Mr. Kuvetli strode forward, a stout, grubby little Daniel going out to do battle with a lean Goliath in stained blue serge. He began to speak.
He spoke Greek fluently; there was no doubt of it. Graham saw the surprised look on the driver’s face replaced by one of fury as a torrent of words poured from Mr. Kuvetli’s lips. He was disparaging the car. He began to point. He pointed to every defect in the thing from a patch of rust on the luggage grid to a small tear in the upholstery, from a crack in the windshield to a worn patch on the running board. He paused for breath and the angry driver seized the opportunity of replying. He shouted and thumped the door panels with his fist to emphasise his remarks and made long streamlining gestures. Mr. Kuvetli smiled sceptically and returned to the attack. The driver spat on the ground and counterattacked. Mr. Kuvetli replied with a short, sharp burst of fire. The driver flung up his hands, disgusted but defeated.
Mr. Kuvetli turned to Graham. “Price,” he reported simply, “is now three hundred drachmes. It is too much, I think, but it will take time to reduce more. But if you think …”
“It seems a very fair price,” said Graham hurriedly.
Mr. Kuvetli shrugged. “Perhaps. It could be reduced more, but …” He turned and nodded to the driver, who suddenly grinned broadly. They got into the cab.
“Did you say,” said Graham, as they drove off, “that you had never been in Greece before?”
Mr. Kuvetli’s smile was bland. “I know little Greek,” he said. “I was born in Izmir.”
The tour began. The Greek drove fast and with dash, twitching the wheel playfully in the direction of slow moving pedestrians, so that they had to run for their lives, and flinging a running commentary over his right shoulder as he went. They stopped for a moment on the road by the Theseion and again on the Acropolis where they got out and walked round. Here, Mr. Kuvetli’s curiosity seemed inexhaustible. He insisted on a century by century history of the Parthenon and prowled round the museum as if he would have liked to spend the rest of the day there; but at last they got back into the car and were whisked round to the theatre of Dionysos, the arch of Hadrian, the Olympieion, and the Royal Palace. It was, by now, four o’clock and Mr. Kuvetli had been asking questions and saying “very nice” and “formidable” for well over the allotted hour. At Graham’s suggestion they stopped in the Syntagma, changed some money and paid off the driver, adding that if he liked to wait in the square he could earn another fifty drachmes by driving them back to the wharf later. The driver agreed. Graham bought his cigarettes and books and sent his telegram. There was a band playing on the terrace of one of the cafés when they got back to the square and at Mr. Kuvetli’s suggestion they sat down at a table to drink coffee before returning to the port.
Mr. Kuvetli surveyed the square regretfully. “It is very nice,” he said with a sigh. “One would like to stay longer. So many magnificent ruins we have seen!”
Graham remembered what Haller had said at lunch about Mr. Kuvetli’s evasions. “Which is your favourite city, Mr. Kuvetli?”