Memories of Midnight. Сидни Шелдон
might order the proprietor.
They had laughed. But who were ‘they'?
A waiter approached Catherine. “Boro na sas voithiso?”
“Ochi efharisto.”
Can I help you? No, thank you. How did I know that? Am I Greek?
Catherine hurriedly moved on, and it was as though someone were guiding her. She seemed to know exactly where to go.
Everything seemed familiar. And nothing. My God, she thought, I’m going crazy. I’m hallucinating. She passed a café that said Treflinkas. A memory was nagging at the corners of her mind. Something had happened to her here, something important. She could not remember what.
She walked through the busy, winding streets and turned left at Voukourestiou. It was filled with smart stores. I used to shop here. She started to cross the street, and a blue sedan raced around the corner, barely missing her.
She could recall a voice saying, The Greeks haven’t made the transition to automobiles. In their hearts they’re still driving donkeys. If you want insight into the Greeks, don’t read the guidebooks; read the old Greek tragedies. We’re filled with grand passions, deep joys, and great sorrows, and we haven’t learned how to cover them up with a civilized veneer.
Who had said that to her?
A man was hurrying down the street, walking toward her, staring at her. He slowed, a look of recognition on his face. He was tall and dark and Catherine was sure she had never seen him before. And yet …
“Hello.” He seemed very pleased to see her.
“Hello.” Catherine took a deep breath. “Do you know me?”
He was grinning. “Of course I know you.”
Catherine felt her heart leap. She was finally going to learn the truth about the past. But how do you say “Who am I?” to a stranger in a crowded street?
“Could … could we talk?” Catherine asked.
“I think we’d better.”
Catherine was on the edge of panic. The mystery of her identity was about to be solved. And yet she felt a terrible fear. What if I don’t want to know? What if I’ve done something dreadful?
The man was leading her toward a small open-air taverna. “I’m so glad I ran into you,” he said.
Catherine swallowed. “So am I.”
A waiter led them to a table.
“What would you like to drink?” the man asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
There were so many questions to ask. Where do I begin?
“You’re very beautiful,” the man said. “This is fate. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” She was almost trembling with excitement. She took a deep breath. “I—where did we meet?”
He grinned. “Is that important, koritsimon? Paris, or Rome, at the races, at a party.” He reached forward and pressed her hand. “You’re the prettiest one I’ve seen around here. How much do you charge?”
Catherine stared at him, not understanding for a moment, then shocked, she sprang to her feet.
“Hey! What’s the matter? I’ll pay you whatever …”
Catherine turned and fled, running down the street. She turned a corner and slowed down, her eyes filled with tears of humiliation.
Ahead was a small taverna with a sign in the window that read, MADAME PIRIS—FORTUNE TELLER. Catherine slowed, then stopped. I know Madame Piris. I’ve been here before. Her heart began to race. She sensed that here, through the darkened doorway, was the beginning of the end of the mystery. She opened the door and stepped inside. It took her several moments to get used to the cavernous darkness of the room. There was a familiar bar in the corner, and a dozen tables and chairs. A waiter walked up to her and addressed her in Greek.
“Kalimehra.”
“Kalimehra. Pou ineh Madame Piris?”
“Madame Piris?”
The waiter gestured toward an empty table in the corner of the room, and Catherine walked over and sat down. Everything was exactly as she remembered it.
An incredibly old woman dressed in black, with a face desiccated into angles and planes, was moving toward the table.
“What can I … ?” She stopped, peering into Catherine’s face. Her eyes opened wide. “I knew you once but your face …” She gasped. “You’ve come back!”
“You know who I am?” Catherine asked eagerly.
The woman was staring, her eyes filled with horror. “No! You’re dead! Get out!”
Catherine moaned faintly and felt the hair on her scalp begin to rise. “Please—I just…”
“Go, Mrs. Douglas!”
“I have to know …”
The old woman made the sign of the cross, turned, and fled.
Catherine sat there for a moment, trembling, then rushed out into the street. The voice in her head followed her. Mrs. Douglas!
And it was as though a floodgate opened up. Dozens of brightly lighted scenes suddenly poured into her head, a brilliant series of kaleidoscopes out of control. I’m Mrs. Larry Douglas. She could see her husband’s handsome face. She had been madly in love with him, but something had gone wrong. Something…
The next image was of herself trying to commit suicide, and waking up in a hospital.
Catherine stood in the street, afraid her legs would not carry her, letting the pictures come tumbling into her mind.
She had been drinking a lot, because she had lost Larry. But then he had come back to her. They were in her apartment, and Larry was saying, “I know how badly I’ve behaved. I’d like to make it up to you, Cathy. I love you. I’ve never really loved anyone else. I want another chance. How would you like to go away on a second honeymoon? I know a wonderful little place we can go. It’s called Ioannina.”
And then the horror had begun.
The pictures that came into her mind now were terrifying.
She was on a mountaintop with Larry, lost in a swirling gray mist, and he was moving toward her, his arms outstretched, ready to push her off the edge. At that moment, some tourists arrived and saved her.
And then the caves.
“The hotel clerk told me about some caves near here. All the honeymooners go there.”
And they had gone to the caves, and Larry had taken her deep into the bowels of them, and left her there to die.
She put her hands over her ears as if to shut out the terrible thoughts that were rushing at her.
She had been rescued and taken back to the hotel, and a doctor had given her a sedative. But in the middle of the night she had awakened and heard Larry and his mistress in the kitchen, planning her murder, the wind whipping away their words.
—no one will ever—
—I told you I’d take care of—
—went wrong. There’s nothing they can—
—now, while she’s asleep.
And she remembered running away in that terrible storm—being pursued by them—getting into the rowboat, the wind lashing the boat into the middle of the stormy lake. The boat had started to sink,