“As I approached I observed a guard prowling, rifle in hand, a fenced area of rock and scrubby trees, but saw no prisoners. I saw but one sentinel on the prison wall in over an hour’s vigil, and for all the stir or sound from within the bleak building itself, he might have been guarding a tomb. All around it the work-a-day life of a city neighborhood went on. It was as though a grotesque, ancient monument had been left in the midst of modern apartment buildings even more ugly than itself. I walk...ed and watched and prayed in my fashion that some sign or inspiration would confront me, removing all the walls between myself and the man I sought. A street market trailed off from the back of the prison, its canopied stalls providing everything from overripe garden produce to American detergents in faded orange boxes. I bought three drachmas’ worth of sage and crushed it in my fingers, remembering Webb’s first contact on the Piraeus waterfront. The heat of day was intense. I took refuge under the awnings of a kafenion across the busy street from the prison entrance and drank an orange gazoza.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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