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"If you like-but you're only interested in the girl, yes?" He gri
I shrugged. "She's a good-looker.…"
"Yes, I saw her." Now he shrugged. "That other thing-just old myths and legends, that's all. Like your English Dracula, eh?"
"Transylvanian Dracula," I corrected him.
"Whatever you like. And Necros: that's the name of the spook, see?"
"Necros is the name of a vampire?"
"A spook, yes."
"And this is a real legend? I mean, historical?"
He made a fifty-fifty face, his hands palms up. "Local, I guess. Ligurian. I remember it from when I was a kid. If I was bad, old Necros sure to come and get me. Today," again the shrug, "it's forgotten."
"Like the bogeyman." I nodded.
"Eh?"
"Nothing. But why did the old girl go on like that?"
Again he shrugged. "Maybe she think that old man Necros, eh? She crazy, you know? Very backward. The whole family."
I was still interested. "How does the legend go?"
"The spook takes the life out of you. You grow old, spook grows young. It's a bargain you make: he gives you something you want, gets what he wants. What he wants is your youth. Except he uses it up quick and needs more. All the time, more youth."
"What kind of bargain is that?" I asked. "What does the victim get out
of it?"
"Gets what he wants," said Mario, his brown face cracking into another grin. "In your case the girl, eh? If the little man was Necros.…"
He got on with his work and I sat there sipping my Negroni. End of conversation. I thought no more about it-until later.
2.
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 i
"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,
Adrie
"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.-"
"Adrie
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 Adrie