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Santorini is in the guidebooks. I had read about it, but a verbal description can’t possibly prepare a visitor for the real thing. It’s fantastic.
In an aerial view the group of islands looks like a half-eaten sugar cookie from which a giant child has taken a big bite and let the fragments fall onto his shining sea-blue plate. The main island, Thera, is the largest, crescent-shaped piece. Smaller islands lie like fallen crumbs, outlining the perimeter of the former crater of the volcano. In the center of the bay are two other islands, black intrusions on the surface of the clean sea. They are not parts of the cookie, but new volcanic cores, risen phoenix-like out of the chasm. One of them, Nea Kaimeni, is still active.
Chugging through the cha
On top of the cliff, like a starched crocheted edging, were the sugar-white buildings of the island’s largest town, Phira. I was reminded of a model of the Taj Mahal I’d once made out of sugar cubes for a school project. The town had an Oriental look, with cupolas and domes and arched porticoes.
Other buildings, docks and warehouses and shops, clustered at the foot of the cliff. Co
As soon as we had docked I made arrangements to have my stuff carried up to the hotel, and then I considered my own procedure. People usually ride donkeys up the path; it’s too steep for a wheeled vehicle, and the black lava cobblestones are slippery. The donkeys looked as if they were in worse shape than I was, so I decided to walk. I had been sitting for hours and needed to loosen up.
It wasn’t a walk, it was a climb, and by the time I got to the top I was regretting not having taken a donkey. Blinded with sweat and heaving like a spavined horse, I collapsed in the shade of a fig tree, mopped my wet face, and got my eyes focused. And what do you suppose I saw first? Right. My father. He was sitting at a table at a sidewalk café, staring straight at me with an expression of icy disapproval. I paid no attention, being much more interested in the tall glass on the table in front of him. My throat was as dry as death.
I started walking toward him. Then it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t speak till I was spoken to, so I changed course, heading for one of the other tables. Two of them were taken, but the third had only one occupant. He saw me coming and pulled out a chair. I fell into it. The man gri
He was worth looking at. As ta
“Health nut?” he inquired. “Animal lover? Skinflint?”
His voice was deep; the accent was western United States. I considered the questions.
“Health nut, I guess,” I said finally. “The climb didn’t look that bad from down below.”
“Live and learn.” He gestured; when the waiter came, he ordered, without consulting me. I had no objection to the result, however; it was lemonade, fresh and surprisingly cold, considering that it had no ice in it.
“You speak Greek,” I said intelligently.
“Not very well. Not the modern version, anyhow.”
“You mean you speak classical Greek?” A qualm ran through me. “What are you, an archaeologist or something?”
“Something. If you ask my boss, he’ll tell you I’m a long way from calling myself an archaeologist.”
I drank lemonade and tried to think. Frederick had mentioned that there was another expedition working on Thera. It was just my luck to run into one of the staff members before I had a chance to talk to Frederick and find out what role I was supposed to be playing.
My companion was studying me as candidly as I had studied him. He didn’t seem to dislike what he saw.
“My name’s Jim Sanchez,” he said.
“Really? My dad’s name is Jim.”
I was not trying to be sly. I spoke without thinking. Jim was my father, in every sense but the least important. I had momentarily forgotten about the man who was sitting at a nearby table, as I basked in the warmth of Jim Sanchez’s smile.
“What a coincidence.”
“Yes, I don’t suppose there are more than half a million men in the world named Jim,” I agreed solemnly; and then we both laughed immoderately, as if the silly comment had been an epigram.
Why does it happen that way sometimes, with a total stranger? Within five minutes we were talking as if we had shared years of common experiences. We laughed a lot, over things that weren’t really very fu
That’s what people usually say when they describe such an experience. It’s a figure of speech.
Or is it? I wonder.
The conversation was a little embarrassing because I had to hedge about so many things-why I had come to Thera, for instance, and how long I was pla
I looked up at the stony face of my father and waited for him to speak first. It didn’t really matter what he said. He had ended my little tête-àtête. The look on Jim’s face was as revealing as an essay.
“So you are here at last,” said Frederick. “Where is your luggage?”
“At the hotel,” I said. “At least I hope it is.”
“Come along, then.” He moved his head in a brusque commanding gesture and started to turn away. He hadn’t even looked at Jim.
“So,” said the latter. “That’s who you are.”
“Who?” I asked warily.
“One of his protégées. No wonder you didn’t-”
Frederick turned back.
“Miss Bishop is the daughter of an old friend, who has offered to give me a hand for a few weeks-typing and recording, that sort of thing. I am extremely shorthanded. But you should know that better than anyone. Sir Christopher hired all the able-bodied men in the village before I arrived. No doubt he had been told I would be here.”