‘Lights?’
‘The September lights,’ said Ismael as they passed the island to starboard. ‘According to the legend, one night towards the end of summer, during the annual masked ball, the villagers saw a woman take a sailing boat from the port and put out to sea. Some say she was going to a secret meeting with her lover on the island; others that she was fleeing from a crime . . . The explanation doesn’t matter because in fact nobody could see who she really was – her face was hidden by a mask. But as she crossed the bay, a fierce storm suddenly broke; she lost control of the boat and it was flung against the rocks. The mysterious woman drowned, or at least her body was never recovered. A few days later, the tide washed ashore the battered remains of her mask. Ever since that time, people say that during the last days of summer, in the evening, lights can be seen on the island . . .’
‘The woman’s spirit . . .’
‘Exactly . . . trying to complete her voyage. Or at least that’s what people say.’
‘And is it true?’
‘It’s a ghost story. Either you believe it or you don’t.’
‘Do you believe it?’ asked Irene.
‘I only believe what I can see.’
‘A sceptic.’
‘Something like that.’
Irene looked at the island again. Waves crashed against the rocks. The sunlight glinted off the cracked windowpanes of the lighthouse tower, refracting into the ghost of a rainbow that faded away through a curtain of spray.
‘Have you ever been there?’ she asked.
‘On the island?’
Ismael tightened the sails and with a sharp pull of the tiller the boat listed to port and made straight for the headland, cutting across the current.
‘How about paying a visit,’ he proposed. ‘To the island.’
‘Can we?’
‘We can do anything. It’s a question of whether we dare to or not,’ Ismael replied with a defiant smile.
Irene kept her eyes fixed on his.
‘When?’
‘Next Saturday. On my boat.’
‘Just us?’
‘Just us. Of course, if you’re scared . . .’
‘I’m not scared,’ Irene replied quickly.
‘Right then, Saturday it is. I’ll pick you up by the jetty, mid-morning.’
Irene turned her head towards the shore. Seaview sat perched above the cliffs. From the porch, Dorian was watching them with ill-concealed curiosity.
‘My brother Dorian. Maybe you’d like to come up and meet my mother . . .’
‘I’m not very good at family functions.’
‘Some other day, then.’
The boat entered the small cove formed by the rocks beneath Seaview. With practised skill, Ismael lowered the sail and let the Kyaneos drift in towards the jetty. Then, grabbing the end of a line, he jumped ashore to moor the boat. Once it was secured, Ismael held out a hand to Irene.
‘By the way,’ she said. ‘Homer was blind. How could he have known what colour the sea was?’