The Last Symphony

by Tonia Lalousi

  ‘‘And how does he run the store?’’

  ‘‘Maybe his sister manages everything, but she wasn’t at the store last night.’’

  ‘‘Did Maniatis have a firearms license?’’

  ‘‘No. He probably hadn’t declared it.’’ The claim escapes from Antonella’s lips, who after three months of being in our team hasn’t understood that she should not use the word ‘‘probably’’ to present an argument. At least not in front of Peter.

  He imposes silence on her, averting his gaze. ‘‘Enough!’’ He raises his hand to reject any additional commentary from both of us and browses the pages.

  I stand above him, staring silently. The pictures show a dark-complexioned man sitting in a leather chair with a high back. His right hand is lying on the side of the chair’s arm, while the other is resting on his knee. The knot of his striped tie is slightly loose, and his eyes are closed. The blood has flowed from the right temple up to his neck and has stopped at the collar of his shirt. In another photograph, the gun is thrown at the edge of the desk.

  ‘‘Yes, it is clearly a suicide…’’ he claims clearing his throat. His lips open and close. I am sure he wants to say more and ask even more. I wonder why he is not doing it.

  ‘‘This is what I also said…’’ Antonella breathes out boringly and brings her laptop closer. She gently blows her face from the lower to the upper lip, instantly lifting her fringes. I believe that they bother her as she keeps continuously opening and closing her eyes, but she doesn’t admit it not to show that she has regretted her new haircut. Her selfishness moves on levels close to my husband’s egopathy, who now gets in the field of my observation.

  I have been scrutinizing him for a few moments. He is filing some pages away, which were left desolate on the edge of his desk. His movements are spasmodic and involuntary. He changes positions to the envelopes, bringing the blue envelope on the top, putting the blacks in the middle and leaving the red envelope at the base. He crooks his lips and moves the red above the blue.

  Where is the storm of questions about the place the lawyer was found? For his history? For the interrogation of his possible secretary? How come does he not want to interrogate this drunk man? Where is the anger over the previous disapproval by the commander hidden?

  How good of an actor is Mr. Deligiannis?

  ‘‘Let’s not waste more time.’’ The medical examiner’s report ends up to his fingers. ‘‘Maniatis has committed suicide. The case closes here,’’ he states and places the pages aside.

  16 hours ago…

  He sits at the desk and pushes the chair forward, knitting his legs at its base. He is trembling but looks focused. He is making a great effort for this. His optical field is enormous, as is his room, since he has placed his desk in the corner, behind the door. It is the only place where he feels secure. Away from the light. Away from the windows. Away from reality.

  His eyes are focused on the documents he has in front of him, however, his sight is blurred. He is not reading them. He is not even looking at them, but they must be on the desk. He knows what is written on them. He can imagine. Plans, visions, words he has heard so many times in his life. He grew up with them. He does not need to read them. He knows them.

  ‘‘Aris…’’ His father enters the room and immediately looks behind the door. He knew that he would be there. From the day he returned from America he is always there.

  ‘‘Yes, father…’’ he opens and closes several times his eyes to restore his sight. His thin legs, as if they are made of jelly, stand upright as if he has to give some military report.

  Orpheus Nomikos approaches his son and examines even the smallest detail on him. ‘‘You are stressed. Again,’’ he comments, and an electric wave runs through the whole body of the young politician. He makes the collar of his shirt. ‘‘Maybe you want to talk to me about something?’’

  His question is coarse with no trace of interest. For Aris, it is not even a question. It is a threat. ‘‘I am fine father, really,’’ he answers quite persuasively and with his one hand he straightens the untamable short curls of his hair. He has to show him that he is perfect, that he has paid attention to even the slightest detail on him, that there is nothing that could get as an obstacle for his plans. He wants to persuade him that this time he will make him proud.

  His evaluator does not seem to be convinced. His thin lips, which are so thin one can hardly distinguish the upper and lower lip, are aligned in a single line. He looks at his son without speaking. He seems to feel sorry for him. He seems to hate him.

  ‘‘In ten minutes, be downstairs.’’ His voice was barely heard. Aris might not even have heard it. The door closes and the ordeal is completed.

  He is left alone in the room again. He sits down on the chair and nervously straightens his hair. He would prefer to have no curls. They annoy him by constantly flying, and he needs to fix them. He thinks it would be a good idea to have a change of hairstyle by cutting all of his hair, but something like this would not be likeable to his father. Something like this would not be likeable to society.

  A young prominent politician with a shaved head!

  He sees the laughter of his followers.

  Why did he change his hairstyle? Could it be his father’s order?

  He hears the comments of passers-by.

  Is this Aris Nomikos? I didn’t recognize him! Did he get a haircut to catch the eyes?

  He feels his father’s icy look cut him like an iceberg, as he passes by him in this hairstyle.

  No.

  He must tolerate his curls.

  ‘‘Orpheus we are finally meeting after so many years…’’ Their guest comes into the living room under the guidance of Aimilios. Aris is also there, waiting to greet him. He observes their fervent embrace and feels his stomach making a perfect knot. It should be perfect as well.

  ‘‘I’m glad to see you again, Nick…’’ a less warm response from his father.

  ‘‘Aris, how much you have grown up! You were still going to high school when I left for London.’’

  The young politician smiles mechanically and embarrassingly, responding to the indifferent embrace of his father’s old friend. He is obliged to be present at this meeting. He does not want to. But he must. Because his father says so.

  They proceed to the living room and Aimilios is walking right behind them, bringing three columnar glasses and a bottle of wine. He serves their guest first and then stops short in front of Aris. He knows that he does not drink alcohol at all, but he is imposed to accompany them. The glasses fill and the toast cuts in half Aris’s engraved smile, who now is the leader of the Democratic Truth party.

  ‘‘To your victory!’’ Nick Iatrou wishes, while trying to sit more comfortably on the corner couch.

  In reality, their guest hopes in the leveling catastrophe of the Nomikos’s family, since several years ago his pre-election contest with Orpheus resulted in a triumphant victory for the latter and for a humiliating defeat for him, which forced him to go abroad. Nevertheless, now they are here again, wearing their masks, exchanging wishes and smiles.

  Iatrou takes a sip of wine and continues with one more. He is trying to kill time in the void so that time passes, and this meeting gets to an end. ‘‘Aris, you are the future. The new blood of the party. Your father has placed all his hopes on you. Do not disappoint him.’’

  His words swirl like fiery flames around Aris’s head. They burn with rage his brain but leave intact the point of consciousness. To hurt more. To suffer. He clenches his teeth so as not to scream. The fire around him whips him.

  Success. Glory. Win. Confirmation.

  The words pass in front of him to remind him of his mission.

  You have to succeed. You have to make your father proud.

  His gaze is focused on his interlocutor, but he cannot react. He thinks that he will have probably sweated again, several seconds will have passed again without him speaking and he will have become the target of obser
vation and negative commentary once again.

  ‘‘Aris!’’ His father’s voice wholly explodes his mind. One more time he failed. ‘‘How did this happen?’’ he asks him reassuringly pulling his wrists and only then does the surrendered in his thoughts politician realize that the glass has broken in his hands. ‘‘Go and treat the wound. Probably the glass was cracked.’’

  Aris looks at him with agitation and amazement. He wonders how his father always has an excuse ready for everything. He wonders why he does not show the slightest interest, although he sees he is not well. Maybe he prefers this attitude. He trembles at the idea of criticism. He knows that it will be severe.

  ‘‘Forgive me…’’ he lowers his head and stands up, approaching Iatrou. ‘‘I am glad to have seen you again, I will…’’ he hesitates to continue. I will do whatever it takes to win the elections. This is what he has to say. ‘‘…forgive me for tonight…’’ he smiles and with his left hand straightens a tuft of his hair. He brings his palms forward and realizes that they are bleeding. He blinks and walks up the stairs.

  He closes the door and hides in his shelter. He returns to his office and feels secure. He feels a pressure on his head that he believes for a moment is due to the suffocating atmosphere of his room consisting only of a cold silence, which makes his ears buzz.

  He observes his hands. His brain rehabilitates and conveys to him a feeling of pain. He enters the indoor bathroom and pours plenty of water in his palms and then on his face. He meets his reflection. He faces a failed man, a man that everyone mocks, while simultaneously they feel sorry for him. His father is standing behind him, shaking his head with frustration. Aris turns towards him to meet the luxurious cabin of the bathroom.

  Hallucinations or illusions? He is trying to recognize this feeling which he has been carrying since a child and that is about to devour him. He always wanted to give a name to that vague fear which did not let him calm down. The mobile phone vibrates on the desk and he checks the time on his left hand’s watch. The screen flashes and reveals to him the name of his decisive fear.

  ‘‘Apostolos…’’ he attempts to show stability and calmness, although he is sure he will fail one more time.

  ‘‘At eleven you must be at the place we said. You know you are involved, don’t make a mistake by bringing the police. Neither your father can save you from this.’’

  ‘‘I will come alone, I swear to you.’’ He holds the phone firmly in his ear and his cheek cools from a tear descending to his chin. ‘‘I will come alone…’’ he repeats, and his interlocutor hastily ends the call.

  He feels the pulses in the back of his head thundering. He is incapable of resisting and defending himself. He is disposed of doing everything, as long as no one learns the truth.

  He casually ties his left wrist with a bandage and just before ten, he escapes to the underground parking, managing not to be noticed by Aimilios. He walks from the elevator to his car, looking only ahead. He knows how many steps he needs to reach it. Exactly seventy-eight. He only looks at his target. Any interference in this short distance can destroy him. He should not hear any sound. Nothing that could be an obstacle between him and his car.

  He checks the suitcase with the money in the boot of his car, constantly looking around him and takes his place at the steering wheel. His first move is to make sure there is no one in the back seat. He checks the empty interior again and again. His hand trembles, as he puts the key in the ignition. He looks behind again. An invisible threat holds his hand captive. Shadows jump suddenly in front of him and then, as if they want to play with him, hide in the darkness. He ignites the engine and disappears from the parking with such a speed that his heart jumps in his chest.

  Acceleration comes out ahead. He recognizes that tonight is just the beginning. That night he was bound to live in the shadow of his shadow. He is hiding behind the figure of a successful economist, who is preparing to conquer the political scene. He knows that Maniatis will continue blackmailing him, and he will constantly succumb to his threats. Fear gives its place to wrath. In the last three years, he has realized that in life it is a mistake to be weak, but he cannot balance logic with panic and show his strength.

  But even the weakest personality, even the most frightened and terrified mind, may change. As long as the appropriate words are found. As long as the right time comes. The moment the ‘‘calm’’ attacks the ‘‘wild’ ’and the beings without opinion neutralize even the most imposing rhetors. The moment when everything takes its place, and the chaos finds a rudimentary balance in the complex universe. The moment the entropy subsides.

  But this moment does not belong to this night.

  Illegal investigation

  ‘‘Of course I don’t believe it is a suicide, but this time I won’t speak openly…’’ As I pass the bedroom, I hear Peter and I try to eavesdrop to calm my mind. I have to confirm that he is investigating the lawyer’s case, otherwise I will start worrying about his mental balance. He cannot pursue cases which seemingly have nothing he can hold onto and give up on this one.

  ‘‘Yes, Andrew, I know… But I need your help… Yes, exactly… I will find his secretary and go to the store, maybe I can talk to him… What kind of question is this Andrew? Are you sure you’re a police officer?’’

  I restrain myself from laughing, as I imagine Andrew’s uncertain look at the hearing of this question. Secretary, store… Yes. He is dealing with the case. I grin with satisfaction and since I can no longer hear him talk, I walk away in the corridor. When the door opens, I am glad I have managed to gain a considerable distance.

  ‘‘Magda, I am leaving.’’

  ‘‘Where are you going?’’

  ‘‘Since you were eavesdropping why are you asking me?’’ he wears his jacket and turns to me to meet the surprise on my face. OK, I feel embarrassed. ‘‘I won’t be late…’’ he gives me a hurried kiss on the lips and disappears in the living room.

  At times like this I wish I had gotten married to someone less smart, to someone I could potentially surprise sometimes, someone who would not do to me what he wanted with just one look. Some other times - most of them - I thank God for him being in my life.

  ‘‘Mom!’’

  My daughter’s voice comes as a reminder of the two other family members, our wonderful children, ready to tense my nerve system up at every opportunity. I enter her bedroom and I am faced with a bombed-out landscape, which I promise to myself not to tidy this time.

  ‘‘I can’t find the Barbie grandmother gave me on my birthday!’’ she shouts putting her hands around her waist. ‘‘Come and find it for me!’’ she continues in an imperative tone and I imagine her arranging going out for coffee with her friends while realizing her husband eavesdropping on her at the door.

  Why does this child look like Peter so much?

  ‘‘So that’s why you turned upside down the whole room? To find the doll you threw the day before yesterday under the table of the living room with such force that you broke its head?’’

  She exhales. ‘‘Yes, just her! She wears a black coat and I want to put it on this Barbie…’’ she says and shows me another doll.

  ‘‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do… I will look for the beheaded doll and you will tidy your room.’’ Fair agreement.

  ‘‘That’s what moms do…’’ she snobs at me. Probably Peter taught her these tricks. These among others.

  ‘‘Moms who are detectives, like me, take care of finding lost dolls. If you don’t pick up the chaos you created, then you will learn to live within it.’’

  I am not threatening her. Besides, I did the same. The characterizations lazy and worthless accompany sweet memories of my childhood. I used to like the disorder, my mother. Fortunately, my sister was there too; otherwise, our room would look like a survivor’s asylum.

  ‘‘I will also become a detective when I grow up, like Peter…’’ she states with pride, admiration, and enthusiasm in a frantic smile.

  �
��‘Do you want to be like Peter? Not like your mom?’’ Daily prayers and entreaties, so that my son will show an appreciation to me as well in the future.

  ‘‘If you tidy my room, yes, I will want to be like you as well! A proper housewife!’’ she completes and after taking her doll in her arms, she walks past me, stepping on the pile of toys, and leaves the room. Somehow, I am left alone with my mouth open along with an expression of wonder in my eyes, which is gradually spreading throughout my whole face.

  My next mission is to prove to my daughter that I am a good housewife. I sit on the bed and lie down in despair, hugging the pink bear.

  ‘‘I am from the police. I have some questions to ask you about Apostolos Maniatis.’’

  He shows his police identity card and she invites him inside. He walks up and down the living room inhaling a strong dose of vanilla, trying to figure out if it is originating from something aromatic for the room or from the blonde secretary’s aroma. He gives greater chances to the latter.

  ‘‘Please, sit down…’’ she shows him the armchair, while she comforts herself on the couch, crossing one leg up on the other, with an inclination towards him.

  She passes her hand around her neck and brings to the side her thin and well-combed hair. ‘‘May I offer you something to drink?’’

  ‘‘No, thank you. I would like you to be short in your answers because I don’t have much time.’’

  She nails him for a few seconds through her pale blue eyes. ‘‘Are you always in such hurry? In everything?’’ She plays with two tufts of her straight hair, bringing them close to her lips.

  ‘‘When conditions require it.’’ Diplomatic response with non-negotiable discipline. ‘‘Well, the conventional… Tell me how long you had been working for him, if you had noticed something lately that caught your attention… You look like a smart woman, so I believe that we can run the discussion a little bit.’’