Don't Look Now and Other Stories Page 10

  I crept away from the wall and sat down on the bed. There was not a sound from the balcony. Boldly I switched on my bedside light, half expecting the rattling of the shutters to begin again, or the sharp ping of the bell. Nothing happened, though. I looked at my watch. It was half past twelve. I sat there hunched on my bed, my mind that had been so heavy with sleep now horribly awake, full of foreboding, my dread of that sleek black figure increasing minute by minute so that all sense and reason seemed to desert me, and my dread was the more intense and irrational because the figure in the rubber suit was female. What did she want?

  I sat there for an hour or more until reason took possession once again. She must have gone. I got up from the bed and went to the shutters and listened. There wasn't a sound. Only the lapping of water beneath the rocks. Gently, very gently, I opened the hasp and peered through the shutters. Nobody was there. I opened them wider and stepped onto the balcony. I looked out across the bay, and there was no longer any light shining from the balcony of No. 38. The little pool of water beneath my shutters was evidence enough of the figure that had stood there an hour ago, and the wet footmarks leading down the steps towards the rocks suggested she had gone the way she came. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I could sleep in peace.

  It was only then that I saw the object at my feet, lying close to the shutter's base. I bent and picked it up. It was a small package, wrapped in some sort of waterproof cloth. I took it inside and examined it, sitting on the bed. Foolish suspicions of plastic bombs came to my mind, but surely a journey underwater would neutralize the lethal effect? The package was sewn about with twine, crisscrossed. It felt quite light. I remembered the old classical proverb, "Beware of the Greeks when they bear gifts." But the Stolls were not Greeks, and, whatever lost Atlantis they might have plundered, explosives did not form part of the treasure trove of that vanished continent.

  I cut the twine with a pair of nail scissors, then unthreaded it piece by piece and unfolded the waterproof wrapping. A layer of finely meshed net concealed the object within, and, this unraveled, the final token itself lay in my open hand. It was a small jug, reddish in color, with a handle on either side for safe holding. I had seen this sort of object before--the correct name, I believe, is rhyton--displayed behind glass cases in museums. The body of the jug had been shaped cunningly and brilliantly into a man's face, with upstanding ears like scallop shells, while protruding eyes and bulbous nose stood out above the leering, open mouth, the mustache drooping to the rounded beard that formed the base. At the top, between the handles, were the upright figures of three strutting men, their faces similar to that upon the jug, but here human resemblance ended, for they had neither hands nor feet but hooves, and from each of their hairy rumps extended a horse's tail.

  I turned the object over. The same face leered at me from the other side. The same three figures strutted at the top. There was no crack, no blemish that I could see, except a faint mark on the lip. I looked inside the jug and saw a note lying on the bottom. The opening was too small for my hand, so I shook it out. The note was a plain white card, with words typed upon it. It read: "Silenus, earth-born satyr, half horse, half man, who, unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, reared Dionysus, god of intoxication, as a girl in a Cretan cave, then became his drunken tutor and companion."

  That was all. Nothing more. I put the note back inside the jug, and the jug on the table at the far end of the room. Even then the lewd mocking face leered back at me, and the three strutting figures of the horsemen stood out in bold relief across the top. I was too weary to wrap it up again. I covered it with my jacket and climbed back into bed. In the morning I would cope with the laborious task of packing it up and getting my waiter to take it across to Chalet 38. Stoll could keep his rhyton--heaven knew what the value might be--and good luck to him. I wanted no part of it.

  Exhausted, I fell asleep, but, oh God, to no oblivion. The dreams which came, and from which I struggled to awaken, but in vain, belonged to some other unknown world horribly intermingled with my own. Term had started, but the school in which I taught was on a mountaintop hemmed in by forest, though the school buildings were the same and the classroom was my own. My boys, all of them familiar faces, lads I knew, wore vine leaves in their hair, and had a strange, unearthly beauty both endearing and corrupt. They ran towards me, smiling, and I put my arms about them, and the pleasure they gave me was insidious and sweet, never before experienced, never before imagined, the man who pranced in their midst and played with them was not myself, not the self I knew, but a demon shadow emerging from a jug, strutting in his conceit as Stoll had done upon the spit of sand at Spinalonga.

  I awoke after what seemed like centuries of time, and indeed broad daylight seeped through the shutters, and it was a quarter to ten. My head was throbbing. I felt sick, exhausted. I rang for coffee, and looked out across the bay. The boat was at its moorings. The Stolls had not gone fishing. Usually they were away by nine. I took the jug from under my coat, and with fumbling hands began to wrap it up in the net and waterproof packing. I had made a botched job of it when the waiter came onto the balcony with my breakfast tray. He wished me good morning with his usual smile.

  "I wonder," I said, "if you would do me a favor."

  "You are welcome, sir," he replied.

  "It concerns Mr. Stoll," I went on. "I believe he has Chalet 38 across the bay. He usually goes fishing every day, but I see his boat is still at the landing stage."

  "That is not surprising," the waiter smiled. "Mr. and Mrs. Stoll left this morning by car."

  "I see. Do you know when they will be back?"

  "They will not be back, sir. They have left for good. They are driving to the airport en route for Athens. The boat is probably vacant now if you wish to hire it."

  He went down the steps into the garden, and the jar in its waterproof packing was still lying beside the breakfast tray.

  The sun was already fierce upon my balcony. It was going to be a scorching day, too hot to paint. And anyway, I wasn't in the mood. The events of the night before had left me tired, jaded, with a curious sapped feeling due not so much to the intruder beyond my shutters as to those interminable dreams. I might be free of the Stolls themselves, but not of their legacy.

  I unwrapped it once again and turned it over in my hands. The leering, mocking face repelled me; its resemblance to the human Stoll was not pure fancy but compelling, sinister, doubtless his very reason for palming it off on me--I remembered the chuckle down the telephone--and if he possessed treasures of equal value to this rhyton, or even greater, then one object the less would not bother him. He would have a problem getting them through Customs, especially in Athens. The penalties were enormous for this sort of thing. Doubtless he had his contacts, knew what to do.

  I stared at the dancing figures near the top of the jar, and once more I was struck by their likeness to the strutting Stoll on the shore of Spinalonga, his naked, hairy form, his protruding rump. Part man, part horse, a satyr... "Silenus, drunken tutor to the god Dionysus."

  The jar was horrible, evil. Small wonder that my dreams had been distorted, utterly foreign to my nature. But not perhaps to Stoll's? Could it be that he too had realized its bestiality, but not until too late? The bartender had told me that it was only this year he had gone to pieces, taken to drink. There must be some link between his alcoholism and the finding of the jar. One thing was very evident, I must get rid of it--but how? If I took it to the management questions would be asked. They might not believe my story about its being dumped on my balcony the night before; they might suspect that I had taken it from some archaeological site, and then had second thoughts about trying to smuggle it out of the country or dispose of it somewhere on the island. So what? Drive along the coast and chuck it away, a rhyton centuries old and possibly priceless?

  I wrapped it carefully in my jacket pocket and walked up the garden to the hotel. The bar was empty, the bartender behind his counter polishing glasses. I sat down on a stool in
front of him and ordered a mineral water.

  "No expedition today, sir?" he enquired.

  "Not yet," I said. "I may go out later."

  "A cool dip in the sea and a siesta on the balcony," he suggested, "and by the way, sir, I have something for you."

  He bent down and brought out a small screw-topped bottle filled with what appeared to be bitter lemon.

  "Left here last evening with Mr. Stoll's compliments," he said. "He waited for you in the bar until nearly midnight, but you never came. So I promised to hand it over when you did."

  I looked at it suspiciously. "What is it?" I asked.

  The bartender smiled. "Some of his chalet home brew," he said. "It's quite harmless, he gave me a bottle for myself and my wife. She says it's nothing but lemonade. The real smelling stuff must have been thrown away. Try it." He had poured some into my mineral water before I could stop him.

  Hesitant, wary, I dipped my finger into the glass and tasted it. It was like the barley water my mother used to make when I was a child. And equally tasteless. And yet... it left a sort of aftermath on the palate and the tongue. Not as sweet as honey nor as sharp as grapes, but pleasant, like the smell of raisins under the sun, curiously blended with the ears of ripening corn.

  "Oh well," I said, "here's to the improved health of Mr. Stoll," and I drank my medicine like a man.

  "I know one thing," said the bartender, "I've lost my best customer. They went away early this morning."

  "Yes," I said, "so my waiter informed me."

  "The best thing Mrs. Stoll could do would be to get him into hospital," the bartender continued. "Her husband's a sick man, and it's not just the drink."

  "What do you mean?"

  He tapped his forehead. "Something wrong up here," he said. "You could see for yourself how he acted. Something on his mind. Some sort of obsession. I rather doubt we shall see them again next year."

  I sipped my mineral water, which was undoubtedly improved by the barley taste.

  "What was his profession?" I asked.

  "Mr. Stoll? Well, he told me he had been professor of classics in some American university, but you never could tell if he was speaking the truth or not. Mrs. Stoll paid the bills here, hired the boatman, arranged everything. Though he swore at her in public he seemed to depend on her. I sometimes wondered, though..."

  He broke off.

  "Wondered what?" I enquired.

  "Well... She had a lot to put up with. I've seen her look at him sometimes, and it wasn't with love. Women of her age must seek some sort of satisfaction out of life. Perhaps she found it on the side while he indulged his passion for liquor and antiques. He had picked up quite a few items in Greece, and around the islands and here in Crete. It's not too difficult if you know the ropes."

  He winked. I nodded, and ordered another mineral water. The warm atmosphere in the bar had given me a thirst.

  "Are there any lesser-known sites along the coast?" I asked. "I mean, places they might have gone ashore to from the boat?"

  It may have been my fancy, but I thought he avoided my eye.

  "I hardly know, sir," he said. "I dare say there are, but they would have custodians of some sort. I doubt if there are any places the authorities don't know about."

  "What about wrecks?" I pursued. "Vessels that might have been sunk centuries ago, and are now lying on the sea bottom?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "There are always local rumors," he said casually, "stories that get handed down through generations. But it's mostly superstition. I've never believed in them myself, and I don't know anybody with education who does."

  He was silent for a moment, polishing a glass. I wondered if I had said too much. "We all know small objects are discovered from time to time," he murmured, "and they can be of great value. They get smuggled out of the country, or if too much risk is involved they can be disposed of locally to experts and a good price paid. I have a cousin in the village connected with the local museum. He owns the cafe opposite the Bottomless Pool. Mr. Stoll used to patronize him. Papitos is the name. As a matter of fact, the boat hired by Mr. Stoll belongs to my cousin; he lets it out on hire to the visitors here at the hotel."

  "I see."

  "But there... You are not a collector, sir, and you're not interested in antiques."

  "No," I said, "I am not a collector."

  I got up from the stool and bade him good morning. I wondered if the small package in my pocket made a bulge.

  I went out of the bar and strolled onto the terrace. Nagging curiosity made me wander down to the landing stage below the Stolls' chalet. The chalet itself had evidently been swept and tidied, the balcony cleared, the shutters closed. No trace remained of the last occupants. Before the day was over, in all probability, it would be opened for some English family who would strew the place with bathing suits.

  The boat was at its moorings, and the Greek hand was swabbing down the sides. I looked out across the bay to my own chalet on the opposite side and saw it, for the first time, from Stoll's viewpoint. As he stood there, peering through his field glasses, it seemed clearer to me than ever before that he must have taken me for an interloper, a spy--possibly, even, someone sent out from England to inquire into the true circumstances of Charles Gordon's death. Was the gift of the jar, the night before departure, a gesture of defiance? A bribe? Or a curse?

  Then the Greek fellow on the boat stood up and faced towards me. It was not the regular boatman, but another one. I had not realized this before when his back was turned. The man who used to accompany the Stolls had been younger, dark, and this was an older chap altogether. I remembered what the bartender had told me about the boat belonging to his cousin, Papitos, who owned the cafe in the village by the Bottomless Pool.

  "Excuse me," I called, "are you the owner of the boat?"

  The man climbed onto the landing stage and stood before me.

  "Nicolai Papitos is my brother," he said. "You want to go for trip round the bay? Plenty good fish outside. No wind today. Sea very calm."

  "I don't want to fish," I told him. "I wouldn't mind an outing for an hour or so. How much does it cost?"

  He gave me the sum in drachmae, and I did a quick reckoning and made it out to be not more than two pounds for the hour, though it would doubtless be double that sum to round the point and go along the coast as far as that spit of sand on the isthmus of Spinalonga. I took out my wallet to see if I had the necessary notes or whether I should have to return to the reception desk and cash a traveler's check.

  "You charge to hotel," he said quickly, evidently reading my thoughts. "The cost go on your bill."

  This decided me. Damn it all, my extras had been moderate to date.

  "Very well," I said, "I'll hire the boat for a couple of hours."

  It was a curious sensation to be chug-chugging across the bay as the Stolls had done so many times, the line of chalets in my wake, the harbor astern on my right and the blue waters of the open gulf ahead. I had no clear plan in mind. It was just that, for some inexplicable reason, I felt myself drawn towards that inlet near the shore where the boat had been anchored on the previous day. "The wreck was picked clean centuries ago..." Those had been Stoll's words. Was he lying? Or could it be that day after day, through the past weeks, that particular spot had been his hunting ground, and his wife, diving, had brought the dripping treasure from its seabed to his grasping hands? We rounded the point, and inevitably, away from the sheltering arm that had hitherto encompassed us, the breeze appeared to freshen, the boat became more lively as the bows struck the short curling seas.

  The long isthmus of Spinalonga lay ahead of us to the left, and I had some difficulty in explaining to my helmsman that I did not want him to steer into the comparative tranquility of the waters bordering the salt flats, but to continue along the more exposed outward shores of the isthmus bordering the open sea.

  "You want to fish?" he shouted above the roar of the engine. "You find very good fish in there," pointing to my flats of
yesterday.

  "No, no," I shouted back, "further on along the coast."

  He shrugged. He couldn't believe I had no desire to fish, and I wondered, when we reached our destination, what possible excuse I could make for heading the boat inshore and anchoring, unless--and this seemed plausible enough--I pleaded that the motion of the boat was proving too much for me.

  The hills I had climbed yesterday swung into sight above the bows, and then, rounding a neck of land, the inlet itself, the ruined shepherd's hut close to the shore.

  "In there," I pointed. "Anchor close to the shore."

  He stared at me, puzzled, and shook his head. "No good," he shouted, "too many rocks."

  "Nonsense," I yelled. "I saw some people from the hotel anchored here yesterday."

  Suddenly he slowed the engine, so that my voice rang out foolishly on the air. The boat danced up and down in the troughs of the short seas.

  "Not a good place to anchor," he repeated doggedly. "Wreck there, fouling the ground."

  So there was a wreck... I felt a mounting excitement, and I was not to be put off.

  "I don't know anything about that," I replied, with equal determination, "but this boat did anchor here, just by the inlet, I saw it myself."

  He muttered something to himself, and made the sign of the cross.

  "And if I lose the anchor?" he said. "What do I say to my brother Nicolai?"

  He was nosing the boat gently, very gently, towards the inlet, and then, cursing under his breath, he went forward to the bows and threw the anchor overboard. He waited until it held, then returned and switched off the engine.

  "If you want to go in close, you must take the dinghy," he said sulkily. "I blow it up for you, yes?"

  He went forward once again, and dragged out one of those inflatable rubber affairs they use on air-sea rescue craft.

  "Very well," I said, "I'll take the dinghy."