26
It was quiet at Taverna Ta Votsala. The building occupied a tranquil situation at the far end of the bay of Paralia Votsala, nestling between higher ground behind and a wide stretch of the Aegean. Day settled back into a cushioned sofa, stirring his frappé gently. Opposite him sat his friend Vasilios, the owner of the taverna, whom Day had not made time to meet for several months. Their conversation had lapsed into a comfortable pause. Day watched an expensive yacht make its way south towards Chora or Paros, and a small white fishing boat chug northwards towards the headland through the glitter of the morning sun’s dance on the surface of the sea.
His friend’s voice recalled Day from his enjoyment of the beauties of the Cyclades.
“I was afraid we were in for a summer of bad luck, Mar
