CHAPTER 9 — BOOK II
Salt and Stone
(Athens, 2001)
Arrival — Space
Athens felt like breathing out.
The air was clearer.
The traffic moved — actually moved.
The sky seemed wider.
After Cairo’s compression, Greece felt spaced.
Hijau noticed first.
“No horns.”
Embong listened.
“…You’re right.”
Awan glanced around approvingly.
“Manageable.”
Geoffrey inhaled deeply.
“It smells like salt.”
They had crossed from density into light.
The Acropolis — Understatement
The Acropolis of Athens rose elegantly.
White marble against blue sky.
Geoffrey studied it carefully.
“It’s beautiful,” he admitted.
But after Luxor — after Karnak’s towering stone forests — something felt… quieter.
Embong tilted his head.
“Different scale.”
Hijau nodded.
“Egypt built to intimidate.”
“Athens built to reason,” Geoffrey replied.
Awan photographed the columns.
“Proportion,” he said approvingly. “Good proportion.”
No one hovered.
No one negotiated.
No one offered camels.
Lachlan visibly relaxed.
The Coffeehouse
That afternoon, they stopped at a small neighbourhood coffeehouse not far from the Plaka district.
Wooden chairs.
Filtered sunlight.
Conversations flowing easily between tables.
Embong ordered iced coffee in careful English.
The teenage boy at the next table — about his age — turned first.
“You are not Greek,” he said, smiling.
“No.”
“Where from?”
“Malaysia.”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“Ah! Asia! Very far!”
His mother leaned in warmly.
“Welcome to Athens.”
There was no assessment
in their gaze.
No calculation.
Just curiosity.
The boy introduced himself as Nikos.
He asked about Kuala
Lumpur.
About school.
About football.
Embong found himself answering more easily than he had in Cairo.
Even laughing.
At one point Nikos said, almost shyly,
“Maybe we exchange email?”
Embong blinked.
For a second — something flickered.
Paper.
Blue ink.
Air-mail envelopes folded into themselves.
Waiting weeks for a reply.
He looked at Geoffrey without meaning to.
Geoffrey raised one eyebrow — amused, but softer than usual.
“Sure,” Embong said.
They spelled addresses slowly, carefully, across a small paper napkin.
No grand declaration.
No promise of forever.
Just the possibility of distance.
When the bill came, the service had been attentive — not intrusive.
Water refilled without
request.
Plates cleared discreetly.
No theatrics.
Embong left a small tip.
The mother noticed.
“You don’t have to,” she said gently.
Embong smiled.
“I know.”
They rose from the small wooden table.
Nikos shook Embong’s hand — firm, slightly earnest.
“Write, yes?”
“I will,” Embong said.
Nikos grinned — quick, confident — then followed his mother toward the lift lobby.
The doors slid closed behind them.
Silence returned to the coffeehouse hum.
Geoffrey nudged Embong lightly with his shoulder.
“International now, are we?”
Embong shrugged. “He asked.”
“Mm,” Geoffrey said. “Dangerous thing, asking.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes people answer.”
Embong folded the napkin once before slipping it into his pocket.
“Not everyone writes back.”
Geoffrey smiled faintly.
“Some do.”
The Seafood Revelation
That evening, they found a seaside restaurant in Athens.
They had eaten too much meat in Egypt.
Too much lamb.
Too many heavy stews.
Hijau studied the menu.
“Finally. Fish.”
Embong looked relieved.
“Vegetables.”
Geoffrey leaned back.
“Seafood is civilisation.”
The Greek owner approached, beaming.
“Welcome! Welcome! You are from?”
“Malaysia,” Awan replied.
“Ahhh! Malaysia! Very far! You order big, yes? You hungry!”
They ordered:
Grilled sea bass.
Calamari.
Octopus.
Prawns.
Salad.
Bread.
More fish.
The owner’s smile widened with every dish.
“You eat good! You make me happy!”
When Lachlan ordered additional prawns, the man clutched his heart theatrically.
“My friend! You understand life!”
Geoffrey whispered to Embong:
“He loves us.”
“He loves revenue,” Embong corrected.
The owner returned with a complimentary plate of baklava.
“Gift! Because you are good people!”
Awan nodded approvingly.
“This is efficient hospitality.”
Hijau laughed softly.
“No bakshish?”
The owner looked offended.
“No bakshish! Greece is not like this!”
They all laughed.
The Waiter Philosophy
At one point, Geoffrey asked for sparkling water.
The waiter shrugged lightly.
“Relax. You are in Greece.”
It was delivered five minutes later.
Slowly.
Casually.
Lachlan leaned back.
“This is the opposite of Cairo.”
Embong nodded.
“Parallel temperament,” Hijau said.
Market Theatre
In a small coastal market, a fishmonger held up a large sea bream.
“For you! Special price!”
Geoffrey asked, “Is it free?”
The man laughed loudly.
“In Greece? Nothing free!”
Awan pointed at Geoffrey.
“See?”
The fishmonger grinned.
“But for you — good price!”
Negotiation felt friendly.
Not predatory.
Just Mediterranean theatre.
Quiet Reflection
One afternoon, sitting near the water, Geoffrey said quietly:
“Egypt felt older.”
“It is,” Embong replied.
“Greece feels… lighter.”
Hijau watched the promenade.
“The men are charming,” she said. “And often handsome.”
Embong nodded.
“They carry it lightly.”
“And the women,” Lachlan added, “are beautiful. But no one seems to perform it.”
Embong and Geoffrey considered that.
“It’s ease,” Geoffrey said softly. “Confidence without pressure.”
Hijau watched the sea again.
“Yes.”
Awan nodded once.
“And both civilisations built influence.”
The sea moved gently below them.
No horns.
No hovering.
No formation required.
Lachlan didn’t scan the crowd once.
Hijau walked without adjusting anything.
That was noticeable.
Closing
Athens did not overwhelm.
It did not intimidate.
It persuaded.
If Egypt had shown them
monument,
Greece offered space.
And for the first time in days, they ate slowly.
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