Aphrodite's Smile

by Stuart Harrison

  STUART HARRISON

  Aphrodite’s Smile

  DEDICATION

  For Dale, who has to put up with me

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Keep Reading

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  French was drunk, which wasn’t in itself an extraordinary event. He wobbled slightly as he stood at the bar and, raising his hands in the air, surveyed the assembled crowd.

  ‘My friends,’ he began loudly, ‘in gratitude for the welcome you have extended to me during the years that I have been privileged to live among you, I will make a gift to the people of Ithaca.’ He paused for dramatic effect, and waited until he was sure that he had everybody’s attention before he continued. ‘This year the Panaghia will once again take her place at the head of the procession to Kathara.’

  There were murmurs of surprise from those who had not heard the Professor, as he was known among the locals, make this same claim two nights earlier. Everybody on the island knew that the statue of the Holy Virgin had been stolen more than sixty years ago, and the Professor’s claim was greeted with interest or scepticism, depending on the listener’s point of view.

  The bar was in a narrow street at the far southern end of the harbour around which the town of Vathy had been built, separated from the wharf by a row of run-down houses. Half a dozen zinc tables lined the footpath outside where old men played checkers and drank ouzo. Inside the air was thick with cigarette smoke.

  French leaned against the bar to steady himself and peered around at a blur of faces, wagging a finger at nobody in particular. ‘I know there are those among you who will doubt me. I confess that for a time I myself thought that all of these years I have spent searching had been in vain.’ A slight wave of nausea momentarily overtook him and French belched softly.

  Some of those present crossed themselves or briefly touched the crucifixes they wore around their necks, silently praying that the Professor’s claims weren’t merely the result of drinking too much wine. Before she was stolen, the statue of the Panaghia had been at the centre of the festival. After the procession to the monastery, the people would approach her one by one and silently pray for her blessing for the coming year. Perhaps if she was returned, the Holy Mother might send more tourists to the island so that it could prosper as its neighbour Kephalonia had. All summer long the charter jets disgorged their cargoes of package holiday-makers across the strait, though distressingly few of them made the ferry trip to Ithaca.

  Spiro, however, was not among the more optimistic of those present in Skiopes bar that night. He had come to drink beer and forget his terrible day. To begin with, the engine on his boat wouldn’t start, and then, when he had managed to coax it into life and eventually put to sea, it was only to rip a hole in his main net after it became entangled with some piece of junk floating beneath the surface a mile offshore. In the end he had returned with barely enough in his catch to cover his costs and he was not in a good mood. ‘You talk too much,’ he muttered sourly to French, lifting his eyes from his almost empty glass.

  Annoyed at having his train of thought interrupted, French frowned briefly. He was in full flight now, his imagination fuelled by the realisation of a dream he had pursued for almost a quarter of a century. ‘You will see, Spiro,’ he replied. ‘Even you will have reason to thank me, though of course gratitude is not what I seek, nor has it ever been.’

  ‘And pigs will fly,’ Spiro sneered. He was in the mood for an argument with somebody and this arrogant Englishman would do. He was sick and tired of hearing his crap anyway.

  ‘You are an ignorant man,’ French proclaimed. ‘You should stick to fishing, about which you at least know a little.’

  There were a few chuckles around the smoky room, since it was common knowledge that Spiro was possibly the worst fisherman on the island. Spiro glowered from beneath heavy brows. ‘At least what I do is honest work, fit for a man. I do not waste my time with my nose stuck in books.’ He held up his hands for emphasis. His fingers were short and thick with calluses.

  The Professor was an educated man, however, engaged in scholarly work, and for such men life was different. So though one or two heads nodded in sage agreement, most did not. Besides, Spiro had few friends.

  French dismissed Spiro’s remarks with a wave of his hand. ‘I would not expect you to understand, Spiro, but some men, like myself, are destined not for the toil of workman’s labour as honourable as that may be, but rather we are driven to pursue knowledge through history, promoting understanding of ourselves through the understanding of our forebears. This work may look easy to you but it too has its difficulties, believe me.’

  ‘Difficulties!’ scoffed Spiro. ‘What do you know of difficulties? Do you put to sea every day even when the wind is howling from the south? When the waves toss the boats of poor fishermen like children’s toys and the cold freezes your fingers to the bone? Do you risk your life just to feed your family?’

  Though it was an impressive speech, nobody in fact could remember Spiro risking anything worse than the possibility of a headache in the morning from drinking too much wine, and that alone would prevent him from putting to sea. French, however, barely heard him; he was addressing himself to a wider audience.

  ‘Consider the years of painstaking research that does not always bear fruit. Do you think that Sylvia Benton and her colleagues from the great British School of Archaeology in Athens simply stepped out one morning and made their discoveries in Louizos cave by mere happenstance? A site that is considered by many of my esteemed colleagues today to be the rival of Olympia and Delphi. Perhaps the very first site of panhellenic worship in all of Greece.’

  Most people present had little idea of what precisely French was talking about, partly because he had a habit of slipping from Greek into his native English when he’d been drinking, though all of course knew of the cave at Polis Bay where a famous archaeologist from the thirties had discovered some pieces of ancient pottery. Nevertheless, to show their support a chorus of vocal approval rippled about the room.

  But Spiro was not to be so easily beaten in an argument. ‘At least nobody can say that Spiro Petalas lives off the money his wife earns,’ he declared. ‘How can a woman respect a husband who cannot put food on the table, eh? And if a woman cannot respect her man, how can he satisfy her? Soon she will look elsewhere to find a real man, a man who can take care of her.’

  It was true that French had lived for years primarily off the money that Irene earned and it was common knowledge that she had left him last year, as Spiro had indelicately reminded them. But though this might once have bothered him, it no longer did. ‘When the world learns of my discovery,’ French said, ‘there will be money. More than you can imagine. The
tourists will come in their thousands and the whole island will prosper.’

  ‘You have been too long in the sun I think, old man, or perhaps it is the wine,’ Spiro scoffed. ‘Why should tourists come here to see a statue of the Panaghia? To us she is important, of course. But not to anybody else.’

  Spiro gloated in triumph when it seemed for a moment that he had the upper hand, because what he said was undoubtedly true. Unfortunately even if the Professor had found the missing statue, it was difficult to see how even she could work a miracle.

  French, however, merely smiled secretively. ‘Perhaps the Panaghia is not the only discovery I have made,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is something else, something that all the world will want to know about.’

  The room waited with anticipation for the Professor to continue. People leaned forward in their seats and an expectant hush fell over the room. Spiro Petalas was suddenly ignored as if he had become invisible.

  French blinked. It occurred to him that he had been indiscreet and that in fact it would have been better to have kept his mouth shut for now. For a moment the room wavered and wobbled so that he felt disconcertingly as if he were trapped inside a large smoky jelly. His stomach lurched and he wished that he hadn’t eaten quite so much of the seafood stew earlier. Food was one of his weaknesses and he’d long since given up trying to prevent his waistline expanding further. Sobered by a sense of unease that overtook him as he focused on the faces staring back at him, he searched for one in particular. Even though it wasn’t there, he decided that he should leave.

  ‘I refuse to bandy words with an ignoramus,’ he announced loftily, dismissing Spiro and putting an end to their discussion, though the fisherman gave a sly grin of triumph.

  ‘You are full of shit,’ Spiro said.

  Those looking on shifted awkwardly on their chairs, averting their eyes to the walls or the ground. Though it was regrettable that a fat pig like Spiro had been so impolite as to humiliate the Professor, there was truth in what he said. It seemed that French had unfortunately indulged his love of wine a little too enthusiastically again. The crowd looked on in silence as he set down his half full glass and managed the short walk to the door. One or two of them wished him goodnight and advised him to get a good night’s sleep.

  At the door, French looked around one last time searching among the faces for one that held sinister intent, but he found only expressions of sympathy.

  Reassured, he began the walk home.

  It was a half hour walk from the bar to the house. The route took him away from the waterfront along narrow streets that zigzagged up the steep hillside, connected at intervals by sets of concrete steps. The climb was exhausting and French stopped often, his heart pounding deep in his chest as it struggled to supply his bulk with oxygenated blood. When he had caught his breath he pressed on. The night air was fragrant with the scent of jasmine and bougainvillaea, although French admitted that it was spoiled somewhat by the sour odour of his own sweat mingled with the reek of alcoholic fumes. His head was clearing a little now that he was out of the foggy atmosphere of the bar. Enough that he was already regretting the hangover he would have in the morning and being so careless with his talk. Careless talk cost lives they had said in the war, though he had been too young himself to remember.

  Half-way up a set of steps, a single lamp fixed to a wooden power pole cast a light that glistened on the waxy leaves of a large magnolia in full bloom with pure white flowers. The sky was lit with a myriad stars. They seemed almost close enough to touch, creating the illusion that upon reaching the top it would be possible to step off into space. From behind, French heard the sound of a stone skittering on concrete. When he looked back he saw only deep shadows close against a wall. His heart skipped a beat but nothing moved. After a while he hurried on.

  From within patches of garden the sweet powerful smell of mint wafted on the night air. Another time it might have been pleasant, but by the time he reached the top of the steps, French felt quite ill. He paused until an attack of dizziness passed. Far below, the lights from the restaurants were mirrored in the harbour. As he admired their effect he glimpsed a movement and this time he swore that he heard the sound of footsteps. He experienced a prickling of unease. It was just his imagination, he told himself, though not very convincingly.

  Moving on, he hurried along a street past terraces shadowed with grape vines supported by rusting iron trellis. The houses petered out and the road wound upwards through olive groves. As he turned a corner the lights from the harbour were lost from sight and the road was abruptly smothered in thick, heavy darkness. Breathing heavily, French paused to mop his brow with a handkerchief. He was sweating profusely. Behind him the sound of footsteps dogged his progress, any pretence at stealth now abandoned. There was something chilling in their purpose. He felt the darkness close in around him like a shroud. Unfortunate analogy he thought grimly.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out with false bravado. The footsteps stopped briefly, then resumed and quickly picked up pace.

  A peculiar sense of calm descended over him. He would not spend his last moments consumed by fear. If he were going to die he would face his killer and look him in the eye. He wondered if it was the alcohol that fuelled his bravery, though he no longer felt drunk. Briefly, he wished he hadn’t said so much at Skiopes. If he’d kept quiet he might finally have found a measure of success towards the end of his life. He might also have had the chance to put things right with Irene and Robert, and at this thought a wave of regret welled up inside him.

  The footsteps were almost upon him. French drew himself up and prepared to face his fate, determined to cling to the remnants of his self-respect. And then from around the bend came the unexpected sound of an approaching engine. The road wasn’t used much at night, but perhaps on this evening some greater force was at work. Or perhaps it was just luck.

  The footsteps stopped. An indistinct figure was visible no more than twenty feet away. Something glinted in the light. A blade perhaps? Seizing his chance, French turned to run, though his bulk reduced his flight to more of a shambling stumble. He gasped for breath, his heart bursting. He could feel the spot in his back where the blade would enter and pierce his liver. The sound of the approaching vehicle grew louder, drowning out the footsteps behind him and then he was bathed in the headlights of a truck and a voice called out.

  ‘Professor? Is that you? What are you doing? Slow down before you hurt yourself.’

  It was Nikos. He ran a haulage business between the towns on the island and as he climbed down from the cab French almost wept with relief. He turned to face the figure pursuing him but the road was empty.

  Suddenly a devastatingly sharp pain gripped his chest. His mouth opened and closed silently as his knees gave way and he felt himself sinking to the ground. He heard Nikos call his name, but it sounded as if his voice came from a long way off, and slowly the lights from the truck shrank to a pinprick.

  His last conscious thought before darkness overcame him was that this must be the gods’ idea of a grim joke.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  The phone rang at six. I was already up so I took the call in the kitchen hoping that it hadn’t woken Alicia. She had been working long hours lately, leaving at seven in the morning and sometimes not getting home until nine or ten at night. I thought her boss could manage without her for an hour or two.

  I wondered who was calling so early. I lifted the receiver feeling the faint stirrings of disquiet, unexpected calls at odd times being harbingers of bad news. When I heard Irene’s voice I experienced an odd reaction of both relief and dread combined.

  ‘Robert, is that you?’ Her accent conjured an image of the house where she and my father lived overlooking the town of Vathy. I could almost smell the dry earth and olive trees and, involuntarily, I glanced to the window. Outside, London was waking to a leaden May sky. The leaves on the trees in the square dripped steadily onto the pavement below.

  ‘Irene,
yes it’s me.’ I became aware that I was clenching the phone with a vice-like grip and I took a breath to relax myself. ‘What’s happened? Is something wrong?’

  ‘It is your father. He had a heart attack.’

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

  ‘He is in the hospital in Argostoli. They brought him on the ferry to Kephalonia this morning.’

  The knowledge that my father wasn’t dead gradually seeped into my brain. The attack was serious, but no longer immediately life-threatening. As she continued to explain what had happened, Irene’s normally thickly accented pronunciation of English was exacerbated by emotion. She sounded distraught.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am fine. I am phoning from the hospital. Your father is sleeping. They have given him medicine.’

  ‘You sound tired,’ I told her, though what I meant was that she sounded shattered. Emotionally spent. I recalled her saying that she had been at the hospital most of the night.

  ‘Yes, I am a little tired. But I will be all right.’

  ‘You should get some rest. Why don’t you go home? I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do there anyway.’ She didn’t reply, and in the silence that followed I thought we had been cut off or else she hadn’t heard me. ‘Irene, did you hear what I said? You should go home.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I am sorry. I heard you. But I will stay here. They have put a bed in Johnny’s room for me.’

  She seemed hesitant and I wondered if she really was OK but she assured me that she was.

  ‘It is just that I am tired, and I have been so worried about Johnny.’

  She had always called him Johnny. I’d never become entirely used to it because when I was a child and we still lived in Oxford, my mother had always called him John. Everybody had. He taught at the university then, and John seemed natural for a middle-aged academic who wore corduroy trousers and tweed jackets. But when he went to live on the island of Ithaca he seemed to shed that persona, and when I first saw him there he was born again as a tanned and bearded figure who wore shorts and short-sleeved, open-necked shirts for most of the year. He had developed a fondness for Greek food and wine and indulged heavily in both. Johnny suited him, and in some ways he was like somebody I had just met.