OLGA GRUSHIN
375
their catch. But at this early evening hour the terrace still lay deserted,
and Nestor would always stop whatever he was doing and look up
when Constantine walked by.
"Ah, sir policeman! Caught any criminals lately?"
When Nestor laughed, his gold tooth flashed in the sun like some
nasty bronze-bodied fly circling over cake crumbs. In his first week
Constantine had tried to joke back, but now he only shrugged help–
lessly, barely able to hide his irritation.
"Why don't you have a glass of wine? My treat, eh? My brother-in–
law's cousin grows the best grape on Chios, ask anyone!"
"Thank you kindly," Constantine always replied in a stiffening voice,
"but I really couldn't ... The job, you know.... "
He was beginning to feel convinced that the old man repeatedly made
this friendly gesture for the sole pleasure of hearing his faintly humiliat–
ing, stumbling refusal.
"Ah, of course, you must stay vigilant at all times!" The old man
nodded, but his eyes glittered mockingly from underneath his heavy eye–
lids. "Well, how about some lemonade, then?"
Frequently, as Constantine greedily gulped down the sickeningly
sweet liquid, the first visitor to the taverna rounded the corner, and
Nestor would glance up swiftly, shading his eyes from the sun.
"Good day, Markos!" he would shout-and sometimes it was
"Afternoon, Andreas!" or "Fancy seeing you, Demetrios!"-"Any luck
today?"
"Can't complain, can't complain, the Good Lady be blessed," the
fisherman would reply cheerfully. "And do I see here our brave
upholder of the law? So, how goes it, sir policeman? Caught any crim–
inals lately?"
Trying not to make harsh movements, Constantine would set down
the glass, incline his head, and, seething inwardly, walk away, down
toward the harbor, followed by the men's insistent laughter.
HE
WAS
RENTING
A ROOM
in a small house that belonged to Maria, the
elderly widow of Domenico Passano, the last stranger to settle in Inos.
Constantine had fallen in love with the room the moment he had
stepped across its threshold. It had a window that opened toward the
sea and bright yellow curtains that he imagined billowing on a cool sea
breeze, turning the place, with its narrow white bed and a blue washing
jug, into one of those nineteenth-century summer paintings whose
reproductions he had once seen hanging in a dentist's waiting room.
"Yes, I'll take it," he said quickly, happily, without thinking. But in just
