Barry Unsworth - Pascali's Island

I have just seen him, Excellency. Almost immediately after waking. I was sitting here at the window but had not resumed writing. He came down from the far end of the bay, towards me, walking along the shore, near the sea. He passed below me and on, past the café, where I could no longer follow him. Sand-coloured shirt with short sleeves, trousers darker. Sun-reddened arms. Brown hat with a soft brim, pulled low over his eyes against the sun. He walked steadily, head up, swinging his arms very slightly. Where has he been at this hour? A morning stroll along the shore? There is something intent, fanatical almost, about the way he walks.

Why does he want my services as an interpreter? He referred to this a second time, while we were having dinner. Again, however, vaguely. 'We must have a chat some time,' he said. 'You were kind enough to offer… My Turkish is not really up to it, you know, when one is dealing with the authorities…' His eyes looking meanwhile at some point beyond me – presumably where his own purposes were visible to him.

This was later, in the midst of an argument with Herr Gesing, the German commercial agent. At first, for the few minutes after rejoining them, I was so possessed by the strangeness of the objects I had found in Mister Bowles's room that I did not register what was being said around me. That strangeness possesses me again now. Revolver, head, notebook: violence, beauty, the meticulous recording of obscure facts. Forgive me for thus crudely drawing your attention to symbolic parallels, but you will see how once again this combination identifies me with Mister Bowles, links us together. As yet I cannot understand this, but persistence and cunning will make it clear – if I live, and continue to enjoy your patience, Excellency.

'Come on, Basil, tell us, why aren't you wearing your fez this evening?'

This is Lydia speaking to me now, in a slightly malicious, teasing voice. She wants me to sing for my supper.

'Surely one is allowed a fetish or two?' I look round the table, smiling. The fact is I have worn a fez on one or two occasions lately. Obeying a certain compulsion, Excellency. I found it years ago, in the Turkish quarter. It was early in the morning, I had been writing most of the night. There it was lying against the wall. Almost new. I tried it on – it fitted me perfectly. I took it home with me. That was five years ago. Now, during these last few weeks, I have felt compelled to wear it from time to time. Dignified headgear, but hated by the Greeks, of course. 'If we cannot have a fetish or two, where is liberty to be found?' I said, smiling at Herr Gesing, who did not smile back.

More than ever this evening like a dropsical hawk, Herr Gesing, with his thin aquiline nose, full cheeks, small heavy-lidded eyes and above all the shape of his head, which is broad, and quite flat behind, falling almost sheer from crown to nape.

Lydia spoke softy to Mister Bowles, and they smiled at each other. Evidently getting on very well. I was briefly visited by the suspicion – occupational I suppose – that this particular gathering, though apparently fortuitous, had been long-planned. Mister Bowles with the glamour of the newcomer still on him, the glamour of someone who may be bringing changes, as Dionysus did to the people of Thebes; Lydia with her trips to Europe, her knowledge of the latest thing, her money – which does not, I think, come from selling paintings; Gesing and his undefined commercial activities.

I ordered uvetzaki and felt my mouth beginning to fill with saliva.

'How is trade?' I asked the German.

He looked up from his plate of fried squid and raised his thick eyebrows with an effect, quite accidental, of benevolence.

'The possibilities,' he said, in his halting English, 'the possibilities we are still… exploring. Exploring, ja.' His voice has a purring note, made from deep in the throat. He looked at our faces for a moment or two. 'In the meantime,' he said, 'I enjoy this beautiful island, and the light, this unique light which so many sensitive observers… Of Goethe and Wincklemann I think now, among many -'

'Many lesser lights,' I said. No one seemed amused by this.

' "Who lives in this light, lives truly," ' Herr Gesing said. 'Hugo Von Hofmannsthal it was, who said that. To nurse illusions, in this clarity of the light, it is not possible.'

All Germans, you will notice, Excellency. All the people he mentioned were Germans. This Teutonic blandness annoyed me slightly. I saw a chance to provoke some less guarded speaking, also to interrupt the cultural flow.

'It was a compatriot of yours,' I said, 'Gerhart Hauptmann actually, who was attacking the Greek spirit not very long ago. He was quoted in the Mercure as saying that the Greek tradition was anaemic. That was his word. He said it needs new blood. New Blood. That was his phrase.'

I saw the Englishman look up suddenly at Herr Gesing.

'Perhaps he meant German blood,' I said, taking care, however, to preserve a smiling face. My uvetzaki arrived at this point, and I began on it at once.

'It is not typical,' Herr Gesing said, with no change in his manner. 'We Germans see in this landscape light as an expression of Geist -'

'Spirit,' I said.

'Spirit, ja. Spirit and light together… zusammen verbunden.' He brought his hands together slowly and linked the fingers. 'So,' he said. 'Many have spoken of this… Rilke, it is Rilke who makes Apollo high among the gods, the god whose whole being in light finds expression.'

'That's all very well,' Mister Bowles said. 'But what are you really after here?' He spoke in his usual blurting voice, as if speech came as a release from some tension or struggle.

'After?' the German said.

There was a silence, rather embarrassing. Naturally, we have all wondered. I have tried on several occasions, by discreet questioning, to find out from Izzet Effendi, the Pasha's land-agent, what game the German in playing, whether he has some special influence locally. But so far without success. It is certain that he is on some sort of terms with the Pasha. He goes there, to the house. No doubt you will have had the police reports.

Herr Gesing had continued eating, moving his jaws slowly. Mister Bowles showed no sign of embarrassment. His eyes rested steadily on the German.

'After?' Herr Gesing said again. He had not understood the question. I feel it to be characteristic of Mister Bowles, even on this short acquaintance with him, that he should have been so blunt and idiomatic, making no concessions to the foreigner. (English prepositional usage is a great stumbling block, Excellency. I myself get it wrong sometimes.)

Hastily I swallowed my mouthful of mutton. 'He means,' I said, 'what particular openings or opportunities are you looking for, here on our beautiful island?'

Herr Gesing raised his eyebrows. 'The general possibilities,' he said, slowly and carefully, 'we are at present 'Exploring?' I suggested.

'Exploring, yes.'

'I'll tell you what I think, old boy,' Mister Bowles said. ' Germany should make it absolutely clear where she stands on the question of the minorities before she looks for trade here, or anywhere else in the Empire.'

The German raised the empty wine bottle. 'Bitte,' he called to Biron. 'Mehr Wein.'

'The Kaiser must be well aware of what is happening to the Christian minorities,' Mister Bowles said. 'Just as much aware as the Porte is.'

'This is politics,' Herr Gesing said. He wiped his mouth and repeated more loudly, 'Politics.'

I glanced around. No one seemed to be taking any particular interest in our conversation. Still, one has to be careful. There are spies and informers everywhere nowadays.

'You turn a blind eye to it,' Mister Bowles said.

'Blind eye?'

'He means that you ignore it,' I said. 'Trade we are interested in,' Herr Gesing said. 'Trade. And culture. Politics, no.'