The house on the cliff

was unfair too, because she often wore slacks when we were out in the countryside. He said once, gazing at her in admiration, that not many Greek women looked good in trousers. “Because they have a low-slung ass?” I asked, using his expression. He pretended he was angry, but I knew he didn’t mean it. “You said that they often run aground when they step off the sidewalk.” This time he laughed, but he changed the subject. If Dóra and I had kept up a relationship until I grew up, until I no longer expected anything from her and she stopped feeling awkward about not offering anything, I think it’s entirely possible she and I would have developed some kind of friendship. She had a subtle, sardonic and perceptive humour that I found entertaining, though most of the time it passed unnoticed. (I mentioned this to Daddy once and he had no idea what I was talking about.) In the three years we had together, we were closest, I think, on occasions when she would say something funny, in that slow, bored manner of hers, and shoot a quick glance in my direction, knowing I was the only one who would see the joke and appreciate it. I would confirm this with a barely discernible flutter of an eyelid. (It took me many years to realise that my sense of humour, along with plenty of other things, came from her.) I know it doesn’t seem particularly persuasive as evidence of a bond between us, but I think something like that could have formed the foundation of a solid friendship between adults. It was not to be, however. That August of 1949, for the second time in my brief existence, Dóra walked out of my life without a backwards glance. AUGUST 1949 All that fuss over nothing! The water, which we heated by burning prunings from our olive trees, was still warm in the hot water tank, a large copper cylinder in the corner of the bathroom. Loxándra would light the fire every afternoon at five and let it go out on its own. In summer, it was enough hot water for all our baths, even when my father was there. When the bathtub was full, I took my favourite book, A Captain at Fifteen, by Jules Verne, to read while I soaked. Only I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept returning to Dóra’s parting words: “Anthí, these are dangerous times. Don’t forget what’s going on across the strait. Take it seriously when we tell you to be careful.” I kept seeing, again, the scene at the mouth of the cave, my threat to turn him in, my silly boast about my all-powerful Daddy. Even just the memory flooded me with shame and I would duck my head under the water as if to wash it away. How could I have? Alright, I was angry because he was treating me like a child, but I said those crass, terrible things, exactly like the most spoiled of brats. The man must have been