Cretan Teat

by Brian W Aldiss

  This habit of Fielding’s of tackling the reader head on would now be categorised as post-modernism, or is it deconstruction, or something? Whatever label you may put on it, I might perhaps remark here – emboldened by Fielding’s admittedly fading example – on the different ways in which people adapt to disasters in early life. Just take the current cases; the more villainous citizens of Kyriotisa, and Archie Langstreet.

  The post-war government in the new Germany was enlightened. It did its best to make amends for Nazi atrocities and showed, I believe, genuine penitence regarding the crimes of the Third Reich. In the case of Kyriotisa, this penitence was demonstrated by the practical step of rebuilding much of the town.

  However, in the light of our present knowledge, we might judge that a more effective course would have been to send in teams of psychiatrists, with which Germany was at one time well-stocked, to deal with the wide incidence of post-traumatic stress. Counselling, mothering, what-you-will, might have alleviated the worst of the sorrows from which the inhabitants suffered. This benevolence might not have been entirely successful – it could never restore a leg, or a wife or daughter – but it might have been seen as less triumphalist than a granite war memorial with raised lettering. Then again, what would I know?

  The compulsion to pour out their woes to strangers, half a century after the event, shows how the citizens of this unfortunate town still suffered from their nightmare.

  By contrast, Archie Langstreet had had to suppress his woes, although they, by and large, stemmed from the same horrific incidents. He had received no counselling either. When Archie arrived in England, a small, displaced lad, in the last years of the forties, post-traumatic stress disorder was unheard of, otherwise half of the population of Britain would have been queuing for counselling. So Archie had grown into an upright man, religious, driven to achieve justice where he saw injustice, and only an occasional tic to show for the sublimation.

  Some fall apart where others seem to mend; We bow the head and do not comprehend.

  As to my own troubles, I hardly comprehended where they sprang from. I had so often, to use the popular phrase, ‘got away with murder’, and now I was being publicly blamed for a vile crime I had not committed.

  Bloody publicity! Everywhere you look there’s talk about sex. There’s no refuge, even when your – er, read my libido is failing. No doubt this is all a side effect (you might say a backside effect) of the invention of the Pill in the sixties, when suddenly all those juicy little quims became more easily available, and panties fell like ripe apples off trees.

  Boris came to see me a week after my novel, New Investments, was published. On his face was a mean sort of sheepish-triumphant grin. He handed me a tabloid newspaper. The front page of the Comet bore the headline, PAEDOPHILE WRITER’S PUBLIC CRIME. Below it was the study of me on the Aegina beach, with my innocent face almost between innocent Violet Herbage Potts’ little stumps of legs.

  I rang Sidney Quarrell, my lawyer. I fixed an appointment with him.

  His offices were bright and almost up-to-date. I awaited Quarrell’s pleasure in a spacious outer office occupied by a secretary and a receptionist, who sat at white melanite desks, murmuring occasionally into phones. On the walls of mushroom tone – the decor was of that vintage – were framed and innocuous abstracts, printed in not more than two colours. Below the window, which looked out on the backs of older buildings, was a plastic trough containing real flowers.

  Being restless, I approached the flowers.

  ‘Don’t touch the geraniums!’ cried receptionist and secretary as one.

  Too late. I had touched. A shock rushed up my hand and arm to my shoulder and then to my heart. I let out a grunt of surprise.

  ‘It’s static electricity,’ said the receptionist, getting up smartly to see that I was all right – lawyers hate to have people dying on their premises. ‘Sorry. Thelma and I forgot to water the carpet this morning.’

  ‘Sick building syndrome?’

  ‘ ’Fraid so. Let me get you a glass of water, sir.’

  ‘Better pour it on the carpet, perhaps?’

  Allowed in to see Sidney, I spent a good part of the morning in his sanctum, talking, throwing in a bit of gesticulation here and there, to show him I was human even if he wasn’t. Old Quarrell, with his withered lawyer’s face, was discouraging. He advised against writing a letter of complaint to the newspaper, or trying to clear my name through the medium of the Society of Authors. Nor could I afford to sue the Comet for libel. The trial would only bring me more adverse publicity.

  Quarrell laid a gentle hand on a copy of New Investments, which he had by him on his desk. I knew the cost of it would appear on my next bill.

  ‘There are passages in this novel of yours,’ he said, ‘which an opposing lawyer would seize upon in order to launch a counter-attack on your morals. I refer to certain paragraphs in the early chapters, where a small boy has romps with his Polynesian nurse. Also, on page – ah, yes, ninety-one, you refer to Russian peasants sucking the penises of their sons. Would you not classify that as paedophile activity?’

  ‘No, not at all. Our bloody modern world is paedophile mad. Look, Sidney, one of the characters, my garrulous guy Arnold, quotes this custom as something the Russian peasantry totally accepted, bizarre as it might seem. It was their primitive way of calming their sons. I suppose they found it worked. When twenty of you live together in some squalid hut on the steppes… What do you expect?

  ‘The trouble is, you don’t understand fiction. It’s nothing I’ve done. Sucking the dirty little cock of a Russian peasant’s son comes very far down my list of pleasures. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘But could you assure the court?’

  ‘I read about this and other obnoxious habits in a book by Orlando Figes called A People’s Tragedy. Jolly good book. I stuck it into a discussion of the state of present-day Russia, didn’t I? Just to look a bit knowledgeable.’

  I tried to explain to him the way writers worked, relying much on serendipity. Even if an author had his theme and his conclusion firmly in mind, nevertheless, when a plum happened to come along – say in conversation or in reading – then into the novel it went, to flavour the pudding. It need not be about anything the writer actually knew or did. Indeed, the more novelty the plum had, the more likely it was to make an impression and be added as enrichment to the mix.

  Quarrell listened to this without changing his expression, as though he had become a waxwork of himself. Then he spoke again.

  ‘And what about the Polynesian nurse?’

  I might as well have saved my breath.

  ‘Well, I certainly had a Polynesian nurse as a kid… These “romps”, as you put it, were all things she did to me. What do you expect? It was much like the case of Lord Byron, whose nurse “interfered with his person”.’ I served up this last phrase in a creditable Scots accent.

  Quarrell was far from being amused.

  ‘Thus the paedophile is born. Or so your Comet lawyer would argue. Whatever the truth may be, regarding this photo with the small girl on a Turkish beach – ’

  ‘Greek.’

  ‘ – on a Greek beach, and I can see some force in your argument that it shows you in an innocent if unfortunate position, the Comet’s legal team will turn what you have written against you.’

  In a feeble attempt at light-heartedness, I asked, ‘But how did you like the novel, Sidney? A good read, n’est ce pas?’

  He leant forward a little and smiled the way an eagle smiles. ‘I am not here to deliver literary opinions. If you wish my advice, I would advise you to rent a cottage in Cornwall until it all blows over. And do not speak to reporters.’

  It worries me to this day to imagine how the Comet got hold of that confounded picture. Did they subscribe to Athens News? Or did someone send them a copy of the paper?

  Could it possibly have been Lady Rosemary de Vere, in a fit of vindictiveness? Just because I shat on her?!

  Chapter Five
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  It was Thursday. Archie Langstreet had to be back in Geneva on the Saturday, since the first meeting of lawyers on both sides of the Nentelstam lawsuit was to take place on the Monday. Co-ordination was required before the meeting.

  Mrs Tsouderakis gave him and Kathi a breakfast of boiled eggs and bread, followed by yoghurt. Manolis had already left for his office.

  The wife was a plump woman with an apron, pristine white, tied about her middle. She smiled regularly upon her visitors, in a pleasant way. She spoke to them in Greek, and poured milk from a stoneware jug.

  She let them out of her back door into the alleyway. Morning sun slanted in at the far end of the lane, embracing worn stonework and blistered doors. An atmosphere of slightly unfocused peace was engendered, as in a painting by Chardin. Massed marigolds draped themselves over a wall. A young woman was sweeping her doorstep, watched by a cat lying some feet away in a patch of sun.

  ‘Perhaps when you’ve slept in a place you begin to like it,’ Kathi said.

  ‘Or failed to sleep?’ Langstreet spoke with a wry smile, but his face was pale and drawn.

  They banged on the metal rear door of the police station and were promptly admitted.

  Manolis Tsouderakis was cheerful. ‘I think already we get somewhere,’ he said. He showed them the ransom note, on which he had underlined the three ‘m’s in the message. They fell slightly aslant on the paper. He snatched up a typewritten letter on his desk, offering it for comparison.

  ‘This is a letter written by the local garage owner to a customer three years ago. You see how the ‘m’s are slanting in the same way as on the ransom note. It is one and the same typewriter. It was stolen from the garage.’

  ‘This helps us find Cliff?’

  ‘Exactly. There was working at the garage a young man, young but heavy. He disappeared on the day the typewriter disappeared. We know his name. Stathis Vlachos, a thief. He was not from here at birth. We know he lives in the mountains. He comes down to Kyriotisa sometimes to rob.’

  ‘You don’t arrest him?’

  ‘Is a little difficult. But now we go and seek him and find your son and then we arrest him. First we will wait for some reinforcements.’

  They waited. Tsouderakis worked on other matters, and spoke soothingly to a middle-aged woman who came in to complain about the noise of a bar next to her rooms. Kathi wished to go out and take a walk, but was advised against it.

  After an hour’s wait, a smart Land Cruiser drew up outside. Into the office a police captain marched with ponderous step. Following him came two tough-looking men in camouflage uniforms. The captain had a revolver in a holster at his hip. The men carried carbines. The captain did his best to look overbearing; he was certainly tall and inclined to fat. He took a turn about the office, glaring here and there, nodding to himself as if detecting invisible fingerprints. His cheeks wobbled when he spoke. Kathi immediately had a name for him: the Iron Jelloid.

  The Iron Jelloid shook hands with Langstreet, while completely ignoring his wife. He then stood, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, blank seriousness written across his face, as if thinking to himself, These foreigners will see that I am a man to contend with.

  ‘These are our reinforcements from Hania,’ Tsouderakis announced. ‘We are obliged to them for their prompt arrival. We are in the Hania province. I will go with these two men to capture Vlachos in the hills. Mr Langstreet, you can come with me. Mrs Langstreet, you stay here. You will be safe under the eye of the Hania Captain Maderakis, who will guard you and the office while I am absent.’

  When Kathi began to protest, Langstreet said he did not want her to be exposed to danger, and requested her to remain behind. She stayed reluctantly, eyeing the Iron Jelloid. He settled himself in an old wicker chair, which creaked like a rotten branch under his weight. He grunted and rested his booted feet on the edge of Tsouderakis’ desk. Silence enveloped him. He removed a Filofax from a breast-pocket and began to leaf through it slowly.

  After the others had slammed out of the office, Kathi spoke in order to break the ice.

  ‘This is what happens in all the cowboy films. The men gallop off to the shoot-out, while the little woman stays back at the ranch, brewing coffee. I didn’t realise till now how true to life it all was.’

  The Iron Jelloid said nothing. He glanced up. Then he continued to study his Filofax. Finally, he tucked it away with impressive sloth.

  From an inner pocket, he produced a mobile phone and talked into it at length, all the while staring at Kathi. The talk concluded; he tucked the phone away again.

  With clumsy fingers, he extracted a cigarette from a packet of Carters, lighting it in a soulful manner with a green plastic lighter. Kathi sat sideways on a chair, resting her chin in her hand. She gazed at a shelf full of old files.

  Maderakis said, ‘You know nothing of my former history. I am an enigma before you. You can admit that.’

  Not wishing to know, Kathi kept quiet.

  ‘I am a gourmet and an intellectual. It is not everyone who is touched by genius. This means something. I am not simply a policeman, as you may feel disposed to imagine.’ He forced a laugh-like noise. ‘I have a character, you know.’

  The statement could have been designed to make Kathi feel comfortable in his presence. Or uncomfortable. She remained mute.

  ‘It is not always seldom that idleness meets wickedness, in my career. The unexpected goes on – though not in my thoughts. Perhaps you are disappointed that your holiday has taken this adverse turn.’

  She remained silent no longer. ‘Of course I’m disappointed. More than that, I am furious and worried out of my mind. Not only is Cliff in danger, but now your local policeman has taken my husband out with his men into the mountains, so that he’s in danger too. What do you expect me to be but anxious?’

  The massive cheeks wobbled slightly. ‘Reading the notes my subordinate faxed me overnight, with demanded efficiency, I see that the facts of the case were such. You left your injured husband to be with a monk. Again, another factor, Clifford Langstreet is not your son. So I question myself as if a malefactor: why are you so overwrought?’

  ‘Overwrought? Who said I was overwrought? For your information, I love Cliff as if he were my son. Do you find that surprising?’

  He puffed out a Carter’s smoke signal and watched it rise with grave suspicion.

  ‘You raise the subject of love, but there I regret we must disagree. People do not naturally love. We are things apart, as I could say I am a thing apart. Love is an affectation of civilisation. We can learn it like speech. I may say I love my job, but that is only a figure of speech. In fact, I merely do my duty forever. I might claim I loved you. In fact, I merely lust after you. I might say – ’

  She stood up. ‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this. Shut up, will you? Is this why you stayed behind, simply to rile me? Go outside and have a smoke, will you?’

  He brought his feet to the floor with a crash and raised himself massively from his chair. ‘Naturally, I will do what you wish. It’s not harmful to be polite. You, after all, are a foreign lady, and so naturally distressed. I have been to your country. I saw it very well, all the buildings, small and big. The Tower. I will smoke something outside. My endeavour was merely to calm you with some conversation, to strike up a possible friendship. My regrets that this is not possible, and probably never will be in this world.’

  As he spoke, he was making heavily for the door. As soon as Maderakis was gone, Kathi regretted she had spoken in such a tactless manner. After all, he was a man with some power in a land she perceived as increasingly hostile; she should not have risked offending him.

  She went to the door. The Hania captain stood outside in a heroic pose, lifting his cigarette above his head after each inhalation.

  She said that she regretted speaking sharply. It was because she was allergic to cigarette smoke.

  ‘And much else, probably, madam,’ Maderakis said. ‘If you saw the film called Easy Rider, all is expla
ined there. The fear of smoke brings cancer, no doubt. But what is courage, after all, in this age?’

  ‘Quite,’ she agreed.

  The Iron Jelloid looked down on Kathi, eyes swivelled over his large cheeks, with some contempt.

  ‘You tell me to be quiet. You cannot silence my thoughts. In my thoughts I solve the crimes of the present. I destroy the bad. Also all those abominable crimes as yet not committed, murder, rape, incest – they are crushed in my thoughts and squeezed dry of essence. I go through them one by one, as with your son. Your nearly son.’

  His phone buzzed, muffled by his coat. ‘Here must end our conversation. It’s important.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, backing away. She retired to the office and smoked a cigarette, holding her arms against her body.

  The sun went through its daily routine of looking over the mountains at Kyriotisa and its large war memorial. By three in the afternoon, it was shining in the two narrow windows of the police station.

  It was at about that time that the Land Cruiser returned. Manolis Tsouderakis entered his station, looking pleased. Behind came the two policemen in camouflage outfits, escorting a ragged and handcuffed youth – a grim-looking trio; while Langstreet entered last, appearing depressed.

  ‘We have captured this vagabond, Stathis Vlachos, and he will be imprisoned after trial.’

  This was said rather grandly to Captain Maderakis. He immediately took out his mobile phone and commenced a loud conversation. Kathi asked Tsouderakis, ‘And Cliff?’

  Langstreet answered, ‘No sign of the kidnappers. A waste of time. No sign even of the typewriter.’

  ‘So why have you arrested this man?’ Kathi asked Tsouderakis, glancing at the handcuffed Vlachos.

  ‘Because he stole the typewriter in the first place!’

  Maderakis came forward, taking command. ‘Now I interrogate him to extract the truth. Stathis Vlachos, you impede the course of law. Where is now the missing typewriter you have hidden away?’