George offered the can to Henry.

They walked in silence through the narrow, wet streets. Men in sandals nodded to them from doorways of shops with little inventory.

As they crossed a main avenue, the rain began again-first in slow, heavy drops, then small, fast pellets.

And then it stopped suddenly, and the sun fell through distant clouds. Henry turned to say something. It was very bright and their shadows overlapped.

Around them, at unthinkable speeds, planets tilted their bodies of fire and ice.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Henry pointed to a neon sign up ahead.

"Let's eat there," he said.

Then it started to rain again and they ran up the street to the restaurant.

Inside, it was small and noticeably dirty, with plastic tablecloths, slow ceiling fans, and slabs of meat on trays in stainless steel cabinets. The dirt in the restaurant was the sort that acc.u.mulates slowly over time-the sort that hides itself from the owners through gradualness.

They sat in a corner next to a couple. The woman wore a cream cotton blouse that was tight around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her husband wore a black T-shirt that said johnny boy, american legend, with a sequined skull embroidered underneath.

When the waiter switched on the main lights, the sequins on the man's T-shirt caught the light and the skull came alive with a grin.

The couple was brought a tray of spanakopita. The smell of spinach and warm cheese filled the restaurant. The waiter balanced a cigarette on his bottom lip, and when he faltered slightly, so did the cigarette, which made it seem as though he were not a waiter at all but an acrobat performing a trick that involved smoking and serving spinach and cheese pie.

Despite Henry's habit of eating at the restaurant once a week, the locals and the staff regarded them with coolness.

The waiter's hand trembled as he wrote down their order. At Henry's suggestion, the waiter promised an a.s.sortment of what he could vouch for personally. When he left, the owner of the restaurant-a tall, muscular woman with thin lips-came up to the table and asked them if they liked Greek music.

George asked her in Greek to bring three gla.s.ses of raki. The woman stared at him. A smile curled at the edges of her mouth.

"You make a good effort with Greek," she said. "And so I have something better than raki for you-something you've never had, any of you."

She disappeared into the kitchen and then a few moments later, the lights sank and slow painful bouzouki music came through the speakers. A few of the locals laughed.

"Is she doing this for us?" Rebecca asked.

"I'm afraid so," George said.

Then she came out with three gla.s.ses of red liquor.

"Mournoraki, my friends."

"They each took a gla.s.s."

"Yamas," George said and then drained the gla.s.s of its thick red liquid.

Henry took a sip and spat it out.

People laughed.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?"

"Probably something from her village," George said, and then called out to the woman in Greek. She answered back in English.

"From Crete," she said.

"I like it," Rebecca said. "It's like blood."

And then some food arrived.

"This will warm us up," Henry said.

"Look at me-I'm still soaked," said Rebecca.

Two Greek men turned from the counter and looked at her.

Then a large tray of steaming lamb, which the waiter carried above his head.

"Let's get up at five and take the underground to Piraeus," Henry suggested, spooning food onto Rebecca's and George's plates.

"That's a bit early," Rebecca said. "I'm going to the toilet."

George stood as she left the table.

"What a gentleman," Henry said.

"Just a habit," George said shyly.

Henry stared at him for a few moments.

"I'm going to take care of you, George," he said.

"Thanks," George said.

"How about we find you a beautiful Greek girl who loves that red stuff?"

When Rebecca returned from the bathroom they ate mostly in silence and listened to the music. Then Henry paid for dinner and they put their coats on. The rain had stopped. The streets were hot and clean.

Instead of going straight back to Henry's apartment, the three of them wandered the streets of the Plaka, which were choked with tourists buying alabaster busts and leather sandals. The lanes were muddy. Water dripped from tarpaulins onto anyone inspecting the wares.

Then suddenly a man stepped in front of them.

"Very nice Greek place here!" he said, pointing toward a shabby building.

"What kind of music?" George asked.

"Greek music," the man said rudely.

"Rembetika?"

"Yes," the man said.

"I don't believe you," George said.

"What is your name?" the man said gruffly.

"George Cavendish."

"Well, Mr. George, I am a traditional Greek dancer with good steps," he said. "The songs tonight in this place are rembetika songs."

"You mean hasapiko," George insisted.

"No, no, no," said the man sternly. "Traditional songs, rembetika."

Immediately after entering through a curtain, they went up some narrow stairs past a woman sitting behind an enormous cash register. The restaurant was very dark, except for an empty stage lit with upward-facing lights.

There were about thirty tables, but only two or three were occupied.

"This is the first time I've ever been to a tourist trap," Henry said quietly.

"Not me," said George. "I've been overcharged and robbed since the day I arrived in this country."

The stage was covered with rose petals. Rebecca picked some up on her way to the table and put them in Henry's and George's pockets.

"It's going to get much worse," George said, smiling. "But they'll get us drunk-because if they don't we'd never pay the bill."

"What's rembetika?" Rebecca asked.

"It's one of the most beautiful forms of all music," George explained. "It's alchemy."

"Is that what we're going to hear?" Henry asked as they sat down.

"I doubt it," George said. "Most proper places are closed this time of year, and they are usually in areas where there's no tourist trade-like empty markets or neighborhoods where there are lots of factories."

"How do you know all this?" Henry asked.

"Because I've spent months just wandering the streets alone," George admitted. "I've met some real characters."

Henry, Rebecca, and George lost count of how many gla.s.ses of homemade liquor they drank-for after every long sip, a hairy arm would reach across the table with a bottle, and the gla.s.s would be replenished before it was empty.

When the bouzouki player finally left the stage, he did so by stepping down into the audience and kissing and hugging everyone he could, expertly cradling his bouzouki to one side. Henry, George, and Rebecca all took turns hugging him.

The next singer who came out was a transvest.i.te. He took the microphone off its stand and flicked his blond hair back, winking at an old man in the front row. George told Henry and Rebecca that they should go, as there were five more live acts and it was late. They agreed and, after stuffing themselves with flaky baklava, found themselves outside the restaurant, standing aimlessly in the street with lit cigarettes. It was half past two in the morning.

"I'm drunk," Rebecca said. "You don't mind, do you?"

Henry put his arm around her. "Only if you don't mind that I am."

"Cretan firewater," George said loudly. "They make it in the hills. Last time I drank it I got run over."

"That's probably why you survived," Henry said, buckling with laughter.

Rebecca held George's and Henry's arms for balance, but couldn't help from swaying.

"I think we should find a taxi," she said.

And then, as such things happen in states of insobriety, a taxi seemed to suddenly appear at their feet, and then they all seemed to be in it, speeding somewhere they couldn't quite remember how to get to.

In the taxi, Henry didn't stop talking. And then he tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder.

"This is my brother back here," Henry said with slurred affection. "He says he's my brother."

The taxi driver nodded.

Then Rebecca told Henry how she had met George, how she had seen him and thought he looked interesting. George admitted he couldn't believe it when she spoke to him.

They alighted at the corner of Henry's street. George put an arm across Henry's shoulder and the two men strolled together.

"I'm so very drunk," Henry said. "So very drunk."

"It's hard not to be," George said, "when you drink that much."

"You don't mind what I said in the taxi, do you?" Henry said. "I know you're an American, but who gives a d.a.m.n-the age difference is right at least."

"Thanks," George said, fumbling for his cigarettes. "I like it all."

Outside Henry's building, Rebecca stopped walking and looked up at the moon.

"It's almost full," she said.

"Almost-my beautiful, wonderful air hostess," Henry said. "You should know the moon better than any of us because you spent years flying through the heavens like a shooting star."

"Let's go inside," she said, "before I collapse."

"Did she?" George said.

"Did she what?" Henry said.

"I don't know," George said. "Did she?" And they both laughed.