Pascali's Island

For some seconds he stood there. Long enough for the singing to recommence. Long enough for us all to meet his staring brown eyes and see the gleam on his features, like death-sweat. Then, very slowly at first, he began to keel over. One side of him seemed to be unsecured, so that he fell slightly sideways, with a strange effect of deliberateness, as if he had himself chosen the angle. One of the priests, with swifter reflexes than the others, stepped forward and made an attempt to catch the toppling saint, but the bier was in his way, and he was not quick enough. In the full blaze of altar lights and cynosure of eyes, Saint Alexei, O Alexei mas, as the local people call him, our Alexei, went thudding down on his face, and – here is the crowning disaster, Excellency, if you will forgive the bad pun – on impact with the stone of the chancel floor, his head came off altogether, snapped off clean at the neck, and went rolling down the steps, almost reaching the front ranks of the congregation. His headless form remained at the top, draped in its Assumption robe.

The singing had faltered, died away. There was a hush of consternation. I heard Mrs Marchant say something in abrupt exclamation at my side, and felt her take my arm. Then those immediately around me, men and women, turned and looked at me, and there was the same expression on every face: not accusation, but knowledge, the final knowledge of some utterly detestable creature. I thought I saw relief there too, as if this was what they had really been waiting for. Several people made the sign of the cross. They blamed me for the débâcle, Excellency. Now my treachery was confirmed. I was in the pay of the Turk and in league with the Devil. From spy to evil eye, a short step for these people. A man standing close by me – one Trikiriotis by name – suddenly stretched out his arm towards me, the fingers splayed and rigid. This is the curse of the five senses, Excellency. Others followed suit. I lost my nerve. I thought they were going to kill me. I turned, shaking myself free from Mrs Marchant, leaving her, unforgivably, alone and unprotected, and plunged blindly through the crowd. Somehow they parted for me. I rushed out of the church, down the steps, stumbling in my haste and panic, and so home.

That was some hours ago, Excellency. I have just opened my shutters. It is morning now. The sun has not risen yet, but there are preliminary stains on the sea. Setting all this down has calmed my fear, leaving me with a certain kind of resignation. Nothing really matters to me now but this report: and this report depends for balance and completeness, poignancy and point, on Mister Bowles. I knew that, from the begi

I slept till noon, Excellency, then ate the bread and peaches I bought yesterday. Peaches are plentiful this year and now is the time for them.

In the afternoon, in obedience to Mister Bowles's instructions, I went once more to see Izzet. I told him of the Englishman's request for a further meeting with the Pasha. He was curious, but I could tell him nothing. He said he would try to arrange matters for later today. So far I have heard nothing from him.

On the way back a rather odd thing happened. I ran into Politis, the cotton merchant, at the corner of Paradisos, and instead of ignoring me, as I had expected, he smiled and paused. 'You did not speak to us the other evening,' he said.

'Speak to you?' I said. I was bewildered. They had failed to speak to me, Excellency.

'Yes,' he said. 'At the Metropole. Now you have more important friends, eh?'

'No, not at all,' I said. 'Any time… I would be glad But Politis moved away, still smiling. Does he mean to be friendly? Could I possibly have been mistaken? If about him, then about all the others. No, impossible. It is a trick, a device to allay my suspicions until they are ready to act. A clever-move, but it will not succeed. I will not be lulled.

Below me, some distance along the shore, a group of young men. Two of them wrestling, Turkish-style, stripped to the waist. Higher up, where it is sandy. Too far to distinguish faces. Labourers, judging by the sun-darkened forearms and necks. I watched them for some time, locked together, shifting and heaving, neither of them able to get the advantage. Again the equipoise, Excellency – God continues to pay me with symbols for my attention to this visible world.

Beyond them the sea, pale in the shallows, deepening in colour as the water deepened, to a cobalt so intense the eye could not stay on it, was forced away, back to the softer hues of the shore, to the locked forms of the young men. Suddenly both fell heavily together on to the sand, extricated themselves there. When they got up, the game was different. Now one of them made stabbing motions towards the other. He had what looked like a piece of stick in his hand. He was simulating a knife or bayonet attack, and the other was warding off, evading, seeking to disarm. Their quickness and agility were impressive. Elemental too the postures of attack and defence, against the background of sea and rock.

Everywhere, in small things and in great, the world is rehearsing for violence, Excellency. Games on the beach, articles in newspapers, any casual conversation, all show the same impatience with peace. I saw it on the faces of people in church last night, mute, sad, a slow rage at inactivity – then the relief, the joy of hate, with which they turned to me. Everywhere a rising need for the gesture that shatters the glass.

Revelations, Excellency. I have just returned from the meeting with Mahmoud Pasha that Mister Bowles requested -it was not until this morning that we were able to go. Revelations. But I must get things in their proper order, must not allow Mister Bowles's amazing duplicity to throw my narrative into disarray. He is a trickster, Excellency.

He had the brown leather bag with him this time – the one I had seen him carrying when he descended from the ship. Worn, but of good quality. Of the type known as a Gladstone bag, I believe. I was curious about the reasons for this appointment and tried by various hints to draw Mister Bowles out, but he was obviously unwilling to discuss it. I did not tell him of Herr Gesing's proposition, thinking it more to my advantage to keep quiet for the time being.

The sentry offered no hindrance to our passing. The parade-ground, as before, was empty. We were met by an orderly, who showed us into the house – not this time into the reception room where we had been before, but into a much smaller room with a large desk, on which papers were scattered, and several upright chairs against the wall. There was no one here. The orderly asked us to wait. He seemed disconcerted at finding the room empty. He hesitated for some time at the door, then he went off down the passage, presumably to find some superior.

Mister Bowles and I had seated ourselves against the wall. But after a moment I got up again, moved casually over to the desk, and began glancing at the papers lying on it. I could feel his unspoken disapproval behind me – this was not the behaviour of a gentleman. However, I persisted. I have my own code of practice, and the acquiring of information ranks high in it.