In order to change the subject, I asked Lydia what she thought about the American. Or rather, I first asked her if she had met him; and it was her way of answering this simple question that alerted me to something odd, a puzzling inconsistency, slight but definite. Simple questions often expose complex deceits.

'This Mister Smith,' I said, 'have you met him?'

'Yes,' she said. 'No, I haven't. I've heard of him.'

Heard of him. Strange phrase, Excellency. And then the contradiction. As if, intent on an untruth, she had told the wrong one, then fallen into too great a frankness…

'I exchanged a few words with one of his crew,' she said. 'An Italian. Two or three days ago. He came ashore for provisions. An elderly man.'

'I see,' I said. 'Do you think the sponge-fishing is genuine?'

'Certainly.'

'I mean, do you think that is all he is here for?'

'If they'd had any doubts,' Lydia said, 'they'd have boarded him and searched.'

'Apparently that is just what they have done.'

'What do you mean?' Lydia 's voice had sharpened. It seemed to me that a slight flush had risen to her cheeks. I passed on Zeki Bey's information to her. She was silent for a few moments, then she said quietly, 'What fools they are.'

'How do you mean?'

'As if a man like Smith is going to be caught by a routine search.'

Again this suggestion in her words of some further knowledge of the American. I did not understand her attitude, Excellency, but did not think it politic at that point to press the matter any further. Instead I adverted to the topic I knew would interest her most – knew it with pain and resignation.

'Naïve of Mister Bowles,' I said, 'to expect states to behave morally. Don't you think so?'

'He has a very strong sense of responsibility,' Lydia said. She was standing at the window which looked out over the interior courtyard of the house. 'He is quite unsophisticated in some ways,' she said. 'Unsophisticated in the best sense, I mean. A moral primitive.' She uttered this last phrase with a certain enthusiasm, as if it augured well for Mister Bowles's vigour and general prowess. She moved against the window and the light defined her form within the loose-fitting muslin gown.

I have been in Lydia 's studio often, but the light always surprises me, its plenitude and inpartiality. It floods through the windows at either end, and occupies the room totally: full, white, stark without bleakness. There is no eddying, as there might have been at street level, vagaries caused by stirred foliage, or passers-by, no flex or play of light whatever. Bodies become like other objects in this light, seem to lose autonomy. I had a momentary sense that Lydia and I were in danger of being fixed there for ever, she at the window, with her naked, undefended face, I standing smiling awkwardly there, figures in an interior created by some much superior artist, along with all the other objects disposed about the room, objects with nothing in common except their fixed stillness in this light, laquered boxes, polished vertebrae of a goat, a stuffed oriole with beautiful amber eyes, cloth flowers under a glass dome, twisted shapes of wood, fragments of glass, shells, shards, heterogeneous scourings of the island. When I spoke again it was with the conscious intention of distinguishing myself from these objects.

'Why do you think he is here?' I said.

'He told us. Weren't you there? He is interested in the ruins up there, in classical antiquity generally. He's writing a book.'

She made a vague gesture with her arm towards the ceiling, as if to indicate the hills where the Englishman's true interests lay. I was again aware of the red mark on her side, and the shape of her body inside the gown. A curious compound of regret and desire stirred in me, and something else I had never felt before, pity for Lydia and for her and my mortality. She has been the victim of my fantasies for many years, Excellency. Now here she was, robed and marked for someone else.

'There are whole areas of his past life that he seems to just wince away from,' she said. 'As if you had touched some wound.'

Something almost fanatical in the face, when unsmiling. And framed by the head cloth… It is clear that he has inflamed her female intuitiveness, a more effective organ of stimulation than some more obvious ones that spring to mind. Whether by accident or design or, as I suspect, some blundering amalgam of both, he has got himself cast as a Man of Sorrows. That seems to be the fashion for contemporary heroes. The sensual fires are stoked by guilt these days, not a common love for keyboard music. Mister Bowles has the right whiff of unhappiness about him, it seems. Taciturn, though vibrant-hearted. Lydia is proceeding from the evident taciturnity to the presumptive vibrancy. Doubtful logic. Pardon me, Excellency, it is my jealousy speaking. All the same, I was surprised to see Lydia, so experienced in love, making this leap of faith.

I found the notion of Mister Bowles wincing away from the past interesting on other grounds. There could be reasons for a man to be evasive about the past other than that he is consumed by a secret sorrow – he may be consumed by a strong desire to cover his traces, for example. And Mister Bowles has so far succeeded in fending Lydia off when she enquired about his past. No mean achievement when the enquirer is armed with amorous kindness. Arguing a good deal to hide…

At this precise moment – and it was strangely as if between us we had summoned him-I heard his unmistakable voice in the room beyond the studio, raised in an amiable shout of blended greeting and apology.

'In here,' Lydia called. She took a step or two from the window and, without looking at me, took off the turban and shook out her hair. Mister Bowles came through into the studio, head inclined, as if to avoid an obstacle. 'The door was open, you know,' he said. 'Oh, hello. I didn't know you had a visitor.'

'Basil and I are old friends,' Lydia said, contriving, with no doubt unconscious cruelty, to make this sound derogatory.

Mister Bowles looked at me for a moment or two, rather oddly I thought: not with that slight degree of humorous contempt her tone invited, but with a sort of indecision, as if this was something that would have to be taken into account.

He began moving slowly about the room. 'My word,' he said, 'you have accumulated a lot of stuff.' He was ill at ease, I could tell. I think the multiplicity of things bothered him, such a stark array of disparate objects in this unvarying light. He stopped from time to time to pick something up, turning to us with a sort of expostulation, humorous, but not altogether so. 'What's this? And this? And what on earth is this?' Lydia replying point by point, a piece from an old olive press, a blue Iznik tile, as if justifying their presence there.

This went on for some time and was like a kind of game between them, like those games where something in the tone of voice identifies an object. I realise now that Mister Bowles was seeking, as usual, to impose himself on us and on the studio, establish his way of seeing things as the dominant one, the essential reality. His way of responding to the unfamiliar and daunting. On this occasion he was clearly failing. He could find no way of looking at this clutter of objects, no governing principle to account for their presence there – and he is a man who needs governing principles, I think, more than most. (Now, with the night silent beyond my shutters, in my area of inviolate lamplight, I remember again the stealthy hush in his room, the head, the revolver, the notebook. A governing principle there too, if I can find it.)

The performance was brought to an end by Lydia asking if we would like a drink. There was German wine or Greek brandy. We both asked for wine. All the time Lydia was out of the room, Mister Bowles was moving restlessly about. He made some desultory remarks to me but my mind was not on his words. I noted the movements of his body, stiff, not ungraceful exactly, but inhibited, as if he felt a need for more room. His manner of touching things too was strange, unduly tentative. It was as though they might change texture or shape in his hands. It was not mere clumsiness, nor did it seem like that contained violence which often gives awkwardness to men's movements. It came to me then, Excellency, that Mister Bowles is not really at home in the world. It came to me with the force of a revelation. We are alike. I knew it from the beginning. Outwardly so dissimilar, yet we are deeply alike. So strong was this feeling that I experienced a violation, almost, of my own privacy and separateness. Doubtless we have come to it by different roads. In my case it is the trade of informing which has lost me the world. The role of informer severs in time all bonds. All action peters out except observing, interpreting. I am like a spent swimmer whose eyes and mind still register everything -everything, hue of sky, refractions and reflections of the water, line of the horizon – but who knows, throughout all this, that he is in the wrong element. (I can look downwards, too, to the deep place where I shall presently drown.)