Coda

It’s a heavenly day. Warm, with the mildest of breezes, the sea calm and the surrounding mountains visible, with the distinct hint, like large thoughts not yet thought, of mountains beyond them, and beyond. I’m sitting at the table, as has become my habit, with my back resting against the chapel wall. In front of me are the tables and chairs of the restaurant, and then the esplanade and the steps down to the beach. It’s the sort of day that helps people to be friends, almost everyone who passes by me nods or smiles, some say a few words, the routine words – ‘Isn’t it lovely here!’ and ‘What a beautiful day,’ or more personally, ‘You look comfortable there in the shade.’ An elderly Scotsman with a verra thick accent has just loitered to discuss the charms of the hotel, it’s his first time in Greece, usually he goes to Portugal ‘and such’, he tries to learn the language of the country he holidays in, but he’s finding Greek ‘verra, verra difficult’ – he’s been here a week, going back on Tuesday, so he doubts that he’ll master it on this visit, at least – Well, it was a nice conversation, cheerful and easy. Then he was down to the beach and a few minutes later up again with a stately, heavy-treading silver-haired wife, who continued on her way while he paused to tell me to send him a cheque, a blank cheque, any sort of cheque would do as long as it was blank. I laughed and nodded, but couldn’t think what to say because I didn’t understand the joke, if it was a joke. Yes, it was a joke, his countenance and the tone of his voice announced it as such, but what was its point? I’m going to go for a swim, why not?