Lies That Bind Us(28)

“It’s fine,” said Marcus. “It was nothing.”

“It’s just that . . . ,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean anything bad. The opposite really. I just don’t generally . . .”

“You don’t have any black friends,” said Marcus. He was being patient, but there was a stillness about him that said he hadn’t made up his mind which way this was going to go. It would probably depend on her. Simon and I watched, tense and not sure how to help. “It’s OK. It’s pretty common.”

“Thanks. I mean, I don’t know how . . . I just want to . . . understand. Your people.”

“My people?” said Marcus, stiffening again.

“I don’t mean . . . oh, I don’t know. I don’t understand why this is so hard . . .”

“Look, Gretchen,” said Marcus. “I know you mean well, but I don’t want to play cultural translator for you right now, OK? I’m on vacation. Can I just be a person for a while?”

She gaped a little, then nodded.

“Thanks,” said Marcus, his smile warming.

“But you know what I mean, right?” said Gretchen.

“Let’s let it go, OK?” said Marcus.

She looked at him, and he held her eyes, still smiling but with a note of caution in his face. She nodded quickly.

“Sure,” she said. “Absolutely.”

He took a step toward her and put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. Gretchen’s face lit up. She didn’t understand what had just happened, but she felt forgiven, and that was all that mattered.

“Aaaaanyway,” said Simon.

I started laughing and Gretchen joined in, hesitantly at first, sensing she’d done something silly and endearing but not entirely sure what.

“So,” said Marcus, turning to the room as a whole. “You were about to tell us all this great shit we were going to do.”

“Right,” said Simon. “We have the car. Big plans.”

“Like what?” asked Marcus.

“Well, don’t tell her I gave it away,” said Simon, double-checking that Melissa had not returned. “But we’ve got scuba diving this afternoon, then an hour in Knossos right before it closes.”

“The site?” said Marcus, perking up like a dog who has been promised a treat. “I thought no one was interested in that stuff.”

“Well, we’re not, to be honest,” said Simon. “Consider it a gift, professor. But hey, we’re in Crete. Gotta do some Minoan shit, right?”

“Right,” said Marcus, clearly delighted.

“But first,” said Simon, rather more enthused, “scuba! Better check the equipment.”

“We don’t rent it at the beach?” I asked. I wasn’t crazy about the prospect of diving. “Isn’t there some kind of mandatory training or something . . .”

“It’s fine,” said Simon. “I’m a certified instructor, and we hired the gear for the week. I’ll talk you through it.”

Right, I thought dismally as he headed out, whistling. He was certified. Of course he was.

Marcus caught my look.

“If you’re not comfortable doing it . . . ,” he began.

“It’s fine,” I said. Another lie. “Thanks. And then we get to do some Minoan shit.”

“For a whole hour,” said Marcus with a wan smile. “Yeah.”

“Think we’ll be able to fill the time?”

“In one of the most important archaeological sites in the world?” said Marcus, deadpan. “I don’t know. Maybe we can pick up some sudoku books on the way.”

“Maybe there’s an extensive gift shop,” I said. “Case after case of plaster Minotaurs.”

“We can but hope,” Marcus agreed, grinning.

“Better get my swimsuit,” I said. “See you in a few.”

“We’re kind of the odd ones out, aren’t we?” he said.

The remark stopped me. He was chewing his lower lip and gazing at the empty living room and its sprawling rented opulence. For a second we said nothing, then he made a tight little smile and a decision.

“Swimsuits,” he said.

“Yep.”





Chapter Thirteen

I have not moved except to take some of the tension out of the chain that binds my arm to the wall.

“I don’t understand,” I say at last. “Five years ago we were here. Not here in this place,” I say, though I’m still not sure where exactly I am, “but Crete. The hotel Minos.”

There is another loaded, expectant silence, and then the voice winds out of the dark once more.

“And what happened, Jan? What did you do?”

I am scared and flustered again, not knowing what to say but desperate not to get it wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” said the voice, quicker this time, and I felt the irritation. The more I heard it, the more I was sure the voice was being electronically modified, distorted. That was what the green light meant. Some kind of device. Perhaps the idea that the questioner was just a person using some kind of gadget to disguise their voice should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.