Every time the wind changes, which is often here, Niko watches me from his spot on the rooftop wall. He lies there like a cat, flexing his feet and letting the sun warm his stomach, a cigarette resting between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He watches me, waiting to see if, this time, the meltemi will pull me down to the harbour and out to sea again.
Henry and I have our routines, although I will admit he is far more diligent than I am about keeping to them. He often lollops upstairs to the studio, where he sits and watches me paint for a while. When the pacing starts, I know that it’s time to go for one of our walks and, if it’s left up to Henry, he always heads for the beach.
Il signóre Maglian was in the harbourside cafe drinking his espresso, waiting for his friends to return. The harbourmaster sat facing the sea. He could smell a storm coming in: the breeze was picking up; trees on the seafront were whispering it would be a bad summer squall; and fishing nets on the quayside were shifting slightly, nodding in agreement….