Of course, I should have been in Italy with Linda, but…I had kept her "Dear John" for a fortnight before shredding it, getting mindlessly drunk and starting in on the process of forgetting. That had been a month ago. The holiday had already been booked and I wasn't about to miss out on my trip to the sun. And so I had come out on my own. It was hot, the swimming was good, life was easy and the food superb. With just two days left to enjoy it, I told myself it hadn't been bad. But it would have been better with Linda.
Linda… She was still on my mind-at the back of it, anyway-later that night as I sat in the bar of my hotel beside an open bougainvillea-decked balcony that looked down on the bay and the seafront lights of the town. And maybe she wasn't all that far back in my mind-maybe she was right there in front-or else I was just plain daydreaming. Whichever, I missed the entry of the lovely lady and her shriveled companion, failing to spot and recognize them until they were taking their seats at a little table just the other side of the balcony's sweep.
This was the closest I'd been to her, and-
Well, first impressions hadn't lied. This girl was beautiful. She didn't look quite as young as she'd first seemed-my own age, maybe-but beautiful she certainly was. And the old boy? He must be, could only be, her father. Maybe it sounds like I was a little naive, but with her looks this lady really didn't need an old man. And if she did need one it didn't have to be this one.
By now she'd seen me and my fascination with her must have been
obvious. Seeing it, she smiled and blushed at one and the same time, and for a moment turned her eyes away-but only for a moment. Fortunately her companion had his back to me or he must have known my feelings at once; for as she looked at me again-fully upon me this time-I could have sworn I read an invitation in her eyes, and in that same moment any bitter vows I may have made melted away completely and were forgotten. God, please let him be her father!
For an hour I sat there, drinking a few too many cocktails, eating olives and potato crisps from little bowls on the bar, keeping my eyes off the girl as best I could, if only for common decency's sake. But…all the time I worried frantically at the problem of how to introduce myself, and as the minutes ticked by it seemed to me that the most obvious way must also be the best.
But how obvious would it be to the old boy?
And the damnable thing was that the girl hadn't given me another glance since her original-invitation? Had I mistaken that look of hers-or was she simply waiting for me to make the first move? God, let him be her father!
She was sipping martinis, slowly; he drank a rich red wine, in some
quantity. I asked a waiter to replenish their glasses and charge it to me. I had already spoken to the bar steward, a swarthy, friendly little chap from the South called Francesco, but he hadn't been able to enlighten me. The pair were not resident, he assured me; but being resident myself I was already pretty sure of that.
Anyway, my drinks were delivered to their table; they looked surprised; the girl put on a perfectly innocent expression, questioned the waiter, nodded in my direction and gave me a cautious smile, and the old boy turned his head to stare at me. I found myself smiling in return but avoiding his eyes, which were like coals now, sunken deep in his brown, wrinkled face. Time seemed suspended-if only for a second-then the girl spoke again to the waiter and he came across to me.
"Mr. Collins, sir, the gentleman and the young lady thank you and request that you join them." Which was everything I had dared hope for-for the moment.
Standing up, I suddenly realized how much I'd had to drink. I willed
sobriety on myself and walked across to their table. They didn't stand up but the little chap said, "Please sit." His voice was a rustle of dried grass. The waiter was behind me with a chair. I sat.
"Peter Collins," I said. "How do you do, Mr.-er?-"
"Karpethes," he answered. "Nichos Karpethes. And this is my wife,
Adrienne." Neither one of them had made the effort to extend their hands, but that didn't dismay me. Only the fact that they were married dismayed me. He must be very, very rich, this Nichos Karpethes.
"I'm delighted you invited me over," I said, forcing a smile, "but I see that I was mistaken. You see, I thought I heard you speaking English, and I-"
"Thought we were English?" she finished it for me. "A natural error. Originally I am Armenian, Nichos is Greek, of course. We do not speak each other's tongue, but we do both speak English. Are you staying here, Mr. Collins?"
"Er, yes-for one more day and night. Then-" I shrugged and put on a sad look, "-back to England, I'm afraid."
"Afraid?" the old boy whispered. "There is something to fear in a return to your homeland?"
"Just an expression," I answered. "I meant, I'm afraid that my holiday is coming to an end."
He smiled. It was a strange, wistful sort of smile, wrinkling his face up like a little walnut. "But your friends will be glad to see you again. Your loved ones-?"
I shook my head. "Only a handful of friends-none of them really close-and no loved ones. I'm a loner, Mr. Karpethes."
"A loner?" His eyes glowed deep in their sockets and his hands began to tremble where they gripped the table's rim. "Mr. Collins, you don't-"
"We understand," she cut him off. "For although we are together, we too, in our way, are loners. Money has made Nichos lonely, you see? Also, he is not a well man, and time is short. He will not waste what time he has on frivolous friendships. As for myself-people do not understand our being together, Nichos and I. They pry, and I withdraw. And so, I too, am a loner."
There was no accusation in her voice, but still I felt obliged to say: "I certainly didn't intend to pry, Mrs.-"
"Adrienne," she smiled. "Please. No, of course you didn't. I would not want you to think we thought that of you. Anyway I will tell you why we are together, and then it will be put aside."
Her husband coughed, seemed to choke, struggled to his feet. I stood up and took his arm. He at once shook me off-with some distaste, I thought-but Adrienne had already signaled to a waiter. "Assist Mr. Karpethes to the gentleman's room," she quickly instructed in very good Italian. "And please help him back to the table when he has recovered."
As he went, Karpethes gesticulated, probably tried to say something to me by way of an apology, choked again and reeled as he allowed the waiter to help him from the room.
"I'm…sorry," I said, not knowing what else to say.
"He has attacks." She was cool. "Do not concern yourself. I am used to it."
We sat in silence for a moment. Finally I began: "You were going to tell me-"
"Ah, yes! I had forgotten. It is a symbiosis."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I need the good life he can give me, and he needs…my youth. We supply each other's needs." And so, in a way, the old woman with the idiot boy hadn't been wrong after all. A sort of bargain had indeed been struck. Between Karpethes and his wife. As that thought crossed my mind I felt the short hairs at the back of my neck stiffen for a moment. Goose-flesh crawled on my arms. After all, "Nichos" was pretty close to "Necros", and now this youth thing again. Coincidence, of course. And after all, aren't all relationships bargains of sorts? Bargains struck for better or for worse.
"But for how long?" I asked. "I mean, how long will it work for you?"
She shrugged. "I have been provided for. And he will have me all the days of his life."
I coughed, cleared my throat, gave a strained, self-conscious laugh. "And here's me, the non-pryer!"
"No, not at all, I wanted you to know."
"Well," I shrugged, "-but it's been a pretty deep first conversation."
"First? Did you believe that buying me a drink would entitle you to more than one conversation?"
I almost winced. "Actually, I-"
But then she smiled and my world lit up. "You did not need to buy the drinks," she said. "There would have been some other way."
I looked at her inquiringly. "Some other way to-?"
"To find out if we were English or not."
"Oh!"
"Here comes Nichos now," she smiled across the room. "And we must be leaving. He's not well. Tell me, will you be on the beach tomorrow?"
"Oh-yes!" I answered after a moment's hesitation. "I like to swim."
"So do I. Perhaps we can swim out to the raft…?"
"I'd like that very much."
Her husband arrived back at the table under his own steam. He looked a little stronger now, not quite so shriveled somehow. He did not sit but gripped the back of his chair with parchment fingers, knuckles white where the skin stretched over old bones. "Mr. Collins," he rustled, "-Adrienne, I'm sorry.…"
"There's really no need," I said, rising.
"We really must be going." She also stood. "No, you stay here, er, Peter? It's kind of you, but we can manage. Perhaps we'll see you on the beach."
And she helped him to the door of the bar and through it without once looking back.