Read Mortal Remains for Free Online Page A

English, sir?’ the waiter said.
    ‘Yes.’
    The waiter looked pleased, and made a ceremony of setting the table and polishing the wine glass. Patrick understood the subtlety of this when he heard a couple at another table give their order in English and then begin talking German together.
    His soup came, and a crisp roll. Why crisp rolls now and none at breakfast? Yet what did it matter. He looked around him; everyone seemed content, even the waiters, though some frowned deeply with concentration as they served the various dishes. The warm air was like a balm; for the first time for weeks Patrick’s nerves felt eased. Why fret? It achieved nothing. The tortoise often got as good results as any hare, with far less personal strain. He had laid his book on the table, but he did not open it.
    The wine was light and pleasant. As he topped up his glass, someone sat down at the next table. It was the elderly American whom he had noticed earlier in the travel bureau and again with his wife outside the kafenion. He saw Patrick and nodded, somewhat curtly. Then his gaze fell on Patrick’s book.
    ‘Ah—English?’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Uh-huh. I’m from New Jersey.’
    The waiter came to take the American’s order, and Patrick was astonished to hear it given in Greek. Quite an exchange then took place, the waiter all smiles. When he had gone the man from New Jersey said, ‘My name’s George Loukas. My father was Greek. All my life I’ve promised myself that I’d come home and now I’ve done it. It’s a wonderful experience. A man doesn’t always realise his life’s ambition.’
    Very rarely, Patrick thought.
    ‘I’ve just retired,’ George Loukas continued. ‘I’ve waited years for this trip. It was no good coming just on a three weeks’ vacation. We have to see everything. We’re going on to your London in the fall.’
    ‘You’re doing Europe, are you?’
    ‘Some. We’ve been to Paris, Rome and Venice,’ said Loukas.
    Patrick wondered why he had spoken no Greek in the travel office that morning. Perhaps at such times it was better to stress one’s American aspect, to be recognised as a free spender.
    ‘My wife’s not well, that’s the pity of it,’ Loukas gloomed now. ‘She’s not been herself since we got to Crete last week. The food, I guess. She has to watch her diet.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick politely.
    His sardines came. They looked like whitebait and tasted very similar. They were excellent, and so was the salad, liberally garnished with cheese and olives.
    ‘Did your father come from Crete?’ Patrick asked Loukas.
    ‘He did, originally, but he went across to the mainland as a child. He grew up near Nauplia. I haven’t been there yet – that’s to come. Have you been to Nauplia?’
    Patrick had not.
    The American’s soup arrived. He too was having avrole-mono.
    ‘Do you like Greek food?’ he asked.
    ‘Well—’ Patrick began, guardedly. ‘It varies,’ he said. ‘This fish is very good.’
    ‘They serve everything lukewarm at our hotel,’ confided Loukas. ‘Makes Elsie mad. Where are you staying?’
    Patrick told him. He and his wife were staying at the Apollo, a hotel nearer the town. He said there were representatives from every nation staying there, a number of Swedes and Danes, in particular.
    ‘I guess their own countries are just so damned cold they need to soak up the sun,’ he said.
    A boat was chugging gently into the harbour; the soft putter of its engine came drifting towards them across the water. It was a cabin cruiser; Patrick recognised it as the Psyche, the vessel he had noticed tied up near the quay-side that morning. As he watched, it nosed gently in and picked up the same mooring. Some minutes later, two dark young men and a blonde girl disembarked from it and walked off towards the town.
    ‘Kids have a great time these days,’ said Loukas. ‘That girl’s no Greek.’ He shook his head, but tolerantly. ‘Still, I guess if you have everything