At this moment Roger, who had viewed with increasing distress my interest in the snakes, got to his feet and shook himself before I could stop him, indicating that, as far as he was concerned, it would be far better if we moved on. The snakes unfortunately saw his movement. They convulsed in a tangled heap for a moment, their skins gleaming in the sun, and then the female disentangled herself and sped rapidly towards the sanctuary of the heather, dragging the male, still fastened to her, helplessly behind her. Roger looked at me, gave a small sneeze of pleasure, and wagged his stumpy tail. But I was annoyed with him and told him so in no uncertain terms. After all, as I pointed out to him, on the numerous occasions when he was latched to a bitch how would he like to be overtaken by some danger and dragged so ignominiously from the field of love?
With the summer came the bands of gypsies to the island to help harvest the crops and to steal what they could while they were there. Sloe-eyed, their dusky skins burnt almost black by the sun, their hair unkempt and their clothing in rags, you would see them moving in family groups along the white, dusty roads, riding on donkeys or on lithe little ponies, shiny as chestnuts. Their encampments were always a squalid enchantment, with a dozen pots bubbling with different ingredients over the fires, the old women squatting in the shadow of their grubby lean-tos with the heads of the younger children in their laps, carefully searching them for lice, while the older children, tattered as dandelion leaves, rolled and screamed and played in the dust. Those of the men who had a side-line would be busy with it, one twisting and tying multi-coloured balloons together, so that they screeched in protest, making strange animal shapes. Another, perhaps, who was the proud possessor of a Karaghiozi shadow show, would be refurbishing the highly coloured cut-out figures and practising some of Karaghiozi’s vulgarities and innuendoes to the giggling delight of the handsome young women who stirred the cooking pots or knitted in the shade.
I had always wanted to get on intimate terms with the gypsies, but they were a shy and hostile people, barely tolerating the Greeks. So that my mop of hair, bleached almost white by the sun, and my blue eyes made me automatically suspect, and although they would allow me to visit their camps, they were never forthcoming, in the way that the peasants were in telling me about their private lives and their aspirations. But it was, nevertheless, the gypsies who were indirectly responsible for an uproar in the family. For once I was entirely innocent.
It was the tail-end of an exceptionally hot summer’s afternoon. Roger and I had been having an exhausting time pursuing a large and indignant king snake along a length of dry stone wall. No sooner had we dismantled one section of it than the snake would ease himself fluidly along into the next section, and by the time we had rebuilt the section we had pulled down, it would take half an hour or so to locate him again in the jigsaw of rocks. Finally we had to concede defeat and we were now making our way home to tea, thirsty, sweating, and covered with dust. As we rounded an elbow of the road, I glanced into the olive grove that sloped down the hillside into a small valley, and saw what, at first glance, I took to be a man with an exceptionally large dog. A closer look, however, and I realized, incredulously, that it was a man with a bear. I was so astonished that I cried out involuntarily. The bear stood up on its hind legs and turned to look up at me, as did the man. They stared at me for a moment and then the man waved his hand in casual greeting and turned back to the task of spreading his belongings under the olive tree while the bear got down again on its haunches and squatted, watching him with interest. I made my way hurriedly down the hillside, filled with excitement. I had heard that there were dancing bears in Greece, but I had never actually seen one. This was an opportunity too good to be missed. As I drew near, I called a greeting to the man and he turned from his jumble of possessions and replied courteously enough. I saw that he was indeed a gypsy, with the dark, wild eyes and the blue-black hair, but he was infinitely more prosperous-looking than most of them, for his suit was in good repair and he wore shoes, a mark of distinction in those days, even among the landed peasantry of the island.
I asked whether it was safe to approach, for the bear, although wearing a leather muzzle, was untethered.
‘Yes, come,’ called the man. ‘Pavlo won’t hurt you, but leave your dog.’
I turned to Roger and I could see that, brave though he was, he did not like the look of the bear and was staying by me only out of a sense of duty. When I told him to go home, he gave me a grateful look and trotted off up the hillside, trying to pretend that he was ignorant of the whole scene. In spite of the man’s assurances that Pavlo was harmless, I approached with caution, for although it was only a youngster, the bear, when it reared on its hind legs, was a good foot or so taller than I was and possessed on each broad, furry paw a formidable and very serviceable array of glittering claws. It squatted on its haunches and peered at me out of tiny, twinkling brown eyes, panting gently. It looked like a large pile of animated, unkempt seaweed. To me it was the most desirable animal I had ever set eyes on and I walked round it, viewing its excellence from every possible vantage point.
I plied the man with eager questions. How old was it? Where did he get it? What was he doing with it?
‘He dances for his living and for my living,’ said the man, obviously amused by my enthusiasm over the bear. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
He picked up a stick with a small hook at the end and slid it into a ring set into the leather muzzle the bear wore.
‘Come, dance with your papa.’
In one swift movement the bear rose on its hind legs. The man clicked his fingers and whistled a plaintive tune, starting to shuffle his feet in time to the music and the bear followed suit. Together they shuffled in a slow, stately minuet among the electric blue thistles and the dried asphodel stalks. I could have watched them forever. When the man reached the end of his tune, the bear, as of habit, got down on all fours again and sneezed.
‘Bravo!’ said the man softly. ‘Bravo!’
I clapped enthusiastically. Never, I said earnestly, had I seen such a fine dance, nor such an accomplished performer as Pavlo. Could I, perhaps, pat him?
‘You can do what you like with him,’ said the man, chuckling, as he unhooked his stick from the bear’s muzzle. ‘He’s a fool, this one. He wouldn’t even hurt a bandit who was robbing him of his food.’
To prove it he started scratching the bear’s back and the bear, pointing its head up into the sky, uttered throaty, wheezy murmurings of pleasure and sank gradually down onto the ground in ecstasy, until he was spread out looking almost, I thought, like a bearskin rug.
‘He likes to be tickled,’ said the man. ‘Come and tickle him.’
The next half hour was pure delight for me. I tickled the bear while he crooned with delight. I examined his great claws and his ears and his tiny bright eyes and he lay there and suffered me as though he were asleep. Then I leaned against his warm bulk and talked to his owner. A plan was forming in my mind. The bear, I decided, had got to become mine. The dogs and my other animals would soon get used to it and together we could go waltzing over the hillsides. I convinced myself that the family would be overjoyed at my acquisition of such an intelligent pet. But first I had to get the man into a suitable frame of mind for bargaining. With the peasants, bargaining was a loud, protracted, and difficult business. But this man was a gypsy and what they did not know about bargaining would fit conveniently into an acorn cup. The man seemed much less taciturn and reticent than the other gypsies I had come into contact with, and I took this as a good sign. I asked him where he had come from.
‘Way beyond, way beyond,’ he said, covering his possessions with as habby tarpaulin and shaking out some threadbare blankets which were obviously going to serve as his bed. ‘Landed at Lefkimi last night and we’ve been walking ever since, Pavlo, the Head, and I. You see, they wouldn’t take Pavlo on the buses; they were frightened of him. So we got no sleep last night, but tonight we’ll sleep here and then tomorrow we’ll reach the town.’
Intrigued, I asked him what he meant by ‘he, Pavlo, and the Head’ walking up from Lefkimi?
‘My Head, of course,’ he said. ‘My little talking Head.’ And he picked up the bear stick and slapped it on a pile of goods under the tarpaulin, grinning at me.
I had unearthed the battered remains of a bar of chocolate from the pocket of my shorts and I was busy feeding this to the bear, who received each fragment with great moans and slobberings of satisfaction. I said to the man that I did not understand what he was talking about. He squatted on his haunches in front of me and lit a cigarette, peering at me out of dark eyes, as enigmatic as a lizard’s.
‘I have a Head,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards his pile of belongings, ‘a living Head. It talks and answers questions. It is without doubt the most remarkable thing in the world.’
I was puzzled. Did he mean, I asked, a head without a body?
‘Of course without a body. Just a head,’ and he cupped his hands in front of him, as though holding a coconut.
‘It sits on a little stick and talks to you. Nothing like it has ever been seen in the world.’
But how, I inquired, if the head were a disembodied head, could it live?
‘Magic,’ said the man solemnly. ‘Magic that my great-great-grandfather passed down to me.’
I felt sure that he was pulling my leg, but intriguing though the discussion on talking heads was, I felt we were wandering away from my main objective, which was to acquire the immediate freehold of Pavlo, now sucking in through his muzzle, with wheezy sighs of satisfaction, my very last bit of chocolate. I studied the man carefully as he squatted, dreamy-eyed, his head enveloped in a cloud of smoke. I decided that with him the bold approach was the best. I asked him bluntly whether he would consider selling the bear and for how much.
‘Sell Pavlo?’ he said. ‘Never! He’s like my own son.’
Surely, I said, if he went to a good home? Somewhere where he was loved and allowed to dance, surely then he might be tempted to sell? The man looked at me, meditatively puffing on his cigarette.
‘Twenty million drachmas?’ he inquired, and then laughed at my look of consternation. ‘Men who have fields must have donkeys to work them,’ he said. ‘They don’t part with them easily. Pavlo is my donkey. He dances for his living and he dances for mine, and until he is too old to dance, I will not part with him.’
I was bitterly disappointed, but I could see that he was adamant. I rose from my recumbent position on the broad, warm, faintly snoring back of Pavlo and dusted myself down. Well, I said, there was nothing more I could do. I understood his wanting to keep the bear, but if he changed his mind, would he get in touch with me? He nodded gravely. And if he was performing in town, could he possibly let me know where, so that I could attend?
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I think people will tell you where I am, for my Head is extraordinary.’
I nodded and shook his hand. Pavlo got to his feet and I patted his head.
When I reached the top of the valley I looked back. They were both standing side by side. The man waved briefly and Pavlo, swaying on his hind legs, had his muzzle in the air, questing after me with his nose. I liked to feel it was a gesture of farewell.
I walked slowly home thinking about the man and his talking head and the wonderful Pavlo. Would it be possible, I wondered, for me to get a bear cub from somewhere and rear it? Perhaps if I advertised in a newspaper in Athens it might bring results.
The family were in the drawing-room having tea and I decided to put my problem to them. As I entered the room, however, a startling change came over what had been a placid scene. Margo uttered a piercing scream, Larry dropped a cup full of tea into his lap and then leaped up and took refuge behind the table, while Leslie picked up a chair and Mother gaped at me with a look of horror on her face. I had never known my presence to provoke quite such a positive reaction on the part of the family.
‘Get it out of here,’ roared Larry.
‘Yes, get the bloody thing out,’ said Leslie.
‘It’ll kill us all!’ screamed Margo.
‘Get a gun,’ said Mother faintly. ‘Get a gun and save Gerry.’
I couldn’t, for the life of me, think what was the matter with them. They were all staring at something behind me. I turned and looked and there, standing in the doorway, sniffing hopefully towards the tea-table, was Pavlo. I went up to him and caught hold of his muzzle. He nuzzled at me affectionately. I explained to the family that it was only Pavlo.
‘I am not having it,’ said Larry throatily. ‘I am not having it. Birds and dogs and hedgehogs all over the house and now a bear. What does he think this is, for Christ’s sake? A bloody Roman arena?’
‘Gerry, dear, do be careful,’ said Mother quaveringly. ‘It looks rather fierce.’
‘It will kill us all,’ quavered Margo with conviction.
‘I can’t get past it to get to my guns,’ said Leslie.
‘You are not going to have it. I forbid it,’ said Larry. ‘I will not have the place turned into a bear pit.’
‘Where did you get it, dear?’ asked Mother.
‘I don’t care where he got it,’ said Larry. ‘He’s to take it back this instant, quickly, before it rips us to pieces. The boy’s got no sense of responsibility. I am not going to be turned into an early Christian martyr at my time of life.’
Pavlo got up on his hind legs and uttered a long wheezing moan which I took to mean that he desired to join us in partaking of whatever delicacies there were on the tea-table. The family interpreted it differently.
‘Ow!’ screeched Margo, as though she had been bitten. ‘It’s attacking.’
‘Gerry, do be careful,’ said Mother.
‘I’ll not be responsible for what I do to that boy,’ said Larry.
‘If you survive,’ said Leslie. ‘Do shut up, Margo, you’re only making matters worse. You’ll provoke the bloody thing.’
‘I can scream if I want to,’ said Margo indignantly.
So raucous in their fear were the family that they had not given me a chance to explain. Now I attempted to. I said that, first of all, Pavlo was not mine, and secondly, he was as tame as a dog and would not hurt a fly.
‘Two statements I refuse to believe,’ said Larry. ‘You pinched it from some flaming circus. Not only are we to be disembowelled, but arrested for harbouring stolen goods as well.’
‘Now, now, dear,’ said Mother, ‘let Gerry explain.’
‘Explain?’ said Larry. ‘Explain? How do you explain a bloody great bear in the drawing-room?’
I said that the bear belonged to a gypsy who had a talking head.
‘What do you mean, a talking head?’ asked Margo.
I said that it was a disembodied head that talked.
‘The boy’s mad,’ said Larry with conviction. ‘The sooner we have him certified the better.’
The family had now all backed away to the farthest corner of the room in a trembling group. I said, indignantly, that my story was perfectly true and that, to prove it, I’d make Pavlo dance. I seized a piece of cake from the table, hooked my finger into the ring on his muzzle, and uttered the same commands as his master had done. His eyes fixed greedily on the cake, Pavlo roared up and danced with me.
‘Oo, look!’ said Margo. ‘Look! It’s dancing!’
‘I don’t care if it’s behaving like a whole corps de ballet,’ said Larry. ‘I want the damn thing out of here.’
I shovelled the cake in through Pavlo’s muzzle and he sucked it down greedily.
‘He really is rather sweet,’ said Mother, adjusting her spectacles and staring at him with interest. ‘I remember my brother had a bear in India once. She was a very nice pet.’
‘No!’ said Larry and Leslie simultaneously. ‘He’s not having it.’
I said I could not have it anyway, because the man did not want to sell it.
‘A jolly good thing, too,’ said Larry.
‘Why don’t you now return it to hi
m, if you have quite finished doing a cabaret act all over the tea-table?’
Getting another slice of cake as a bribe, I hooked my finger once more in the ring on Pavlo’s muzzle and led him out of the house. Half-way back to the olive grove, I met the distraught owner.
‘There he is! There he is! The wicked one. I couldn’t think where he had got to. He never leaves my side normally, that’s why I don’t keep him tied up. He must have taken a great fancy to you.’
Honesty made me admit that I thought the only reason Pavlo had followed me was because he viewed me in the light of a purveyor of chocolates.
‘Phew!’ said the man. ‘It is a relief to me. I thought he might have gone down to the village and that would have got me into trouble with the police.’
Reluctantly, I handed Pavlo over to his owner and watched them make their way back to their camp under the trees. And then, in some trepidation, I went back to face the family. Although it had not been my fault that Pavlo had followed me, I’m afraid that my activities in the past stood against me, and the family took a lot of convincing that, on this occasion, the guilt was not mine.
The following morning, my head still filled with thoughts of Pavlo, I dutifully went into town – as I did every morning – to the house of my tutor, Richard Kralefsky. Kralefsky was a little gnome of a man with a slightly humped back and great, earnest, amber eyes, who suffered from real tortures in his unsuccessful attempts to educate me. He had two most endearing qualities: one was a deep love for natural history (the whole attic of his house was devoted to an enormous variety of canaries and other birds); the other was the fact that, for at least a part of the time, he lived in a dream-world where he was always the hero. These adventures he would relate to me. He was inevitably accompanied in them by a heroine who was never named, but known simply as ‘a lady’.
The first half of the morning was devoted to mathematics, and with my head full of thoughts of Pavlo, I proved to be even duller than usual, to the consternation of Kralefsky, who had hitherto been under the impression that he had plumbed the depths of my ignorance.
The Corfu Trilogy Page 51