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‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’
‘Is there anything you don’t like?’
‘Squid,’ she said, grimacing. ‘And I don’t much care for lobster, either.’
He bowed and went over to the buffet table, came back a moment later with a tray holding a glass of pink grapefruit juice, a roll with sesame seeds sprinkled on the top and a platter of hors d’oeuvres.
‘I chose taramasalata,’ Milo explained. ‘That’s this, pink smoked cod’s roe marinaded in olive oil and lemon, you may have eaten it in London, it is very popular there, I know, but this is the real thing. It isn’t made with mashed potato, which is the easier version, but with breadcrumbs, the texture is much lighter. And I’ve given you some caviar to go with it. This tiny triangle of filo pastry is called tiropitta, it has a cheese and spinach filling. There are some prawns, a little crab and some melidzanosalata, which is a purée of baked aubergines, with onion, tomato, garlic and olive oil.’
‘It all sounds very interesting.’
His long finger flicked at something green. ‘This is dolmadhakia – vine leaves wrapped around minced meat and rice.’
She had recognised it. ‘I’ve eaten that in London, I liked it. I shall never manage a main course after all this! But it looks delicious. You’re so kind, Milo.’
‘Entirely my pleasure,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll come back later to see how you are getting on. Will you take wine with your lunch? Something white and cold? I’ll send some over.’
She ate slowly, enjoying the new tastes, sipped at her glass of white Greek wine and stared round at the guests laughing and talking as they ate or went back to the buffet for a second helping of lobster or caviar.
A young waiter came by her table later and took her empty plate away, then Milo brought her another platter which held a skewer of charcoal-grilled lamb, tomatoes, green pepper and onion, with some green salad, boiled rice and sliced, charcoal-grilled pitta bread in slices on the side.
She managed most of it, but refused a dessert and just had some coffee to finish with.
‘I like Greek food, it isn’t too rich. Maybe I’ll lose weight eating like this!’
‘You don’t need to lose weight,’ Milo scolded. ‘By the way, I’ve arranged for you to join a small coach of guests going on a tour of the island at three o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, that’s wonderful.’ She felt weird, living here in a little enclave, surrounded by an island she had not seen. Once she had orientated herself she would feel easier.
The driver was also the guide, and spoke very good English. A thin, dark young man he wore glasses and was, he told them, a university student home for the summer vacation. The rest of the year he lived in Athens and studied at the university there.
The island was beautiful, but a little wild; there were the tavernas she had noticed down at the port where they had docked yesterday, a few detached villas on the outskirts of the port, some others scattered here and there around the rest of the island but no tourist development anywhere else.
They stopped in the port for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, grown, they were assured, on the island’s own trees, which were grown everywhere, as were lemon trees.
Afterwards they were given time to go shopping. Miranda bought herself a straw hat with a wide brim with a vivid cotton handkerchief wrapped round it, the ends fluttering on her nape, some rope-soled espadrilles she could wear on the beach, and a little lacquered fan made in Hong Kong which would fit into her handbag and would be very useful in this hot weather.
Piling back on to the coach, they drove away from the port, turning up into the mountain which dominated the centre of the island, along a dusty, roughly surfaced road full of bumps and ruts. Olive groves ran along the terraced slopes, the fruit showing through those narrow, flickering silvery leaves. Beneath the dimpled, rugged boles were black shadows which Miranda found very inviting; it would be delicious to lie down in that coolness and sleep.
A lizard lay basking on a low stone wall, in full sun, for all the world like one of the olive-tree leaves whose shape and colour it resembled, until the noise of the coach made it run for cover, diving out of sight into the darkness of the wall’s interior.
The air was warmly scented with eucalyptus and pine, which grew on the higher slopes of the mountain, but they saw no flowers.
‘The island is full of flowers in the spring,’ the guide told them. ‘But by July it is too hot here for flowers to survive.’
Miranda grew sleepy, her skin hot with the sun although she had put on the hat she bought at the harbour. S
he woke with a start as the coach came to a stop on a stony layby high on the mountain. Everyone got off and stood about, gazing down into the valley far below; terraced fields, marked out by stone walls and the odd cypress tree, a dark green flame against the hot, white glare of villages.
‘Behind us stands the ruins of a Byzantine castle and the early Christian church of St John. It is inaccessible to the coach, there is only a rough path which you have to follow on foot and which is too close to the edge of the mountain. If you want to visit it, I will be happy to guide you some other day, by prior arrangement, but I must warn you that it is dangerous and difficult. You need to be very fit and active to get to the top. When you do, the views are spectacular.’
None of the guests seemed disposed to find out. The guide gave them a quick account of the castle’s history, then they all climbed back on to the coach again to set off down the other side of the mountain.
They stopped again at a village in the valley; a huddle of the usual white-painted houses, set around a blue-domed church, which they visited, escorted by the black-robed priest, who spoke very little English, and the guide, who interpreted for him.
Coming out of the sun they were half blind, at first seeing nothing in the darkness of the interior of the church; then their eyes became accustomed to the shadows and they gasped at the dazzle of silver and gold on the walls, on the altar. Icons of favourite Greek saints – St Basil, St John and St Michael the Archangel – hung on all sides, the dark Byzantine faces with their sombre, brooding gaze and olive, high-cheekboned austerity set against the shimmer of a metallic setting.
The ceilings were painted with visions of heaven; angels with gilded wings, the virgin and child, serious and intent on each other, Christ as a man, floating on white clouds, hand stretched out in blessing.
