The custom in warm weather is to hang curtains in doorways. The solid finish of the village yields to human needs. Surface shapes are engagingly disturbed. The wind blows, houses open to the passerby. There's no clear feeling of mysterious invitation. Only of stillness moved inside, stillness darkened, the grain of the inner day.The rooms are plain and square, immediate, without entranceways or intervening spaces, set at street level, so close to us as we walk in the narrow passage that we feel uneasy about intruding. The Greek in conversation crowds his listener and here we find the same unboundaried exercise of life. Families. People clustered, children everywhere, old women in black sitting motionless, rough hands folded in sleep. The bright and vast and deep are everywhere, sun-cut clarity, the open sea. These modest rooms mark out a refuge from eternal things. This is the impression we have, Tap and I, a sense of modesty, of nondescriptness, only glimpsing as we pass, careful not to appear too curious.Above the stepped streets there were occasional open spaces, stronger wind. I followed Tap past a large well with a conical iron cap. A woman with an open umbrella sat on a mule, waiting. Cats moved along the walls, watched from roof ledges, cankerous, lame, mangy, some of them minute, the size of a woolen glove.Climbing. The sea appeared, the ruined windmill to the east. We paused to catch our breath, looking down on a church with an openwork belfry of some patchy rose-pink hue, a rude and pretty touch in all the layered white. A single small church might press together half a dozen surfaces in unexpected ways, sea-waved, domed, straight-edged, barrel-vaulted, a sensuous economy of shapes and arrangements and cross-influences. We heard the hoarse roar of a donkey, an outsized violent sound. The heat felt good.I showed Tap a postcard my father had sent. It had a picture on it of the Ranchman's Café in Ponder, Texas. My father had never been to Texas as far as I knew. He lived in a small house in Ohio with a woman named Murph.Tap had received the same kind of postcard. In fact almost all my father's communications for two or three years had been in the form of postcards showing the Ranchman's Café.The message on his card, Tap said, was the same as the message on mine. He didn't seem surprised by this.A distant lazy drone. Cicadas. We'd seen them come whirring out of olive trees to sail into walls, dropping in a dry stunned rustle. The wind began to gather force.Tap led me to an unpaved area of houses with courtyards, the upper limit of the village. There were tall gateways here, some of them located a fair distance in front of the houses to which they belonged. Seen from certain angles these gateways framed a barren hilltop or the empty sky. They were artless arrangements, free of the texts they put before us, material cleanly broken from the world.We climbed a rock path that worked around a shoulder of land and curled out of sight of the village. A whitewashed chapel across a defile, abrupt in brown earth. We were high up now, in the sweep of the wind and sea, stopping frequently to find fresh perspectives. I sat at the edge of a narrow stand of pine, wishing we'd brought water. Tap wandered into a rocky field just below. The wind came across the defile with a sound that changed levels as the current increased in speed and reached the trees, rushing, from a pure swift surge of air to something like a voice, an urgent emotion. Tap looked up at me.Ten minutes later I got to my feet and walked out into the sun. The wind had died. I saw him standing fifty yards away in the steep field. He was absolutely still. I called to him, he didn't move. I walked that way, asking what was wrong, calling the words out across the immense silence around us, the drop-off into distances. He stood with his knees slightly flexed, one foot forward, head down, his hands at belt level, held slightly out from his body. Arrested motion. I saw them right away, lustrous black bees, enormous, maybe a dozen, bobbing in the air around him. At twenty yards I heard the buzzing.I told him not to worry, they wouldn't sting. I moved in slowly, as much to reassure Tap as to keep the bees from getting riled. Burnished, black-enameled. They rose to eye level, dropped away, humming in the sun. I put my arm around him. I told him it was all right to move. I told him we would move slowly up toward the path. I felt him tense up even more. His way of saying no, of course. He was afraid even to speak. I told him it was safe, they wouldn't sting. They hadn't stung me and I'd walked right through them. All we had to do was move slowly up the slope. They were beautiful, I said. I'd never seen bees this size or color. They gleamed, I told him. They were grand, fantastic.Raising his head now, turning. Did I expect relief, chagrin? As I held him close he gave me a look that spoke some final disappointment. As if I could convince him, stung twice before. As if I could take him out of his fear, a thing so large and deep as fear, by prattling on about the beauty of these things. As if I could tell him anything at all, fake father, liar.We held that inept stance a moment longer. Then I took his arm and led him through the field.

Kathryn and I had dinner on the harborfront with Anand Dass. She knew what was in the kitchen and gave our orders to a boy who stood with his arms crossed on his chest, nodding as she listed the items. The food and supply boat was docked nearby, a single-masted broad-beamed vessel with mystical eyes painted on the bow. No one wanted to talk about the cult."It was flawless. A perfect flight. I mean it, those Japanese, they impress me. When I learned they have their own security at the Athens airport, I knew I would send him JAL.”"You go to the States soon," I said."The whole family, we converge, what an event," he said. "Even my sister is coming.”"Do you come back in the spring?”"Here? No. The University of Pennsylvania takes over the whole operation. I'll be back in India by then.”Kathryn passed the bread around."In any case I'm not interested in underwater work," he said. "Outside my frame.”"What do you mean?" I said.He looked at Kathryn. She said to me, "They're going to concentrate on the submerged ruins. They'll alternate. Next season, underwater work. Following year, back to the trenches.”"This is new," I said."Yes.”"But I don't think we'll ever alternate," Anand said. "I think we're finished for the season, the decade, the century, whatever.”He had a strong laugh. People stood along the quay, talking in last light. I leaned back in the chair and watched Kathryn eat.The argument was long and detailed, with natural pauses, and moved from the street to the terrace, into the house, finally up onto the roof. It was full of pettiness and spite, the domestic forms of assault, the agreed-upon reductions. This seemed the point, to reduce each other and everything else. What marriage is for, according to her. Our rage was immense but all we could show for it, all we could utter, were these gibes and rejoinders. And that we did poorly. We weren't able to take advantage of the clear openings. It didn't seem to matter who got the better of it. The argument had an inner life, a force distinct from the issues. There were surges, hesitations, loud voices, laughter, mimicry, moments in which we tried to remember what we wanted to say next, a pace, a range. After a while this became our only motive, to extend the argument to its natural end.It began on the way up to the house."Bitch. You knew.”"I've been trying to find an alternative.”"This means no England.”"We could still go to England.”"I know you.”"What do you know?”"You want to dig.”"I didn't want to tell you the plan had broken down until I had some kind of alternative.”"When will you tell me about the alternative? When the alternative breaks down?”"Shut up, ass.”"I know what this means.”"I don't know what it means. How could you?”"I know how you think.”"What does it mean? I don't know what it means.”"You won't go to England.”"Good. We won't go to England.”"That whole thing was based on your coming back here.”"We could go anyway. We could work out a plan for the summer while we're there.”"But you won't.”"Why won't we?”"Because you won't. It's too obvious and simple. It lacks in-trepidness. It was intrepid when you came up with it originally. It is now obvious and simple and dull.”"You want to see the Elgin marbles.”"It's a fallback. You hate that.”"You're a fallback.”"What are you?”"You want to see the Elgin marbles but you won't go to the Acropolis. You want to see the rip-off, the imperialist swag in its proper surroundings.”"Hopeless. How the hell did I ever imagine I could come here?”"Swag. I got that from Tap.”"I hate this climb.”"You keep saying.”"I'm not the man-never mind.”"You never were. You're not the man you never were.”The argument had resonance. It had levels, memories. It referred to other arguments, to cities, houses, rooms, those wasted lessons, our history in words. In a way, our special way, we were discussing matters close to the center of what it meant to be a couple, to share that risk and distance. The pain of separation, the fore-memory of death. Moments of remembering her, Kathryn dead, odd meditations, pity the sad survivor. Everything we said denied this. We were intent on being petty. But it was there, a desperate love, the conscious hovering sum of things. It was part of the argument. It was the argument.We walked the rest of the way in silence and she went in to check on Tap, who was sleeping. Then we sat on the terrace and began immediately to whisper at each other."Where will he go to school?”"Back on that, are we?”"Back on that, back on that.”"He's way ahead of them. He can start a little later if necessary. But it won't be necessary. We'll work it out.”"He's not so way ahead. I don't think he's way ahead.”"You distrust his writing. Something in you recoils from that. You think he ought to be diagramming sentences.”"You're crazy, you know that? I'm beginning to see.”"Admit it.”"Why did it take me so long to see what you are.”"What am I?”"What are you.”"You enjoy telling me that you know how I think. How do I think? What am I?”"What are you.”"I feel things. I have self-respect. I love my son.”"Where does that come from? Who asked? You feel things. You feel things when they're in your interest. You feel things when they further your drive, your will to do something.”"Ass of the universe.”"Pure will. Where's the heart?”"Where's the liver?" she said."I don't know why I came here. It was crazy, thinking something might come of it. Did I forget who you are, how you consider the simplest things people say and do an affront to your destiny? You have that, you know. A sense of personal destiny, like some German in the movies.”"What's that mean?”"I don't know.”"What movie, ass?”"Come to my room. Come on, let's go to the hotel, right now.”"Whisper," she said."Don't make me hate myself, Kathryn.”"You'll wake him up. Whisper.”"I'm fucking pissed off. How can I whisper?”"We've had that argument." Bored."You make me hate us both.”"That's an old tired argument." Bored. The worst remarks were bored ones. The best weapons. Bored sarcasm, bored wit, bored tones."But what about Frank? We haven't had that argument in a while, have we? How is it he just happened to drop by? Did he want to talk over old times?”She was laughing. What was she laughing at?"What a pair, you two. The ragged self-regarding artist, the secretly well-to-do young woman. How many intimate little lunches did you and Frank have while I was doing my booklets and pamphlets? All those diminutive things I was so good at. That minor status you hated so much and still hate in me. What sexy currents passed in the air? Buddy-buddy. Did he ask you up to one of those dreary flats he was always holed up in? He spent half his life looking for bottle openers in other people's kitchens. Did that make it sleazier, sexier? Did you talk about your father's money? No, that would have made him hate you. That would have made him want to fuck you in all the wrong ways, so to speak. And what about Owen, the way you look out for his interests, his curious interests, that half-flirtish thing that comes over you." I went into my female voice routine, a tactic I hadn't used since the recitation of the 27 Depravities. "Are you sure, Owen honey, you never wrote a single line of poetry when you were a lonely farmboy under that big prairie sky?”"Fobuck yobou.”"That's right.”"You stupid.”"That's right. Bilingual.”"You're just shit.”"Whisper, whisper.”She went inside. I decided to follow, feeling my way in the dark. Soft noise, a light around the corner. She was in the bathroom, pants down, seated, when I moved into the doorway. She tried to kick at the door, one arm flailing, but her legs were caught in the jeans and the arm wasn't long enough. Water music. Too urgent to be contained."What were you laughing at before?”"Out.”"I want to know.”"If you don't get out.”"Say it in Ob.”"You bastard.”"Would you like a magazine?”"If you don't go. If you don't get out.”The argument worked in such a way that we kept losing the sequence. It moved backwards at times, then advanced abruptly, passing over subjects. There were frequent changes in mood. Moods lasted only seconds. Bored, self-righteous, injured. These injured moments were so sadly gratifying that we tried to prolong them. The argument was full of satisfactions, the major one being that we did not have to examine what we said."It lacks intrepidness.”"Get out.”"You'll build a reed boat.”"James, son of a bitch, I want you out of here.”"You'll live in a gas balloon that circles the earth. A seven-story balloon with ferns in the lobby.”"I'm serious now. If you don't get out. I really mean this.”"You'll take him to the Museum of Holes. So he'll have a better understanding of your life work. Dirt holes, mud holes, tall holes, short holes.”"You bastard, I'll get you for this.”"Pee pee pee pee pee pee pee.”"You stupid.”"Don't you realize that as long as you have to sit down to pee, you'll never be a dominant force in the world? You'll never be a convincing technocrat or middle manager. Because people will know. She's in there sitting down. “I stayed on the terrace for a while. Then I climbed the short stairway to the roof. Flashing lights in the harbor. He was awake, I could hear them talking and laughing. What were they laughing at? She came up, tossed me a sweater and sat on the ledge."Your son's afraid you might frobeeze.”"What?”"Frobeeze tobo dobeobath." Amused."I wish you'd stop doing that. Both of you.”"Issue a formal order.”"Why did you come up here?”Amused. "He sent me.”"I want to see him. Wherever you two end up. You'll send him.”"Issue a command. We'll route it through the system.”"Bitch. You knew.”"How do you think I feel? I wanted to come back here.”"To dig.”"You make me insane sometimes.”"Good.”"Shut up.”"You shut up.”"You're afraid of your own son. It disturbs you, that there'll always be a connection.”"What connection?”"We find things. We learn.”"What do you learn?”"I never minded what you did. I know you've always arranged your life around things you couldn't possibly fear losing. The snag in this plan is your family. What do you do about us? But I never minded what you wrote. It's your present occupation I despise. I would hate your life. I would hate doing what you do. That awful man.”A high-pitched voice. "That awful man.”"The travel alone would drive me crazy. I don't know how you stand it. And the job.”"We've heard all this." Bored."What am I, who am I, what do I want, who do I love. A Harlequin romance.”"Make sense.”"Make sense. If only you knew. But you're so small and whining.”"I'm the ass of the universe. That implies a certain scope, a dimension.”"You'll be an alcoholic. That's what you'll be. I give you a year. Especially if you don't go back to North America. You'll drift into it here. You'll find yourself packing a flask to take to Saudi Arabia. If you're better off without it, you're an alcoholic. Remember that.”"That's your father's line.”"That's right. But he wasn't better off without it. He was a dead soul either way. You're different.”"I like what I'm doing. Why can't I make you understand that? You don't listen. Your view is the only view. If you don't like something, how could anyone like it? If you're better off without it, he'd say, pouring another bourbon. And I like his writing. I think it's fantastic. I've told him that. I've encouraged him. You're not the only one who encourages him. You're not the sole support. And I'll tell you how you think. I'll tell you exactly. You need things to be committed to. You need belief. Tap is the world you've created and you can believe in that. It's yours, no one can take it from you. Your archaeology is yours. You're a wonderful amateur. I mean it, the best. You make the professionals seem like so many half-ass triflers. They just dabble, they putter. It's your world now. Pure, fine, radiant. He'd pour another bourbon. If you're better off without it. He liked his bourbon all right. What was the name of that boat, where we talked? The fisherman pounding the octopus. Boats are either saints or women, except when they're places.”I put the sweater on."You know how it is with Canadians," she said. "We love to be disappointed. Everything we do ends up disappointingly. We know this, we expect this, so we've made disappointment part of the inner requirement of our lives. Disappointment is our native emotion. It's our guiding spirit. We arrange things to make disappointment inevitable. This is how we feed ourselves in winter.”She seemed to be accusing me of something.