On the contrary, any comparison weighed unquestionably in his favour: the younger brothers were short-tempered and often outright rude in their dealings with people while Uncle Petros was tactful and considerate, his deep-set blue eyes always kindling with kindness. They were both heavy drinkers and smokers; he drank nothing stronger than water and inhaled only the scented air of his garden. Furthermore, unlike Father, who was portly, and Uncle Anargyros, who was outright obese, Petros had the healthy wiriness resulting from a physically active and abstemious lifestyle.

My curiosity increased with each passing year. To my great disappointment, however, my father refused to disclose any further information about Uncle Petros beyond his dismissive incantation, 'one of life's failures'. From my mother I learned of his daily activities (one could hardly speak of an occupation): he got up every morning at the crack of dawn and spent most daylight hours slaving away in his garden, without help from a gardener or any modern labour-saving contraptions – his brothers erroneously attributed this to stinginess. He seldom left his house, except for a monthly visit to a small philanthropic institution founded by my grandfather, where he volunteered his services as treasurer. In addition, he sometimes went to 'another place', never specified by her. His house was a true hermitage; with the exception of the annual family invasion there were never any visitors. Uncle Petros had no social life of any kind. In the evenings he stayed at home and – here mother had lowered her voice almost to a whisper – 'immersed himself in his studies'.

At this my attention suddenly peaked. 'Studies? What studies?'

“God only knows”, answered Mother, conjuring up in my boyish imagination visions of esoterica, alchemy or worse.

A further unexpected piece of information came to identify the mysterious 'other place' that Uncle Petros visited. It was offered one evening by a dinner-guest of my father's.