For Daniel, cooking was akin to painting or drawing or writing; it was an artistic, creative pursuit, motivated by inspiration, and not a chemistry experiment involving so many cubic centimetres of this added to so many grams of that and heated at such-and-such a temperature until it changed colour. As a result, while he was a dab hand at anything that involved rice, pasta, meat or cheese, his occasional forays into baking had resulted in unmitigated disaster.
Daniel spent a short while nosing around the shelves in case anything else took his fancy, but after five minutes of investigation his only additional purchases were a pint of milk and a few bulbs of organically grown garlic. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he returned home.
Back in the familiar environment of the kitchen, Daniel unpacked the groceries, made space in the refrigerator for the meat, milk and cheese, then, as much by reflex as genuine desire, filled the kettle and switched it on. Since the accident, ‘tea-drinking’ had become a major pastime, vying with ‘watching television’ and ‘staring into space’ for the number-one spot.
Killing time had become a major preoccupation for Daniel since he had been rendered jobless; each day drifted past him slowly, as if it refused to acknowledge his presence, disallowed his participation. He had tried to occupy his time with reading, writing letters, doing crosswords, but after the first three months he had lost enthusiasm. Now he wandered through the days like a zombie, a man without purpose, without direction, often to be found waiting pitifully for Lisanne to return from work to break up the monotony of his otherwise featureless days.
The water boiled vigorously, filling the room with misty clouds of water vapour. Daniel made himself a mug of tea, going through the motions unconsciously, like a programmed automaton. It was only as he was stirring in the sugar that he became aware of his actions and, in that same moment, he was overwhelmed once more by the world-weary sadness that had dominated his life for half a year.
It wasn’t the tea, of course; it was the knowledge that for six months most of his life had been played out in this way, going through the motions, barely aware of what was going on. It was as if he wasn’t really there at all, but just an observer, unable or perhaps unwilling to participate in his own life.
A sliver of bright light from somewhere behind his head distracted him. He turned to see that the morning sun had risen from behind the trees and was now filtering through the windows of the living room, illuminating it with a bright, optimistic aura. Hope and optimism had been decidedly thin on the ground of late.
Daniel grabbed his mug and the paper bag containing the new book, and walked through to the living room. He put the book and the mug on the coffee table then went across to the record racks beside the hi-fi. He ran his forefinger along the spines of the record covers, and selected ‘The Köln Concert’ by Keith Jarrett.
Daniel was no reactionary, neither did he suffer from any especial technophobia, yet despite the onward march of progress that threatened to consign the vinyl record to the dustbin of history, he had yet to make the transition to compact disc, with all its supposed advantages of fidelity and convenience.
Daniel had grown up with the vinyl record, and his teenage years had been dominated by the newest releases from the great rock bands of the seventies, Since his early teens Daniel had always possessed a stereo system of one kind or another, the earliest being a birthday gift from a well-to-do aunt. He had grown up understanding the importance of high-fidelity music reproduction. As soon as he had been able to afford it, he had started to customise his hi-fi, adding, exchanging, replacing, tweaking, all in order to obtain the maximum enjoyment from his treasured record collection.
But it was the records themselves with their black sheen, colourful centre labels and extraordinary covers that Daniel coveted the most. If there was one thing above all others that put him off the current digital medium, it was the way the packaging had shrunk so dramatically that CD covers could simply not compete with the masterpieces of cheap art that had once graced the covers of LPs.
And then there was the whole ritual that revolved around the actual playing of a record. There was something deeply satisfying about the procedure, something of the nature of a religious rite to it. Even now, years later, he still derived a strange pleasure from the process.
Daniel eased the first of the two records out of its paper inner sleeve, removed all traces of electric charge from its surface with an anti-static gun, then placed it carefully on the deck and eased the stylus on to the revolving disc. He tumed on the amplifier, adjusted the volume and, satisfied that he had everything as he wanted, sat down on the sofa and allowed himself to be drawn swiftly into the melodious, extemporised piano playing. The opening refrain, as familiar to him as his own name or the sight of his face in the mirror, caused a deep, satisfying shiver of pleasure to pulse through him.
He loved this music, perhaps more than any other. Like the best travel experience it meandered and shifted, never wholly certain, so it seemed, of which direction it was taking, but every now and then breaking through in a flourish of extravagance to produce the most moving and delightful of phrases, like the perfect views glimpsed from a moving train.
Daniel listened to the music ebb and flow, uninterrupted for several minutes, until, calmed by its gentle rhythms, he found himself in a state of deep relaxation. He reached over, took his new book,
Greek Idyll
, out of the paper bag and allowed his gaze to drift back and forth across the cover, focusing here and there when something took his interest. Daniel knew nothing about the contents of the book, but he was greatly attracted to the cover. It was wonderfully evocative; the use of water-colours, the delicate application of hue and tint, the clever manipulation of light and shade. Once again, Daniel became aware of how well the artist had captured that sense of summer, of heat and stillness; it seemed to radiate from the picture with startling verisimilitude.
Daniel studied the scene carefully. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; the shadow cast by the open book on the sand was certainly a face. The features were not delineated with any particular definition, but he could make out the hairline, the sunken eyes, the Roman nose and the point of a beard. Daniel examined the line that separated the sand from the sea. It was an inviting (though, now that he looked more closely, slightly disturbing) scene; it asked questions of the viewer. Whereabouts was this beach? Was it on an island? Who does the book belong to, and where is that person now? What is the book about, and why has it been left open on the sand? Why does it cast a shadow of a face?
Daniel searched the opening pages for some information about the author, Robert Jameson, but could find no photographs or biographical notes.
Having nothing better to do (or to be more accurate, having nothing at all to do), Daniel embarked upon the first chapter. He still wasn’t really interested in reading fiction, and even if he had been it was unlikely he would put his efforts into a book by a complete unknown. It was unlike him to make an impulsive purchase based on, of all things, a cover, but the front cover of
Greek Idyll
had lured him in, and there now seemed no alternative but to continue.
The first chapter was narrated in the first person, and its initial themes, its setting and to a degree its main character seemed uncomfortably reminiscent of John Fowles’s
The Magus
, though lacking the latter’s finesse and cleverly crafted intrigue. Daniel read the first chapter with a gnawing sense that he was being taken for a ride. His interest dwindled swiftly and, finding himself unaccountably tired, he put the book to one side and allowed his eyelids, already heavy with sleep, to close.
What a pity, he thought as he tuned out of the world of letters and into the world of sounds. Jarrett’s ingenious and delightful improvisation was embracing him once more with delicious wisps of melody and rhythm. He had thought, for just a moment, that something extraordinary and enticing was about to happen to him; the curious coincidence of spotting the book with its Mediterranean setting had caused a frisson of excitement and identification when he saw it in the bookshop that morning, as if he had been meant to find it just then. For a few moments it had reverberated with some sort of sympathetic vibration, a sense that there was more here than met the eye. And yet, within minutes of starting to read the opening chapter, Daniel found himself once more disappointed and distressed. The world, he sensed, was not about to provide him with the meaning or excitement or pleasure that he craved and that had been absent from his life for so long.
The record came to an end, but Daniel remained seated on the sofa, his eyes closed, his heart heavy with longing for something which had no name or recognisable form, but which nevertheless called out to him like a drowning man going down for the third and final time.
Daniel found himself walking along an unfamiliar dirt track. The sun beat down from a pale-blue sky, and a heat haze made the air above the track shimmer. Little wisps of dust lifted with each footfall, the dirt puffing and swirling about his sandalled feet in small, almost imperceptible eddies. The aroma of pine needles, quite distinct and tinged - curiously - with the faintest hint of fresh coffee, wafted past him like a gentle breeze. In the distance, barely audible, he could just make out the familiar and haunting sound of the bouzouki.
As he walked, he became increasingly aware that there was something disconcerting about his situation. He tried to remember where he was, but it did not come easily to mind. But he had been here before, hadn’t he? Daniel wasn’t sure. Still, it didn’t seem to matter. There was nothing overtly dangerous or threatening about it; it was just odd.
And hot. So very hot.
Droplets of perspiration condensed between his shoulder-blades, gathered into little pools of sweat, then separated into dozens of spidery rivulets which trickled down his back. Daniel slowed his pace and gazed around him inquisitively. He appeared to be completely alone. To his left he could see parched fields that led down to a brightly shimmering sea. From this distance the sea was mirror-like and motionless, more like a photograph or a painting than the real thing. Daniel wiped a dry forearm across his damp forehead; the sea looked immensely inviting he would go down for a swim, to cool off. Yes, that would be nice.
Directly in front of him, in the middle of the road, was a circular wooden platform, about eight feet in diameter and one foot high. The raised dais formed what could only be a traffic roundabout, but there were no vehicles of any kind to be seen or heard: no cars, trucks or even bicycles.
I wonder where everyone is? thought Daniel, listening carefully for any evidence of human activity, but all he could hear was an increasingly familiar melody, ringing out in distinctive tones, and drawing him ever closer to its source.
Daniel stopped walking for a moment and studied the wooden roundabout. In the centre of the platform stood a rusted old hand-pump that clearly had once raised water from a well. He was tempted to climb up on to the roundabout and work the pump; he was starting to overheat under the relentless, direct sunlight, and thought the gushing water might cool him down.
He was about to clamber on to the dais when his attention was distracted by a rustling from over his shoulder. He looked behind, expecting - or perhaps hoping - to see someone. But all he saw was a crumpled sheet of newspaper, tumbling along the dirt track towards him, nudged along intermittently by the occasional breeze. He watched, disappointed, as the sheet of newspaper zigzagged down the road, stuttering now and then before again picking up speed, its passage halted periodically by a stone or twig. It came to rest by his feet, its progress impeded by the roundabout.
Curious, Daniel picked up the newspaper, and made an attempt to prise its stiffened folds apart, flattening the many creases with the palm of his hand. It was not in English. Daniel studied the page for a few moments, before identifying the familiar, but incomprehensible script: it was Greek. He could not remember arriving in Greece, could not recall any specific events leading up to this moment, or indeed any events that related to his present circumstances. It was all very strange.
And yet, if he examined his feelings, it was also evident that he was neither uncomfortable nor afraid. If anything, he felt pleasantly relaxed. How fine it was to be wandering in such sunshine, even if the heat was making him thirsty. And those wonderful, sun-baked odours; it was undeniably, quintessentiully Mediterranean, and as such deeply evocative of holidays, travel and freedom. No wonder he felt so at ease. If only there were some other people about; he wanted to know the name of this place, to discover exactly where he was.
Daniel took one last look at the newspaper, then crumpled it up into a tight ball and, placing it on the ground, gave it a gentle push, setting it on its way once more. No sooner had it passed the sheltering influence of the roundabout than a cross-breeze caught it, insinuated its way into the rolled-up ball’s cracks and crevices and sent it scampering away across the track towards the dry, thirsty fields that led down to the sea.