Villa Bourani 3
Svensk version
It was still morning, but already the heat outside the taverna’s shade was oppressive and the cicadas’ song deafening. We refused to accept that we had been rebuffed, especially now, now that we had made contact. At the same time we could understand her - understand that she was suspicious, perhaps frightened and alone.
We rang the number again. Rather carefully i said that we perhaps could come to her beach and meet her, and there, surrounded by other people, we could (perhaps) ask some questions about the house. "No, but if it is the house you are interested in then come to the gates at four o’clock." We looked at each other ... would we be able to go, be near the house, feel the atmosphere? Fantastic! We went and sat down, suddenly feeling tired after all the excitement.
Was this the end to our waiting? Was this the reward for our pains? Would we see the last piece of the puzzle fall into place? Expectantly and lightheaded, we wondered how we should get to the villa on the crest in this heat! We wondered too, how we could get back to the town, when the only boat returned there at four o’clock. But hese questions seemed unimportant. What mattered was our meeting with Villa Bourani!
Several minutes later Tassos came to our table and gesticulated that the lady from the villa had rung to change the time to three o’clock. We nodded and understood that this was a way to check up on us. She had probably questioned him about us.
We indicated to Tassos how nervous we were about getting to the villa. Our glad new friend invited us to travel in his van ... if ... if there weren’t too many people at the taverna then. We expressed our thanks and went out to the beach for several hours of cool bathing before our magical expectation reached its crescendo ...
Around three o’clock and Tassos’ place was chock-a-block with people; siesta time with the satisfying long multi-course meals. Tassos had sweat on his upper lip. With one or two exceptions he hadn’t even time to joke with his guests, and there was an intensity in his eye we hadn’t seen earlier.
Sighing we sat down at one of the few remaining tables. We understood that there was no chance that he could remove himself from this intensive activity. We tried to catch Tassos’ eye, but he avoided us or at least gave no attention to us. It looked as though we could lose the last piece of the puzzle! Would all our work, all the waiting, have been in vain?
Suddenly there stood the son Paris at our table. He rattled the car keys ... HE would drive us there!!
We jumped into the van and sat amongst newly plucked spice twigs, the hidden wealth of the mountains. The heat was almost unbearable and we perspired prolusely as the van began the torturous climb up the dry stony donkey path. Paris drove carelessly, and the vehicle groaned up the steepest ascents.
After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived on the plateau where the air danced in the heat of the afternoon. Way below us, between the pines, we could discem the azur of the sea. Ahead, along the road, we saw a white-washed wall, and the van carreredat speed through the open gates. It became very quiet as Paris turned off the engine next to the villa - Villa Bourani ... the goal we had dreamed of, the place we had striven to reach!
In the next instant, a beast of a hound rushed barking towards us with its teeth bared! Paris wound up the window as fast as he could, and we were forced to sit waiting in the van. Outside was the beast and behind him stood Villa Bourani with its white-washed arcades and terraced roof, with its history.
The cry of a woman and the dog was quiet, and a moment later the owner of the villa, dressed in a cool garment, appeared. The big dog (whose name turned out to be Balthasar), reassured by his mistress’ voice and the reception of her guests, rubbed himself against our legs in an affectionate greeting. The woman exchanged a few words with Paris before turning to us.
We shook hands with each other, commented on the heat and then she made an inviting gesture towards some wicker furniture in the archade which followed the perimeter of the house. Between the white arches both the sea and the sky became intensely blue, and we were struck dum by the beauty of the view, and by the fact that we had actually reached our goal ... that we could complete our puzzle.
The lady started pleasantries by saying that she had difficulties in running the house alone, since her husband died the previous year. It was, in fact, her husband’s parents who had previously owned the villa.
Then she invited us into the house. We came into a hall, then continued until we reached what we understood was "the Music Room", a room which plays an important part in the novel "The Magus". Over the mantel piece we met the eye of a well built man with poise. It was a portrait of the woman’s late husband.
Was this man Conchis of the book? Hardly! More probable was that her father-in-law was that individual, as John Fowles’ signature was in a guestbook from the husband’s parents’ time. Fowles had, at least, been here.
The woman continued with her tour of the ground floor. Because of the book’s description of the house, we knew where the dining room and the kitchen should be, and even into these rooms we were escorted. We went into that which we knew to be Conchis’ den, and went out onto the flake-white terrace, to be struck once again by the heat and the breathtaking view. Continuing we stepped into a guest room where the book’s main character spent many mystical nights. Villa Bourani really was spellbinding.
We thanked the lady for her generosity, and saw in her eyes that, through our fascination with the book with the atmosphere of the house and the place, she had seen her villa with new eyes; not just as a practical problem, but as a place of inspiration, peace and beauty. We had, at the very least, been participants in an encounter which had given us both thoughts and feelings to carry with us.
We were quiet in the van on the way back down to the taverna, occupied with our meeting with the woman and the villa. The pieces of the puzzle were almost all in place - we had attained the goal for which we had striven. All that was left was the enigma of John Fowles himself. That perhaps is a completely new puzzle on its own, but that is another story - and another journey...
Kerstin Sund
© 1993
Previous
