done. Then he ran. M and the owner o f the club, N ikko, and
some other man ran out when they saw me standing there, not
coming in. I was so confused. They ran after him but didn’t
find him. I was relieved for him because they would have hit
him. Women don’t go out here but I do.
I’ve never been afraid o f anything and I do what I want; I’m a
free human being, w hy would I apologize? I argue with m yself
about my rights because who else would listen. The few
foreign women who come here to live are all considered
whores because they go out and because they take men as
lovers, one, some, more. This means nothing to me. I’ve
always lived on m y own, in freedom, not bound by people’s
narrow minds or prejudices. It’s not different now. The Greek
women never go out and the Greek men don’t go home until
they are. very old men and ready to die. I would like to be with
a woman but a foreign woman is a mortal enemy here.
Sometimes in the bar M and I dance together. T hey play
Amerikan music for slow dancing— “ House o f the Rising
Sun , ” “ Heartbreak H otel. ” The songs make me want to cry
and we hold each other the w ay fire holds what it burns; and
everyone looks because you don’t often see people who have
to touch each other or they will die. It’s true with us; a simple
fact. I have no sense o f being a spectacle; only a sense o f being
the absolute center o f the world and what I feel is all the feeling
the world has in it, all o f it concentrated in me. Later we drive
into the country to a restaurant for dinner and to dance more,
heart to heart, earth scorched by wind, the African wind that
touches every rock and hidden place on this island. There are
two main streets in this old city. One goes down a steep old
hill to the sea, a sea that seems painted in light and color,
purple and aqua and a shining silver, mercury all bubbling in
an irridescent sunlight, and there is a bright, bright green in
the sea that cools down as night comes becoming somber,
stony, a hard, gem -like surface, m oving jade. The old Nazi
headquarters are down this old hill close to the sea. They keep
the building empty; it is considered foul, obscene. It is all
chained up, the great wrought iron doors with the great
swastika rusting and rotting and inside it is rubble. Piss on you
it says to the Nazis. The other main street crosses the hill at the
top. It crosses the whole city. The other streets in the city are
dirt paths or alleys made o f stones. N ikko owns the club. He
and M are friends. M is lit up from inside, radiant with light;
he is the sea’s only rival for radiance; is it Raphael who could
paint the sensuality o f his face, or is it Titian? The painter o f
this island is El Greco, born here, but there is no nightmare in
M ’s face, only a miracle o f perfect beauty, too much beauty so
