‘Yes, you are protected, Monsieur l’Abbé!’ he went on, with controlled passion. ‘Protected by these walls, by the Greek Government. It was not you who defeated the Communists. When one has to make decisions that will affect history it is not so easy to sit over wine talking about — pacifism!’ He almost spat out the word; then sat back and sighed, his fingers loosening round the mug of wine as though a great tension had been released within him.
The abbot inclined his head: ‘There is much wisdom in what you say, Monsieur. Many great men have felt as you do, and it is not for any of us here to pronounce you wrong.’ He passed the wine round and was silent.
Neil glanced at the Frenchman, who was chewing a lump of bread and staring at his plate. He decided that he did not much like M. Martel.
When supper was over he and Van Loon groped their way up to their room. Neil opened the door and struck a match. He saw at once that there was something wrong. The moon glared in across the sea, on to a large black metal box in the middle of the floor. A pair of steel-backed hairbrushes lay beside the washbowl, under the photograph of the Czar. On the bed, where Neil’s rucksack had lain, there was a pigskin suitcase with silver fittings. The match went out. He was just turning, when a powerful light flared into his face. A voice from the door said in French, ‘What are you doing here?’
Neil stepped back and blinked. ‘I’m sorry —’ he put a hand across his eyes — ‘we must have the wrong room.’
Monsieur Martel swung the torch on to Van Loon, round the walls, on to the black metal box, then back to Neil. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said again.
‘I told you — we made a mistake. We’ve got the wrong room. They’re all alike.’
‘Get out!’ said the Frenchman.
Neil stared into the light, began to flush with anger, then shrugged and said, ‘Certainly. And thank you for your good manners.’ He turned to Van Loon: ‘Come on, let’s get out of here!’
Martel did not move: ‘Wait! I’m sorry. I thought for a moment —’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Neil. ‘Goodnight.’
‘No, wait!’ The Frenchman stepped back and closed the door: ‘I didn’t mean to be discourteous. I thought for a moment that perhaps —’ He paused, the torch pointing at the floor.
‘You thought perhaps we had come to steal something?’ said Neil.
Martel hesitated: ‘I have some valuable things in here. There are people who might try —’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Neil, ‘we both made a mistake. Goodnight, Monsieur Martel.’ He started towards the door.
‘Stay and have a brandy,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I have some excellent Armagnac.’
‘Armagnac!’ cried Van Loon, ‘O.K., we accept!’
‘Bien!’ Martel strode across the room and lit the Tilley lamp, pumping up the pressure till the gauze bulb glowed a livid white that made his face look like a skull. Neil stood reluctantly by the door. ‘Sit down, sit down!’ said Martel, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with only two glasses.’ He opened the pigskin case on the bed and brought out the brandy.
Neil and Van Loon sat on the other bed. The Frenchman poured out two tumblers, handed one to Neil, took the other and sat down on a chair beside the black box. There was a heavy silence. It was broken by Martel.
‘What are you both doing on Athos?’ It was not so much a polite opening to conversation as a blunt question that demanded an answer.
Neil gave it: ‘I’m writing a book. My friend here’s going round the world.’ He passed the brandy to Van Loon: ‘And you, Monsieur Martel?’
The Frenchman hesitated, his eyes sliding away from Neil’s. ‘I am here for my health. I was advised to take a holiday.’
‘You’re French, of course?’
‘Yes.’
‘From Paris?’
The man’s eyes flicked back to Neil and the lids made a fluttering movement like a pair of camera shutters. ‘No, not from Paris. I’ve spent most of my life overseas. I’m a professor — retired now.’ He paused, his luminous grey eyes still on Neil: ‘What is your book about, if I may ask?’
Neil sipped his brandy, trying to relax. There was something very unnerving about those eyes. ‘It’s supposed to be about Greece — when I can get down and write it. I’m aiming at an experimental travel book, working some of the ancient myths into background of life in modern Greece.’
Martel had leant forward, his fingertips pressed together: ‘That is an idea with interesting possibilities. If I may be immodest, I once published a book myself — on the Islamic countries.’
‘Are you a professor of Arabic?’
‘Not exactly. I’ve studied a little classical Arabic.’ He poured out more brandy and for the next few minutes he talked to Neil in scholarly detail about the complexities of Arabic semantics, and how the language had degenerated as it spread west from Egypt to the Maghreb.
Van Loon yawned.
‘I’m boring you,’ said Martel.
‘No, no!’ said Neil, embarrassed and annoyed with Van Loon.
There was a pause. His eyes strayed round the room and settled on the black metal box in the middle of
