The air was delicious: warm and soft and scented with oregano. After a day and night on the ferry, they had flown in from Athens on a little plane called a ‘mosquito’ and taken a taxi into the town. They walked along the seafront a little way until they found a restaurant. It was an open-air platform overlooking the marina, with a loosely woven fabric of grapevines overhead. A drunken man ambled down the steps and put his arm around Rygg’s shoulders. He was wearing shorts and a torn T-shirt. Rygg tried to shrug him off, but the man pulled him up the stairs and shoved him into a chair. He kicked other chairs around the table and bowed to Lena. “Princessa!” he said, and she giggled. The drunken waiter uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured their glasses full, then passed menus around. The menus were photocopied sheets of paper, cased in stapled plastic bags. “Well,” Marin said, raising his glass. “Yiamas!” Rygg took one sip of his wine, then held the glass at arm’s length and looked at it.
