From the dark interior of the Gascoyne, Fonsie Glennon watched the pavement drying. He had just scoured the strip beneath the tables, and out further, out to where the pavement dropped over the high kerb. Boulevard Adolphe Max. Always busy. People passing. Coming down from Place Rogier and the Gare du Nord, or up from the shopping complexes around De Broukere. All going somewhere. All tip-toeing over the wet pavement to get to their destinations.

Water mat wearing to patches, disappearing rapidly in the heat of the afternoon sun. Fonsie pulled his cigarettes from the pocket of his apron. Lit up. No customers in the afternoon. Brief lull. He enjoyed the relief of resting his bulk. Not so good later when the customers returned, when he would have to hoise himself out of the chair and return to serving. However .

Block across the way boarded up. Ugly. Defaced. Scabby with torn posters. The whole district was scabby. Every second block being pulled down. Mass concrete and glass going up. The Gascoyne too would disappear in rubble. And he would regret it. Yes. Not for the job. He would get another, probably with better pay. But he would miss the way-of-life. Old-fashioned. Lazy. Undemanding.

The radio caught his attention. Humming away unnoticed all day. Music station. Flemish. It was he who always tuned it to the Flemish station. Hated the French, the Francophones, their arrogance. Didn't have Flemish, needless to say. Just the few words. Enough to get by. Hardly listened anyway. But now. A Greek tune. Plucking strings of memory. Strained his ear to make out the comment at the end of the record. Something twenty years ago. Of course, 1974. The fall of the Colonels. Twenty years. Could it really be? Another Greek tune. That instrument? The bazuki.

Yes, the bazuki. That lifted Fonsie Glennon back twenty years all right. Out of the banal occupation of his barman-waiter routine. Back over the years of genteel exile in the European capital. The rearing of two children. The continual shunting to and fro between Belgium and Ireland, summer and Christmas. Back over the tedium of his married life. Back to when he opened a thousand doors. A thousand doors. Only to watch them swinging idly in the wind, only to watch them one by one blow shut again. Yes, the bazuki brought him back.

It had been a pilgrimage, his pilgrimage. Strange one for a Roman Catholic clerical student. To Delphi. Mount Parnassos.

He told her about it. They often sat together in the coffee shop after lectures during that last year of their degree course. Not the same lectures. She had done French and German, he Theology. But someone had introduced them, and they would sit down at the same table if they spotted one another. He had found her attractive. Yes. But then he was a clerical student and that was that. She had such a casual attitude to everything. Very different from his own. They talked easily. A kind of banter. Even about serious things. He told her of his dream of going to Delphi. Not just Greece. Not Athens. Delphi.

She teased him. Delphi? His vocation. Was he wavering, was he seeking guidance? Or did he want to put it to a test? If so he should go further, should bring a girl and really test it. But for her it would have to be the islands. Blue sea. Sandy beaches. Lazy little villages with street cafes and curio shops. The teasing became a challenge. And the challenge became serious.

It was difficult and yet it was easy. For him everything was important, for her nothing was important. And so they planned it in a matter-of-fact way, as if they were merely embarking on a bus journey into Dublin. As soon as the graduation ceremony was over. A month. Starting in Crete. Then through the islands. Athens. And finally to Delphi.

Fonsie was irritated when he saw an elderly couple hovering about the tables outside. They shuffled through to the window and sat down in the shade of the awning. Damn. He propped his cigarette carefully on the edge of the ash-tray. Relieved when they ordered only two beers.

Greek music still playing when he sat down again. What was that fellow's name? His music had been banned by the Colonels. Zorba's music. Theodorakis. That was it. Theodorakis. His music had been banned and he himself had been exiled. Or had he f1ed the country? No matter.

When they arrived at the airport in Heraklion it was he who felt like f1eeing the country. Back to the security of the seminary. Terror? Anxiety? Guilt? But there was no turning back. A knot in his brain, so that he couldn't think. A knot in his chest, so that he couldn't feel. A knot in his groin that threatened to ridicule his intentions. But she was relaxed. And that helped.

In the room at the pension overlooking the harbour of Xania she slipped off her dress and hopped into the bed. Teasing him. Laughing at his awkwardness as he untied his shoes. She was frivolous as he fumbled to acquaint himself with her body. Suddenly they had made love. A rush of an affair. Full of excitement. With little of love, less of satisfaction. It was consummated. And over the following weeks they learned to take some pleasure from their mating.

They were on the ship out of Heraklion when they heard the news from another passenger. Trouble in Cyprus. Makarios had fallen. Turks had invaded. War between Greece and Turkey inevitable. Tourists f1eeing as fast as boat or plane could carry them.

Huddling in a corner of the crowded deck they talked. The two of them. Decided to stay. Hundreds were waiting at Santorini, clamouring to board the ship. They were the only ones to disembark.

The elderly couple had finished their beers. Fidgeting. Looking around. Reluctantly Fonsie got up and went out to them again. Two more beers. They were Australian, he decided. Seldom any Irish in this area. Now and again. Like the Irish MEP that came in one night for his dinner. Afterwards he sat around. Drinking beer. All by himself. Fonsie had made a few remarks to acknowledge their common nationality. When the diners had thinned out, the MEP invited him to have a drink. Fonsie accepted. They ended up drinking and talking into the early hours. Talked nonsense mostly. He was from the south of Ireland and was reminiscing about great hurling matches between parish teams in Tipperary or Cork. Wherever. Not to let the west down, Fonsie came up with similar epic encounters in Gaelic football on the playing fields of County Roscommon. The more intoxicated they had become, the grander the scale of these titanic struggles. All nonsense. A crowd of lads togging out under a hedge. Someone with no togs at all pulling on a jersey, folding the legs of his trousers into his socks. Looking for the football. Did anyone remember to bring the football? Titans indeed. Only in the imagination. Only in the mist of nostalgia and intoxication.

The imminent war between the Greeks and Turks was like that. They were mobilising on the island of Santorini. Young men in khaki being sent forth by wailing mamas. Old men solemnly patrolling the streets on the back of pick-up trucks, ancient rifles slung across their shoulders. Shops closed. Offices closed. Banks closed.

That caught them on the hop. The banks being closed. No money. Not the best place to be stranded. On top of a volcano. True. The town was perched up on the top. Steps. Steps. Steps down to the sea. A donkey ride if you weren't watching your drachmas. Black sand on the beach. Like cinders. Hot too. Too hot for your bare feet. She didn't like the place. Wanted to leave. But all the ships were gone. Commandeered by the army.

It was a full week before they escaped. A ship arrived. Back servicing civilians. They boarded, and got off at the next stop. Paros.

Paros was a lovely island. Tender. She loved it. Lying out on the deserted beaches. Not a tourist left but themselves. Swimming in the warm waters of the Aegean. Back to the pension to make love. Dressing for dinner. Out on the open square. Moussaka. Kebabs. That sort of fare. Delicious. Afterwards sitting back. Drinking retsina or raki. Ruminating. Passive as the old men telling their worry-beads. He too liked the island.

But they had to push on. Mykonos. Briefly. Then to Lesbos. An agreed stop. He wanted it because it was the home of Sappho, she because it was close to the Turkish coast. She wanted to see Turkey, even though she could not now visit it.

The two Australians were ready to go. They were married. He knew. They had not spoken to one another for the duration of two beers. Marriage was like that. Two horses harnessed to the one plough. Easier to pull together quietly and get on with the job. That much you learn. Fonsie's wife taught English to rich little Belgian kids. It was a job. She didn't like it. She didn't dislike it either. Tried it himself once. Once was enough. Tried other things too. Not much in the line of career opportunities for a theology graduate. Still. They earned a living between the two of them. Paid the rent. Bought food. Returned to Ireland twice a year. Might have been better off to have stayed in Ireland. Who knows? Seemed a good idea at the time. To go abroad. Adventurous. So it seemed.

Trip to Lesbos was an adventure. Raised eyebrows all round. Why Lesbos? The army was on Lesbos. Dangerous.

Nothing could have looked less dangerous than the army on Lesbos. Less heroic. Gawky youngsters in khaki loitering on the beach. All had been conscripted in a hurry, given a uniform and gun, sent to the front. The officers sitting around in the cafe downstairs. Detached. Bored. So silent Fonsie imagined they were listening to the creaking of the bed. A bit inhibiting. But whenever he looked out the window to check, there they were, legs stretched, gazing across the water at the Turkish coast. Some of them had English. Not much. Less information. Rumours, they explained, with a shrug. Rumours of fighting in Cyprus. Rumours of fighting in Thessaly. Rumours of a mutiny in the army.

Then. Suddenly. It was as if the Turks had finally landed. Deafening gunfire. Shouting. Screams.

Running to the window. Peeping out. Bedlam down below. Officers dancing. Throwing their arms around one another. Kissing. Hugging. Soldiers running wildly about the beach. Shooting into the air.

Chasing down to find out what had happened. The Colonels, they said. The Colonels had fallen. Gone. Euphoria. Men laughing. Men weeping. They joined in. Such drinking. Dancing on the sand. Zorba's dance or a drunken imitation of it. Singing. Songs that had been silenced for years. They were free. They could sing what they wanted to sing, think their own thoughts, express what they felt. The bonds were broken. They were free.

Bliss to be among them at that moment.

The ship sailing for Piraeus the following day was ablaze with f1ags. Music blaring from the public address speakers. Everyone drunk. Including them. Dancing on the deck. Dancing in the cafeteria. Dancing everywhere.

In Athens the streets were packed. Thousands upon thousands. Waving f1ags. Singing. Chanting slogans.

That night they went to a concert in the Amphitheatre. The banned songs were greeted with rapture. Musicians who had not been heard in public for a generation were paraded on stage. Acclaimed. All their curtain calls in one.

That night he decided to leave the Church. Freedom. The breaking of bonds. That was the essence of living. It could never be the same again. For Greece or for him.

The telephone rang. Fonsie looked at his watch before answering it. Sometimes his wife rang in the afternoon. After she returned from school. If there was a problem. The telephone was her only line of communication to him, she frequently complained. True. At least for five days of the week. She left in the early morning. For school. With the children. Not children any more. Almost finished. Soon for college. He didn't return until night. Every Sunday off. Every second Saturday. It was fine.

Not his wife on the phone. Just the owner. Checking whether he could work later that night. Had agreed.

Mount Parnassos was as awesome in reality as it had been in his imagination. The sweep of those mountain slopes. The fresh smell of trees as they climbed towards Delphi. Eucalyptus? Olive groves at intervals. She didn't take to it at all. On the bus from Athens to Itea she complained of the heat. Oppressive. Not like the islands. They should have stayed on the islands, she grumbled.

But this was what he had come for. And he was not disappointed.

She had a problem with the flies. Mosquitos, perhaps. Then she tired of the climb. There was a picnic table in the shade of a fig tree. She decided she would sit there and wait for him. He was relieved.

Alone on the slopes of Mount Parnassos. Where kings and warriors had climbed. To consult the oracle. To learn the truth. The sacred mountain of Apollo. Of the muses. Where the priestess breathed the vapours rising from the Underworld. And told men what they needed to know. But only the wise could puzzle it out.

Standing among the columns in the temple of Apollo he felt he could see all of Greece. The ships plying the channel towards Corinth. The mountains of the Peloponnese beyond. All of Greece. And it was now free. It was dancing. Singing. The bonds were broken.

He could have stayed there the rest of the day. The rest of the year. Forever. Searching for the cleft and the inspirational vapours of the Underworld. But he had to get back. She was waiting. At a picnic table. Impatient.

Nevertheless. He had been to Delphi. Learned the truth. Stood on Mount Parnassos and saw Greece young again and beautiful, shimmering beneath a blue veil, awaiting revelation. Full of hope. And possibility.

They didn't talk much on the way back to Athens. He was full. Mount Parnassos inside him. Afraid to dissipate it in uncongenial conversation.

In Athens he saw her off at the airport. Deferred his own f1ight. Wanted to stay in Greece, he told her. For a while. To sort out his mind. Wouldn't be returning to the Church. That much was certain. Everything else was in the realm of possibility.

Or so he thought. Another month he spent. Wandering about. Back to Crete. To locate a hippy colony on the south coast. Living in caves. Old Roman tombs. Liked the idea. But they played volleyball on the beach all day. Every day. And talked of nothing but how cheaply they could survive. Not the free spirits he was looking for.

Back through the islands. But it wasn't the same. Hated eating alone in the evenings. Missed her presence in the warm darkness. Lay awake contemplating the undulations of her body, the intimate crannies, the secret nooks of pleasure, the little spots of concentrated sweetness.

And Greece had changed. Again. Back to normal. Normal! No more explosions of joy. No more dancing in the streets. No more singing. Except to entertain the tourists in the cafes. Yes, the tourists were returning. Everything was back to normal.

In Dublin he telephoned her. Met her. Asked her to marry him. Provided they travel - that was his one condition. She agreed. Suggested Brussels to start. She had just been offered a teaching job there.

The rest is silence, as the man said. When the truth is revealed to you at Delphi, you ignore it at your peril.