house in a village in Greece. We are going there for a few weeks before we go home. He looks to Jerome, who says, come. But there is no echo of the last invitation on the stairs, this is a formal offer he could easily turn down.
And then, after Greece, he says. What will I do. Let me think, I will tell you later.
He goes walking through the old city, between high and fantastic facades, movement has always been a substitute for thought and he would like to stop thinking now. Wandering around, he finds himself in an antique shop full of cool dark air and oriental carpets and brass lamps, his eye slides off this material world until a human figure pulls it back. Where are you from. The man is in his fifties, white, with a big lined face and a lugubrious air. He has an improbable English accent, very overdone. South Africa, goodness me, how did you get up here. Through Malawi, my word, I’m off to Malawi in a few days. Look around, yes please, be my guest. What did you say your name was.
For some reason this lanky expat stays in his mind even when he gets back to the hotel, in all this grimy and half-decayed city he is the only other person, aside from his companions, who knows my name. He sits on the balcony as it gets dark, staring out into the hot rainy street, where a taxi pulls up and a prostitute gets out, one of the brightly dressed women from downstairs, along with a bearded white man his own age. They kiss lingeringly next to the car, their tongues flicker in the humid air, then the man gets back into the taxi and glides away.
When they all go out that night to eat, the mood around the table is glum. The others are weighed down by different thoughts, the end of nine months in Africa, maybe, the prospect of going home. But somewhere in the intermittent bits of conversation the question comes up again, have you decided what to do. No, not yet, in the morning.
That night he hardly sleeps. He throws himself around on the bed, he stares up at the fan as it turns and turns, he keeps getting up and wandering out onto the balcony and then wandering back again. His brain is boiling over, he can’t make it cool down.
In the morning everybody is up early. There is a lot of commotion and activity, and it’s a while before Jerome comes in to ask with raised eyebrows, good decision.
He shakes his head, his voice won’t come out properly. I must go back.
Jerome doesn’t answer, but his face goes tight.
So the journey ends with four little words. Nobody argues with him, they are all caught up with what they have to do, sorting through their things and packing their bags. He doesn’t want to sit around watching, so he tells Christian he’s going out for a walk.
We must go by ten.
I’ll be back by then.
He goes out through the crowded streets, he wanders without any plan clear to himself, but he’s not surprised when he finds himself back at the dark antique shop. The seedy expat is there again, balanced with a cup of coffee on a pile of carpets. I was here yesterday, I tell him.
Oh yes, he says vaguely.
You mentioned you were going to Malawi in a few days.
Yes. Yes. I am thinking of doing that.
I wondered whether you might want a companion on the trip.
At this the dark eyes lighten a little, oh yes, he says, that would be good. Why don’t you come by tomorrow and we can make plans. What is your name again.
Damon. My name is Damon.
The man repeats his name. He goes back to the hotel by half past nine, but there’s no sign of the others. At first he assumes they’re out somewhere having breakfast, but then it dawns on him that they’ve gone, when Christian said ten he must’ve meant the time at which the bus actually left, they are at the bus-station by now.
He thinks he must hurry over to say goodbye. But by the time he’s downstairs again another conviction comes slowly over him. Isn’t it better this way, let them go quietly without seeing them. So he starts to wander through the streets again, but in the wrong direction, away from the bus-station, looking at people, at shops, at any detail he passes that might