The house on the cliff

owned. What a pitiful collection of useless things. There was nothing beautiful, mysterious, or important, nothing to represent a life of nearly fifteen years. Shameful. I lifted my shoulders, indifferent. “You can throw them away. They’re from last year. I’ve grown up now. I don’t want them.” He took out a pipe and put it in his mouth without lighting it. He smiled, a little shyly, as if confiding something important, declared “Now there’s something I miss.” “I could bring you cigarettes, if you wanted.” He shook his head in refusal. Of course, he must mean the smoke would give him away. “The house is very high up,” I reassured him, “by the time the smoke got up there it will have dispersed. Besides, no-one comes this way, by the cliff, except me, and my father when he’s here, but I don’t think he’s coming this year.” It was the first time this fear had found form. “Anthoúla, you mustn’t come back. Not while I’m here.” “But…’ “Please. In a few days I’ll be gone. I can leave you a sign of some kind, on the path.” I didn’t answer. What could I say? He looked at me, insistently, expecting a reply. He hadn’t ordered me to stay away, he’d asked it as a favour, as if I were someone he knew and trusted. He had even used my childhood nickname. And yet I was getting annoyed, and I changed the subject. “Why are you so pale? Are you an escaped prisoner?” It was the first thing that came to mind, and immediately I was horrified by what I’d said. “I beg your pardon! That was a stupid thing to ask. I’m reading The Count of Monte Cristo, and it made me think…’ “It was a reasonable conclusion. What a good book! I loved it when I was a boy.” “You’re a pr- in holy orders.” He was startled, and nearly laughed out loud. “No, I’m not.” “But the beard. And the way you speak…a bit old-fashioned.” “You’re very observant.” “I’m going to be a writer. So it’s true? You are… a priest?”