Page 218 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

Once out of sight, we often drifted apart. At the beach, I took a swim or lay

on a rock with my shirt off while Thalia went off to collect shells or skip rocks
on the water, which was no good because the waves were too big. We went
walking along the footpaths that snaked through vineyards and barley fields,
looking down at our own shadows, each preoccupied with our own thoughts.
Mostly we wandered. There wasn’t much in the way of a tourist industry on
Tinos in those days. It was a farming island, really, people living off their cows
and goats and olive trees and wheat. We would end up bored, eating lunch
somewhere, quietly, in the shade of a tree or a windmill, looking between bites
at the ravines, the fields of thorny bushes, the mountains, the sea.
One day, I wandered off toward town. We lived on the southwestern shore of
the island, and Tinos town was only a few miles’ walk south. There was a little
knickknack shop there run by a heavy-faced widower named Mr. Roussos. On
any given day, you were apt to find in the window of his shop anything from a
1940s typewriter to a pair of leather work boots, or a weathervane, an old plant

stand, giant wax candles, a cross, or, of course, copies of the Panagia
Evangelistria icon. Or maybe even a brass gorilla. He was also an amateur
photographer and had a makeshift darkroom in the back of the shop. When the
pilgrims came to Tinos every August to visit the icon, Mr. Roussos sold rolls of
film to them and developed their photos in his darkroom for a fee.
About a month back, I had spotted a camera in his display window, sitting on
its worn rust-colored leather case. Every few days, I strolled over to the shop,
stared at this camera, and imagined myself in India, the leather case hanging by
the strap over my shoulder, taking photos of the paddies and tea estates I had
seen in National Geographic. I would shoot the Inca Trail. On camelback, in

some dust-choked old truck, or on foot, I would brave the heat until I stood
gazing up at the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and I would shoot them too and see
my photos published in magazines with glossy pages. This was what drew me to
Mr. Roussos’s window that morning—though the shop was closed for the day—
to stand outside, my forehead pressed to the glass, and daydream.
“What kind is it?”
I pulled back a bit, caught Thalia’s reflection in the window. She dabbed at
her left cheek with the handkerchief.

“The camera.”
I shrugged.
“Looks like a C3 Argus,” she said.
“How would you know?”

“It’s only the best-selling thirty-five millimeter in the world for the last thirty