hour, as the boats, looking like toys from high up, arranged and rearranged themselves, tying up and casting off.
He liked early mornings and late evenings best, when the light softened, and when the big tour boats were gone. The big boats struck him as out of scale in the small harbor. Sometimes the light had a pearly quality, a wonderful milkiness, which he tried to capture on film, his camera steadied on his walking stick. He hadnât gotten the shots he wanted, which was one of the reasons he kept going back. The shots were more difficult than they looked, but felt necessary, not only for The Lesser Dodecanese , but to Myles personally. He couldnât have explained exactly why, but he knew it had to do with a woman heâd seen up there the summer before. He always remembered her at the same spot on the cobbled path, just where it passed over a breezeway between two small houses, now apparently occupied by a single family. He
had been looking through the slot, at the brightness of the water behind that seemed to darken the slate walk between the two buildings, which was in shadow, visible under a flowering vine. Heâd been looking very intently, when a woman, a naked woman, flew from one building to the other, from right to left. Sheâd been mid-leap all the way across, or so it had seemed, arms raised, one knee up before her and the other leg, propelling her, taut out behind, head up, small breasts riding up, dark hair trailing. There had been no sound, no giggle or slap of footsteps.
Swift, unexpected, and then gone. Myles knew the way it had happened had a great deal to do with how vividly he remembered the running woman. Heâd noticed the pattern at other times: a deer bounding across a gap in the woods, a bird crossing a narrow window. They were like photographs, moments broken free of whatever it was that was going on. And they lodged in memory with a vividness altogether out of keeping with any reasonable explanation of their importance.
Myles stopped just there, every time he walked that path, peered under the vine that was flowering this year, too, but without any expectation of seeing the woman again. That, he was pretty sure, wouldnât happen. Some things properly happen only once. Myles didnât talk about the once that it had happened, either. He knew telling it would elicit a leer, or at least the suspicion that the moment had mattered because it was erotic. But it hadnât been erotic; the only word he could put to it was otherworldly , and that wasnât a word he liked to use in conversation.
After awhile he walked on. Just short of the Kalà Stráta he turned right, exploring the narrow alleys of residential Chorió, where the cries of mothers and children echoed raucously off the whitewashed stone walls. He was a little lost, lost in detail, but knew he would run onto the Kalà Stráta in the end. He crossed another alley and, looking down the narrowing perspective, saw two girls swinging badminton rackets, screeching. He recognized Váso from To Stenáki when she turned and charged toward him. Then, as suddenly, she turned around, put her racket to the ground, and lobbed something back toward the other girl: not a shuttlecock. Myles looked closely. It was a small rat. They were playing badminton with a rat theyâd trapped in the alley! Then he heard it, screeching in a higher register than the girls. He shook his head, considering the possibilities: badrat and ratminton. But then the rat got by the
other girl and raced into an overgrown lot, making a getaway at last. The girls howled and then fell to giggling wildly. It was a better game than badminton, apparently. Myles waved to Váso and she came over, sputtering in Greek, her eyes shining madly in her flushed face.
Fourteen
17 June
Â
Paul didnât smoke, but he often carried a pack of Camels around with him, just to have cigarettes to offer to smokers in distress. There were a lot of
He liked early mornings and late evenings best, when the light softened, and when the big tour boats were gone. The big boats struck him as out of scale in the small harbor. Sometimes the light had a pearly quality, a wonderful milkiness, which he tried to capture on film, his camera steadied on his walking stick. He hadnât gotten the shots he wanted, which was one of the reasons he kept going back. The shots were more difficult than they looked, but felt necessary, not only for The Lesser Dodecanese , but to Myles personally. He couldnât have explained exactly why, but he knew it had to do with a woman heâd seen up there the summer before. He always remembered her at the same spot on the cobbled path, just where it passed over a breezeway between two small houses, now apparently occupied by a single family. He
had been looking through the slot, at the brightness of the water behind that seemed to darken the slate walk between the two buildings, which was in shadow, visible under a flowering vine. Heâd been looking very intently, when a woman, a naked woman, flew from one building to the other, from right to left. Sheâd been mid-leap all the way across, or so it had seemed, arms raised, one knee up before her and the other leg, propelling her, taut out behind, head up, small breasts riding up, dark hair trailing. There had been no sound, no giggle or slap of footsteps.
Swift, unexpected, and then gone. Myles knew the way it had happened had a great deal to do with how vividly he remembered the running woman. Heâd noticed the pattern at other times: a deer bounding across a gap in the woods, a bird crossing a narrow window. They were like photographs, moments broken free of whatever it was that was going on. And they lodged in memory with a vividness altogether out of keeping with any reasonable explanation of their importance.
Myles stopped just there, every time he walked that path, peered under the vine that was flowering this year, too, but without any expectation of seeing the woman again. That, he was pretty sure, wouldnât happen. Some things properly happen only once. Myles didnât talk about the once that it had happened, either. He knew telling it would elicit a leer, or at least the suspicion that the moment had mattered because it was erotic. But it hadnât been erotic; the only word he could put to it was otherworldly , and that wasnât a word he liked to use in conversation.
After awhile he walked on. Just short of the Kalà Stráta he turned right, exploring the narrow alleys of residential Chorió, where the cries of mothers and children echoed raucously off the whitewashed stone walls. He was a little lost, lost in detail, but knew he would run onto the Kalà Stráta in the end. He crossed another alley and, looking down the narrowing perspective, saw two girls swinging badminton rackets, screeching. He recognized Váso from To Stenáki when she turned and charged toward him. Then, as suddenly, she turned around, put her racket to the ground, and lobbed something back toward the other girl: not a shuttlecock. Myles looked closely. It was a small rat. They were playing badminton with a rat theyâd trapped in the alley! Then he heard it, screeching in a higher register than the girls. He shook his head, considering the possibilities: badrat and ratminton. But then the rat got by the
other girl and raced into an overgrown lot, making a getaway at last. The girls howled and then fell to giggling wildly. It was a better game than badminton, apparently. Myles waved to Váso and she came over, sputtering in Greek, her eyes shining madly in her flushed face.
Fourteen
17 June
Â
Paul didnât smoke, but he often carried a pack of Camels around with him, just to have cigarettes to offer to smokers in distress. There were a lot of