John Banville - Nightspawn

A figure left Constantinou’s and started slowly along the quay, making toward me. The sea was running with shadow now as the breathless twilight ended. A strange violet light hovered over the village and the hills. The white houses and the little chapels were touched with a glowing rose tint, and a burnt lilac lay in the crevices of shadow. The fishing boats rolled gently by the quayside on the brittle green water. The bronze tolling of a bell came down the hills and crossed the bay, drawing in its wake the other evening sounds. Erik walked slowly out along the pier, studiously ignoring me. He was wearing his suit, the green of which gave an echo to the water. Around his neck was tied an exotic red silk scarf. I chewed a piece of bread and watched him approach. He put his hands into his pockets and turned to the sea, whistling softly as he looked at the red beacon blinking. At length he came and sat beside me. We glanced at each other, and then considered our feet. I offered him the bottle, but he shook his head. He took a piece of cheese and nibbled halfheartedly at it. The lights of the quay were coming into their own as darkness fell out of the sky. Erik took a flat silver case from his pocket and selected a cigarette. He passed the case to me, and I took one also, examined it, and nodded. We watched the smoke drift to the edge of the pier, slide over and drop down to the water.

‘Where did you get the scarf?’ I asked.

His fingers went to the flimsy piece of cloth, and he said uncertainly,

‘You think it foolish?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

We sat for a while, sustained by silence, riding its calm evening deeps.

‘I see you were talking to Mrs Kyd,’ I said.

‘No, she was talking to me.’

‘Oh. Leaving tonight, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘With Andreas?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Going on the yacht, eh?’

‘Yes. Your cheek …’

‘Walked into a door.’

‘Ah.’

Across the quay walked Julian and the boy. I recognized their white clothes. Helena joined them at the pier. They stopped for a moment to give directions for the stowing of their luggage, then they clambered into the skiff and were whisked across the harbour to their yacht. Erik said,

‘She is going away?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m going away too. Erik.’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did Aristotle want us killed?’

‘Aristotle want us … did he want us killed?’

‘Then why did you kill the sailor?’

‘He would have killed us.’

‘Why?’

‘He likes to kill.’

That tense was interesting. I glanced at him. He was frowning at his hands.

‘But Aristotle must have —’

‘I don’t know,’ he cried. ‘I don’t know.’

He brought out from the pocket of his suit a moth-eaten pair of black woollen swimming trunks. They were too big for him, and when he put them on, and stood up, his scrawny frame looked even more emaciated in that ridiculous gear. He went and dived into the water, making hardly a splash. I stood and watched him. Down there he was almost graceful, his long thin figure sliding through the liquid darkness with perfect ease. After a few strokes he came out again, shaking his head and spitting uproariously. On the seaweed-covered steps, he slipped and bruised his knee. We sat down again, and Erik examined his wounded leg. He cleaned his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief and clipped them behind his ears again.

‘What will you do?’ he asked, clawing at his hair.

‘Go back to Rabin’s. I never intended to do otherwise.’

‘And what about the girl?’

‘What about her?’

He shrugged, and lapsed into silence. I threw the last crusts of the loaf toward the water, but before they could reach the surface, two seagulls came down like flashes of light and took them in their beaks. We watched them soar away, two beautiful beasts, and then Erik said sheepishly,

‘Perhaps, just a small drink, to wish us both luck.’

I handed him the bottle and listened to the liquor gurgle in his throat. He gasped, and wiped his mouth. I made the motions of a toast, but could find no suitable words. Erik belched, and immediately the liner’s siren sent up an outrageous echo. He stood up and put on his suit again, over the wet trunks.

‘Isn’t it strange how all these things work together,’ I mused. ‘The wind lifts the waves, and the waves pound the shore. These strange cycles. People too, with their cycles and reversals that cause so much anguish. It’s amazing.’

I looked at Erik. Erik looked at the sea. I went on,

‘Imitating the seasons, I suppose. The rages and storms, the silences. If only the world would imitate us once in a while. That would be something, wouldn’t it? But the world maintains a contemptuous silence, and what the heart desires, the world is incapable of giving.’

A pretty speech. I would refuse to believe that I had made it, did I not have evidence, which I have. Erik hitched up his trousers, and blew his nose. I wondered if he had been listening to me. He had.

‘I must go now,’ he said.

‘Good luck.’

‘I shall see you in Athens, yes?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

But he had not gone six paces when he stopped, and retraced his steps.

‘I wanted to say that …’

He closed his mouth.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know.’

I did not know, but what difference did that make? He nodded, and went away. I did not have time to watch him go, for the white yacht, the great craft, was pulling away from the pier, out of the harbour, under full sail.

I walked through the little streets, humming to myself, sniffing the gorgeous odours of the island, lime and salt, fish, incense, bread and burning charcoal, and I realized that it was not I who was departing, but these things, this island, this beauty, they were going, were already becoming a memory. There were a few tears, yes.

From a sidestreet, a dim figure crept out and laid a hand on my shoulder. I let out a shriek, and leapt a foot into the air, and whirled about with the bottle lifted in my hand.

‘It’s me, Andreas. Erik tells me you’re leaving.’

‘Yes.’

He came with me to my room, where I packed a bag, and tied my papers with a piece of twine. Then I cast one last look around me, and switched off the light. Out of the darkness, Andreas’s voice said,

‘You don’t want to leave?’

‘Come on.’

We reached the quay as the last trawler was preparing to depart. Both yachts were gone now. Andreas saw me looking at the vacant mooring places, and he smiled, and said,

‘It seems we both have our losses, Mr White.’

‘Aye.’

The lights of the village trembled on the black water. The little boat rolled and shuddered around the thrust of its engine.

‘Ten hours to Athens,’ said Andreas gloomily.

I ignored him. The white flank of the liner loomed above us, and we climbed the swaying steps to the deck. Andreas found two seats for us on a bench under the canvas awning of the third-class area. We left our baggage there, and went out to stand by the rail. I felt that he was offering me something, a truce maybe, perhaps, even, friendship. I wondered what I would need to surrender in return, and decided that I would not be able to accept the bargain. But all these considerations were incidental to what was foremost in my mind, this awful sadness of departure, and I paid little attention to the poor creature by my side who was waiting for a word. Small sounds lapped about us, the calm sea swell, the deep thrumming of the engines. A bell clanged thrice. I clenched my hands on the damp rail. Across the water, the quayside was thronged with vague dark figures. Hands waved, and faint voices called farewells. Behind me, my fellow passengers stood locked in silence, and watched, with amazement almost, the little lights recede, and the twin white wakes set out behind us on their backward journey. The sky was blue, an impossible, deep blue, as though the night, falling from it, had drained half of its darkness. I watched the last of the world I was deserting, imagining that I would never see it again, and the voices from the quay, beating ever more weakly across the bay, seemed the voice of the island itself, of its inviolable hills and shores, bidding me, whom it was losing, its last farewell.