The Man Who Was Left Behind Read online

  They drove through the town and he kept along the shore road. It wasn’t so far as he had thought.

  “Look,” she said. “There’s a temple.”

  He overshot, and parked the car off the road where he had stopped, and they walked back along the tar road. On either side of them grew flat fields full of wildflowers. They could see the tops of the orange-yellow temple columns, only three and a half of them left, the three entire ones with the epistyle on top. And when they moved into the field and then downhill, they could see some big trees in the distance over to the right, and ahead beyond the building, the ocean dancing with light.

  “Oh, I like it,” she said. “It’s like the bones of a lion. Is it Apollo’s?”

  “I think so, but I may be wrong. I should have brought the guidebook along.”

  “Let’s just walk around,” Amy said.

  They walked hand in hand, looking at the temple, the fields, the sea. A fresh, light wind blew inshore.

  “That’s nice, to have a breeze,” she said. “It was hot in that valley once we got away from the water.”

  “Let’s sit down.”

  They walked forward into the columns and sat on a broken slab of stone. The remains of the temple looked smaller and much less grand from inside, but so did every temple he had ever seen except the Parthenon. They sat looking in the direction of the ocean. He wanted to talk to her, and realized that he couldn’t.

  The first days in Athens had been all right. And the trip through the Peloponnese had started out all right, too. They had arrived in Corinth near lunchtime and gone through the gates. Amy had been hopping up and down with anticipation, since they could already see it: a temple islanded in a sea of yellow flowers, just like the picture on the cover of his highschool second-year Latin book. They had gone in and sat down inside the temple, and after a while had had the place to themselves. It was very hot for the time of year, he had thought. The sun had come straight down. And when they had left and come to the gate, it had been padlocked and there was nobody around. “I’ll climb over and hunt somebody out,” he had said. And she had told him no, that she was climbing over, too. And up she had gone, over the wire fence. He had been worried that she would slip and fall, and had tried to stop her, but she had gotten angry, and had gone over like a bundle of laundry, and then had been so proud of her athletic ability and laughed with pleasure. Later in the day she had had a bad headache from the sun, and he hadn’t felt so well himself, but he had thought for the first time in a long while that everything was going to be all right. They had stayed at a hotel on the beach, where they were the only couple in the whole place, and that was all right. And then in Olympia, the weather had been beautiful and there were pine trees everywhere with the wind making swooshing noises in the branches, and that had been nice. But then they had gone to Mycenae, and that was the place where he had become really worried about heatstroke. The sun kept pounding down like lead over them. She had been holding a branch of orange blossoms he had yanked off a tree from the car window. And they had walked around the ruins for about fifteen minutes, and sat down so that he could read the guidebook aloud. He had been reading for quite a while before he noticed the stupefied look on her face. “This is a terrible place,” she had said. “It makes you feel that people have been murdered here. Not just one or two people. Hundreds. Thousands. It’s monstrous and squat and barbaric and awful.” Not seriously, in an exasperated way, he’d asked, “Well, would you like to go?” And the look had left her face and she had said, “Yes, please.” Nauplia had not been a wild success, but not a disaster, either, and on the day they had gone to Epidaurus, he had felt everything take a turn for the better. They had gone to see the theatre, and she had insisted on climbing all the way up to the very last row of stone seats, where they had sat down. “Oh, what a wonderful place,” she had said. “What a wonderful place. I only wish it was the right time. To see the plays here. It wouldn’t even matter that we couldn’t understand them.” And while they were sitting there, with the enormous theatre going down, down like a huge bowl in front of them, about four busloads of Greek schoolchildren in dark blue uniforms had come running on to the stage, three teachers following along behind. They had been able to hear every separate footfall. The children had fanned out over the stage and then climbed up and seated themselves in the first five rows. And the head teacher, a man, had stood on the centre stone and given them a talk in a perfectly ordinary tone of voice, and from where they had been watching, way up in the topmost row, he and she had been able to hear every syllable as clear as a bell, although they could not understand the language. They had reached for each other without saying anything, and with her hand in his he had thought that he would never forget this, he could never forget it as long as he lived, and it would always make him feel good just to think about it. Later in the day they had gone through the museum and seen the reconstructions of how the columns had been arranged in a snail-like interior passage of one of the shrines. They walked around and around, looking at the design which changed at every point. He did not mind reconstructions unless they pretended to be the real thing; he found it very difficult to visualise what the ruins would have looked like with the inner walls and a roof on top. But these passages in the museum had the original marble capitals set on top of the columns, and they were carved with lily patterns, which had the strength and delicacy of living plants. That was what all the business of classical things was about: if once they hit that balance, the result was an impression of reality so strong that it was unearthly, and as wonderful as if they had created a breathing human being. They had both been happy that day. But then there had been the drive back to Athens and difficulty about the hotel, where the staff had read the date the wrong way around, or rather, the European way. Then the boat, where their cabin was very cramped. But still he had had the feeling that it was going to be all right.

  If only it hadn’t been for the postcards.

  “Enough?” he said, and looked at his watch. She nodded, and they started walking back to the car. As they came out on the road, they saw two little girls with bunches of flowers in their hands. When they crossed over to the car, the children smiled at them and gave them the flowers. Amy said thank you in Greek, and John said thank you, and then looked suspiciously at Amy, who was awkward with children, but not knowing more than six words of the language, seemed to feel for once that she wasn’t expected to join in any coy questions and answers, to play the “aren’t we cute” game habitual to so many children because the parents enjoy it. The only children she really felt comfortable with were somehow eccentric, like his nephew, who had given her a long stare through his thick-lensed glasses, held out his hand, and said, “Hello. This is my guinea-pig. His name is Winston. Would you like to see my train set?”

  Still smiling, she took the flowers from him and put them together with hers. The children were friendly, but standing with their arms relaxed at their sides, so it didn’t look like a bid for money, but he was upset about the whole incident. Amy got into the car, which he had forgotten to lock, and he brought out a handful of coins from his pocket and gave one of the smallest to each of the little girls. They seemed surprised and very pleased. They clutched each other and giggled, and as he turned the car and headed it back towards town, they waved. Amy waved back, but they drove to the hotel in silence.

  In their room he read out parts of the guidebook to her. She had put the flowers in one of the basin glasses, and lay flat on the bed with her arm over her eyes.

  “It’s nearly time to join the group for lunch,” he said.

  “With group,” she murmured. She rolled down and buttoned the sleeves of her blouse, which she had turned up on the way to the temple because only he could see her arms, and she had suddenly become self-conscious about the hair on them.

  “Everybody has hair on their arms,” he had told her.

  “But not like mine. Mine are like a sailor’s.”

  “Well, you could take it off if it
bothers you. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “No, that just makes it grow thicker.”

  She got up off the bed to go out to the bathroom again.

  He washed his face and hands. Before they left the room he put his arms around her.

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right. I just don’t feel like it, that’s all.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I don’t know why you’re so good to me.”

  “Don’t keep saying that. As long as you don’t get worried about anything, everything will be okay.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  They walked to the other hotel. Three buses were parked down the street from the entrance. He looked at his watch again and they hurried through the lobby and were shown into a dining-room where only two couples were eating, and out on to a terrace with a green and white striped awning above all the tables of the group from the boat. The English-speaking guide nodded from a distance and the waiter sat them at a table where two old women were speaking French together and a German couple were eating in silence, cameras laid out at rest before them in leather cases, like a cowboy’s six-shooters in their holsters. The meal consisted of a very good moussaka and some dark green vegetables that looked like tiny parachutes. John had wine and Amy drank one glass. Afterwards they ate a fruit salad with ice cream, and were served instant coffee because so many tourists wouldn’t believe that the real Greek coffee was coffee at all. But since it was a very good hotel, the coffee was poured from a pot. The Frenchwomen took out cigarettes and blew the smoke in the direction of the Germans. The German took out a cigar.

  “Want to walk around the hotel?”

  “Sure,” Amy said.

  They strolled back through the dining-room and into the front lobby.

  “La plage?” John asked.

  The man behind the desk called a bellboy over and spoke to him. The boy gestured towards the Larsens and began to lead them ahead down a wide carpet with palm trees in tubs against the walls. Amy looked around at the impressive surroundings. When John caught her eye, she pulled a face at him. They went down some stairs and were gestured towards two doors, the changing-rooms, one for men and one for women.

  “Pas pour baigner, seulement pour voir,” John said in his half-forgotten French. He only really remembered enough to understand, not much to speak.

  “Oui, ça va,” the boy said, indicating the door for women. They both walked in, and saw through the open doors ahead, the beach and the sea. There were no guests on the beach because it was mid-day, but maybe also because it was out of season. Yet everything had obviously been cared for, just the right number of deck chairs set up at the back of the promenade, the right number stacked, fresh paint on everything and the green and white striped beach umbrellas in place.

  “What a wonderful hotel,” Amy said.

  “It sure is. We’ve got to stay here some day. We should move out and stay here now.”

  “No,” she said, “we can’t afford it.”

  They went back out of the changing-room and up the stairs. He thanked the boy and gave him a tip, and asked where the washrooms were.

  “This time I’ve got to,” he said.

  “I will too, just in case. And before the mob gets off the terrace.”

  They separated and he told himself that she was still thinking about it, she would never be able to forget what he had said that time about not being able to afford it.

  The three buses took them to the foot of the fortifications, and they all herded forward over a bridge below which lay a dried-up watercourse filled with red hibiscus and purple bougainvillea and palm trees, and some pink flowering bushes that he didn’t know the name of. At the very bottom of the decline it looked as though crops were being grown.

  “I have a feeling that guide was wrong this morning,” he said. “I’m sure the flower of the island was the rose. I’m sure it was in ancient times anyway, and probably till very recently. Sounds like the kind of interesting misinformation that makes a hit just because it’s wrong.”

  “I haven’t seen a rose since we got here.”

  “No. It wouldn’t have been a modern rose, anyway. Just the simple kind with five petals.”

  They passed under the great stone archway. Then they started up the narrow street and lost the English-speaking guide.

  “I’m tired,” Amy said.

  They stood to one side to let the others stream past and John looked around, but there was no place to sit down. Up the street, guides were explaining the history of the different places where the crusaders had had their headquarters.

  “I’m okay,” Amy said. “I just want to get out of this place. There isn’t any room, and such a crowd. I can’t breathe.”

  “Let’s cut through everybody and go on ahead.”

  “Okay.”

  He took her by the hand and pulled her forward. The other people were going off into the courtyards at the side and looking at the inscriptions and carvings. He dragged her by the hand till they came out ahead of the group. There was still no place to sit down. They kept walking, Amy with her head down. He saw she was in a bad mood and he was worried. They came to postcard stands and shops, but she didn’t notice. The road broadened out into a modern road but became ever steeper and there seemed no end to it. He stopped walking. She stopped, too, looking straight ahead and bad-tempered. He sighed and put his hands in his pockets, and looked back down the road and then up the slope.

  “There’s a camel,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Hanging out in front of that store. A picture of a camel.”

  “Don’t like camels much,” she said.

  “He looks a little tacky, I must admit.”

  A few other people from the group came up behind them and walked on ahead.

  “They’re selling lemonade over there,” he said, and began to walk forward again slowly. She followed, her head down, her whole attitude mulish.

  “I can’t stand that fizzy stuff they have here.”

  They walked on, passing brass pans, andirons, jewellery, clothes.

  “There’s another frog just like yours, only bigger.”

  “As a matter of fact, I hate it. I don’t know why I bought it. Maybe because it was so ugly.”

  “For God’s sake, honey, cheer up,” he said. “Don’t like this, don’t like that. You’re a real bundle of fun today, aren’t you?”

  She kept her head down, lips tight together. They moved through the street and more people kept coming up behind them. Suddenly her arm shot out and went under his elbow. He took his hands out of his pockets and felt her arm wrap around his back and her hand settle at his waist, gripping him through his clothes like a small tree-living animal.

  “I like you,” she muttered. “I like you all right.”

  “That’s more like it.” He put his arm around her shoulder and with his free hand tried to lift her head.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Tell me some more. Tell me about how you like me.”

  She looked up. There were tears on her face. She put her other arm around his neck. “I love you,” she said, as though she were drowning. “I love you. I love you so much sometimes it makes me want to throw up.”

  They had stopped in the middle of the road and there was still nowhere to sit, only shops and their doorways. Her body had gone heavy in his arms as though she might sink down to the ground. He half lifted her over to the side and, still held in her arms, leaned her up against a shop window. There were clothes and beads hanging from hooks, and brass objects up on tables. He had pushed aside a hanging rack of peasant blouses to find a solid place. On each side of them was a table strewn with knick-knacks. Her hands around him started to knead at his back and she was breathing as though she would choke.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said.

  “I don’t think I can walk that far. Oh, what’s happening? It just came all over me—whoosh. I don’t think I can walk
at all.”

  He thought he knew what was happening, but it might be something else.

  “Listen, Amy, are you in pain?”

  “No, no. Not pain. Just feels so strange. Feels so weird. I’m burning up.”

  He got a good grip on her in case she fell, and smoothed her hair and kissed her on the neck and face. She turned her head from side to side.

  “Whoosh, just like that?” he said.

  “Oh God, John. I feel like one of those women who can’t get to the hospital in time and have their babies in a cab.”

  She was laughing, now, with the tears still on her face, and her face red, and her breath still panting. A crowd of people pushed by them up the street, the Fischers among the group.

  “Okay, kids, break it up,” Mr. Fischer called over. “Just look at them, going into a clinch in the middle of the street. In the middle of the day, yet.”

  Mrs. Fischer made as if to come over to where they stood locked around each other, hunched against the window. She was wearing a pale blue jersey suit, carrying the jacket over her arm, and looked hot.

  “Are you all right there?” she asked.

  Amy turned her head. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “I’m fine. It’s just that I love him so much.”

  Mr. Fischer smiled, took his wife by the arm and tugged her away.

  “Now why don’t you say nice things like that to me?” he asked her.

  “You get rid of that beerbelly, Superman, and you’d be surprised what I’d say to you.”

  “Is that right?” he said.

  John watched them going away up the street with the others, and saw Mr. Fischer make a playful lunge at his wife, and heard her voice saying, “Not my new girdle, darn it!”

  “I feel so hot,” Amy said. “Don’t let go.”

  “I won’t let go.”

  “John, something’s happening to me.”

  “You’re telling me.”