One Cretan Evening and Other Stories by Victoria Hislop Read Free Book Online Page A

spent hours of each day reading at his desk.
    ‘Let me have a look at you,’ he said, scrutinising her face with a mixture of love and curiosity. ‘Where have you been?’
    ‘Getting back from the university . . .’
    ‘You seem to be out a lot at the moment. More than usual.’
    ‘It takes a while to get home when there are demonstrations.’
    ‘Yes. These demonstrations . . . That’s what I really want to talk to you about. We haven’t ever really discussed politics but—’
    ‘I’m not involved in them,’ interjected Irini.
    ‘I’m sure you’re not,’ he said. ‘But I know what your faculty is like. It has a reputation, you know. For being radical. And your father—’
    ‘Well I’m not a radical,’ she said. ‘Really I’m not.’
    Even from a distance she could feel the eye of her father on her. Irini knew that he would probably already have heard that she often did not return until light.
    A newspaper, which had been the catalyst for this discussion, lay on her grandfather’s desk. She could see the headlines:
CITY CENTRE BLAZES
    ‘Look at what’s going on!’ said her grandfather.
    He waved the newspaper that had been lying on his desk in the air.
    ‘These koukouloforoi ! These hooded kids! They’re a disgrace!’ His voice had risen. ‘They’re anarchists !’
    The kindly old man could quickly lose his gentle air once he was on this subject.
    And then something caught her eye.
    There were two images on the front page. One of the burning tree and a second of someone falling beneath the baton blows of two riot police. Their anonymity was guaranteed – their faces were concealed behind the perspex globes of their helmets – but their victim’s features were caught vividly on camera, contorted by a mixture of pain and rage. If his eyes had not been so distinctive, so clear, so pale, the image would not have grabbed her attention so forcibly.
    She took the newspaper calmly from her grandfather. Her hands were shaking and her heart pounded as she took a closer look. It was Fotis. It was undoubtedly him. What shocked her was that in his hand he clung on to a flaming torch. This was making the job of the police, who clearly feared that they might go up in flames, much harder. The picture showed that Fotis’ knuckles were white with determination. He was not going to let go of his weapon.
    ‘You see!’ said her grandfather. ‘Look at that hooligan!’
    Irini could scarcely speak.
    ‘It’s awful, yes . . . awful,’ she whispered.
    With those words she put the newspaper back on her grandfather’s desk.
    ‘I’m just going out for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later.’
    ‘But your grandmother has made supper—’
    Before he had finished the sentence, the door had slammed.
    Irini ran down the street, turned left and right and right again. This time her feet were soundless on the paving stones of Plaka. Twenty minutes later, she arrived, her chest tightwith exertion, in a familiar down-at-heel Exarchia street. The outer door to the block was ajar. It had been kicked off its latch some while back and no one had bothered to repair it. She ran up the stairs, two at a time and reached the ninth floor, where she fell against the door to Fotis’ flat, hammering on it with all her remaining strength.
    A second later, Antonis threw it open.
    ‘Where . . .?’ she gasped.
    ‘He’s not here,’ he said, standing aside to let her pass.
    In her panic and confusion, Irini only had two possible thoughts. That Fotis was locked up somewhere or in hospital. It took her some time to take in what Antonis was trying to tell her.
    ‘He’s gone. He’s gone away.’
    ‘What? Where?’
    ‘Look, you need to sit down. And I will tell you.’
    She allowed Antonis to lead her by the arm to the kitchen table where she took one of the two rickety chairs.
    ‘What are these?’
    ‘I found all of these in Fotis’ room a couple of days ago.’
    ‘But why were they there?’
    ‘He collected them. I