There was a fairly lengthy pause.
‘Philip Larkin,’ Kennedy said.
‘Yes,’ Robinson said. ‘Larkin, of course, yes.’ He nodded encouragingly.
‘Malcom Rutherford,’ Kennedy said experimentally. Seeing that Robinson continued to nod, he added rapidly, ‘Iris Swann, Oberon Peel, Maxmilian Winter.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Robinson, giving at each name a little nod. Something had crept into his expression, however, a sort of anxiety.
‘Jennifer Poole.’ Kennedy was beginning to enjoy himself. Suddenly he remembered another real poet. ‘Ted Hughes,’ he said. ‘And there’s Gilligan, of course. We mustn’t leave him out.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Robinson, ceasing to nod. A silence fell. Robinson looked briefly out of the window. ‘I wouldn’t place him so centrally, myself,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Gilligan.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t you? More outside the main stream, as you might say?’
‘Yes, that’s it exactly. Well, all this has been most interesting, Mr Kennedy. No doubt we shall be getting in touch with you later on. You’ve got the list, haven’t you? Oh, and by the way, if you want any help on the more, er, practical aspects of living here, there’s a very useful person down at the institute. His name is Willey, John Willey. He has been on our staff several years now, though only on a locally employed basis. He could probably help you with accommodation and so forth.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Go any time after five and you’ll find him there. He is there every evening.’
Kennedy said goodbye politely. The sense of having scored heavily off Robinson had restored his temper. His suitcase was still against the wall, and Sophy was still at her desk.
‘I’d like you to have lunch with me,’ Kennedy said.
2
That evening, towards the end of the first period, Willey gave his class a written exercise to do. While he waited he cast an eye over the list of names. Four years now he had been teaching classes of Greeks and the names still had not lost their booming quality: Electra, Aphrodite, Sophocles, Miltiades, Antigone. Though the boom was fainter now.
The present incumbents of these legendary titles sat before him in varying degrees of concentration. Almost nothing, as every teacher knows, so much distinguishes people as their attitude to instruction. … Abandoning the register he looked from face to face, pausing finally at Miss Triandafyllou, a pretty, clumsy girl of about sixteen whose eyes had a lustre always that seemed close to tears. He enjoyed watching Miss Triandafyllou. In his pity for her the essential unchastity of his thoughts could go longer unchecked. … Now under the stress of composition she shifted sharply in her seat and parted her knees, disclosing a tunnel beige-walled at first, closing at the white join of her thighs beyond the stockings. Palms together as in prayer could be inserted there, moved softly inwards, still without touching. As always, his imagination recoiled before the actual infliction of pleasure; he looked away. He knew all possible movements of a girl’s legs, below the desk, within the confines of skirts lighter or heavier; the startled movements of virgins in response to some itch or cramp; slower, more monumental shifts of others, adjustments it seemed to a heat between the thighs. …’ Some day, he thought, I will write a poem from the viewpoint of the teacher-voyeur, full of sharply realised visual imagery, with an existential flavour as of gates never opened. The whole redolent of a solemn though furtive anguish. It ought to be good, he told himself. The poetry of perpetual tumescence. Other men would assist at the ultimate surrenders of all these legs, that much was certain. And a very good thing too.
Outside, beyond the window, he could sense the quickening life of the city, the beginning of evening. The sun would have lost its fierceness now, the light would be softer, yellower, but not hazy. The long crest of Hymettos, no longer estranged from the city by the sun, would be settling nearer for the sunset embrace. The streets would be filling, it was the time for ouzo, the little glasses rattling on the tin tables, the clear liquid clouding as the chips of ice melted in it; the interminable Greek conversations over the glasses, malicious, acute, animated without extravagance, shallow until it was realised that the awareness of being alive in the promising evening was being continually reaffirmed. Just as the strollers who would now be filling the streets, moving slowly, talking loudly, watchful for eccentricities, seemed aimless only until it was recognised that they formed a procession of celebrants, the exactions of the day over.
Willey felt suddenly a rush of love for this city of his adoption. H Aθευα ηας. I wonder why it is, he thought, that I, forty-three years old, of no distinction, disgraced in England, precariously employed in Athens, with a fiancée I can’t afford to marry, should experience almost invariably at this hour of the day, a feeling of optimism, a feeling of coming into my kingdom? Inexplicable really. Well, if you put it that way, he could imagine Olivia saying, in the tone of one making concessions.
It was a tone she often used. She would be at home now, her day at the Embassy School over. Home in the little flat in Kolonaki with the parquet floor and the green-tiled Turkish stove and the colourful lambs-wool rugs. She would have been out to the kiosk in Kolonaki Square to get a Telegraph and might be reading at this very moment of the doings of royal children, with her slippers on, pink-trimmed fur edges and a pom-pom. Her kind, heavy face intent. He liked always to know if possible where Olivia was, what she was doing. Her possessions and observances were essential to his knowledge of her. She was a woman, moreover, not easily detached from her chosen setting. Marrying her, which he wanted most of the time to do, would mean a placing of himself somewhere down in the midst. …
The bell rang for the end of the lesson. ‘We will go through the exercise after the break,’ Willey said. He affected not to see the upraised hand of Mr Rallos, whose questions were always veiled grievances, and made for the door. As he was crossing the hall to the little staff-room where his coffee, always prepared at this time by Nikos, the porter, would be waiting for him, a tall, broadly smiling, rather dishevelled person rose from a chair and came towards him.
‘Is your name Willey?’ this person enquired with great geniality, and Willey now saw that he had fragments of what seemed vegetation in his hair.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
‘Kennedy,’ the other said, and thrust out a large hand towards him. ‘Bryan Kennedy.’
‘How do you do?’
‘Mr Robinson suggested I should come and see you,’ Kennedy said, and paused for some moments, smiling. He had not consciously formed any picture of Willey from the few remarks Robinson had let fall, but found his appearance in some way unexpected, the long, burdened-looking neck surmounted by a small neat head in which eyes blinked with a nervous frequency. This head seemed like something proffered, a target perhaps, because of Willey’s very sloping shoulders. ‘He said you might be able to help me find a place to stay,’ he continued. ‘I’ve just arrived from England, you see. Just today.’
‘Oh, have you? How was the weather?’
‘Eh? Oh, not bad. A bit drizzly.’
‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?’
Kennedy was so pleased by this offer that he stopped smiling. ‘I would, old boy,’ he said. ‘There’s an old bastard over the way …’ He stopped short abruptly. Tact with Kennedy was merely another word for caution; in moments of expansion he was always completely lacking in it. It only now occurred to him that Willey and Jennings might be friends. ‘No offence meant,’ he said.
Willey glanced quickly round. Nikos and several students were within hearing. ‘Can we have another cup of coffee, Nikos?’ he said. ‘Come into the staff-room,’ he said to Kennedy. ‘We can talk in there.’ At this moment he saw Mackintosh emerging from his classroom. Typical of Mackintosh to go on teaching five minutes past the hour, he thought. We know how keen he is, without that. He led Kennedy into the staff-room, which was empty. Nikos brought in the coffee. A moment or
two later Mackintosh came in and Willey introduced them.
‘Just arrived, eh?’ Mackintosh said. He was a thin man of about thirty, with sandy hair, a cold-morning, shiny face and protuberant blue eyes. He had taken off his jacket, his short-sleeved pullover was skimpy and he wore armbands. ‘I’ve only been here myself a few months,’ he said. ‘Since the beginning of the session.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Very interesting lesson, that,’ he said. ‘And very successful too, I may say. It’s amazing really. They are only a first-year class, but believe it or not,’ he said to Kennedy, ‘they have already mastered the Anomalous Finites.’ He looked with his prominent eyes from one to the other, continuing to rub his hands, taking in Kennedy’s somewhat crumpled appearance, the scraps still adhering to his hair.
‘That’s good going,’ said Kennedy. He had disliked the armbands from the start. He and a treasuring Scot like this, whose zeal was indistinguishable from self-interest, were archetypal foes, as Kennedy knew well. In a more permissive society he would have clubbed Mackintosh on sight.
‘Congratulations,’ said Willey with extreme coldness.
Mackintosh drank his coffee in a series of quick gulps. ‘I think it would be a good idea,’ he said, looking at Willey, ‘if we sent in progress reports from time to time, once a month say. Outlining the work covered and the degree of facility reached by the students. It might be helpful. I intend to suggest it to the Director.’
Feeling himself included in the conversation, Kennedy nodded his large head several times. Willey made no reply at all.
‘Well, I must get back,’ Mackintosh said. ‘I’ve got some writing to do on the board before the lesson begins. I don’t think we should take up lesson time with blackboard work if it can possibly be avoided, do you?’ He nodded at Kennedy. ‘Nice to have met you,’ he said, and went out.
‘Well, well,’ Kennedy said. He glanced at Willey’s expressionless face, divining with a perceptiveness rare in him the other’s dislike for Mackintosh. ‘Forward into the sunlight,’ he said. ‘Marching towards mastery of the Anomalous Finites.’
Willey smiled suddenly. ‘You’ve got things in your hair,’ he said.
Kennedy put up a hand to his head. ‘I went for a walk this afternoon,’ he said, ‘in the National Park, and feeling rather tired at one point … I suppose I must have picked them up.’ He began extricating the pieces.
Willey heard tinkling laughter from just beyond the door. That would be Miss Watson. ‘I’ve got another lesson in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘So I can’t tell you much about things in general. But I suppose it’s a place to stay you want first of all. Flats are easy to find, you know, in Athens, both furnished and unfurnished.’
‘To tell you the truth, old boy, a flat would be a bit beyond my means just at present. Until my money comes through.’
‘In that case perhaps the best thing would be Kitty’s. That’s a sort of lodging house. You get a single room that you pay for by the week. No meals. It’s quite cheap, I believe. Quite a lot of foreigners are there already.’
‘It sounds just the thing.’
‘I’ll give you the address then.’ Willey wrote on a slip of paper. ‘She’s a Greek of some sort, from Constantinople. Everybody calls her Kitty. Here you are. If you want to get in touch with me you can always do it through the institute. I am by way of being a fixture here.’
‘It really is very good of you,’ Kennedy said.
‘Not at all. I expect we shall be seeing more of each other.’
Kennedy tucked the paper into his breast pocket. It briefly occurred to him to ask this good-natured fellow for a loan on the spot, but he decided against it. No sense in rushing things. ‘Bye-bye then,’ he said. ‘And thanks a million.’ In the hall he passed Mackintosh, his blackboard work apparently postponed, talking to a little grey-haired woman with long ear-rings. He beamed at them but did not stop.
Left alone in the staff-room, Willey cast his eyes with habitual distaste over the books that lined the far wall: books containing passages for précis and comprehension; books listing idioms and proverbs; books of extracts from other men’s books; compilations of all sorts. Not an original idea among them. And always the same words on the covers, claiming to convey the essence: ‘Comprehensive’, ‘Basic’, ‘Fundamental’, ‘Concise’. From Borneo to Bagdad ambitious youth was buying them, hoping to find an infallible guide to success in the examinations. Every week, it seemed, a new version of what was essential for foreigners to know was being published. Reviews in The Times Educational Supplement; elaborate circulars to schools and colleges everywhere; royalties, of course, since there was always a few more shillings to be scraped together in Borneo and Bagdad. … And now, he reflected, Jennings’ book would be appearing soon, that chaotic mass of grammatical precept and mystical brooding. He was familiar with the contents as he had been all through the manuscript at Jennings’ request, checking for errors, departures from usage. Hours of excruciating boredom for which there had been as yet no hint of payment. He had not, however, dared to refuse. And Jennings knew he dare not. …
The bell rang for the second period. Willey made his way back to the classroom, preparing a suitable face.
Kennedy went first to pick up his suitcase from Sophy, who had been minding it, and then, feeling rather tired of walking, he got into one of the little yellow trolley-buses that left from a point near the square. He thrust the address at the person nearest to him, and was told where to get off. Small boys moved quickly along the pavement balancing trays piled high with little hoops of bread. Kennedy bought two, suspected that he had been overcharged, and sat on a low wall to eat them.
He began to review his situation. Twenty-six pounds in drachmas, enough possibly for a month if he was careful. The prospect of a cheap place to stay, but no job yet. However, he had the list of institutions. Giving Sophy lunch had proved well worth while. She had promised to look after his suitcase, for one thing. And then in the course of conversation two distinct prospects for private lessons had emerged. One of them she had actually suggested herself, a girl of her own age whom she knew wanted private lessons, rich too, the daughter of a ship owner, Logothetis by name. Kennedy had the telephone number. The other had been an item of information merely, he was compelled to admit, and perhaps Sophy would not be pleased if she knew that he intended to get in touch with the person, but that couldn’t be helped. Eleni Polimenou, she had told him, had telephoned twice that morning asking for Mr Jennings. Eleni Polimenou. Sophy had been quite indignant at his impassivity before this name. Had he not heard of Eleni Polimenou, the celebrated, the internationally celebrated Greek actress, she who had been to Hollywood, won acting awards? Now she wanted help with some play from a suitably qualified member of the institute staff. Unfortunately Mr Jennings had been out on both occasions of her phoning. He would want to handle this matter himself, since it concerned so important a personage. Mr Mackintosh she thought he would probably send. He had a high opinion of the abilities of Mr Mackintosh. Nothing, however, could be done for some days, as Miss Polimenou was out of town. She would be returning to Athens on May the 5th. … There and then Kennedy had resolved that on May the 5th he would be stirring early. Willey too, he thought, might prove a good source of private students. Things on the whole were not too bad. He ate steadily; the rolls were quite pleasant, stuck all over with little seeds. What were they, sesame seeds? When he had finished he crossed the street and set about finding Kitty’s.
Her house proved to be a gaunt, four-storeyed building with narrow, railed balconies jutting out from the stuccoed façade, and a pervading smell of the urine of cats; and she herself obese and sleepy-eyed with a great curving nose and ceremonious manners. Yes, she informed him in a mixture of French and English, there was a room vacant, recently occupied by a young gentleman who had been expédié, for what misdemeanour Kennedy could not make out, except that it had been quelque chose de dégoutant. An American, of course, ce pays barbare. A civilisation sterile. Kitty’s
flesh below her pink flannel dressing-gown could be sensed constantly to eddy, even when her body was at rest. There were other Americans in the house, and Germans also, but she herself preferred always the English. Monsieur was English, was he not? Ah ça se voit. The rent, payable in advance, payable, in fact, immediately, was one hundred and fifty drachmas a week. Kennedy paid and was shown his room, one of those with a balcony.
Kennedy sat some time in silence on the narrow bed. There was a kind of rustling in the room, as of cockroaches, but he didn’t mind that unduly. Unpacking would not take long, he had few possessions. Perhaps it would be a good idea to wash, there was a handbasin against the wall. As he was rising there was a light tap on the door and a second or two later the door was opened and a person in a maroon baseball cap poked his head into the room. ‘Visitors,’ this person said. ‘You got visitors.’ After a few seconds more of scrutiny he advanced fully into the room in a loping, rather rubbery, manner. His face beneath the cap wore a dazed smile. Immediately behind him followed a short young man with a bald spot, dressed in a somewhat shabby, but respectable grey pin-stripe suit. ‘I am Simpson,’ the man in the cap said. ‘This is Roland, he is British.’
‘Bryan Kennedy,’ Kennedy said, and felt his hand taken in a surprisingly vigorous, almost convulsive, grip.
‘I extend to you, sir, the freedom of this goddam city,’ Simpson said. He had a rather agreeable light voice, with an odd tendency to trail the final syllables of his words. And he was, as Kennedy now saw, in a fairly advanced stage of drunkenness.
‘That is very good of you, old boy,’ Kennedy said, somewhat disliking the other’s grandiloquence. ‘You haven’t any booze left over, have you?’
‘Sharp,’ said Simpson, who was swaying slightly, ‘sharp. I can see you are a sharp one. By God.’ He fumbled for a moment in the top pocket of his gabardine jacket which had the look of having formerly belonged to a bulkier man, and brought out a little white oblong. ‘My card,’ he said. Kennedy looked down at it. It was inscribed in gilt copper-plate with the words: ‘Ken Simpson, American Artist, Exhibitions in all the Capitals of Europe.’
The Greeks Have a Word for It Page 3