Free Nightspawn by John Banville Page A

to return to Piraeus for repairs. It has been quite a journey.’
    ‘And all to find me.’
    Aristotle lowered his eyelids modestly and smiled. His hands were shaking. He gave a glass to both of us. Neither of us drank. I thought that very soon now I would scream. Erik seemed to notice nothing. Aristotle moved to sit on the couch beside his friend, but abruptly changed his mind, and went back to lean against the table. I saw his hand, behind him, flutter in panic. His fingers found the reassuring edge of the wood, and he relaxed a little, and tried to smile. I cleared my throat, a compromise for that scream, and he glanced at me quickly. Erik cradled the glass in his large hands and looked through a porthole at the village and the burnt hills behind it. Aristotle watched him avidly, devouring each tiny movement, and asked,
    ‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’
    His voice was too loud. Fingers flew to his lips. Erik started, as though he had forgotten that he was not alone.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Your, your holiday, are you enjoying it?’
    ‘Holi— yes yes, of course.’
    Aristotle’s eyes swivelled round and fixed appealingly on me.
    ‘And you, Mr Black?’
    ‘White.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘My name is White.’
    ‘I know that. Are you on holiday here?’
    ‘Yes, I’m on holiday too.’
    ‘Ah. English, are you?’
    ‘Yes, no, Irish.’
    ‘Irish? Ah.’
    Some gay exchanges there. Erik broke harshly in upon our little duet.
    ‘There are some very curious people here, Colonel.’
    Aristotle’s eyes dragged themselves away from mine, slithered across the floor, clambered up the couch and came finally to rest on Erik’s breastbone. Erik laid his head back on the cushion, and went on,
    ‘Yes, very curious, very … inquisitive, I should say. Theycome to your room and smash your possessions. They are … uncouth.’
    He smiled, delighted with the word, and whispered it once again under his breath. Aristotle turned to the table and refilled his glass, drank it off, and filled it yet again. A wisp of sour breath laced with whiskey wafted past me. He asked,
    ‘Why did you leave the city, Erik? Are you in trouble again? You realize that I cannot —’
    Erik interrupted him by throwing back his head and giving a squawk of laughter which startled all of us, Erik included. Then he frowned, and carefully took off his spectacles.
    ‘You’re a fat old man, Colonel, and full of shit,’ he said, with some sadness.
    A sprung nerve uncoiled at the corner of Aristotle’s mouth, twisting his smile into a grimace. Through the silence came the kiss of water on the hull, kiss, and the distant yapping of a dog. Sea shadows stirred on the cabin walls. A breeze sang gaily in the traces. Erik rubbed a few flakes of dry skin from his chin. The ice clattered in the old man’s glass. We looked, all three, at his trembling hand.
    ‘Useless,’ Erik muttered, with muted fury. ‘Useless.’
    He put his glass untouched down on the floor beside him, took the briefcase in both hands and held it aloft. Aristotle peered at it, trying to muster his attention.
    ‘Everything I have is here,’ Erik said between clenched teeth. ‘All my papers, my files. I have nothing to fear.’
    He loosened his fingers, and the case dropped. A corner of it hit the polished planks of the cabin floor, and it sprang up, turned, and flopped down on its side. Aristotle looked at the case, at Erik, at the case, at Erik again, his eyebrows raised and head inclined in a silent question.
    ‘If you want to search, then search,’ Erik shouted. His voice cracked on the first search, and the squeal so produced knocked an exquisite little note of music from the glass upon the table. That little song gave us all pause, and we turned and looked in wonder at the singer standing in transparent modesty on the green baize stage. Then Aristotle made a little sound of distress and stepped forward to pick up the case, while Erik at the sametime began to rise. There was a scuffle, and Erik