The Magus - John Fowles [27]
11
The next morning after breakfast I crossed over to Demetriades's table. He had been in the village the previous evening and I hadn't bothered to wait up until he returned. Demetriades was small, very plump, frog-faced, a corfiot with a pathological dislike of sunshine and the rural. He grumbled incessantly about the "disgusting" provincial life we had to lead on the island. In Athens he lived by night, indulging in his two hobbies, whoring and eating. He spent all his money on these two pursuits and on his clothes, and he ought to have looked sallow and oily and corrupt, but he was always pink and immaculate. His hero in history was Casanova. He lacked the Boswellian charm, to say nothing of the genius, of the Italian, but he was in his alternately gay and lugubrious way better company than Mitford had suggested. And at least he was not a hypocrite. He had the charm of all people who believe implicitly in themselves, that of integration. I took him out into the garden. His nickname was M�--honey--for which he was a glutton. "M�, what do you know about the man over at Bourani?" "You've met him?" "No." "_Ai!_" He shouted petulantly at a boy who was carving a word on an almond tree. The Casanova persona was confined strictly to his private life; in class he was a martinet. "You don't know his name?" "Conchis." He pronounced the _ch_ hard--the _ch_ of _loch_. "Mitford said he had a row with him. A quarrel with him." "He was telling lies. He was always telling lies." "Maybe. But he must have met him." "_Po po_." _Po po_ is Greek for "Tell that to the marines." "That man never sees anyone. Never. Ask the other professors." "But why?" "_Ech_..." He shrugged. "Many old stories. I don't know them." "Come on." "It is not interesting." We walked down a cobbled path. M� disliked silence, and in a moment he began to tell me what he knew about Conchis. "He worked for the Germans in the war. He never comes to the village. The villagers would kill him with stones. So would I, if I saw him." I grinned. "Why?" "Because he is rich and he lives on a desert island like this when he could be in Paris..." he waved his pink right hand in rapid small circles, a favourite gesture. It was his own deepest ambition--an apartment overlooking the Seine, containing a room with no windows and various other peculiar features. "Does he speak English?" "I suppose. But why are you so interested?" "I'm not. I just saw the house." The bell for second school rang through the orchards and paths against the high white walls of the school grounds. On the way back to class I invited M� to have dinner with me in the village the next day. The leading _estiatoras_ of the village, a great walrus of a man called Sarantopoulos, knew more about Conchis. He came and had a glass of wine with us while we ate the meal he'd cooked. It was true that Conchis was a recluse and never came to the village, but that he had been a collaborationist was a lie. He had been made mayor by the Germans during the Occupation, and had in fact done his best for the villagers. If he was not popular now, it was because he ordered most of his provisions from Athens. He launched out on a long story. The island dialect was difficult, even for Greeks, and I couldn't understand a word. He leant earnestly across the table. Demetriades looked bored and nodded complacently at the pauses. "What's he say, M�?" "Nothing. A war story. Nothing at all." Sarantopoulos suddenly looked past us. He said something to Demetriades, and stood up. I turned. In the door stood a tall, mournful-looking islander. He went to a table in the far corner, the islanders' corner, of the long bare room. I saw Sarantopoulos put his hand on the man's shoulder. The man stared at us doubtfully, then gave in and allowed himself to be led to our table. "He is the _agoyatis_ of Mr. Conchis." "The how much?" "He has a donkey. He takes the mail and the food to Bourani." "What's