The element -inth in Greek

by Alison Fell

  Bennett’s method – painstaking visual comparison, combined with comparison of the contexts of all the characters on the tablets and a frequency analysis of signs and sign combinations – met with Kober’s approval. Not until the following year, however, in exchange for showing Bennett the Myres/Evans Knossos material, would Kober be able to see and draw the Pylos material for herself, and find confirmation therein for some of the deductions she had already made from the Knossos inscriptions.

  It has been said that in the history of the decipherment, Bennett’s work may be likened to ‘clearing the terrain of jungle and straightening the path’ while Kober’s was more in the nature of proposing a methodology that would enable the decipherment to move forward along the path to progress. In the summer of 1948, however, the two scholars were still labouring independently, Bennett at Yale, and Kober in Oxford.

  Meanwhile, the man who would ultimately reap the benefit of their work was touring Europe in an old Ford army van. On a camping holiday with his wife Lois and two Architectural Association colleagues, Michael Ventris was visiting the highlights of modernist architecture in France and Italy. While in Tuscany Ventris had also taken the opportunity to do some private research on Etruscan, which he still saw as a contender for the language of Linear B, but he apparently said nothing about this to his companions. They were therefore taken aback when he refused a proposed trip to Corbusier’s workers’ flats, currently under construction in Marseilles, saying that he had to return immediately to England.

  What Ventris had omitted to tell them was that back in June he had given Myres an assurance that he would spend much of August and the early autumn in Oxford, working with him on Scripta Minoa. This secrecy was, perhaps, a measure of his ambivalence about the Linear B project – an ambivalence which may have stemmed from the conflict of loyalties he felt between architecture and decipherment, but which may also have been heightened by the awareness that in Oxford the formidable Alice Kober awaited him.

  One suspects that Ventris contrived to be rather late for his appointment, for it was not until the end of August that he arrived in Oxford. The meeting took place around the Bank Holiday weekend and, to put it mildly, was not a success. The upshot was that Ventris pulled out of the collaboration and immediately fled Oxford, writing a tortured apology to Myres which is headed, Oxford Station, Monday night:

  ‘You will probably think me quite mad if I try and account for the reasons why I’ll be absent on Tuesday morning, and why I should like to ask Miss Kober, or the other girl you mentioned [sic] to complete the transcription.’ … ‘But however much I tell myself that I am a swine to let you down after all my glib promises and conceited preparations – I am hit at last by the overwhelming realisation that I should not be able to stand 6 weeks’ work alone in Oxford, and that I am an idiot not to stick to my own last.’

  Although there is evidence to suggest that on his return to London Ventris told his wife Lois that he had had ‘a terrible row’, what happened at the meeting remains shrouded in mystery. We do not know whether there actually was some kind of altercation, or whether Ventris’ abrupt withdrawal was caused by a crisis of confidence. However, judging by a hurried, cryptic apology Kober sent Sir John a few days later, one suspects that she too had cause to regret her behaviour. The note is dated – wrongly – August 4th (she must have meant to write September 4th) and ends, uncharacteristically, ‘Quite chastened, Alice.’

  One has to sympathise with the kindly, mild-mannered Myres, who cannot have anticipated that the meeting would turn into a clash of Titans!

  46

  On the main road Yiannis put his foot down. His breathing was fast and shallow, a turmoil in the upper sector of his chest. He slammed his hand on the horn to clear a minibus out of the fast lane: speed, even more than time, was of the essence. Speed for its own sake, to cancel out his racing thoughts and shut down his mind.

  He was aware of strobic light flickering sideways through the cypress trees that lined the road, a confetti of insects sacrificing themselves on the windscreen. His inner eye offered up fragments of a film in black and white. A woman in the uniform of an air stewardess, a woman in a cab to the airport. A woman standing on the steps of a plane, smiling her stewardessy smile. Although his memory refused to yield up the title, he recalled with a sense of dread that the central theme was of a man who had missed his moment, a man who had acted too late, and whom fate had duly punished. It could have been by Truffaut but he wasn’t sure. Françoise Dorleac, sister of the glorious Catherine Deneuve, had played the part of the air hostess, Jean Desailly the married academic with whom she was in love. The lovers had quarrelled, he recalled, and Dorleac had ended the affair.

  What stood starkly in his memory was the phone kiosk that was occupied when Desailly tried to call – a plot-point made redundant, now, by the advent of the cellphone, but devastating back then. Although time is running out, the indecisive Desailly doesn’t eject the wretched caller; instead, he stands there, polite and desperately impatient. When at last he gets through the phone trills in an empty apartment. The propellors roar into action, stirring dust-plumes on the tarmac. The plane takes off. The plane crashes. End of story.

  That, at least, was how he thought it ended, although he had an inkling that there was more. What he did remember was an irony that chilled his heart. Dorleac herself had died soon afterwards, in a car wreck on the Autoroute du Sud. He’d always found her even more beautiful than her sister.

  The thought of Ingrid hollowed him out. He’d watched her walk away, back rigorous, briefcase clutched in her hand. If he’d made the decision not to go after her, it wasn’t, he hoped, an executive one.

  When he reached the Station he was late, although not as late as he might have been. At a desk in the Co-ops suite the jilted Kyriaki, pale-faced in a brave red suit, was smoking concentratedly. She looked up dully when he greeted her, and if she didn’t exactly smile, nor did she reprimand him.

  Heartsick or not, Kyriaki was a fast worker. Her desk was awash with printouts, and she’d already assigned tasks to the ever-eager Nina, teamed up on this occasion with a sweating, jug-eared constable called Stelios.

  ‘Halcyon,’ she said, passing a typed list to Yiannis. He noticed that the diamond engagement ring had vanished. She hadn’t even worn it long enough for the sun to print its demarcation on her finger. ‘They produce food up there, don’t they? So there’ll be Min of Ag certification, business licences. Same goes for that clinic place on Odos Evans.’

  ‘VetAid,’ Nina supplied, looking up from her list and acknowledging Yiannis with a shy nod.

  ‘VetAid, right. Stelio, you’re in luck. You get the easy bit. Residence Permits: they’re either on file here or at the nearest station – Katomeli, I guess.’

  After half an hour at the computer Yiannis managed to consign to limbo that part of his mind which was still waiting for his cellphone to ring. He felt just shaky enough to be glad of the tedious work of cross referencing, and even more grateful than usual for the balm of Nina’s blushing assistance. When he rang the VetAid number the voice that answered was female, English, and irascible.

  ‘Another check?’ the woman snapped. ‘We are fully accredited, you know!’

  Another incidence of police harrassment, he could hear her thinking. ‘All the same, if you would fax through the documents right away. Including your HVA certificate,’ he added, just to rub it in.

  ‘One moment.’ She spoke rapidly to someone in the background; he was fairly sure the voice that replied was Wiltraud’s. ‘As you wish. I’ll do it directly.’

  He spelled out the fax number and rang off, satisfied. Nina would double check with the tax people and the Chamber of Commerce, but neither he nor Kyriaki seriously expected to find infringements. Catching Kyriaki’s eye, he raised a thumb. She glanced at her watch and stood up, swinging her bag purposefully over her shoulder. Her nostrils had the flare of a horse at the starting gate; she no longer looked beseiged, nor in the least bit hu
mble.

  ‘Shall we get going, then? I think they’ve had just enough time to get the wind up.’

  As Kyriaki’s car rounded Platia Eleftherias he felt himself brushed by the wings of excitement. Abbott and Costello were in a squad car behind, followed by the family liaison officer – a bespectacled woman in her fiftes called Mrs. Leandrou, who was accompanied by a female constable. Since the traffic was unusually light, and what vehicles there were scattered before the flashing police beacons, within half an hour they had turned off the coastal highway and were heading into the hills.

  If he’d expected to find some degree of consternation at Halcyon, when they drove through the gate his eyes fell on a calm and bucolic scene. Chickens pecked around a compost heap, while a commune cat dozed in the shade of the great olive tree in the yard. A wheelbarrow full of bedding plants stood next to a brand new water butt. There were no vehicles in the yard, so the three cars parked with relative ease.

  Stepping out into a pervasive smell of fresh manure, he made a point of waiting for Kyriaki to join him before advancing on the house. Apart from a brace of watermelons ripening on the deck, the porch was empty, but he’d caught a glimpse of movement in the shade at the side of the outbuilding. He saw it was Margrit, thin as a supermodel in a black vest and jogging pants, her hair falling in elegant wisps over her face. She might have been on the cover of Vogue, had it not been for the horned head wedged firmly between her thighs.

  Seeing them, Margrit spoke over her shoulder to Polly, who had been squatting under the goat’s belly, and now crawled out clutching a plastic pail. Although he gaped at the spectacle of the police cars and flashing lights, he stood up slowly, careful not to spill a single drop of milk.

  With a cool look at the visitors, Margrit unstraddled the goat, led it over to a post, tethered it, and limped back towards them. She squinted as she emerged from the shade, the noon sun showing up the fine wrinkles around her eyes. Despite himself, Yiannis was impressed. A class act, was what you’d call it.

  In the absence of the interpreter, who was to meet them back at HQ, Kyriaki had agreed that Yiannis should do the honours, but now she produced the paperwork from her bag and flapped it under Margrit’s nose.

  Margrit gave the papers a cursory glance. ‘I have expected this,’ she said with a sigh. She took the pail of milk from Polly and laid a protective hand on his shoulder. Dismissing Kyriaki with a quick once-over, she looked imperiously at Yiannis. ‘So. Are you arresting us, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But I advise you to cooperate.’

  A pick-up truck laden with hay-bales nosed through the gateway and stopped dead. Wolfgang jumped out and hit the ground running. Cassie tumbled out of the passenger seat and raced after him A stream of German assailed Yiannis’ ears: a harsh, abusive sound, guaranteed to get anyone’s back up.

  Mouzakitis and Kounidis were immediately on their mettle. Hands hovering over their belts, they squared up to Wolfgang, each with the degree of menace commensurate with his stature.

  It was Margrit who stayed Wolfgang with a warning hand and a few muttered word in German.

  ‘We’ll also require your computers and laptops,’ Yiannis continued.

  ‘On what grounds?’ Wolfgang demanded.

  ‘Let’s see.’ Yiannis shrugged, considering. ‘We could start with obstruction.’

  ‘Cellphones too,’ Kyriaki reminded him sourly.

  Yiannis sensed that she was losing patience. She issued a sharp order and Kounidis and Mouzakitis headed for the house. He saw two men emerge from the polytunnel. The white man was stocky, bow-legged; his dungarees were baggy and mud-streaked, the bib dangling loose over a packed, muscular chest. Over his shoulder he carried a wide-pronged rake. The black man with him was well over six feet tall, with the princely posture and fluent gait of a Premier League footballer. Yiannis heard Kyriaki swear under her breath.

  Spotting the reception committee, the short one dropped his rake and ambled towards them. His Little House on the Prairie act didn’t fool Yiannis for a second: that compact, contained air could only mean one of two things – either he was ex-military, or an ex-cop.

  ‘All right, lovely?’ he said quietly, stopping beside Margrit. He hitched up his straps and assessed Yiannis. ‘Helping the police with their enquiries, is it?’

  ‘They want our cellphones, Prys!’ Wolfgang’s expression suggested derision rather than anger. Yiannis wondered what the joke was.

  Prys was grinning openly. ‘Not possible, Sergeant. Decommissioned by popular vote. Sorry about that.’

  Yiannis remembered the notice on the gate. He glanced at Kyriaki, wondering how much she’d understood.

  ‘Disposed of – ecologically, like. Sent them all off meself.’

  ‘The reason being?’

  ‘C.C.D. Colony Collapse Disorder. You should read the newspapers, Sergeant.’ Prys was plainly enjoying himself. ‘Nasty things, these microwaves. Fuck the hives up something dreadful.’

  A haze descended on Yiannis’ brain. His first instinct was to dismiss the whole thing as one of these Internet effusions so beloved of the apocalyptically-minded. But the coincidences were too frequent, and too bizarre.

  Wolfgang was standing with his arms folded and his jaw squared, tapping his foot impatiently. Yiannis thought of the man on the track, sporting his alarmist T shirt. He translated quickly for Kyriaki, who raised her eyes to the heavens.

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything! Who is this wanker?’ Suggesting succinctly that it was time they got shot of this dungheap, she began to wave her arms about like a belligerent schoolgirl, matching personnel with cars.

  There was a delay while Margrit asked to fetch some things for the children, and had to be escorted indoors by the young policewoman. The matronly Mrs. Leandrou, meanwhile, had hunkered down beside the twins, and seemed to be asking them about their pets.

  After a moment or two Mouzakitis emerged from the house with a computer and carried it across to the squad car, trailing the flex behind him in the dust.

  The sunlight was filmic and dazzling, the yard a set on which each actor played his part: Prys, casually dowsing his underarms at the water butt, Jean-Yves, the black boy from the banlieues, batting away burning strands of tobacco which floated from the end of his roll-up. Yiannis looked on, feeling faintly nauseous. The thought that it was he who had set the whole pantomime in motion was suddenly impossible to contemplate, and for a second he hovered in the realms of the godlike and unreal.

  ‘No handcuffs, Sergeant?’ Wolfgang sneered, as Kyriaki shut him into the car. Her face was sharp with concentration, her jaws working determinedly at her nicotine chewing gum. If she was prey to the same self-doubts as Yiannis she gave no sign of it. In the bright sunshine her suit was a scarlet beacon which hurt his eyes.

  He went over to help Leandrou with the twins, who were not responding to her motherly blandishments. Cassie was half in and half out of the car; she had braced her feet against the door frame and was yelling blue murder. Polly was already in the back seat, observing her with interest. ‘She wants her teddy,’ he explained soberly.

  Yiannis pasted on his face his most persuasive smile. ‘Now then, what’s all the fuss about?’ For this he received a truculent scowl and a kick in the shins. Seizing Cassie by the waist, he scooped up her legs and swung her bodily into the back seat.

  ‘Look Cassie!’ Leandrou cried, ‘Mummy’s coming.’

  Shrugging, he went back to join Kyriaki. It was the second time that day he’d felt like a brute.

  Prys was in the back seat of the car with Wolfgang, sucking on a damp roll-up and dripping all over the upholstery. Kyriaki was chewing away madly, drumming her fingers on the wheel. Yiannis got into the passenger seat and buckled himself in.

  Kyriaki sucked in her breath. ‘Will you take a look at that!’

  On the porch the young policewoman, carrying a basket of toys, was helping Margrit down the steps. Yiannis saw that she had changed her clothes for the occasion, and now
wore a yellow sun-dress which clearly revealed the shiny steel pole of her prosthesis. At the bottom of the steps she unfolded a Japanese fan and flapped it in a way that made him think of a broken-winged butterfly.

  As if hypnotised, he and Kyriaki watched the frail figure progress haltingly across the yard.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Yiannis nodded. If the press got anywhere near her they’d have a field day. She’d definitely win the sympathy vote hands down.

  47

  Silence has fallen on the Zois house, a thick swarming silence that pulses through the empty rooms. Asterios goes hungry to work in the mornings and, returning to a bare larder, guns his papaki down to the Totem Bar to eat a disconsolate meal.

  In the kitchen garden the aubergines and zucchini go unwatered, and the chickens in the coop unfed. On the beach the sunbeds lie higgledy-piggledy, and the tourists, finding no one to pay, have set up a yoghurt pot on the chair under the raffia shelter, into which Dutch, Germans and British dutifully drop their fees.

  Androula packs her cleaning things into a plastic bucket and toils up the hill to the cemetery of Agia Stephanou. She fills the bucket at the tap in the wall; kneeling on the gravel in front of her parents’ grave, she scrubs down the marble headstone and surround and washes the glass which protects the yellowed photographs. Then she picks stray leaves off the gravel and rights the plastic begonias in their vase. Having done her duty by them, she allows herself to hope that, just for once, they will take their daughter’s side and make her godless brother come to his senses.

  The interior of the salt-white chapel is cool, the light dim and dusty. Candles flicker on the altar, beside posies of dying flowers and votive tokens left to remind the saint of the particulars of a prayer. A deaf ear, stamped in dull tin, asks to hear again, a lone leg asks to walk. Someone begs for a beaten brass baby. Lighting a beeswax candle from one of the others Androula sets it in a holder, crosses herself, and kneels on the prie dieu to address the Panagia.