The boat was smaller than Lito would have liked.
It was so small that every gust of wind was noticeable and every creak in the wood sounded as though the engine were grinding against the planks.
Lito Rodríguez sat on the middle bench, holding onto the edge of the boat with one hand and his jacket with the other. It had been chosen for an aperitif at a Greek cardinal’s residence, not for a night-time crossing. The fabric was beige, soft, and expensive enough to be suitable for an aperitif.
“I just want to make it clear,” he said, “that nobody told me this aperitif involved half a crossing of the Atlantic.”

Wolfgang Bogdanow sat opposite him, his legs spread wide enough so as not to have to read too much into the boat’s movements. He was wearing dark blue, because that colour was almost always appropriate, especially when other people were worrying too much about communist red. In the light of the small lantern next to the skipper, his face looked paler and more angular than it had that afternoon in Hydra.
“You accepted the invitation to Greece,” he said.
“I wanted to go for an aperitif. That’s something different. I wanted to see Jussie on stage in Delphi. And I wanted to save you from being shot to pieces by your mates.”
“An aperitif by the sea.”

“By the sea, very gladly. Not in the sea.”
Sun Bak was sitting at the stern. She wasn’t holding on to anything. Her body followed the boat’s movements as calmly as if she’d made a pact with the water. The wind swept through her dark hair, but not even that ruffled her composure. She looked across at the island.

The villa lay above them like a bright promise. Warm light shone through the open doors. On the terrace, you could make out small movements: people in conversation, a glint of glass. Further up, above the house, the chapel sat on the cliff. A single light burned there, brighter than the lanterns in the garden.
“Is that the chapel up there?” asked Lito.
Sun nodded.

“Jussie said it’s beautiful. And if you can stand the wind, the view from up there is magnificent.”
Wolfgang looked up. “It’s a shame we won’t get to see it. When the others wake up tomorrow morning and go to Lauds, we’ll be sweltering in our hotel on Hydra, munching on rusks.”
“Jussie’ll send us photos from up there.”
“That’s what actors do, no doubt striking a grand pose or wearing a crazy hat.”
Lito looked at him. “I detect a dig at actors or hats there.”

“Balaclavas are better if you’re going to break in.”
Sun shook her head. “Nobody has to break in. That’s not a German bad habit.”
“I’m not German.”
“You live in Berlin. It rubs off on you.”
Wolfgang snorted quietly, but not unkindly. The boatman didn’t understand them, or was pretending not to. In Greece, both were probably just part of the service.
Sun listened to the two of them without interfering. She’d accepted Jussie’s invitation because she’d recognised the tone in the actress’s voice. It was more like something Sun was familiar with from other countries: someone who didn’t want to be alone in front of their own family but was too proud to say so.

“You’re a Russian in a Polish town; there are plenty of honest ways to earn a living there.”
The island was drawing nearer. From the garden came the scent of lemon, oil and warm stone. Beneath the sound of the engine lay the steady lapping of the waves. For a moment, another scent crept into Sun’s awareness: perfume, pearls, air-conditioned air, gleaming floors. Manama.
Not the city itself. Rather, Kala’s memory of how people in the Grand Majlis smiled whilst hurting one another. Politeness that was anything but peaceful. Jewels around necks, hands on glasses, sentences in which not a single word was placed by chance. Sun knew this kind of danger and these jewels from Seoul.
“You’re very quiet,” said Lito.
Sun blinked once and looked away from the house.
“I’m listening.”
“To the sea?”
“That too.”
Wolfgang followed her gaze to the terrace. “There they are, up there.”

“The family?” asked Lito.

“Part of it,” said Sun.
Lito sat up a little straighter. “Right. Let’s go over it again. Jussie’s an actress. Her mother’s Meghareta. The older lady with the money is Maryana. Fionetta’s the grandmother. Or great-grandmother?”
“Grandmother,” said Sun.
Wolfgang asked, “And the bishop?”
“Vincenorio,” Sun guessed.
Lito snorted respectfully. “A bishop who owns private islands and can serve enough alcohol to invite Jussie’s complete strangers for an aperitif.”
Wolfgang looked at him. “He doesn’t own the island. His family owns it. With Catholic diplomats, that’s often just a matter of dynasty.”
Sun looked back at the jetty. “Are you Catholic?”
“Yes,” said Lito. “The Latin American sort. That means I believe in God, in guilt, in flowers, in candles, in dramatic music, and in the fact that my mother is always right.”
Wolfgang raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds interesting.”

“You should come to Mexico sometime and see for yourself – in Tijuana, León or Denver.”
“I’m Russian Orthodox,” said Wolfgang. “In case that becomes relevant here.”
Lito looked at him with interest. “Is it relevant to you?”
Wolfgang shrugged. “My grandmother would have said: ‘Always – my father is burning in hell because he turned his back on the faith.’ I say: ‘We’ll see.’ But I like churches: icons, gold and plenty of incense and fragrance.”
“Like wax?”
“Like wax, dust and people hoping to find peace.”

Sun looked away from the chapel. “I’m a Buddhist.”
Lito nodded solemnly. “Then you’re probably the only one of us who’ll be reborn afterwards.”
“No,” said Sun. “I’m just practised at sitting still.”
“That can be very useful at a Catholic cocktail party,” said Lito. “Especially when there are rings to kiss.”
Wolfgang glanced briefly up at the terrace. “You’ll want to do it.”
Lito thought about it and sighed. “You’re probably right.”
The boat turned slowly. The jetty was made of old stone; next to it, a narrow flight of steps led down to the lower garden. A lantern hung from a post, swaying in the wind.
 The boatman eased off the throttle; immediately, the night seemed to expand. They could hear voices from above, the clinking of glasses, the rustling of leaves. Somewhere, a door slammed.
Sun was the first to stand up, even before the boat had come to a complete stop. Wolfgang followed her and held out his hand to Lito.
“I can get out on my own,” said Lito.
“Yes,” said Wolfgang. “But not any faster.”
Lito took his hand and stepped onto the jetty. The boat swayed, but he remained standing. He smoothed down his jacket as if no one had seen that he’d clung to Wolfgang’s arm for half a breath.
“Don’t let anyone tell Jussie that I nearly died.”

“You didn’t nearly die,” said Sun.

“In the theatre, it’s the drama that counts, not the truth.”
Wolfgang handed the boatman a few notes. The man nodded, moored the boat and looked up the path, as if he knew full well that there was no need to announce guests too loudly on this island.
They climbed the first few steps. To the right, low herbs grew between the stones. To the left, the slope dropped down towards the water. The house grew larger with every step. Light shone from doors and windows, yet in between lay dark areas, corridors, walls and nooks. Sun found herself counting them involuntarily.
“You’re doing it again,” said Wolfgang quietly.
“What?”

“Breaking the space down, drawing feng shui lines in the air and…”
Sun didn’t look at him. “Feng shui is Chinese, not Korean.”
Lito, who had been walking ahead of them, turned halfway round. “That’s not a sentence you should say just before a Catholic aperitif; China is communist and Japan is Shinto.”

They reached the lower garden. From here, they could see the terrace at an angle from below. The host was standing at the top of the steps. Beside him were the three women. The matriarch was easy to spot: dressed in black, standing upright, with a green stone around her neck that made its own little statement even from a distance. Her niece seemed more restless. Her mother stood almost motionless.
Lito stopped in his tracks.

“So this is the family.”

Wolfgang looked up. “The female members.”
“They look as though they’ve known for years exactly where each of them is supposed to stand.”
Sun looked at the mother. “Jussie’s mother looks as though she’s expecting someone who isn’t coming today.”
The host raised his hand in greeting. The gesture was small, but it was enough. Lito straightened up, put on his friendliest smile and carried on. Wolfgang followed, a little behind him. Sun lingered for a moment longer and glanced back at the chapel.
The wind was blowing down from up there. It carried no scent of incense, but it did bring a refreshing coolness.
Then she, too, turned towards the terrace.

For an aperitif, the garden was very lively.