Lawrence Durrell - The Dark Labyrinth

Truman met Graecen dragging his grip along to the staircase, and gave him a hand. “Thanks,” panted Graecen. He was very puffed and sat down upon it to exchange a cigarette. “Coming to the labyrinth?” he said. Truman nodded. “I see you are leaving us for good,” he said, with genuine regret. The voyage had been a pleasant one so far. “Not all of us,” said Graecen. “Baird and Campion and I, are going to stay with a friend of mine. But we’re coming up to see the labyrinth with you first.”

The Truman couple slipped ashore rather earlier than the others. They had observed Miss Dombey taking the dog ashore in the pinnace — and had decided to have a look round on their own. They went for a walk in the meadow hand in hand, exchanging private jokes and banter. “My,” she said, “it is a lovely place. You’d never think it was an island, would you?” Truman swung himself into an olive tree by his wrists, and hung for a second before dropping back to earth. “I feel fine,” he said. “And you look fine.”

She wore a bright dappled frock of some light summer material, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and shoes with heavy rope soles such as one buys in Spain— espadrilles . She had brought a rucksack and an overcoat, in case the journey proved cold. “I feel fine,” she said, smiling her friendly, innocent smile.

They could hear the shrill barking of Miss Dombey and her dog over the next hillock. Avoiding her they walked along the flat shore by the jetty. The keen air, the blue sky, the meadows sloping away to the foothills splashed with fruit trees — it was overpowering. “Why don’t we just pick a place like this? Stay here for ever and ever?” She was thinking of Campion sitting under an olive tree, drinking a glass of wine and painting with his small hands. Her husband sniffed. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “If you learn the language and do the housekeeping.” They passed several low cottages, whence elderly, wrinkled faces peered out at them. Voices greeted them politely, for Greece is the country where the stranger is honoured like a god, and where hospitality is a domestic art. “I wish I knew how to say good day,” she said as they passed. Farther on they came upon rows of coloured fishing-boats drawn up upon a brown seaweed-covered beach. Tattered fishermen sat cross-legged in a wilderness of nets, darning and sifting them. A small boy offered flowers with the compliments of his uncle. Truman took them in his clumsy British way, blushing as he did so; he felt effeminate in his stupid northern way to be holding a bunch of tinted anemones. “Come on,” he said gruffly, handing them to his wife. “What price Whitby?” said his wife irrelevantly, wondering whether they could go for a row in a boat. They gave the urchin a packet of sweets from the ship’s canteen.

Under an olive tree she put down the rucksack to search for a handkerchief. Not finding one she blew her nose in a letter, catching her husband’s disapproving eye as she did so. “I knew it,” he said. “No hanky.” It was one of her most irritating traits. Later, of course, she would demand the nice clean one that protruded from the breast pocket of his smart summer suit. Women were like that.

They sat under an olive tree together arm in arm, and lapsed into silence. Bees hummed. In the middle distance a caravan of hill-ponies moved across towards the wood bearing sacks of charcoal on their backs, driven by men in blue trousers, jackboots and tasselled caps. Behind them the mountains glowed grey below the snowline, and deep green where the rich foothills sent their orchards straggling up them.

Elsie Truman suddenly felt full of the silence. It had been running noiselessly in her mind like an open tap, and now there came an overflowing, a pause. She sighed, and looked at her face in the pocket mirror she had brought. “Look over there,” said Truman, lazily chewing a grass stalk, and trying to remember the name of a single ancient Greek god or goddess. “It’s old Baird.”

Baird sat under a tree upon a cane chair, deep in conversation with one of the chauffeurs. Over the brow of the hill there appeared a dilapidated taxi with a functionary of some kind seated behind the wheel. Baird at last had seen someone who recognized him. He was asking news of his guerilla comrades; it was all at once as if time had been telescoped all together, as if he had only been away a few moments. He felt close to Böcklin, closer than he had ever felt before; and close to the obscure dream that had troubled him for so long. He put his questions eagerly, asking where this one lived now, and whether that one’s wound had healed. There were few of the original band left on the island. The Abbot John, however, was thought to be still up at the monastery. Baird could hardly wait for the party to arrive, so close did he seem to the heart of the mystery. It was as if some deeply-troubling enigma were going to be elucidated.

From the sides of the Europa a white dot broke away and fussed towards the shore. It was the pinnace bearing Fearmax, Campion, Miss Dale and Graecen — the last having said good-bye to everyone including the Captain with an elaborate over-politeness. As he turned back to his companion, Baird’s eye caught sight of the Truman couple, sitting under a tree. He waved to them, and they got to their feet. Miss Dombey was advancing across the middle landscape with strident barks of encouragement to Spot. The dog was a lymphatic animal, neither grateful for a chance to decorate genuine trees instead of stanchions, nor particularly enthusiastic about Crete. It cantered tepidly along by the side of its mistress, who, between barks, exclaimed breathlessly, “Have a good run. There’s a good Spot. Chase him, boy. Chase him. Woof, woof, woof, woof.” She came up considerably puffed and accepted Baird’s chair with faint thanks. “How the English love their four-footed pets,” said Campion admiringly, as the rest of the party gathered round.

On the knoll, under the olive tree from which hung the inn-sign reading “Kapheneion”, the taxis were drawn up. For some reason there were six of them, and on Graecen’s recommendation they decided that three would be ample, both for the luggage and for the eight of them. This having been determined upon after considerable debate with the drivers, the guide emerged from the depths of the wineshop cellar, wiping a pair of long mournful moustaches on the backs of both hands. “Please to attend to me one minute,” he said hoarsely. He wore a battered German field-marshal’s hat upon his head, around which the Jannadis Brothers had placed a band upon which the company’s name was inscribed. The hinder end of a British battledress was surmounted by a blue woollen pullover, on the front of which was written “Beach Guard”, and on the back “Property of UNRRA Canteen. Not to be taken away.” He had evidently something impressive to say, but his English was halt, deaf and blind. He was grateful, therefore, when Baird came to his rescue and offered to translate. He caught both his hands in his and began a long conversation, which sounded to the rest — as all Greek conversations do — like a violent quarrel. Baird was interested.

The rest of the party stood in a semicircle watching. Finally Baird turned to them with twinkling eyes and an incredulous smile on his face. “Something new to me,” he said, obviously doubtful whether an explanation of his conversation with the guide would justify translation. “He says that there is an animal of some kind in the labyrinth. No one has ever seen it. But they hear it roar — we shall probably hear it too.”

“A minotaur,” said Graecen excitedly.

“Extraordinary,” said Fearmax, drawing closer to catch what Baird had to say. “What do they call it?”

“The man calls it ” said Baird. “It means ‘monster’ or ‘beast’. It’s probably a bear.”