The Chief, immersed in thoughts of his childhood, was now thinking of Relena Atridea. Of the secret wedding, celebrated by an Athenian polytheistic priest (among Doric columns and dog turds), of the getaway in a boat (with a local skipper) towards the islands of the archipelago. He was thinking of Relena’s first husband, a proconsul of Climax, friend of the Red Pontiff and arbiter elegantiae regni orbique. A man whose character was devoid of nuances, who did not consider marriage as a tampering of freedom, but the first item among the costs of home management.
He was thinking of the island of Amafi (the last of the Cyclades) and of Laumenes, the proconsul, who for seven days, without stopping, had fiercely looked for his wife. He was thinking of Relena’s chirping in those open spaces. Of the air baths. Of the isobars of the celestial vault. And of the little house, at the top of a narrow white road, where pebbles and dust that looked like it came from marble slid down tidily in a water precipice.
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