That evening, on what was to be my final night in Gerolimenas, I had dinner with Maria. It happened very naturally, although it was hard to think of a situation more awkward—the wife and the mistress, sitting across the table from each other, making conversation. The awkwardness was compounded by the fact that she was still working, she wore her uniform and said before she sat down that her shift would not end for another thirty minutes, and that staff were not to fraternize with guests, not under any circumstances.
Her words had the quality of a formal announcement and for a moment she merely stood before me. It had not turned out well, the last time she had consorted with a guest of the hotel—neither of us said this but it was as if we both had the thought at the same time, her forehead creased and she stood immobile, staring down at the table, one hand on the back of the chair. She had asked if she could join me, but she now looked as if she might change her mind. She didn’t, and at last she pulled the chair out and sat down.
I waited for her to say something. She must have had something to say—why else would she have asked to sit down, her manner when she did so was deliberate, as if she had been considering the action for some time, for some hours if not days, perhaps she was going to reprimand me for having eavesdropped on her conversation with Stefano—but she simply sat on the edge of her seat and looked around, she seemed anxious, perhaps she was worried that Kostas or someone else would appear and ask her what on earth she was doing. The waiters seemed not to notice her arrival, as if the sight of an employee sitting down to dinner with a guest was too bizarre to acknowledge.
I asked if she would like a glass of wine. She looked as if she were going to refuse, then shrugged and nodded. A glass of wine would be nice. I motioned to the waiter, who came to the table at once. He stood before me without looking at Maria, although they were colleagues and must have known each other.
I ordered a second glass of wine and then asked Maria if she had eaten dinner, I assumed she had not, it had been one in the afternoon when I had seen her in the lobby with Stefano and it was now past eight. She shook her head and I asked the waiter if he could bring another table setting, which he did, although he did not bring a second menu. Patiently, I asked him to bring a second menu but Maria said it wasn’t necessary, she knew what she wanted.
She proceeded to order at length, in Greek, she was obviously familiar with the menu. The waiter, as she gave her order, listened impassively with his hands folded before him. He made none of the small movements and gestures waiters make to show their continued attention—the carefully inclined head, the murmured very good or excellent choice, the small nods here and there, all of which he had employed extensively when serving me before.
Nor did he write down her order. Instead he simply stared at her, hands folded in front of him, evidently affronted by her assurance. Even with my limited comprehension, I could tell that she was speaking to him as if he were there to serve her, not as if he were a colleague who happened to be temporarily placed in the role of server. He said nothing, even when she fell silent, and she said something sharply, still in Greek. He turned to me without saying anything in reply and asked in English if I had decided what I would like.
I ordered salad and a pasta, it was not the most inspiring choice, the pasta was nothing wonderful but I was tired of grilled meats and cheeses, the heavy Greek food—even the relatively cosmopolitan version that was served in the hotel restaurant—was not to my liking. The waiter nodded and said he would be back with the wine. He smiled as he took the menu and then left without looking at Maria, his rudeness was so pointed that I wondered if there was anything in it, some history of animosity between the two of them, he had seemed until then a thoroughly inoffensive man.
After the waiter left we fell silent, there was now nothing obvious to say, the business of ordering our meal having been got out of the way. I made several attempts at conversation, admittedly they were banal topics. But Maria appeared to have no intention of launching into the heart of the matter, the reason why she had asked to sit down, perhaps it had been a mistake to invite her to dine with me—perhaps she did not have enough conversation to fill the length of the meal and intended to sit in stony silence until the final course, whereupon she would finally unburden herself and say what she had sat down to say.