She waited for another of his famous three-minute warnings: "It is not the shrine of Agrippa,it is the monument Apart from this one small error, I would say you were word perfect. Felicitations."
At the same moment, from far below them, she heard a car hooting, three deliberate bursts, and she knew the sound was meant for him, for he at once lifted his head and considered it, like an animal scenting the wind, before yet again looking at his watch. The coach has turned into a pumpkin, she thought; time good children were in bed and telling one another what the hell they're all about.
They had already started down the hill when Joseph paused to gaze into the melancholy Theatre of Dionysos, an empty bowl lit only by the moon and the stray beams of distant lights. It's a last look, she thought in bewilderment as she watched his motionless black shape against the lights of the city.
"I read somewhere that no true drama can ever be a private statement," he remarked. "Novels, poems, yes. But not drama. Drama must have an application to reality. Drama must be useful. Do you believe that?"
"In Burton-on-Trent Women's Institute?" she replied, with a laugh. "Playing Helen of Troy at pensioners' Saturday matinées?"
"I'm serious. Tell me what you think."
"About theatre?"
"About its uses."
She felt disconcerted by his earnestness. Too much was hanging on her answer.
"Well, I agree," she said awkwardly. "Theatre should be useful. It should make people share and feel. It should--well, waken people's awareness."
"Be real, therefore? You are sure?"
"Sure I'm sure."
"Well, then," he said, as if in that case she shouldn't blame him.
"Well, then," she echoed gaily.
We are mad, she decided. Barking, certifiable loonies, the pair of us. The policeman saluted them on their way down to earth.
She thought at first he was playing a bad joke on her. Except for the Mercedes, the road was empty and the Mercedes stood all alone in it. On a bench not far from it a couple sat necking; otherwise there was nobody around. Its colour was dark but not black. It was parked close to the grass bank and the front number plate was not visible. She had liked Mercedes all her driving life, and she could tell by its solidity that this one was coach-built, and by its trim and aerials that it was someone's special toy with all the extras. He had taken her arm and it was not till they were almost alongside the driver's door that she realised he was proposing to open it. She saw him slip a key into the keyhole, and the buttons of all four locks pop up at once, and the next thing she knew he was leading her round to the passenger door while she asked him what the hell was going on.
"Don't you care for it?" he asked, with an airy lightness that she immediately suspected. "Shall I order a different one? I thought you had a weakness for fine cars."
"You mean you've hired it?"
"Not strictly. It has been lent to us for our journey."
He was holding the door open. She didn't get in.
"Lent who by?"
"A kind friend."
"What's his name?"
"Charlie, don't be entirely ridiculous. Herbert. Karl. What difference does a name make? Would you prefer the egalitarian discomforts of a Greek Fiat?"
"Where's my luggage?"
"In the boot. Dimitri put it there on my instructions. Do you want to take a look and reassure yourself?"
"I'm not going in this thing, it's crazy."
She got in nevertheless, and in no time he was sitting next to her, starting the engine. He was wearing driving gloves. Black leather ones with air holes in the back. He must have had them in his pocket and put them on as he got in. The gold round his wrists was very bright against them. He drove fast and skilfully. She didn't like that either--that wasn't how you drove friends' cars. Her door was locked. He had relocked them all with his central locking switch. He had turned on the radio and it was playing plaintive Greek music.
"How do I open this bloody window?" she said.
He pressed a button and the warm night wind washed over her, bringing the scent of resin. But he only let the window down a couple of inches.
"Do this often, do we?" she asked loudly. "One of our little things, is it? Taking ladies to unknown destinations at twice the speed of sound?"
No answer. He was gazing intently ahead of him. Who is he? Oh my dear soul--as her bloody mother would say--who is he? The car filled with light. She swung round and saw through the rear window a pair of headlamps about a hundred yards behind them, neither gaining nor losing.
"They ours or theirs?" she asked.
She was actually settling down again when she realised what else had caught her eye. A red blazer, lying along the back seat, brass buttons like the brass buttons in Nottingham and York: and, she wouldn't mind betting, a breath of the twenties about the cut.
She asked him for a cigarette.
"Why don't you look in the compartment?" he said, without turning his head. She pulled it open and saw a packet of Marlboros. A silk scarf lay beside them and a pair of expensive Polaroid sunglasses. She took out the scarf and sniffed it, and it smelt of men's toilet water. She helped herself to a cigarette. With his gloved hand, Joseph passed her the glowing lighter from the dashboard.
"Your chum a snappy dresser, is he?"
"Quite. Yes, he is. Why do you ask?'
"That his red blazer there on the back seat, or yours?"
He glanced swiftly at her as if impressed, then returned his eyes to the road.
"Let us say it is his but I have borrowed it," he replied calmly as the car's speed increased.
"You borrow his sunglasses too, did you? I should think you bloody well needed them, sitting right up by the footlights like that. Nearly joined the cast. Your name's Richthoven, right?"
"Right."
"First name Peter but you prefer Joseph. Living in Vienna, trading a little, studying a little." She paused but he said nothing. "In a box," she persisted. "Number seven-six-two, main post office. Right?"
She saw his head nod slightly in approval of her memory. The needle of the speedometer had climbed to 130 kilometres.
"Nationality undeclared, a sensitive mongrel," she went on breezily. "You've got three babies and two wives. All in a box."
"No wives, no babies."
"Never? Or none extant at the time of speaking?"
"None extant."
"Don't think I mind, Jose. I'd positively welcome it, actually. Anything to define you just now. Anything at all. That's how girls are--nosy."
She realised she was still holding the scarf. She tossed it into the compartment and shut the door with a bang. The road was straight but very narrow, the needle had reached 140 kilometres, she could feel the panic forming inside her and battling with her artificial calm.
"Mind telling us some good news, would you? Something to put a person at her ease?"
"The good news is that I have lied to you as little as possible and that in a short time from now you will understand the many good reasons for your being with us."
"Who's us?' she said sharply.
Till then he had been a loner. She didn't like the change at all. They were heading for a main road, but he was not slowing down. She saw the lights of two cars descending on them, then held her breath as he pressed the kickdown and foot brake together and tucked the Mercedes neatly in front of them, fast enough to allow the car behind to do the same.
"It's not guns, is it?" she enquired, thinking suddenly of his scars. "Not running a small war on the side somewhere, are we? Only I can't stand bangs, you see. I've got these delicate eardrums." Her voice, with its forced jauntiness, was becoming unfamiliar to her.
"No, Charlie, it is not gunrunning."
" ‘No, Charlie, it is not gunrunning.' White-slave traffic?"
"No, it's not white-slave traffic either."