‘Suit yourself.’ Papademos shrugged and went back into the deck-house.
They were close inshore now, the great central peak of the island towering three thousand feet above them. As the little steamer rounded the curved promontory crowded with its white houses, a single-masted caicque, sails bellying in the breeze, moved out to sea. It passed so close to them that Lomax could see the great eyes painted on each side of the prow.
The man at the tiller waved carelessly and Lomax raised a hand and then the throbbing of the engines began to falter as they slowed to enter the harbour.
On the white curve of sand, brightly painted caicques were beached and fishermen sat beside them in small groups mending their nets while children chased each other in the shallows, their voices somehow muted and far away.
He went back to his cabin and started to pack. It didn’t take long. When he was finished, he left the canvas grip and the portable typewriter on the bunk and went back on deck.
They were already working alongside the stone pier and as he watched the engines stopped and everything seemed curiously still in the great heat.
On the pier, three old men dozed in the sun and a young boy sat with a fishing line, a small black dog curled beside him.
As the steward emerged from the cabin carrying the canvas grip and the typewriter, Papademos came out of the deck-house. ‘You travel light.’
‘The only way,’ Lomax said. ‘What happens now? Do I just walk off the boat? Doesn’t anyone want to see my papers?’
Papademos shrugged. ‘There’s a police sergeant called Kytros who attends to all that. He’ll know you’re here soon enough.’
By now a couple of sailors had the gangway in position. The steward went first and Lomax put on a pair of sunglasses and followed him.
As he took out his wallet to tip the man, he was aware that the three old men were all sitting up straight and looking at him curiously.
The boy who had been fishing was winding in his line. As the steward went back on board, he hurried across, the dog at his heels.
He was perhaps twelve with brown eyes in a thin, intelligent face. His jersey was too big for him and his pants had been patched many times.
He looked up at Lomax curiously for a moment and then said slowly in English, ‘You want a good hotel, mister? They look after American tourist real nice.’
‘What makes you think I’m an American?’ Lomax asked him in Greek.
‘The dark glasses. All Americans wear dark glasses.’ The boy replied in the same language instinctively and his hand went to his mouth in astonishment. ‘Say, mister, you speak Greek as good as me. How come?’
‘Never mind that,’ Lomax said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Yanni,’ the boy told him. ‘Yanni Melos.’
Lomax extracted a banknote from his wallet and held it up. ‘All right, Yanni Melos. This is for you when we reach this hotel of yours where they treat Americans so well. It had better be the best.’
Yanni’s teeth gleamed in his brown face. ‘Mister, it’s the only one in town.’ He picked up the canvas grip and typewriter and hurried ahead, the dog at his heels, and Lomax followed.
Nothing had changed. Not a damned thing. Even the pillbox the Germans had constructed to guard the pier was still standing, its concrete crumbling a little at the edges. All that was missing were the E-boats in the harbour and the Nazi flag over the town hall.
The boy led the way between tall, whitewashed houses, moving away from the waterfront. Once or twice they passed someone sitting on a doorstep, but on the whole, the streets were deserted.
The hotel formed one side of a tiny cobbled square with a church opposite. There were several wooden tables outside, but no sign of any customers, and Lomax guessed that the place would probably liven up in the evening.
He followed the boy into a large, stone-flagged room with a low ceiling. There were more tables and chairs and a marble-topped bar in one corner, bottles ranged behind it on wooden shelves.
Yanni put down the canvas grip and the typewriter and vanished through a door at the rear. It was cool and pleasant after the heat outside and Lomax leaned against the bar and waited.
He could hear a murmur of conversation and then a girl’s voice was raised, high and scolding. ‘Always you lie to me!’ There was the sound of a slap and Yanni ran into the room head down, a young girl in a blue dress and white apron in hot pursuit.
She came to an abrupt halt when she saw Lomax and the boy made a dramatic gesture. ‘There, am I not speaking the truth?’
The girl was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a round, pretty face, and she came forward, wiping flour from her hands on the apron.
She stood looking at him helplessly, crimson with embarrassment, and Lomax smiled. ‘It’s all right. I speak Greek.’
Immediate relief showed on her face. ‘You must excuse me, but Yanni is such a liar and he caught me in the middle of baking. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Yanni told me this was the best hotel in town.’
She looked as if she didn’t know what to say and he added gently, ‘You do have one available, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘You’ve caught me rather by surprise, that’s all. We seldom get tourists on Kyros. I’ll have to get clean linen and air the mattress.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘There’s no hurry.’
He took a banknote from his wallet and handed it to Yanni. The boy examined it carefully and his eyes widened. He looked longingly at the open door, sighed and held out the note reluctantly.
‘I think you’ve made a mistake, mister. It’s too much.’
Lomax closed the boy’s hand over the note. ‘Let’s call it an advance payment on your services. I may need you again.’
Yanni’s face split into a delighted grin. ‘Say, mister, I like you. You’re my friend. I hope you stay on Kyros a long time.’
He whistled to the dog and ran through the doorway into the square. Lomax picked up the grip and the typewriter and turned to the girl.
‘He is impossible,’ she said as she led the way out into a whitewashed passage.
‘He seems to speak pretty good English?’
She nodded. ‘After his parents were drowned, he lived on Rhodes with his mother’s people. I suppose he picked it up from the tourists.’
‘Who looks after him now?’
‘He lives with his grandmother near the harbour, but she can’t do much for him. She’s too old.’
They mounted narrow wooden stairs and turned into a corridor that seemed to run the full length of the building. She paused outside the door at the far end and said, ‘It’s a very simple room. I hope you understand that?’
He nodded. ‘That’s all I’m looking for.’
She opened the door and led the way in. It was plainly furnished with a brass bed, a wash-stand and an old wardrobe. As elsewhere in the house, the walls were whitewashed and the wooden floor highly polished.
The whole place was spotlessly clean and he went and opened the window and looked out across the red-tiled roofs to the harbour below. ‘But this is wonderful.’
When he turned, he saw that she was smiling with pleasure. ‘I am pleased you like it. How long will you be staying?’
He shrugged. ‘Until the boat comes again