"Did this man have a beard?" He pressed.
"No, the thing I remember most was that part of one finger was missing. Curious. I focused on that. But his features, his features were almost Asian I would say." He paused, then turned and asked Adriana to fetch another bottle of raki. "Perhaps his accent was from that part of the world." He looked back at Eva. "I suppose you would have known, my marvelous Eva, my Minoan queen."
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then he rose. "Enough. Now we must all have something for dinner. I'm sure you do not want to spend the rest of the night trapped here with a crippled old Greek."
He disappeared into the kitchen to select the pick of the day's catch. And that smoky evening they dined on the island's best—barbounia, red mullet, which Adriana grilled with the head and served with wedges of Cretan lemon. Afterward came a dessert of grapes and soft, fresh myzithra cheese blended with dark honey from the mountains near Sfakii. Then at the end she brought forth her own soumada, a rich nectar made of pressed almonds.
After more raki, Zeno was persuaded to get out his ancient bouzouki, tune it, and play and sing some traditional songs. The music grew faster and more heated, and then— with only the slightest urging—Eva cleared away the tables and began to dance. Her Russian gypsy movements seemed almost Greek.
When they finally broke away the time was nearly midnight; the volta had long-since disbanded; the sky above had changed from a canopy of island stars to a spring torrent. And Michael Vance and Eva Borodin were very, very drunk.
"You know, there was something special about us in the old days," Vance said as they weaved down the rain-washed street toward the hotel. "How we used to be. All we did was eat, drink, and talk. And make love. Tonight it's three down and one to go."
"You're pretty smashed, darling." Eva laughed and looked him over. "A girl learns to watch out for deceptive advertising."