How to Disappear Read Online Free

man from the traffic lights, the one who gave me the fierce look through the taxi window. I hope he’s in a better mood this time and I sit on a boulder to await his arrival. He will know all about the condition of the path.
    But strange to say, he never does arrive. The track curves in and out of one’s line of vision but the man does not again emerge into view. Where has he gone? I cannot see that it’s possible for him to take another route – so has the earth swallowed him up? In a disturbing way I feel associated with his disappearance, in that had he not seen me, had I not been here, he would surely have passed by this boulder. In fact it’s obvious that he’s decided to avoid me. But how has he managed it? Is there a secret tunnel in the cliff? Or a grotto wherein he lurks, waiting to pounce on me should I proceed? Or is he crouching behind a rock until I’ve gone? I’ll go back. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go back to the beach. Because for the first time in Gozo, or in Malta for that matter, I’ve experienced the warning bell of personal danger.
    The wind has strengthened. I stumble around searching for shelter among the low dunes and scrubland… that looks like a choice spot over there, a sandy glade protected from the weather, and from onlookers, by thick bushes. But I pull up almost at once; it is already occupied. A middle-aged man is in there, reclining on a towel and reading a book. He doesn’t resemble the frowning one in any way but wears a polo-neck sweater in a fine material of salmon-pink colour and his face is shaded by a straw hat with wide brim. I can see he has a white moustache clipped short but not much more. But on my sudden intrusion into his privacy he lays the book aside and looks up. ‘Hullo,’ he says. His eyes are very blue and seem pleased by the prospect of company, so we exchange smiles and introductions. His name is Gregory. He says he’s a painter but it turns out that painting is only one of his activities. He seems more of a polymath as references to harpsichord music, Ancient Greek, geology, and much else, crop up in his conversation. ‘I’ve been living on Gozo since 1968,’ he says with neither relish nor distaste. It is far from his place of origin whose name I can’t remember; it was somewhere in the USA.
    â€˜God, I bet you’ve seen some changes round here.’
    â€˜Oh, the centre of the island’s almost filled up with houses. I think they’re running out of stone. Do you know, I was reading an article on Postmodernism in architecture the other day, and the author said that Gozo is the only place where the production of the classical pillar has gone on uninterruptedly since the Roman Empire. Have you been swimming?’
    â€˜Are you serious?’
    â€˜Rain or shine, winter or summer, I swim every day,’ he declares. ‘But I don’t sunbathe any longer. I had a touch of skin cancer which is now sorted out but that’s why I’m done up like this.’
    There is an outburst above us and both our heads turn. A shepherd boy, capering down the rocky hillside in S-shaped descents, is whooping and laughing as he leads his flock in a Gadarene run. The sheep dart hither and thither in unison like a school of fish. I look at Gregory, thinking he might say something, but he is now gazing sublimely out to sea through his translucent blue eyes, with the expression on his face of a stranded deity – thoroughly here, thoroughly not here, as if he has a great deal more space between his atoms than do most people. I pick up handfuls of sand and let the grains trickle slowly through my fingers.
    After a few minutes he makes another observation. ‘The atmosphere can sometimes be very unobstructive. Do you know, once or twice a year you can see Sicily from Ramla. And once in a decade you can see Aetna.’
    â€˜Do you go to Sicily much?’
    â€˜I