if Lucinda had received her message, and what she thought. And Lars Hæ°“kansson? She put her foot down and increased speed. She hated the man, even if she could not accuse him, naturally, of being involved in the events that had led to Henrik's death. He was a man she had no desire to have in her vicinity.
She turned off at a service station that also had a restaurant. She had been there before, with Vassilis, her patient but somewhat nonchalant lover. He had collected her from the airport. She had been in Rome to participate in a dreary conference on the discovery of ancient books and manuscripts in the desert sands of Mali. The discoveries had been sensational, but the seminars sleepinducing, with far too many speakers and hopeless organisation. Vassilis had met her plane, and they had drunk coffee here together.
She had spent that night with him. It now seemed just as distant as anything she had experienced in her childhood.
Lorry drivers were half asleep over their coffee cups. She had a salad, water and a cup of coffee. All the scents and tastes told her that she was back in Greece now. Nothing seemed foreign, as had been the case in Africa.
It was about eleven when she arrived in Argolis. She turned off towards the house she rented, but changed her mind and headed for the excavation site. She assumed that most of her colleagues would have left for home but that a few would still be there, putting the finishing touches to the necessary precautions as winter approached. But there was nobody there at all. The place was deserted. Everything that could be closed down was closed. Not even the security guards were there any more.
It was one of the loneliest moments in her life. Nothing could compare with the shock of finding Henrik dead in his bed, of course. This was a different kind of loneliness, like finding oneself abandoned in a landscape that went on for ever.
She recalled the game that she and Aron sometimes played. What would you do if you were the last person alive on earth? Or the first? But she could not remember any of the suggestions and answers they had given each other. Now it was not a game any more.
An old man was approaching, walking his dog. He had been a regular visitor to the dig. She had forgotten his name, but remembered that the dog was called Alice. Politely, he took off his cap and shook hands. He spoke rather complicated and slow English and was only too pleased to have an opportunity to practise it.
'I thought everyone had returned to their homes?'
'I'm just paying a fleeting visit. Nothing will happen here until next spring.'
'The last ones departed a week ago. But you were not here then, Mrs Cantor.'
'I've been in Africa.'
'So far away. Is it not frightening?'
'What do you mean?'
'All that . . . wildness. What is it called? The wilderness?'
'It's not so different from here. We forget too easily that people all belong to the same family. And that every landscape has something that reminds you of other landscapes. If it's true that we all came originally from Africa, that must mean that we all had a black mother long, long ago.'
'That can be true.'
He gave his dog a worried look. It was lying down with its head resting on its paws.
'She will probably not live beyond the winter.'
'Is she ill?'
'She is very old. At least a thousand years, I would think. A classic dog, a remnant from antiquity. Every morning I see with what difficulty she stands up. It is I who take her for walks now, not vice versa as it was before.'
'I hope she survives.'
'We shall meet again in the spring.'
He raised his cap again and continued his walk. The dog followed him, stiff-legged. She decided to visit Vassilis in his office. It was time now to draw a line under everything. It was clear to her that she would never come back here. Somebody else would have to take over as director of the excavations.
Her life had turned off in a different direction, but she had no idea which.
She stopped outside his office in the town centre. She could see Vassilis through the window. He was on the telephone, making notes, laughing.
He has forgotten me. I've gone as far as he's concerned. I was no more than a casual acquaintance to sleep with and share his pain. Just like he was