The Lost Labyrinth

FORTY-TWO
I

Nico held his phone in both hands for the best part of a minute, as though it were a talisman, as though it had the power to answer prayers. And maybe it did.

All people's lives were set as children, Nico believed. Formative years, they called them, and they were right. The first time you ate a food that astonished you with its exquisite taste. Your first love, your first applause. Magical moments that made you so yearn for a reprise that you'd structure your whole life around them.

For Nico, the defining moment had come during a family holiday in the Peloponnese. His brother had been the class swot; he'd persuaded his father to take them on a tour of Mycenae, Epidaurus, Corinth and the other great sites. Nico had suffered from a boredom so intense that it had been a kind of torture. Then they'd visited Olympia, site of the ancient games. This had been long before the tourist boom, of course; they'd been the only ones there. More damned ruins! What did people see in the things? He'd mooched off by himself, had come across a tall grassed bank, a short arched passageway cut into it. He'd walked through it and had emerged shockingly into the ancient stadium. He could remember that moment still, the dazzle of the rising sun, the grassed banks for the crowds, the whole arena infused with a spirit of celebration, competition, achievement. Of greatness. He'd never really understood until that moment what people had meant by atmosphere. He'd never believed in ghosts. But all that had changed in a single heartbeat. His dream of becoming an Olympic athlete had been born at that moment; and when that dream had failed him, he'd turned to archaeology instead, because his love of ancient Greece had been born that day too.

He owed that love to his parents.

The ringing, when finally it began, seemed longer and deeper than usual, as though time itself were being distended. He almost hung up on the fifth ring, but then it was picked up and it was too late. A man's voice. 'Hello?' he said.

'Hello, father,' said Nico, his mouth sticky and dry. 'It's me.'

A silence ensued; an incredulous silence, if silence can have such a quality. Then: 'Nico?'

'Yes.' The silence grew and grew. Too much time had passed. This had been a mistake. 'I'm sorry,' he blurted out. 'I shouldn't have-'

'No!' said his father. 'Don't hang up. Please. I beg you.'

'I wanted to talk to you,' said Nico. 'I wanted to see you. I thought maybe lunch.'

'Of course. Your mother and I…that is, we were having friends over. The Milonas. You remember them?'

'Yes.'

'We'll put them off. They won't mind.'

'Not on my account. But maybe I could join you. I'd like to see them. It's been a long time.'

'Of course. Of course. I'll go tell your mother now. She'll want to make sure we have enough. And Nico…'

'Yes?' He waited, but his father said no more. It took Nico several seconds to realise it was because he couldn't speak without betraying himself. It was strange and rather shocking to hear his father weep. He'd always seemed the embodiment of strength. 'It's okay,' he told him.

'It's not okay,' sobbed his father. 'It's not. It's not. Forgive me, Nico. You have to forgive me.'

'I forgive you, father. And I'll see you for lunch. Ask mother to do some of her spanakopites. I can't tell you how I've missed them.' He put the phone down then stared down at his hands in surprise, the way they were shaking. Then something splashed into his palm, and he realised he was weeping too.