Skios: A Novel

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by Michael Frayn


  “I didn’t have my lenses then. Oh, Nikki, all that being ghastly of yours, and where’s it got you in the end? She’ll never make you director now!”

  “No. Nothing much left to be director of, anyway.”

  “Nikki, it’s no good, is it? Suddenly trying not to be ghastly, if ghastly’s what one is.”

  They sipped their wine. Nikki refilled their glasses.

  “Anyway,” said Georgie, “he seems to have vanished.”

  “Norman?”

  “Oliver.”

  “I still can’t think of him as Oliver.”

  “Not that it matters much which. If they shot him.”

  “Maybe the cleaning woman got him.”

  They laughed. They stopped laughing. They reflected silently for some moments on life and its vicissitudes.

  “I like it here,” said Georgie. “We could find somewhere to live. A Greek fisherman’s cottage. With or without Greek fishermen.”

  “You mean—together? You and me?”

  “Why not? Then if Patrick rings, no problem. You wouldn’t have to invent anything, because there I’d be.”

  “So where would Patrick be?”

  “Somewhere else. Wherever he is now. Back on the boat with his chums. Floating about.”

  They poured another glass of wine.

  “I’m so pleased you don’t live in Switzerland,” said Georgie. “I shouldn’t have wanted to live in Switzerland.”

  “Switzerland, Switzerland! Georgie, what is all this?”

  “That time before when I phoned to say I was staying with you. You kept going on about skiers.”

  “Skiers? In Skios?”

  Georgie thought about this. “Oh, I see,” she said.

  “Georgie,” said Nikki, “you’re such a dumbo!”

  “Dumbissimo,” said Georgie.

  Nikki gazed into her glass of moonlit wine, Georgie at the moonlit goddess gazing down upon them.

  “So peaceful here, though,” said Georgie. “So kind of like eternal. All these statues and things.”

  Nikki turned to see what Georgie was looking at.

  “Never seen that one before,” she said.

  * * *

  “Phoksoliva?” said Spiros, as he and Oliver together struggled to lift the heavy suitcase into the boot of the taxi. “Thirty-two euros. In advance.”

  Oliver took out a handful of banknotes he had found in Dr. Wilfred’s suitcase. “Airport,” he said. He was going to start his studies in neurology as soon as he was back in London. Or perhaps in some other branch of science. It would be interesting to know what a Wexler whatever-it-was was.

  In the headlights, as Spiros let out the clutch and the taxi moved forward, appeared a familiar and improbable figure—a woman in low-cut evening dress, with strong bare shoulders and a construction of brass-colored hair on her head like the dome of a Russian church. She stood in front of the taxi waving her arms.

  “No!” she said. “No! No! Please! Taxi! Yes! Thank you!”

  “Oh, hello,” said Oliver. “You want a lift?”

  “No, no, no!” said Mrs. Skorbatova, getting in beside him.

  “I thought you’d gone! So what, you didn’t leave with your husband?”

  “Yes!” said Mrs. Skorbatova.

  “No, you didn’t. You got left behind, because here you are.”

  “No, no, no!”

  “OK?” said Spiros. “Airport?”

  “Airport!” said Mrs. Skorbatova. “Yes, yes!”

  “Wait!” said Oliver. He smiled his soft, melancholy smile at her, as if he had foreseen the whole thing, and all the beauty of it, and all the sadness that would inevitably follow. Spiros waited, watching the performance in the rearview mirror. “Or Phoksoliva?” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Oliver. “Phoksoliva.” If he started his studies a few days later than he had planned he could always catch up later. And he had surely earned a bit of a break.

  “Phoksoliva?” said Mrs. Skorbatova. She laughed, seized the end of his nose again, and waggled it from side to side.

  “No, no, no!” she said. “No phoks! No, no, no, no! No, no, no, no, no!”

  “No problem,” said Spiros.

  * * *

  Millimeter by millimeter in the moonlight Athena began to lean a little closer to the settlement she was responsible for, as the ground subsided beneath her weight. Gradually she leaned a little less slowly, until she passed the point of no return, and measured her length on the ground. She managed it with reasonable dignity, like a duchess overcome by drink, though she broke her arm in three places and her head fell off.

  “She’s gone,” said Georgie.

  “Everyone goes,” said Nikki, closing one eye to sight the last centimeter of wine left in her glass. “Dr. Wilfred. You. Me. The cleaning woman.”

  “No, that white statue thing.”

  “Things come, things go,” said Nikki. “Statues, temples. European civilization. Three thousand years. Constant flux.”

  “Your boss is back, though,” said Georgie. “I thought she was dead.”

  Nikki turned to look. From somewhere in the shadows Mrs. Fred Toppler had appeared. She seemed to be dazed, and was walking as if under water, or in a deep sleep. Slowly she found her way to the microphone. She was holding up a crumpled sheet of paper to read, though there was only moonlight to read it by, and the microphone was as dead as the old gods and goddesses. But Nikki knew what the words were.

  “I just want to say a big thank-you to our distinguished guest,” Mrs. Fred Toppler was saying, “for making this evening such a unique and special occasion, and one that I’m sure none of us here will ever forget…”

  ALSO BY MICHAEL FRAYN

  FICTION

  Spies

  Headlong

  Now You Know

  A Landing on the Sun

  The Trick of It

  Sweet Dreams

  A Very Private Life

  Towards the End of the Morning

  The Russian Interpreter

  The Tin Men

  NONFICTION

  My Father’s Fortune

  The Human Touch

  The Copenhagen Papers: An Intrigue (with David Burke)

  Constructions

  Chekhov: Plays (translation)

  PLAYS

  Afterlife

  Democracy

  Alarms & Excursions

  Copenhagen

  Now You Know

  Here

  Look Look

  Benefactors

  Noises Off

  Make and Break

  Balmoral

  Clouds

  Donkeys’ Years

  Alphabetical Order

  The Two of Us

  FILM AND TELEVISION

  Clockwise

  First and Last

  Remember Me?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MICHAEL FRAYN is the author of ten novels, including the best-selling Headlong, which was a New York Times Editor’s Choice selection and a Booker Prize finalist, and Spies, which received the Whitbread Fiction Award. He has also written a memoir, My Father’s Fortune, and fifteen plays, among them Noises Off and Copenhagen, which won three Tony Awards. He lives just south of London.

  Metropolitan Books

  Henry Holt and Company, LLC

  Publishers since 1866

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10010

  www.henryholt.com

  Metropolitan Books® and ® are registered trademarks of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Frayn

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Frayn, Michael.

  Skios : a novel / Michael Frayn.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8050-9549-4

  1. Businesswomen—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Congresses and conventions—Fiction. 4. Skyros Island (Greece)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6056
.R3S55 2012

  823'.914—dc23 2011041657

  eISBN 978-0-8050-9550-0

  First Edition 2012

 

 

 


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