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Show 19 cheerless cafe where they drink Turkish coffee out of tiny cups, watch the rain fall, and talk. She is, he guesses, thirty years old; and learns that she has once, for two weeks, been to New York with her Greek husband. She does not know what to think about America. Garrett says he does not know what to think about Greece. It takes him a long time to work up to his questions, which he has carried for a year and now this long distance; and in the end they have settled, like the thick grounds in his empty coffee cup, into a single dark substance. "Why," he asks, "would your brother do such a thing?" And he sees in her face, as he asks it, that she is anxious for him to leave-for the rain to let up and for the Naxos to depart. "Why should anyone do such a thing?" she says. "And why do you ask me? I knew him only a long time ago. You say you lived with him. If anyone should know, it would be you." "Yes," says Garrett, staring into his cup. The way she speaks reminds him of Trish. "But I don't. I don't know." ''Then you must stop thinking of it," she says sadly. "You must save yourself." Garrett stares at Ahmed and Ahmed stares back. The horses paw at the ground. Garrett stands at the barn door, unable to move, unable to wipe the sweat from his forehead or blow away the flies that walk across his upper lip; stands frozen to the dying moment until he finds himself moving around the barn, outside, to the back where |