The Corfu Trilogy

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘Don’t take any notice of Margo, Adrian dear,’ said Mother soothingly. ‘She doesn’t mean what she says. She’s very headstrong, you know. Have another peach.’

  ‘Pig-headed,’ said Leslie. ‘And I ought to know.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can be more like the peasant boys,’ mused Adrian, puzzled. ‘I suppose I could take up the guitar.’

  ‘No, no, don’t do that,’ said Larry hastily, ‘that’s quite unnecessary. Why not try something simple? Try chewing garlic.’

  ‘Garlic?’ asked Adrian, surprised. ‘Does Margo like garlic?’

  ‘Sure to,’ said Larry, ‘you heard what she said about those peasant lads’ auras. Well, what’s the first bit of their aura that hits you when you go near them? Garlic!’

  Adrian was much struck by the logic of this and chewed a vast quantity of garlic, only to be told by Margo, with a handkerchief over her nose, that he smelled like the local bus on market day.

  Adrian seemed to me to be a very nice person; he was gentle and kind and always willing to do anything that anyone asked of him. I felt it my duty to do something for him, but short of locking Margo in his bedroom – a thought which I dismissed as impractical and liable to be frowned on by Mother – I could think of nothing very sensible. I decided to discuss the matter with Mr Kralefsky in case he could suggest anything. When we were having our coffee break I told him about Adrian’s unsuccessful pursuit of Margo, a welcome respite for us both from the insoluble mysteries of the square on the hypotenuse.

  ‘Aha!’ he said. ‘The paths of love never run smooth. One is tempted to wonder, indeed, if life would not be a trifle dull if the road to one’s goal were always smooth.’

  I was not particularly interested in my tutor’s philosophical flights but I waited politely. Mr Kralefsky picked up a biscuit delicately in his beautifully manicured hands, held it briefly over his coffee cup and then christened it in the brown liquid before popping it into his mouth. He chewed methodically, his eyes closed.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he said at last, ‘that this young Lochinvar is trying too hard.’

  I said that Adrian was English but, in any case, how could one try too hard; if one didn’t try hard one didn’t achieve success.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Kralefsky archly, ‘but in matters of the heart things are different. A little bit of indifference sometimes works wonders.’

  He put his fingertips together and gazed raptly at the ceiling. I could tell that we were about to embark on one of his flights of fancy with his favourite mythological character, ‘a lady’.

  ‘I remember once I became greatly enamoured of a certain lady,’ said Kralefsky. ‘I tell you this in confidence, of course.’

  I nodded and helped myself to another biscuit. Kralefsky’s stories were apt to be a bit lengthy.

  ‘She was a lady of such beauty and accomplishments that every eligible man flocked round her, like… like… bees round a honey pot,’ said Mr Kralefsky, pleased with this image. ‘From the moment I saw her I fell deeply, irrevocably, inconsolably in love and felt that she in some measure returned my regard.’

  He took a sip of coffee to moisten his throat, then he trellised his fingers together and leaned across the desk, his nostrils flaring, his great, soulful eyes intense.

  ‘I pursued her relentlessly as a… as a… hound on the scent, but she was cold and indifferent to my advances. She even mocked the love that I offered her.’

  He paused, his eyes full of tears, and blew his nose vigorously.

  ‘I cannot describe to you the torture I went through, the burning agony of jealousy, the sleepless nights of pain. I lost twenty-four kilos; my friends began to worry about me, and, of course, they all tried to persuade me that the lady in question was not worthy of my suffering. All except one friend… a… an experienced man of the world, who had, I believe, had several affairs of the heart himself, one as far away as Baluchistan. He told me that I was trying too hard, that as long as I was casting my heart at the lady’s feet she would be, like all females, bored by her conquest. But if I showed a little indifference, aha! my friend assured me, it would be a very different tale.’

  Kralefsky beamed at me and nodded his head knowingly. He poured himself out more coffee.

  And had he shown indifference, I asked.

  ‘Indeed I did,’ said Kralefsky. ‘I didn’t lose a minute. I embarked on a boat for China.’

  I thought this was splendid; no woman, I felt, could claim to have you enslaved if you suddenly leaped on a boat for China. It was sufficiently remote to give the vainest woman pause for thought. And what happened, I inquired eagerly, when Mr Kralefsky returned from his travels?

  ‘I found she had married,’ said Mr Kralefsky, rather shamefacedly, for he realized that this was somewhat of an anticlimax.

  ‘Some women are capricious and impatient, you know. But I managed to have a few moments of private conversation with her and she explained it all.’

  I waited expectantly.

  ‘She said,’ Mr Kralefsky continued, ‘that she had thought I had gone for good to become a Lama so she married. Yes, the little dear would have waited for me had she known, but, torn with grief, she married the first man who came along. If I had not misjudged the length of the voyage she would have been mine today.’

  He blew his nose violently, a stricken look on his face. I digested this story, but it did not seem to give any very clear clues as to how to help Adrian. Should I perhaps lend him my boat, the Bootle-Bumtrinket, and suggest that he rowed over to Albania? Apart from the risk of losing my precious boat, I did not think that Adrian was strong enough to row that far. No, I agreed with Kralefsky that Adrian was being too eager but, knowing how capricious my sister was, I felt she would greet her admirer’s disappearance from the island with delight rather than with despair. Adrian’s real difficulty lay in the fact that he could never get Margo alone. I decided that I would have to take Adrian in hand if he was going to achieve anything like success.

  The first thing was for him to stop following Margo around like a lamb following a sheep and to feign indifference, so I inveigled him into accompanying me when I went out to explore the surrounding countryside. This was easy enough to do. Margo, in self-defence, had taken to rising at dawn and disappearing from the villa before Adrian put in an appearance so he was left pretty much to himself. Mother had tried to interest him in cooking but after he had left the icebox open and melted half our perishable foodstuffs, set fire to a frying pan full of fat, turned a perfectly good joint of lamb into something closely resembling biltong, and dropped half a dozen eggs on to the kitchen floor, she was only too glad to back up my suggestion that Adrian should accompany me.

  I found Adrian an admirable companion, considering that he had been brought up in a city. He never complained, he would patiently obey my terse instructions to ‘Hold that!’ or ‘Don’t move – it’ll bite you!’ to the letter, and seemed genuinely interested in the creatures we pursued.

  As Mr Kralefsky had predicted, Margo became intrigued by Adrian’s sudden absence. Although she did not care for his attentions she felt perversely piqued when she was not receiving them. She wanted to know what Adrian and I did all day long. I replied rather austerely that Adrian was helping me in my zoological investigations. I said that moreover he was shaping up very well and if this went on I would have no hesitation in proclaiming him a very competent naturalist by the end of the summer.

  ‘I don’t know how you can go around with anyone so wet,’ she said. ‘I find him an incredible bore.’

  I said that was probably just as well as Adrian had confessed to me that he was finding Margo a bit boring too.

  ‘What?’ said Margo, outraged. ‘How dare he say that, how dare he!’

  Well, I pointed out philosophically, she had only herself to blame. After all, who would not find someone boring if they carried on like she did, never going swimming with him, never going walking with him, always being rude.

  ‘I’m not rude,�
�� said Margo angrily. ‘I just speak the truth. And if he wants a walk I’ll give him one. Boring indeed!’

  I was so pleased with the success of my scheme that I overlooked the fact that Margo, like the rest of my family, could be a powerful antagonist when aroused. That evening she was so unexpectedly polite and charming to Adrian that everyone, with the victim’s exception, was amazed and alarmed. Skilfully, Margo steered the conversation round to walks and then said that, as Adrian’s time in the island was growing short, it was essential that he saw more of it. What better method than walking? Yes, stammered Adrian, that was really the best way of seeing a country.

  ‘I intend to go for a walk the day after tomorrow,’ said Margo airily, ‘a lovely walk. It’s a pity you’re so busy with Gerry, otherwise you could have come with me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let that worry you. Gerry can fend for himself,’ said Adrian, with what I privately considered to be callous and impolite indifference. ‘I’d love to come!’

  ‘Oh good,’ fluted Margo. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it; it’s one of the nicest strolls around here.’

  ‘Where?’ inquired Leslie.

  ‘Liapades,’ said Margo airily, ‘I haven’t been there for ages.’

  ‘Liapades?’ echoed Leslie. ‘A stroll? It’s right the other side of the island. It’ll take you hours.’

  ‘Well, I thought we’d take a picnic and make a day of it,’ said Margo, adding archly, ‘that is, if Adrian doesn’t mind.’

  It was obvious that Adrian would not mind if Margo had suggested swimming underwater to Italy and back in full armour. I said I thought I would accompany them, as it was an interesting walk from a zoological point of view. Margo shot me a baleful look.

  ‘Well, if you come you must behave yourself,’ she said enigmatically.

  Adrian was, needless to say, full of the walk and Margo’s kindness in asking him. I was not so sure. I pointed out that Liapades was a long way and that it was very hot, but Adrian said he did not mind a bit. Privately, I wondered, since he was rather frail, whether he would last the pace but I could not say this without insulting him. At five o’clock on the appointed day we assembled on the veranda. Adrian was wearing an enormous pair of hob-nailed boots he had acquired from somewhere, long trousers and a thick flannel shirt. To my astonishment, when I ventured to suggest that this ensemble was not suitable for a walk across the island in a temperature of over a hundred in the shade, Margo disagreed. Adrian was wearing perfect walking kit, chosen by herself, she said. The fact that she was clad in a diaphanous bathing suit and sandals and I was in shorts and an open-necked shirt did not deter her. She was armed with a massive pack on her back, which I imagined contained our food and drink, and a stout stick. I was carrying my collecting bag and butterfly net.

  Thus equipped, we set out, Margo setting an unreasonably fast pace, I thought. Within a short space of time Adrian was sweating profusely and his face turned pink. Margo, in spite of my protests, stuck to open country and shunned the shade-giving olive groves. In the end I kept pace with them but walked in the shade of the trees a few hundred yards away. Adrian, afraid of being accused of being soft, followed doggedly and moistly at Margo’s heels. After four hours, he was limping badly and dragging his feet; his grey shirt was black with sweat and his face was an alarming shade of magenta.

  ‘Would you like a rest?’ Margo inquired at this point.

  ‘Just a drink, perhaps,’ said Adrian in a parched voice like a corncrake.

  I said I thought this was a splendid idea so Margo stopped and sat down on a red hot rock in the open sun-soaked ground on which you could have roasted a team of oxen. She fumbled surreptitiously in her pack and produced three small bottles of Gazoza, a fizzy and extremely sweet local lemonade.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing us a bottle each. ‘This’ll buck you up.’

  In addition to being fizzy and over-sweet, the Gazoza was very warm so, if anything, it increased rather than assuaged our thirst. By the time it was nearing midday we were in sight of the opposite coast of the island. The news brought a spark of hope into the lacklustre eyes of Adrian. Once we reached the sea we could rest and swim, Margo explained. We reached the wild coastline and made our way down through the jumble of gigantic red and brown rocks strewn along the sea shore like an uprooted giants’ cemetery. Adrian threw himself down in the shade of an enormous block of rock topped with a wig of myrtle and a baby umbrella pine and tore off his shirt and boots. His feet, we discovered, were almost the same startling red as his face, and badly blistered. Margo suggested that he soak them in a rock pool to harden them and this he did while Margo and I swam. Then, much refreshed, we squatted in the shade of the rocks and I said I thought some food and drink would be welcome.

  ‘There is none,’ said Margo.

  There was a stunned silence for a moment. ‘What d’you mean, there is none?’ asked Adrian. ‘What’s in that pack?’

  ‘Oh, those are just my bathing things,’ said Margo. ‘I decided I wouldn’t bring any food because it was so heavy to carry in this heat, and anyway, we’ll be back for supper if we start soon.’

  ‘And what about something to drink?’ inquired Adrian hoarsely. ‘Haven’t you got any more Gazoza?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Margo irritably. ‘I brought three. That’s one each, isn’t it? And they’re terribly heavy to carry. I don’t know what you’re fussing about anyway; you eat far too much. A little rest’ll do you good. It’ll give you a chance to un-bloat.’

  Adrian came as close to losing his temper as I had ever seen him.

  ‘I don’t want to un-bloat, whatever that means,’ he said icily, ‘and if I did I wouldn’t walk half across the island to do it.’

  ‘That’s just the trouble with you. You’re namby-pamby,’ snorted Margo. ‘Take you for a little walk and you’re screaming for food and wine. You just want to live in the hub of luxury all the time.’

  ‘I don’t think a drink on a day like this is a luxury,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s a necessity.’

  Finding this argument profitless, I took the three empty Gazoza bottles half a mile down the coast to where I knew there was a tiny spring. When I reached it I found a man squatting by it, having his midday meal. He had a brown, seamed, wind-patterned face, and a sweeping black moustache. He was wearing the thick, sheepswool socks that the peasants wore when working in the fields and beside him lay his short, wide-bladed hoe.

  ‘Kalimera,’ he greeted me without surprise, and waved his hand in a courteous gesture towards the spring, as if he owned it.

  I greeted him and then lay face downwards on the small carpet of green moss that the moisture had created, and lowered my face to where the bright spring throbbed like a heart under some maidenhair ferns. I drank long and deeply and I could never remember water having tasted so good. I soaked my head and neck with it and sat up with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Good water,’ said the man. ‘Sweet, huh? Like a fruit.’

  I said the water was delicious and started to wash the Gazoza bottles and fill them.

  ‘There’s a spring up there,’ said the man, pointing up the precipitous mountainside, ‘but the water is different, bitter as a widow’s tongue. But this is sweet, kind water. You are a foreigner?’

  While I filled the bottles I answered his questions but my mind was busy with something else. Nearby lay the remains of his food – half a loaf of maize bread, yellow as a primrose, some great fat white cloves of garlic and a handful of large, wrinkled olives as black as beetles. At the sight of them my mouth started to water and I became acutely aware of the fact that I had been up since dawn with nothing to eat. Eventually the man noticed the glances I kept giving his food supply and, with the typical generosity of the peasants, pulled out his knife.

  ‘Bread?’ he asked. ‘You want bread?’

  I said that I would love some bread but that the problem was that there were three of me, as it were. My sister and her husband, I lied, were also starving somewhere among the ro
cks. He snapped his knife shut, gathered together the remains of his lunch and held it out to me.

  ‘Take it for them,’ he said grinning. ‘I’ve finished and it’s not right for the good name of Corfu that foreigners should starve.’

  I thanked him profusely, put the olives and garlic into my handkerchief, tucked the bread and the Gazoza bottles under my arm and set off.

  ‘Go to the good,’ the man called after me. ‘Keep away from the trees, we’ll be having a storm later.’

  Looking up at the blue and burnished sky, I thought the man was wrong but did not say so. When I got back I found Adrian sitting glumly with his feet in a rock pool and Margo sunbathing on a rock and singing tunelessly to herself. They greeted the food and water with delight and fell on it, tearing at the golden bread and gulping the olives and garlic like famished wolves.

  ‘There,’ said Margo brightly when we had finished, as if she had been responsible for providing the viands, ‘that was nice. Now I suppose we’d better be getting back.’

  Immediately, a snag became apparent; Adrian’s feet, cool and happy from the rock pool, had swollen and it took the united efforts of Margo and myself to get his boots on again. Even when we had succeeded in forcing his feet into the boots he could only progress at a painfully slow pace, limping along like an elderly tortoise.

  ‘I do wish you’d hurry up,’ shouted Margo irritably after we had progressed a mile or so and Adrian was lagging behind.

  ‘I can’t go any faster. My feet are killing me,’ Adrian said miserably.

  In spite of our protests, that he would get sunburned, he had taken off his flannel shirt and exposed his milk-white skin to the elements. It was when we were a couple of miles from the villa that the peasant’s prophecy about the storm became fact. These summer storms would be hatched in a nest of cumulus clouds in the Albanian mountains and ferried rapidly across to Corfu by a warm, scouring wind like the blast from a baker’s oven. The wind hit us now, stinging our skins and blinding us with dust and bits of leaf. The olives changed from green to silver like the sudden gleam of a turning school of fish, and the wind roared its way through a million leaves with a noise like a giant breaker on the shore. The blue sky was suddenly, miraculously, blotted out by bruise-coloured clouds that were splintered by jagged spears of lavender-coloured lightning. The hot, fierce wind increased and the olive groves shook and hissed as though shaken by some huge, invisible predator. Then came the rain, plummeting out of the sky in great gouts, hitting us with the force of sling-shot. A background to all this was the thunder, stalking imperiously across the sky, rumbling and snarling above the scudding clouds like a million stars colliding, crumbling and avalanching through space.