We assembled in Athens, having arrived on different flights, and when I first saw Erica, I could not prevent myself from offering to carry her backpack — so stunningly regal was she. Her hair was piled up like a tiara on her head, and her navel — ah, what a navel: made firm, I would later learn, by years of tae kwon do — was visible beneath a short T-shirt bearing an image of Chairman Mao. We were introduced, she smiled as she shook my hand — whether because she found me irresistibly refined or oddly anachronistic, I did not know — and then we headed off with the group to the port city of Piraeus.
It was immediately apparent that I would not have, in my wooing of Erica, the field to myself. In fact, no sooner had we set sail on our ferry to the islands than did a young man — a tooth dangling on a string of leather in front of his bare, but meagerly muscled, chest — begin to strum his guitar and serenade her from across the deck. “What language is that?” she asked me, leaning close enough for her breath to tickle my ear. “English, I believe,” I replied after much concentration. “As a matter of fact, it is Bryan Adams, ‘Summer of ‘69.’” She laughed. “You’re right,” she said, politely lowering her voice to add, “Wow, he’s terrible!” I was inclined to agree, but now that I knew the troubadour posed no threat, I chose to maintain a magnanimous silence instead.
A more serious challenge would come from Chuck’s good — and similarly monosyllabically monikered — friend Mike, who, the next day, as we sat in a restaurant overhanging the lip of the shattered volcano that is the island of Santorini, casually extended his arm along the back of Erica’s chair and remained in that position, which surely became uncomfortable, for the better part of an hour. Erica made no sign that she wished him to remove his arm, but I drew some consolation from the fact that throughout the dinner she listened intently when I spoke, smiling from time to time and training her green eyes upon me. Afterwards, however, on the walk to our pension, she and Mike trailed behind the rest of us, and that night I found it difficult to sleep.
In the morning, I was relieved to see that she came down to breakfast before Mike — not with him — and I was also pleased that we appeared to be the first two of our group to be awake. She spread jam on a croissant, gave half to me, and said, “You know what I’d like to do?” I asked her what. “I’d like to stay here by myself,” she said, “rent a room on one of these islands and just write.” I told her she should, but she shook her head. “I wouldn’t last a week,” she said. “I’m not good at being alone. But you, on the other hand,” and here she tilted her head and crossed her arms, “I think you’d be fine.”
I have never, to the best of my knowledge, had any fear of solitude, and so I shrugged in assent and said, by way of explanation, “When I was a child, there were eight of us, eight cousins, all in the same compound — a single boundary wall surrounded the plot of land my grandfather left to his sons, you see — and we had between us as many as three dogs and, for a time, a duck.” She laughed, and then she said, “So being alone was a luxury, huh?” I nodded. “You give off this strong sense of home,” she said. “You know that? This I’m-from-a-big-family vibe. It’s nice. It makes you feel solid.” I was pleased — even though I was not sure I fully understood — and said thank you for want of anything better to say. Then, hesitantly because I did not wish to be too forward, I asked, “And you, do you feel solid?”
She considered this and said, with what I thought was a trace of sadness in her voice, “Sometimes, but no, not really.” Before I could respond we were joined by Chuck, and then by Mike, and the conversation turned to beaches and hangovers and the timings of ferries. But when I looked at Erica and she looked back at me, I felt we both understood that something had been exchanged between us, the first invitation to a friendship, perhaps, and so I waited patiently for an opportunity to resume our discussion.
Such an opportunity would not come for quite some time — not until several days later, as a matter of fact. You might imagine I grew frustrated with the wait, but you must remember: I had never in my life had a vacation like this one. We rented motor scooters and purchased straw mats to spread on beaches of black volcanic sand, which the sun had made too hot for bare skin; we stayed in the rooms of quaint houses let out in the summertime by elderly couples to tourists; we ate grilled octopus and drank sparkling water and red wine. I had not before this been to Europe or even swum in the sea — Lahore is, as you know, a ninety-minute journey by air from the coast — and so I gave in to the pleasures of being among this wealthy young fellowship.