The Oracle

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘My name is Malidis. I was the one who brought Professor Harvatis here an hour ago. I know he’s . . . dead.’

  ‘We did everything we could. But it was too late, he was too far gone. Why didn’t you bring him sooner?’

  Ari hesitated. ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Cardiac arrest. Probably a heart attack.’

  ‘Why do you say “probably”? Weren’t the symptoms clear?’

  ‘The cause of death was not entirely clear, no. Perhaps you can help us. Tell me how it happened.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know. Can I see him first?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. The body is still in room number nine.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Professor Harvatis was lying on a little bed with a sheet pulled up over him. Ari uncovered his face and could not hold back his tears – the signs of his ordeal still showed in his sunken temples, the black circles around his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. Ari dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against the bed: ‘I didn’t find anyone at that address, Professor. You were mad to send me there, and perhaps I’ve gone mad as well. Oh God, my God, if only I hadn’t listened to you, you’d still be alive now . . .’ Ari got up, gently touched the professor’s forehead and covered it again with the sheet. He looked up: Harvatis’s clothes were folded on a chair and his jacket was hanging from a coat hook.

  ‘There’s something else I still have to do for you, Professor . . .’ He glanced towards the door and then took down the jacket and started going through the pockets. He pulled out a small set of keys with plastic tags. He left the room and went towards Dr Psarros’s office, but as he approached, he realized that the doctor was speaking on the phone.

  ‘A man of about sixty who says his name is . . . Malidis, I think. Yes, all right, I’ll try to keep him here on some pretext, but you get here as fast as you can. There’s something unconvincing about all this. Yes, that’s right, the second floor. I’ll wait here, but hurry, please.’

  Ari pulled back, looked towards the nurses’ room, then walked softly towards the elevator. He took it down to the lobby, nodded at the front desk nurse and a few minutes later was back in his car, driving towards the centre.

  The main entrance of the National Museum was on Leofòros Patissìon Street, now garrisoned by tanks. But he could still get in through the service entrance on Tositsa Street. Incredibly, he managed to park quite easily, near the door. He took the bundle from the back seat, opened the service door using Professor Harvatis’s key, and went into the museum. He walked straight towards the security booth and disconnected the alarm.

  The total darkness of the rooms and corridors was pierced here and there by the little safety lights on the switches. He could faintly hear the echo of excited voices coming from outside, over the background noise of the trucks and tanks patrolling the area surrounding the University. He went into the basement, found the storeroom and let himself in with the key. The room was completely isolated, without an external window or even a vent.

  He switched on the light and placed the object that a man had perhaps died for on the table. He removed the blanket it was wrapped in, and the vase towered majestically in the airless atmosphere of the underground room. Ari stared at it, frozen with amazement: it was the most beautiful and the most terrible thing he had ever seen, as disturbing as the frowning mask of Agamemnon at Mycenae, as splendid as the golden cups of Vafio, as lovely as the blue ships of Thera. It was absolutely perfect, as if its creator had just finished crafting it, with just the slightest traces of dried mud and dust in its sculptured relief.

  ‘Would a man die for this?’ He lay his hand on the embossed surface, reading that unknown story with the tips of his fingers. He didn’t understand, and yet felt mesmerized by its power. Then he wrapped the edges of the blanket around it again and hid it.

  He was deathly weary and griefstruck, confused and bewildered, and desired nothing but oblivion. Sleep, if only for a short time. He found a corner of the room free of antique ceramic fragments and tools, pulled over a bag of sawdust used for cleaning, and collapsed on to it. The light flickered and went out and he closed his eyes, but the great vase continued to gleam behind his eyelids with blinding force.

  THE GIRL GOT up, half naked, looking for the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and popped an Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water. She watched the bubbles fizzing in the glass as the phone started to ring. She walked into the hall and picked up the receiver with one hand, her drink in the other: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who the hell are you? Damn it, what are you doing there? Michel, Norman! Call them right away! Call them now, do you understand me?’

  The girl was about to hang the phone up, annoyed, but Michel had awakened and was standing in front of her: ‘Who is it?’

  The girl shrugged and handed him the receiver, beginning to drink her hangover potion.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Michel, for the love of God, get over here . . .’

  ‘Claudio, is that you? What time is it? Where are you?’

  ‘Michel, the army, tanks, they’re attacking the Polytechnic! Please come right away, Heleni is in there, there’s not a minute to lose!’

  ‘All right, Claudio. Tell me exactly where you are.’

  ‘In the telephone booth at Syntagmatos Square.’

  ‘Okay. Don’t move. We’ll be there.’

  ‘No, wait. Patissìon is blocked off, you won’t get through. Take Hippokratous Street and try to go down Tositsa. I’ll wait for you there, in the staff parking lot at the museum. But hurry, for God’s sake, get here as fast as you can!’

  ‘Okay, Claudio, we’re coming right away.’

  He dropped the receiver, ran to the hall and opened the door to the other bedroom. He turned on the light: Norman Shields and the girl he was sleeping with sat up in bed, rubbing their eyes. Michel grabbed Norman’s clothes from a chair and threw them at him.

  ‘The army is attacking the Polytechnic. Claudio’s there, and he needs our help. We have to get over there now. I’ll start up the car.’

  The girl was following him around without understanding a thing, glass still in hand: ‘Would someone please tell me . . .’ But Michel didn’t even hear her. He pulled on some jeans and a sweater, stuck his bare feet into a pair of gym shoes, stuffed some socks into his pockets, grabbed his jacket and raced down the stairs, searching through all his pockets for his car keys.

  The little Citroën started up without any trouble for once, and as he was backing out through the gate, Norman opened the passenger door and got in, still half dressed: ‘Is it that bad? What did he say exactly?’

  ‘The army is attacking the Polytechnic. They’re using tanks.’

  ‘But have they attacked or are they just blocking off the University? Maybe they just want to intimidate them.’

  ‘I don’t know. Claudio is out of his mind. We have to get over there.’

  He took a curve at full speed, tilting the car dangerously and nearly toppling over Norman, who was tying his shoes. Norman muttered: ‘Damn French cars. They make you seasick!’

  Michel pressed down harder on the accelerator. ‘They’ve got soft suspensions. There are lots of cobblestone roads in France. Listen, there should be some Gauloises in the glove compartment. Light one up for me, will you? My stomach hurts.’

  THE OFFICER WALKED to the middle of the road and began to talk into a battery-run megaphone. His voice was fuzzy and nasal: ‘You have fifteen minutes to clear the premises. I repeat, exit immediately and abandon the University. If these orders are not obeyed, we shall be obliged to take the building by force!’

  The students were crowded into the courtyard behind the gate, bewildered and uncertain, watching the tanks and troops in battle gear. There was a moment of silence, in which only the threatening rumble of the M47s’ engines could be heard.

  Somebody rekindled the fire and a swarm of sparks rose upwards towards the sky. A youth with curly hair and just a shadow of a beard walked res
olutely towards the gate and shouted at the officer: ‘Molòn lavè!’ It was the phrase in ancient Greek that Leonidas had shouted proudly at the Persians twenty-five centuries before at Thermopylae, two words as dry and hard as bullets: ‘Come and get us!’

  Another drew up alongside and echoed him: ‘Molòn lavè!’, then another and another still. They climbed up the bars of the gate and raised their fists rhythmically, and their cry became a chorus, a single voice vibrating with passion, with disdain, with determination. And the officer trembled at that voice and at those words that he had heard as a child at his school desk – the cry of Hellas against the barbarian invader penetrated into his chest like the stab of a knife. He looked at his watch and his men jerked their arms into position, ready to attack at his order.

  He shouted again into the megaphone: ‘This is your last warning. Disband immediately and clear out of the University buildings.’ But the cry of the students was stronger and more powerful, and nothing could subdue them. Suddenly, from a nearby church, a bell pealed, solemn, persistent, grievous. Ringing out in alarm. Another bell answered from another bell tower, and that sound infused the youths with new energy and gave new vigour to their cry.

  The fifteen minutes passed and their shouted words continued to afflict him, like fire raining down from the sky, mixing with the bronze thunder of the bells.

  He looked again at his watch and at his men, undecided. Another officer, higher in rank, advanced and stood next to him. ‘What are you waiting for? Go ahead, give the order.’

  ‘But, Colonel, they’re all over the gates.’

  ‘They were warned. Their time is up. Proceed!’

  The tank advanced towards the gate, but the students didn’t move. The tank commander in the turret turned towards the colonel, who urged him on with a gesture of his hand. ‘Forward, I said! Forward!’

  The tank started up again and drove straight into the gate, which fell inward on impact. The students dropped to the ground in bunches and were crushed under the gate. The troops surged forward while still more youths flooded out of the building, attempting to put up opposition. The soldiers opened fire, aiming to kill, and the courtyard sounded with cries, moans and confused yelling as the frantic students searched for their friends, tried to assist the wounded. The boy with the curly hair lay on the ground in a pool of blood. Many raced, shouting, up the stairs, followed by their attackers who knocked them out with the butts of their rifles, stabbed them with their bayonets. Some sought shelter behind closed doors, but the soldiers broke through and rushed down the halls and into the classrooms, shooting wildly. Splinters of wood and chunks of plaster flew left and right. Flakes of plaster rained down from the walls and ceilings.

  Michel’s car was just arriving at the designated spot, but Claudio was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Wait here. This is where we were supposed to meet. He must have gone in. If he comes out with Heleni, he’ll need us and the car. We’ll keep the engine running and stay ready. This is the only way he can come out.’

  Claudio was inside the University, running from room to room in search of Heleni. He shouted her name down the halls, up the staircases. He saw her suddenly come out on a landing with a group of her comrades. A squad of soldiers appeared at that moment at the end of the corridor and their leader shouted: ‘Stop! You’re under arrest!’ The youths ran towards a window, trying to drop down from it and get out that way. The officer shouted again, ‘Stop!’, and let go with a burst of machine-gun fire. Claudio saw Heleni stand motionless for an instant against the wall before a red stain spread over her chest, her legs crumpled and her eyes fluttered shut.

  He raced up the stairs, indifferent to the shots, the shouts, the thick dust. He reached the girl an instant before she hit the floor. He lifted her up. The officer at the bottom of the stairs had pulled out his pistol and was aiming it at him. Claudio turned desperately to the left, to the right. He saw the door of an elevator and threw himself against it, hitting the call button with his elbow. The lift was right there and the door opened. He dived in and closed the door just an instant before the butt of a rifle could block it. He pressed the ground floor button and the elevator jerked into service as numerous shots rang against the door. He dropped to the floor with Heleni in his arms while two, three bullet holes opened in the sheet metal and the sharp odour of gunpowder invaded the chamber. The elevator started to descend. As soon as the door opened on to the ground floor, Claudio ran out, carrying Heleni, unconscious and pale as death. She was covered with blood. The stairs resounded with the stamping of his pursuers’ boots. He found himself in front of an open classroom and hid with the girl under the professor’s desk. The soldiers entered, took a long look around, then ran off down the hall.

  Claudio left the room and made his way towards the building’s rear wing where he found the staff door unlocked. He ran out into the courtyard on Tositsa Street, flattened himself against the wall and waited until the street was clear.

  He could hear more shooting, crying, howls of protest and rage, the roar of engines, vehicles burning rubber down Patissìon Street, harshly delivered orders. The revolt had been put down. Only the pealing of the bells continued to rip through the darkness of the night, obsessive and despairing.

  He lay Heleni on the ground and ran towards the little gate that led on to the street. He opened it, turned back to get her and raced through the courtyard as fast as he could, nearly running into Norman and Michel. Claudio was unrecognizable. His eyes were red, his face burnt black and his clothing shredded. He held Heleni’s motionless body in his arms and his shirt and jeans were soaked with her blood. When he saw his friends, he collapsed to his knees and managed to blurt out amidst his tears: ‘It’s me. Help me, please.’

  ARI JERKED AWAKE at the tolling of the bells and the noise of the shooting, but he was so tired that he couldn’t snap out of his slumber. It seemed like another one of the countless nightmares that had tormented his brief sleep. A stitch in his side woke him up fully and he got to his feet, rubbing the painful area. The woeful alarm sounded by the church bells was muffled in that underground chamber, making it even more unreal and ominous. He switched on the light and looked back towards the wall: the edges of the blanket had fallen off the vase and it gleamed brightly in front of him as cries of rage and pain and gunshots echoed outside. He covered it, knotting the corners well, and hid it hurriedly under a table, then headed towards the service exit. He heard a noise at the door. Someone was banging at it, trying to get it open. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Open up, for the love of God, we’re students. One of us is wounded.’ Ari opened the door and several youths tumbled in: three boys, one of them carrying a girl who was unconscious and seemed seriously wounded.

  ‘Ari, is that you?’ said Michel. ‘What luck. I thought you were at Parga with Harvatis.’

  ‘Michel? I was in Parga, I just . . . I just arrived. But why have you come here? This girl has to be brought to the hospital immediately.’

  Claudio approached him, clutching Heleni to his chest. She seemed to have regained consciousness; a low moan came from her mouth. ‘She’s been shot. If we take her to a hospital we’ll all be arrested. You have to help us find a doctor . . . or a clinic that we can trust.’

  Ari led them forward: ‘Follow me, quickly.’ They crossed the room with the Cycladic sculptures, reached the service stairs and descended into the basement. He opened the door of the storeroom. ‘No one will come to look for you here,’ he said. ‘Wait for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stop the bleeding, if you can. She mustn’t lose any more blood.’ He left, pulling the iron door shut behind him.

  ‘We should stretch her out,’ said Claudio. They rearranged Ari’s sawdust bed and lay Heleni down gently. Claudio carefully took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, baring her shoulder.

  Michel was close by: ‘The wound is very high, the bullet may not have hit an
y vital organs. We have to staunch it.’

  Claudio pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘This is clean; we can use this.’

  Norman looked around. ‘This is a restoration lab. There must be some alcohol somewhere.’ He went through the cabinets and shelves, opening bottles of solvent and sniffing at them: ‘Here, this is alcohol.’

  Claudio soaked the handkerchief and cleaned the wound carefully. The girl trembled and cried out in pain. She opened her eyes and looked around bewildered: ‘Claudio . . . Claudio . . . where are we?’

  ‘We’re safe, my love. Stay calm, you must be still. You’ve been wounded. We’re going to take care of you. Now stay calm, try to rest.’ Heleni closed her eyes.

  Claudio ripped his shirt into strips and bandaged the wound as best he could. It had stopped bleeding.

  ‘We have to keep her warm. We need a blanket.’

  Michel started to take off his down jacket.

  ‘Wait, there’s a blanket,’ said Norman, pointing to a large bundle under a table. He untied the corners and backed up in shock. ‘My God! Look at this!’ Claudio and Michel turned and saw the embossed golden vase, the figure of a warrior with an oar on his shoulder, the ram and the bull and the boar with its long tusks. The last bell of the revolt tolled its dying peal into the sky of Athens, full of stars and desperation.

  Michel seemed stunned by the vision of the vase. He had stood up and was staring at the wonder which had so suddenly appeared out of nowhere. ‘What is that? My God, I can’t believe it. Claudio, what is it?’

  Claudio was bent over Heleni and was holding her hand as if he could pass his warmth and his vigour into her still body. He turned slightly and saw the vase. For long moments, everything else seemed to fade away. The little book that had fallen at his feet at the archaeological school library flashed into his mind: ‘Hypothesis on the necromantic rite in the Odyssey, Book XI.’ He turned immediately back to Heleni.