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handfuls of the freshly dug ground, and tossed them after the priest’s.
    They left the graveside slowly, under the shelter of umbrellas: bright parachutes of colour which hid the stricken faces of the bereaved.
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    As they made their way towards the cemetery gates, Attis Danas held a blue umbrella over his own head and that of Yorgas Sarris. Rain pattered on the nylon fabric; wind gnawed easily through their urban clothes. Amongst the tombs, under the dripping portico of a small chapel, the journalist in his sheepskin jacket sheltered from the rain. Seeing Attis and Yorgas, he dropped a half-smoked cigarette to the ground and hurried along the path to join them.
    â€˜Gentlemen, kali mera sas ,’ said the journalist, stepping in front of them, shrugging up the collar of his jacket. ‘Forgive my intrusion on this sad occasion; but I am told you, kyrie ’ – he looked at Yorgas – ‘are Santos Volakis’s publisher. Is that right?’
    Yorgas held out his hand from under the umbrella, as if he thought the rain might have stopped. In only moments, his palm was wet.
    â€˜I’m his publisher, yes,’ he said, wiping his hand on his raincoat. ‘Who wants to know?’
    â€˜Might you have a few words for the press?’
    The journalist held up a reporter’s notebook, poked a blunt pencil out of its spiral binding and flipped through many pages of untidy shorthand.
    He readied his pencil over a blank page.
    â€˜It’s up to you, Yorgas,’ said Attis, ‘but I’ve sent out a press release already.’
    â€˜A personal statement always gives a better story,’ said the journalist. ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
    Yorgas shrugged his agreement.
    â€˜Your name?’
    â€˜Yorgas Sarris. I’m the proprietor of Bellerophon Editions, and we have the privilege of publishing all of Santos’s work.’
    The reporter made notes; despite its untidiness, the speed of his shorthand was slow, and the marks of his pencil were faint on the damp paper.
    â€˜And how have you been affected by his death?’ he asked.
    Out of respect for the dead man, neither Attis nor Yorgas had shaved. Overhanging the collar of his shirt, Yorgas’s jowls were rough with stubble. He brushed away the watery beginnings of tears.
    â€˜I myself have lost a friend, and that’s a personal tragedy,’ he said, pacing his words to the speed of the reporter’s slow pencil. ‘But this is a tragedy of epic proportions, which will have its effect on us all. The fact is simple: Santos was one of the brightest stars Greek poetry has ever seen. He was a genius, the Seferis of his generation, a man of extraordinary talent. And to leave us so young, when he had still so very much to give! It was an honour to publish him, a true honour. His loss leaves a vacuum that may never be filled.’
    â€˜You describe his death as a tragedy,’ said the reporter, writing down Yorgas’s last sentence. ‘But would you say it’s true that his life was as tragic as his death?’ He looked up from his notebook, watching the publisher for his reaction; but though Attis frowned, the publisher’s face did not change. ‘I’ve heard he was a lonely man. Divorced.’
    â€˜A divorced man needn’t be lonely,’ said Attis. ‘What are you suggesting?’
    The reporter gave the same pleasant smile, and made a gesture which invited Attis to make a suggestion of his own; but before Attis could speak, the publisher interrupted.
    â€˜What you have to understand, friend,’ he said, ‘is that Santos was an artist in the true sense, and the artistic temperament tends from time to time towards melancholia. It’s in the nature of the artist to reflect on the human condition, and the human condition has many aspects. Of course Santos was low on occasions; of course he had his moods, as we all do. But he had family he loved deeply, and