It is six o’clock in the afternoon, the sun is setting and the moon, almost full, is already high in the sky. These are not the full moons of the summer. They must rise in midday. Today, anyway, it would have been impossible to see anything because there has been an incessant rainstorm with gale force south winds. No boats. The island is completely wet. All during the day I could hear the cistern on the roof filling with rainwater. The storm has now stopped and the neighboring island is lit by the last rays of the sun. It has become quite cold. I would have built a big fire but I’m invited for dinner by the Gristedes who arrived yesterday just before the gale started.
It has been a frustrating day. I stayed mostly in, worked a little, read a bit of Alexakis, watched the storm, listened to the news. Yesterday and the day before I went for a long walk in the mountain paths and I would have liked to have done the same today, but it has been impossible, and it’s too late now.
I have to leave soon for Athens and I’m already getting depressed by the idea. One week here is not enough. I feel so relaxed, it is another reality. I can’t explain this feeling of “être bien dans mon assiette” here. One day I shall try to analyse all this. Not now — no need to destroy the illusion.
Yesterday about this time I went to visit Beatrice. For her, being here is a mix of exhilaration and frustration. She made an important choice, and she discovers that she suffers from solitude. She also complicates her life enormously, never stops talking and never asks questions about others.
As we (she) were talking drinking jasmin tea, the telephone rang and somebody invited her for dinner. Very generously, she suggested to bring me along. So we went for dinner at Simonides’ house in the south beach. An event out of Dickens, Papadiamandis and Kazantzakis. Maybe more out of the latter.
The house of Simonides belongs to the Church, which was donated by a rich and excentric Athenian who built it in the twenties as a hunting lodge. It was then the only building in the bay, apart from the little monastery of at the top of the hill. It has a splendiferous view facing the bay due west among olive trees and other vegetation. From outside it looks enormous, but in fact it has only two bedrooms and a very big kitchen, with very high ceilings. The best part of the house is its big balcony, high above the ground, from where the view is magnificent. It was dark and already blowing a gale force south wind with the waves breaking furiously on the beach. A spectacular sight.
We entered from a side door in the kitchen which is at the back. Beatrice had forwarned me but despite that, I was impressed by the incredible mess and dirt reigning in there. Simonides is a kind of an educated Zorba who speaks relatively good English and who retired to the island about 20 years ago. I think he might be my age, maybe a bit older. He was a civil engineer in Athens who decided to get away from it all by going to the remote beach to live a “monastic” life. He claims to be the only real, year-round resident. He rented this house from the Church 18 years ago for a ridiculous sum. He tries to project an image of the sauvage séduisant and apparently he has a lot of women parading through all the time. He has an interesting face, all lined from the outdoor life and a nice smile.
The atmosphere was warm from a self-made “soba” (an old barrel with a hole burning olive wood), and the delicious smell of a lamb with potatoes in the oven. Michael the philosopher from the States was also there with his mild ways and his antique face. In a corner, among the trash and next to the fire, a little dog was stretching happily. There was a plastic bottle with local white wine which looked and was undrinkable. Luckily I had brought two bottles of decent red with me. Simonides drank only fruit juice (perhaps a former alchoholic?). Beatrice found a clean tablecloth, which she spread over the dirt of the big table and the whole setup looked less repulsive. Simonides brought the leg of lamb from the oven, cut it in four and served it with potatoes to each one of us. It was good and greasy. As we say in Greece, “it pulls the wine”.
The conversation was centered only on Simonides’ court case with the Church. They want him out and he will fight until the end. I learned a few things, but at the end it became boring. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant evening. We said thank you and good luck and drove away in the windy night, Beatrice to her atelier-house and me to my bourgeois villa. The clouds were speeding in the sky and the moon, on and off, was almost full and silvery. No need to put the garden lights on.
I’m still not sure whether all this is sincere or du genre. Basically, I don’t care. It was nothing but a picturesque entertainment, a change from the Gristedes. It might be interesting to get to know Michael the philosopher better; I remember I spoke to his much younger New Yorker wife at Beatrice’s autumn party. She is enchanted by living in Greece and writes poetry.
