Free One Cretan Evening and Other Stories by Victoria Hislop

made on small stoves and carried through the streets. In the markets colourful savoury spices such as turmeric, paprika and cinnamon were shaped by the seller into small mountain peaks, and plumes of aromatic smoke curled up from narghiles, smoked outside the cafés.
    Thessaloniki was currently home to a provisionalgovernment led by the former Prime Minister, Eleftherios Venizelos. There was a deep division in the country – known as the National Schism – between those who supported the pro-German monarch, King Constantine, and supporters of the liberal Venizelos. As a consequence of the latter’s control over northern Greece, Allied troops were currently encamped outside the city in readiness for operations against Bulgaria. In spite of these distant rumblings, most people’s lives were untouched by the world war. For some, it even brought additional wealth and opportunity.
    One such person was Konstantinos Komninos and, on this perfect May morning, he strode in his usual purposeful manner across the cobbled dockyard. He had gone to check on the arrival of a shipment of cloth, and porters, beggars and boys with handcarts steered out of his path as he took his straight course towards the exit. He was not known for his patience with people who got in his way.
    His shoes were dusty and some fresh mule dung clung stubbornly to his heel so when Komninos stopped at his usual boot-black, one of a row kept busy next to the customs house, the man had at least ten minutes’ work to do.
    Well into his seventies, his skin was as dark and leathery as the footwear he polished, and he had been cleaning shoes for Konstantinos Komninos for three decades. They nodded a mutual greeting but neither of them spoke. This was typical of Komninos: all his routines were carried out without conversation. The old man worked at the leather until it gleamed, polishing both of the expensive brogues simultaneously, applying the polish, working it into the leather and finally brushing with sweeping strokes, ambidextrously, his arms flyingleft and right, crossing over, up and down, side to side, as though he were conducting an orchestra.
    Even before the job was finished, he heard the tinkle of a coin dropped into his tray. It was always the same, never more, never less.
    Today, as every day, Komninos wore a dark suit and, in spite of the rising temperature, kept his jacket on. Such habits were an indication of social standing. Going about one’s business in shirtsleeves was as unthinkable as taking off armour before a battle. The language of formal dress for both men and women was one he understood, and one that had made him rich. Suits lent a man both status and dignity, and well-cut clothes in the European style gave a woman elegance and chic.
    The cloth merchant caught sight of himself in the gleaming window of one of the new department stores and the shadowy glimpse was enough to remind him that he was due a visit to the barber. He took a detour into one of the side streets away from the seafront and was soon comfortably seated, his face lathered and every inch except his moustache closely shaved. Then his hair was meticulously clipped so that the space between the top of his collar and his hairline was precisely two millimetres. Komninos was annoyed to see that there were hints of silver in the specks of hair that the barber blew from his clippers.
    Finally, before making his way to his showroom, he sat for a while at a small circular table and a waiter brought him coffee as well as his favourite newspaper, the right-wing Apoyevmatini. He dispensed with the news quickly, catching up on the latest political intrigues in Greece before giving the headlines onmilitary developments in France a cursory glance. Finally, he ran his finger down the share prices.
    The war was good for Komninos. He had opened a second warehouse near the port to help deal with his new business – the supply of fabric for military uniforms. With tens of thousands being