There was as yet no sign of Sebastian and Selena, and Constantine seemed once or twice to look anxiously at his watch.
At last, however, I saw them hurrying towards the cricket pitch from the southern end of the Esplanade, Selena every few yards or so giving a little skip to keep pace with Sebastian’s longer stride. She was wearing the dress of sky-blue cotton which I had admired on a previous occasion, and Sebastian had somehow provided himself with clothing of suitable whiteness for the activities of the afternoon. Constantine waved, and went a little way to meet them.
They joined the group at the edge of the cricket pitch, Leonidas yielding to Selena his place beside his mother. The reunion seemed an occasion for much laughter and many embraces: I could hardly think it a suitable moment to break in on the gathering with dark warnings of malice and danger. Which might, after all, be quite unfounded: the theory which in London I had held with such conviction had begun, in the sunlit warmth of Corfu, to seem like a morbid and improbable fancy. Moreover, I was persuaded that there was nothing to fear until they all returned to the Villa Miranda. I accordingly resolved to remain where I was, awaiting an opportunity to speak privately to Selena.
The twenty-three-yard strip of coconut matting which is the island’s substitute for the carefully tended green wickets of England was rolled out in the center of the pitch and secured to the bare brown earth. Though too far away to be certain which side had won the toss, I supposed that it must have been the Artists, since they went in to bat first: on the Corfu ground, I am told by those who understand such matters, this is almost always an advantage, obliging the other side to waste their energies in the field in the hotter part of the day and to face the bowling when the deceptive shadows of evening have begun to reach toward the wicket.
Constantine, however, gave no impression of feeling that luck was against him, but set his field in the bold and heroic style which shows confidence in the favor of the gods: the majority of his team were gathered closely round the batsman, hopeful of catches, and those left to wander in the outfield had an exiled, solitary look. I gathered that Constantine was not of that school of thought which holds that in limited over matches, such as are played in Corfu, the primary object of the fielding side should be to contain the scoring rate rather than to take wickets.
His strategy seemed at first to be vindicated by success, for the opening batsmen were swiftly and inexpensively dismissed. The Artists had scored fourteen runs for two wickets when their captain took his place at the crease—a bushy-bearded, barrel-shaped man, with whom I had a slight acquaintance. The vigor and panache of his painting had earned him, if not an international reputation, one which at any rate extended beyond the shores of his native island. He brought the same qualities to his batsmanship: if, as he notoriously believed, the true function of the brush was to transfer as large a quantity of paint as possible to the canvas, the function of the bat was by the same token to hit every ball bowled, of whatever speed or length, as hard as possible towards the boundary. This technique, if there were any justice in the game, would have cost him his wicket half a dozen times before he reached double figures; but there is none, and he survived.
Constantine began to look anxious. In spite of bowling changes and the reluctant withdrawal of fielders to the depopulated outfield, the painter could not be dislodged and continued to score freely. He did manage, in his eagerness to score at the end of each over the single run required to retain the bowling, to run out two of his partners; but it was plainly too much to hope that the whole team would be similarly disposed of. At the end of the seventeenth over, when the Artists’ score had reached the eighties, Constantine shrugged his shoulders, as if willing to try anything once, and threw the ball to his son.
Not following the fashion of his contemporaries, Leonidas was dressed in flannels, but with a shirt slashed like a tunic from arm to waist: a design intended, no doubt, to give greater ease of movement, but also affording to the onlookers, when he ran up to bowl, a tantalizing glimpse of bare brown flesh. I thought how fortunate it was that Julia was not with me.
The first ball he bowled was what an aficionado would have described, I believe, as being of a good length and pitching on the off stump: the painter hit it for four runs, finding a gap in what is termed the leg side field. Anticipating a similar stroke, Constantine moved a fieldsman ten yards to the right. The second ball was again of good length and pitching on the off stump: again the batsman hit it for four—through the space left vacant by the fieldsman. Looking dejected, the boy turned and went back to begin his run-up for a third time: once more he bowled a ball well pitched up on the off stump. The batsman, seeing how closely it resembled its predecessors, stepped forward to deal with it in a similar manner; but on this occasion it turned shyly, almost coquettishly, away, leaving the bat to pass through empty air; and then moved back again to continue on its way towards the off stump. The painter, as he walked back to the Liston, shook his head sadly at Leonidas, as if deploring that one so young should be capable of such duplicity.
The Artists were in due course dismissed for a total of a hundred and thirty-one runs—a respectable score for the ground, but by no means invincible, requiring the Writers to score at a rate of precisely four runs an over in order to secure victory. Leonidas had taken four wickets. Sebastian had done nothing in particular to distinguish himself or bring glory on the name of his College and University; on the other hand, he had done nothing to bring them into disrepute, which is more than can always be said of my colleagues travelling abroad.
Tea was taken. I use the expression in a conventional sense, to signify the interval between one innings and the next, since players and spectators alike preferred for the most part to refresh themselves with lager. I felt for a moment a certain uneasiness at the thought of Sebastian and Selena taking food or drink in the midst of the Demetriou family; but the waiter brought a number of bottles and glasses on the same tray, and there seemed no way of anyone foreseeing who would drink from which.
Whether from a fixed regard for the quality of English batsmanship or because he thought it an honor proper to be accorded to a guest, Constantine selected Sebastian to be one of the opening batsmen. His partner was a dark man of saturnine appearance, whom I recognized with a slight effort of memory as an amateur historian of the Byzantine era and the author of a despondent epic novel set in that period: he batted cautiously, guarding his wicket as carefully as his sister’s honor from the brutal onslaughts of the bowler, but betraying no consciousness that the game was one which involved the scoring of runs. In spite of his caution, however, he was caught at square leg off the first ball of the fifth over. The spectators observed his departure with not unmixed regret; and Sebastian was joined at the crease by his captain.
Though I profess no expertise in the subtleties of the game, I had sufficiently often been persuaded to lend the encouragement of my presence at College and University matches at once to recognize the high quality of Constantine’s batmanship. He played with a fluency and majestic elegance I had seldom seen equalled. His eye and speed, no doubt, were not what they had been in his youth; but I thought that in his prime he could hardly have found himself outclassed in any side he chose to play for.
Sebastian also, as if inspired by his example, began to play with a sparkle and stylishness I had not known him to possess. It commonly happens, I have seen it often, that two batsmen playing together for the first time are unable, whatever their individual talents, to score with much rapidity: one calls for a run; his partner hesitates; the first retreats; the second sets forth down the wicket; the first shouts “No”; the second, according to temperament, goes back cursing under his breath or forward cursing at the top of his voice; at best there is no run, at worst there is a run-out. With Constantine and Sebastian there was none of this: between them there seemed to be so perfect a sympathy as to preclude such misunderstandings; and despite a defensive field they maintained a scoring rate approaching six runs an over.
I had hoped that when his innings was concluded Selena might be tempted to pay less attention to the game—perhaps to wander about a little, looking at the shop windows of the Liston, and so providing me with an opportunity of private conversation with her. She chose, however—whether from motives of politeness, or because the game had reached a sufficiently dramatic stage to engage her interest—to remain in her place beside Dolly. I resigned myself to making, if I could not speak to her before the match was concluded, a less discreet approach than I had hoped.
Aristotle, I suppose, would have approved of cricket—a game which peculiarly demonstrates how a moment’s error may bring down the protagonist from the heights of prosperity to the depths of disaster. At ten minutes past six o’clock the Writers seemed in an enviable position: a mere forty runs needed for victory; thirteen overs in which to make them; eight wickets standing; and their captain still at the crease in apparently invincible form. By half past the hour matters were very different.
The two batsmen who succeeded Sebastian (a minor poet and the nephew, I believe, of the epic novelist) were out of form or out of luck; their wickets fell before the score reached a hundred. Leonidas played a charming little innings, giving signs of having inherited something of his father’s talents; but he played at a ball which his father would have left to its own devices, and was caught behind the wicket with only a dozen runs to his credit. Four further batsmen (of whose literary achievements or connections I am unable to give particulars) came and went without making much contribution to the total; and the Writers, at the fall of their penultimate wicket, still needed six runs to win.
The influential critic and belles-lettriste who occupied eleventh place in the batting order, though undoubtedly familiar with Aristotelian principles, had assumed at some much earlier stage that his services would not be called on and that there was no reason to reject the generous offers of lager made by those anxious for his goodwill. After an unsteady progress to the wicket he stood leaning heavily on his bat, evidently grateful for its support, and smiled with hazy benevolence at those about him. When the bowler began to hurl projectiles in his direction, he took no offense at this unfriendly conduct but gently waved his bat in the air in what seemed to be a gesture of forgiveness and good fellowship. By some dispensation of Providence his wicket survived the three balls which remained of the over.
It could not be supposed that such a miracle would be repeated. Unless Constantine were able to make the necessary runs during the next over, the Artists would be assured of victory: it was merely a question—since his partner was clearly in no condition to participate in any running between the wickets—of ensuring that the ball never reached the boundary. The Artists accordingly set a defensive field.
Constantine, with Homeric calm, prepared to receive the bowling, looking carefully about him for any vulnerable space between the fieldsmen. The first four deliveries, however, all rather wide outside the leg stump, gave him no opportunity for any scoring stroke. It seemed to me—I suppose this cannot actually have occurred—but it seemed to me that all those in the Liston held their breath as he waited for the fifth ball of the over. It was slightly short of a length, and he took two majestic paces down the wicket to meet it. The sunlight gleamed on his bat as he drove the ball high over deep mid-on.
I heard a cry and a crash of breaking glass; I felt rather than saw a massive figure hurtling towards me; and I was enveloped in darkness.
CHAPTER 16
I looked up into eyes the color of lapis lazuli.“My dear Professor Tamar,” said Leonidas Demetriou, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself.”
“I feel,” I said, “no pain.” I feared this might signify that my injuries were unusually grave; but I accepted the boy’s assistance in rising from the undignified position in which I found myself. “Would you,” I continued, “be kind enough to tell me what has happened? Was I struck by the cricket ball?”
“Oh no,” said Leonidas, with his slightly malicious Byzantine smile. “Oh no, Professor Tamar, the ball was going far too high to have hit you. It went through the window of the cafe over there. The man who owns the cafe was rather put out about it—my parents are busy saying soothing things to him. But the lunatic fielding at mid-on thought it might be a catch—idiotic of him really, it was six all the way. He was running so hard to get to it, and not looking where he was going, that he went straight into your table and knocked your canopy down on top of you. And he’s quite a big chap, I’m afraid. I’m really extremely sorry.”
I considered his explanation and found it consistent with the evidence.
“Well,” I said, “I am glad at any rate that the Writers have been victorious. You are not, as it happens, my only acquaintance in the side. Sebastian Verity—”
“Oh yes, of course, Sebastian is a colleague of yours, isn’t he? And Selena—Miss Jardine—who is also a friend of yours, is here with him. Have you seen them yet? Do they know you’re here?”
“No,” I said. “My coming to Corfu was a matter of impulse and will be a surprise to them.” I looked towards the place where Selena and Sebastian had been sitting; but they were no longer there, nor could I see them elsewhere in the Liston. Indeed, although it could hardly have been for more than a minute or two that I had lain dazed and helpless under the wreckage of the canopy, the whole Demetriou family, with the exception of Leonidas himself, had somehow managed in that time to disappear from view. “I was meaning,” I went on, “to have a word with them when the match was over, but I seem to have lost sight of them. Do you know where they might have gone?”
“They’ve gone up to the Citadel,” said Leonidas. “My father said it was unthinkable for them to leave Corfu without seeing the view from the eastern summit, so they had to promise to go straight up there as soon as the match was finished. Do you want to follow them, or would you rather wait to see them when they come down again?”
My uneasiness returned. I did not imagine, certainly, that the Citadel would be deserted: on a fine evening in the height of summer, it would be surprising if my friends ever found themselves out of sight and earshot of at least half a dozen fellow tourists engaged on a similar exploration. Thinking, however, of its precipitous battlements; of the massive blocks of stonework poised above its narrow pathways; and of the inscriptions which one finds there commemorative of destruction and violent death—thinking of these things, and the apprehensions which had brought me to Corfu—
“I think I should prefer,” I said, “to follow them up to the Citadel.”
The boy appeared to assume that he should come with me. Reflecting that it was some time since I had last visited the Citadel and that unguided I might not strike on the most direct route to the eastern summit, I was not displeased to have his company. We set forth together across the Esplanade.
A narrow, steep-sided channel, deep enough for small sailing-boats to bob about in it, divides the town of Corfu from the projection of rock which by some irony of Nature makes the gentlest of islands one of the most powerful naval strongholds in the Mediterranean, impregnable save by guile for almost a millennium. The Citadel, I remembered, had not always been completely encircled by sea; but in the sixteenth century, perceiving the slender connecting isthmus as a weak point in the defenses, the Venetians had slit it as neatly and efficiently as
if it had been the throat of some inconvenient diplomat.
“It occurs to me,” I said, when we had crossed the bridge over the channel and were approaching the great gateway, “that you were not surprised to find me beside the Esplanade.”
“My brother and sister told me you were here. They didn’t remember who you were, of course, but I recognized the description. What have you been saying to them, Professor Tamar? They’re off buying crucifixes at this very moment in case they meet you again.”
“That,” I said, “is most gratifying. But I fear that you, my dear boy, are less easily impressed.”
“I don’t think,” he said, with the same malicious and satirical smile, “that I believe in necromancy. But you do find things out, don’t you? Things that one wouldn’t expect.”
“It is by way,” I said, not ungratified, “of being my profession. The Scholar is dedicated to the pursuit of Truth, most of all when she is hidden and elusive.”
“Isn’t the pursuit sometimes fruitless?”
“Where nothing at all is known, even Scholarship is helpless; but even a small amount of information, perhaps of little apparent relevance, will enable the Scholar to detect the minute inconsistencies which betray the boundary between truth and falsehood. It is logically impossible, you see, for a lie to be perfectly consistent with truth: in order to tell an undetectable lie, it would be necessary to invent an alternative universe.”
Having passed through the barbican, the visitor appears to be presented with a choice of three routes by which to explore the Citadel. The choice, however, is to some extent illusory. The broad, even-surfaced roadway to the right is no more than a digression, affording a closer look at the Doric facade of St. George’s Church before winding back though the pine trees to rejoin the central pathway on its ascent to the plateau known nowadays as the Square of Heroes. Turning to the left, the visitor may follow the outer line of battlements along the base of the western summit and round the eastern, but is eventually obliged, if wishing to explore further, to undertake the climb up to the plateau. From there, there is only one way up to the eastern summit. The western, having been appropriated to the purposes of local government or television or something of that sort, is not open to the public.
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