They had loose beach bags slung over their shoulders with bathing suits, towels, and sunscreen. Coming through luxuriant century plants to a place called Castello, they climbed above the beach there to a higher elevation where decayed wooden gates with padlocks announced the phantoms of abandoned houses. Where the shallow water suddenly deepened there were irregular shapes of black opal, like the forms of stationary sharks, and farther out dark green masses that suggested a brooding energy that would always remain withheld from the upper air. An episode of malaria, she thought, but didn’t know why. A malarial dream made of sponges and submerged rocks. Close to shore a bare islet appeared with a white chapel built upon it, and against it they saw a fragile yacht tacking toward the two humps of Dokos. But the ripples spreading over the sea’s surface from the wind were faster than its wake. At Vlychos, they gazed down on a cheerless beach with rows of straw parasols amid a cluster of power lines—the path went right above it—and they could see large Greek men already positioning themselves to catch the first solar rays shooting over the sea. The whole affair was crammed into a cove. They wandered down to an old stone bridge and crossed it. Underneath them a man rode his donkey train, never looking up at the two girls; the fabulous mustache of a past century, the high boots, the hands of a strangler. He spat a Yassas to people they couldn’t see.
At the Four Seasons, with its shaded terrace covered by low-hanging trees, the Russians for which the place was famous had not yet appeared and the house that formed the main building of the hotel seemed closed up and indifferently idle. Yet the doors were open, and there was a glimpse of a cultured interior consisting of random antiques and a whiff of classical music. The straw parasols were trim and ready, unlike those of Mandraki, and the sand was raked. They sat at a beach table under the shade and ordered black coffee, a bitter sketos for Naomi and a sweeter metrios for Sam. The sweat began to dry on them, but it was impossible for Sam to imagine what it would be like to take this walk under a noon sun. It would be the kind of torment that only the affluent unemployed would inflict upon themselves.
They drank three cups each and ordered some toast with marmalade for Naomi and bowls of Greek yogurt with nuts. Sam said, without lying, that it was the best marmalade she had ever tasted. Naomi said they could smoke a little too, no one would notice. A little kif in the morning did the trick. She rolled a joint and they smoked it in turns. So she has weed, Sam thought calmly. She knows how to get it even here. She’s an operator.
As if reading her mind, Naomi explained.
“I get it from a local girl who rows around the island with a stash. She’ll come by later where we’re going.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s an insider secret here. She has stuff she gets from Turkey. She doesn’t sell to tourists unless they’re recommended. Don’t tell Christopher either.”
They got a buzz, but not enough to make them giddy. Then they walked on up the hill an hour later, braving the heat. The path curved against steep hillsides with the sea churning at the foot of cliffs. The road to Palamidas. A power line on poles swept all along it, the poles slightly deranged and angled.
Before they got near Palamidas, they scrambled down a ravine filled with irises. It was a narrow area of stones, where they laid out the towels, stripped, and changed into their bikinis. They lay down and waited. It was like waiting for inspiration. They began to talk, because the silence was conducive to it. Naomi asked Sam about her inability to eat bread. Had she been off it a long time? A few years, Sam said. She’d found that she was intolerant about the time she had started her periods. Luckily, it was a well-known intolerance in her generation; everyone had understood, even her mother. Surprisingly, Hydra was well stocked with gluten-free products. It was the Anglos, Naomi said tartly. They brought them in with them, and now the Greeks too found that they were gluten-intolerant, whereas they had ignored it for three thousand years, which showed you how stubborn they were.
Sam sensed the sarcasm, but she decided to go along with it by changing the subject. She asked if Naomi was seeing anyone, either here on the island or back home.
“You mean a boyfriend?”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m in a bit of an interregnum right now,” Naomi admitted.
“A what?”
“A pause between boyfriends. Probably between two uninteresting boyfriends.”
Sam felt emboldened to say: “Is the pause better than the guys?”
“In some ways it is. It depends on the guys. I’ve been alone for a while and I like it. I really can’t say why.”
“I know what you mean. I haven’t had that many boyfriends myself, but sometimes I think thinking about it is better than having it. It’s better than doing it, no?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I mean almost.”
“I still wouldn’t say that.”
Naomi smiled up at the sky and her skin, to Sam, was an English mask perfectly modeled to resemble a human face and the smile didn’t break its polished surface. And yet she could feel the tensions moving back and forth beneath it, ideas and moods roaming as if from empty room to empty room. It could have been easily mistaken for boredom, but it was more electrifying than boredom. It was like a child looking for a centipede to kill.
“What about Miss Sam?”
“There’s a boy I like—he’s in Mexico this summer. I didn’t want to bring him here anyway. My father doesn’t like him.”
“He didn’t want to come along?”
“He didn’t want to be with my family. It’s understandable, given the way my family carries on. We’re a bit…boring.”
“That’s not very loyal of him.”
“Well, I’m not very loyal either. I haven’t been thinking about him. I’m not the loyal type.”
“I know that feeling.”
“I was hoping there’d be some here. Boys, I mean. They say Greece is the place for that. Is it?”
“Sure it is.”
An hour later, they heard the slap of oars on water and a small rowing boat swung into view, a young woman of about Naomi’s age propelling it forward. They rose up onto their elbows and the visitor looked at them with a surly unsurprise from under a wide-brimmed straw hat, which she took off as the boat floated in toward them.
She was dressed in a swimsuit and a loose pale orange linen shirt, and her hair was knotted all the way down to the waist. She came up to the strand and raised the oars and shot a familiar Yassou at Naomi. When the boat was a few feet from the rocks she stood up and lifted a saddlebag, opened it, and took out a small packet. Naomi in turn had taken out a roll of euros and threw it into the boat. Back came the packet. The girl sat down again and the oars rose, dripping, while she scrutinized the American girl. There was no amicality in the eyes, no common cause. “Who is she?” she asked Naomi.
“Don’t worry about her,” Naomi replied in Greek, “she’s a friend.”
When the skiff moved off, the girl put her straw hat back on and began singing to herself as she rowed out of view. Naomi waited until she had disappeared before assembling a joint. They smoked it together, still lying on their backs, and then, refreshed, they climbed up toward Palamidas, the dust swirling around them until they reached a point where they could go no farther. The church at Episkipos was too much of a climb, and so they turned back.
—
At the gates to the Haldane villa Naomi said that she would head home. Her father and Phaine were expecting her for dinner and that night, for once, she would have to be punctual or risk their ire.
“Jimmie just sent me a message—we have to be at the port at seven tomorrow morning for the yacht. Can you do it?”
“We’ll be there. What should we bring?”
“Nothing at all. It’s butler service.”
“Butlers?”
“Well, they’re not dressed like butlers.”
Sam seemed to hesitate about something. Her words were drawled and almost purring.
“All right. Are you sure I can keep the weed?”
“I bought it for you,” Naomi said brightly.
“Cool. I won’t bring it tomorrow, though.”
Naomi took her hand for a moment and swung it like a jump rope.
“Don’t be late, Miss Sam. I hate late girls.”