discovery,’ French said, ‘there will be money. More than you can imagine. The tourists will come in their thousands and the whole island will prosper.’
‘You have been too long in the sun I think, old man, or perhaps it is the wine,’ Spiro scoffed. ‘Why should tourists come here to see a statue of the Panaghia? To us she is important, of course. But not to anybody else.’
Spiro gloated in triumph when it seemed for a moment that he had the upper hand, because what he said was undoubtedly true. Unfortunately even if the Professor had found the missing statue, it was difficult to see how even she could work a miracle.
French, however, merely smiled secretively. ‘Perhaps the Panaghia is not the only discovery I have made,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is something else, something that all the world will want to know about.’
The room waited with anticipation for the Professor to continue. People leaned forward in their seats and an expectant hush fell over the room. Spiro Petalas was suddenly ignored as if he had become invisible.
French blinked. It occurred to him that he had been indiscreet and that in fact it would have been better to have kept his mouth shut for now. For a moment the room wavered and wobbled so that he felt disconcertingly as if he were trapped inside a large smoky jelly. His stomach lurched and he wished that he hadn’t eaten quite so much of the seafood stew earlier. Food was one of his weaknesses and he’d long since given up trying to prevent his waistline expanding further. Sobered by a sense of unease that overtook him as he focused on the faces staring back at him, he searched for one in particular. Even though it wasn’t there, he decided that he should leave.
‘I refuse to bandy words with an ignoramus,’ he announced loftily, dismissing Spiro and putting an end to their discussion, though the fisherman gave a sly grin of triumph.
‘You are full of shit,’ Spiro said.
Those looking on shifted awkwardly on their chairs, averting their eyes to the walls or the ground. Though it was regrettable that a fat pig like Spiro had been so impolite as to humiliate the Professor, there was truth in what he said. It seemed that French had unfortunately indulged his love of wine a little too enthusiastically again. The crowd looked on in silence as he set down his half full glass and managed the short walk to the door. One or two of them wished him good-night and advised him to get a good night’s sleep.
At the door, French looked around one last time searching among the faces for one that held sinister intent, but he found only expressions of sympathy.
Reassured, he began the walk home.
It was a half hour walk from the bar to the house. The route took him away from the waterfront along narrow streets that zigzagged up the steep hillside, connected at intervals by sets of concrete steps. The climb was exhausting and French stopped often, his heart pounding deep in his chest as it struggled to supply his bulk with oxygenated blood. When he had caught his breath he pressed on. The night air was fragrant with the scent of jasmine and bougainvillaea, although French admitted that it was spoiled somewhat by the sour odour of his own sweat mingled with the reek of alcoholic fumes. His head was clearing a little now that he was out of the foggy atmosphere of the bar. Enough that he was already regretting the hangover he would have in the morning and being so careless with his talk. Careless talk cost lives they had said in the war, though he had been too young himself to remember.
Half-way up a set of steps, a single lamp fixed to a wooden power pole cast a light that glistened on the waxy leaves of a large magnolia in full bloom with pure white flowers. The sky was lit with a myriad stars. They seemed almost close enough to touch, creating the illusion that upon reaching the top it would be possible to step off into space. From behind, French heard the sound of a stone skittering on concrete. When he looked back he saw only deep shadows close against a wall. His heart skipped a beat but nothing moved. After a while he hurried on.
From within patches of garden the sweet powerful smell of mint wafted on the night air. Another time it might have been pleasant, but by the time he reached the top