I nodded in agreement while using all my strength to keep our umbrella from snapping or flying away over the rooftops a la Mary Poppins.
The church’s white dome became visible through the falling drops. I remembered it being blue. One of the few memories, my ten year old self managed to retain from the cruise around the Greek Islands with my then youthful parents. It is funny the things ‘‘we choose’’ to remember. So many things come and go, and unimportant things stay. A blue dome, falling off my bike outside Mr. Johnson’s house, the day Peggy Anderson let one go in class, a scary clown from Twin Peaks. Random images, imprinted in our hard drive. I remembered the dome because right outside the church, amongst Japanese tourists living up to their photo-mania cliché, I asked my father why every island we visited had white painted houses and buildings. Sebastianos, stood up straight, uncrossed his arms and the lecture began. I never dared to interrupt him. He looked so proud, spreading his knowledge and his love for his country with his ignorant more-American-than-Greek offspring.
‘You feel all that sweat on your forehead and under your armpits? It’s hot, Costa. Really hot. White reflects the harsh summer sun. It is heat resistant and that is why people across the Cyclades paint their homes white. And once a year, mainly before Easter, folks re-whitewash their houses and shops. Asbestos is cheap, too. White paint wasn’t introduced until after World War One and it cost too much for the then fishermen and farmers.’ He leaned closer to me and lowered his tour guide voice.
‘Actually, Santorini never really followed tradition and used to have many colorful houses. Since the military Junta took over and orders were sent to maintain the Greek traditions and style, everyone painted white and added blue to show what great Greek patriots they were!’ I had heard about the Junta before. It was the main topic in Astoria during the late sixties, right up until the mid-seventies, when a tank in Athens ran over some brave students and Turkey invaded Cyprus. That was the end of the dictatorship and the beginning of freedom in the land that gave birth to democracy.
‘It’s open,’ Ioli shouted over. She pushed open the wooden door and entered the little church. Loud thunder shook the air as I entered, making me smile at the coincidence of timing. Cool air lingered inside. Modern houses had nothing on Greek buildings built in centuries past. Especially here in Santorini, where, to the Greek mixture of stone, wood, mud and hay, volcanic ash was added, working as cement.
The iconostasis small and humble. Still made of gold, but unpretentious compared to the grand scale ones, found in the newest built churches. The walls had recently been freshened up, with paintings of the evangelists and Bible scenes giving color to the dimly lit place. In front of the six rows of wooden stools, stood an elderly woman. She buzzed around the sand pit that served as a candle holder, emptying burnt out candles. The faithful visitors made a wish, said a pray and lit a candle.
We walked over and stood behind her. She did not react.
‘Excuse me?’ Ioli raised her voice.
Startled, the woman dressed in a washed out black skirt and a whiskey colored, high-neck blouse turned around.
‘Oh my lord, you scared me. I left my hearing aid at home and did not hear you enter. Welcome to Agios Minas, blessed may be His name!’
‘We are here to see the priest,’ I said. More a question than a statement. We did not even bother to find out his name. Mother’s call last night threw me off course. I skipped breakfast with Ioli -who never skipped any meal- and the lack of coffee started taking its toll. I felt drained of energy. The alcohol swimming around my insides did me no favors either.
Ash grey eyes looked up into mine.
‘He is on his way. Rain must be delaying him.’ She paused. ‘Who are you, sir?’
‘I am Captain Costa Papacosta and this is...’
‘Speak up, boy.’
‘AND THIS is Lieutenant Ioli Cara. We are with the Hellenic police.’
‘Constantino!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your name is Constantino. Do not butcher it. It is offensive to Saint Constantino.’
I was ready to answer, but she had already shifted her round eyes over to Ioli.
‘And Ioli! What kind of a name is that? You have no saint, thus no name day!’
‘It is ancient Greek. The church itself declares and wishes for the continuation of Greek names. To maintain Greek tradition. Anyway, my mother always held me a name day celebration on the first Sunday after the Pentecost. The Holy All. Besides, if we stopped using certain names because there is no saint, how will those names end up with a saint? Someone has to be first, right? If Agios Mina’s mother did not name him Mina because there wasn’t a saint with that name, this church wouldn’t be here.’
Never argue with an intelligent woman. Never.
The old lady was taken aback. Clearly not used to receiving a reply to her grunts. An answer began boiling inside her.
‘Now listen here, young girl...’
‘Why did they paint the dome white? I remember it blue. It was lovely,’ I spoke simultaneously and drowned out her intro to a rant.
‘Huh?’
‘THE DOME. WHY DID THEY PAINT IT WHITE?’
‘No need to shout. I’m not deaf, you know.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ Ioli whispered from behind closed teeth.
‘Churches should be white.’
‘It was better blue. The tourists loved it.’
‘Well, we don’t bend over to the tourist, Mister Constantino. It should be white.’
‘I liked it blue, too.’ A calm voice came from the door. ‘Good morning, Helen.’
‘Good morning, Father,’ Helen replied, her face the color of new brick. ‘Constantino and Ioli here are with the police,’ she continued as she walked over to him. ‘I’ll be off now. Everything is clean. Keep it that way.’
‘Yes, a good time to go. The rain has slowed down to a light drizzle,’ he said with a warm smile. He watched her leave and locked the door behind her.
With the same warm smile still gracing his youthful-for-a-sixty-year-old face, he approached us. His smile semi-hidden amongst his untrimmed, silver beard. The thick, wiry hairs forming a grey cone. His green eyes, full of life, gained your attention. You could feel them piercing through you, reading you, studying you.
‘Sit, my children.’ His hand inviting us to the wooden chairs. He took off his black kalimavkion, the chef type hat or chimney pot hat -if you prefer- that all Greek priests wear. He fixed his black robes; drops of rain soaking in. He finally sat down beside us. He extended his hand. Large, cracked knuckles and gnarled fingers like the limbs of an ancient olive tree. Priests never extend their hand, in a handshake sort of way. It is more in a Victorian lady like way. I think it is their way of separating the crowd into believers and non-believers. The first kiss the hand, asking for their blessing, the latter turn it into an awkward handshake. Two such handshakes and name introductions later, I asked ‘Father Avgoustino, we are here to ask for your help. We have four dead people and we believe all attended church here. Can I show you some pictures and maybe you can tell us their story?’
‘No need for gruesome pictures. Names will be fine. I know everyone who comes here. Besides, I watch the news and people in small societies talk too much. This is about Katerina, Mario and Stella. Who is the fourth, you refer to, I do not know.’ His voice, calm, with a steady rhythm, relaxing. With a voice like that, you can say anything and make it sound sensible and logical. Unlike most Mediterranean men, his hands stayed still, one above the other on his lap. No arm waving to explain something. No body language, none at all. His body still, below his black clothes. I always wondered how they coped with the unbearable heat of the summer. Now, in the winter, it looked fine. In contrast to other Christian priests, Orthodox priests haven’t changed their attire for the last thousand years or so. Many attribute this to tradition. Priests themselves say it is to mourn the Fall of the Great City, Constantinople. A fall that signalled the end of Byzantion, t
he Great Orthodox Empire. Historians declare that they were forced to wear black by the Ottomans who ruled Greece for four hundred years. Either way, slave clothes or not, mourning clothes or not, thousands of priests suffer every Summer.
‘John Mina,’ Ioli filled in the seconds my mind took to ponder about his voice.
His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped, taking his heavy beard with it.
‘John’s dead?’ His voice trembled.
‘Murdered yesterday at his workplace.’
‘Yesterday? He was here yesterday morning...’ the old man said and withdrew into his thoughts.
‘Why was he here yesterday?’ I asked.
‘Confession.’ He said no more. We knew he was not allowed to say any more. What was said stayed between them and God. Ioli spoke first.
‘Father, we understand that you have confidentiality rules, but if he confessed to a crime and that crime got him killed, you have to help us. His killer is still out there.’
‘Confess to a crime? What makes you say that?’
Ioli looked at me and I nodded. ‘We believe he shot Kate Spanou.’
‘No. John?’
‘His rifle was the one used. What did he say, Father?’
‘You love your job, don’t you young lady? There is a fire in your soul, and believe me, I understand you want to catch John’s killer. I want you to catch him, too. However, there is no way I am uttering a single word from confession.’
‘But he’s dead.’
‘His soul is very much alive. Besides, that is not the point. If people knew their dirty laundry might be revealed after death, how many do you think would be in here, opening their hearts to me?’
Ioli sat back, defeated. The old guy had a good point.
‘Well, Father, we know all four came here. I see you are a good priest that cares for his flock. How about we make a deal? I tell you a story and if I am right, you don’t say a word.’
‘He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.’
‘Which Evangelist wrote this?’
He smiled. ‘Freud.’
‘You are quoting Freud to me?’
‘My silence will be betraying. A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape.’
‘Now, that I’m sure is from the Bible.’
‘Proverbs, 19:5. You bring me to an awkward position, Captain. Tell me your story and I’ll see what I can do. No word from confession will be part of my answer.’
‘Kate found out that her husband, Mario, was cheating on her with Stella. She killed her husband; made it look like a heart attack. Somehow, Stella found out and this led to her death. Maybe, Stella paid John or used his gun to take the heat off her.’
‘But she killed herself, no?’
I did not want to reveal that she was murdered.
‘Guilt goes a long way.’
He closed his eyes. He remained still.
‘I cannot help. I give you my blessings and may our Lord help you and shine light into your darkness. Have a nice day.’ He got up quickly and walked away. We were left alone.
‘Well, that was helpful,’ Ioli remarked.
‘He knows.’
‘I bet he knows the whole story, but fuck if that helps us.’ She turned towards Christ. ‘Sorry.’ She looked round at me. ‘If mama knew I swore in church...’ She ran her index finger across her throat.
Chapter 26
Alexis Callis awoke later than usual. Much later than the dawn awakenings he had grown used to. He felt drawn to the sunrise. People were always amazed, and clapped at fireworks that lived only for a second in the night sky, but never did he see anyone clap at a sunrise. So, he did. He woke up every morning and sat on his porch swing and clapped at the sunrise. Every day, the picture and its colorings were different.
A retired art teacher with a dead wife and no kids to speak of (his dear Martha could not bear children and that was fine by him), he had nothing but time. Time to do what he loved. See the sunrise, garden, cook, watch awful TV shows, get drunk at all hours and make sweet, tender love to dead bodies. Alexis always knew he was different. Always.
Many decades back, a wounded cat found refuge in his nursery’s playground. It died during the cold, winter night. The next day, a group of pre-schoolers stumbled upon its body. All the kids screamed with horror and ran behind Miss Kyriaki’s flowery dress. She slowly walked around the thick oak tree, to witness a three year old Alexis holding the dead cat in his arms, cuddling it with tenderness shown to a newly bought teddy bear.
During his teenage years, a time when all boys get their first boners, either by thinking of a specific girl or any pair of boobs, he got his first by thinking of the old lady next door. She had died and he had seen her lifeless body carried away. The week after, he had his first wet dream. He awoke in frigid sweat and with a gooey substance on his lower belly. He cried from guilt. He had dreamt of sneaking in the morgue and raping a young girl's body. He was thrusting away; gazing in her hollow eyes.
He never acted on his impulses. His own thoughts sickened him to his core. He fought hard to be normal. At college, he asked Easy-Voula out on a date. Voula was the sort of girl that declared girls should not put out until the fourth date, but always got screwed on the first. A virgin Alexis sat nervously in his car as Voula waited for his move. He kissed and groped her. His penis paid no attention. It took Voula, who was always up for a challenge, ten minutes into an expert blow job to get him hard. She was well repaid for her efforts. Used to six minutes-then-explode twenty year olds, the half an hour Alexis spent inside her, pleasantly surprised her. In the end, Alexis could not take it anymore. He closed his eyes, thought of the dead girl from his dream and came all over Voula’s gravity defying boobs. That was his last piece of proof. He was not normal.
After college, he married shy, good little Christian girl Martha for ‘society's eyes’, for the sake of acceptance. It shut his mother up well and proper. He slept with Martha twice a week and every Saturday with a corpse. He lied about a late night art lesson. He stole corpses from the village graveyard and kept them in his shed, out in his grandfather’s field. He kept them for a while, had his fun and returned them to their resting ground.
Today, he awoke late. He prepared his morning coffee, put on his dark green robe and stepped outside to inspect his garden. Yesterday’s heavy rain worried him. His baby tomatoes were sensitive. He stood outside, glad of the now clear sky. The morning rain came and went. His shadow, a puddle around his feet. The midday sun floating in the canvas sky.
Yesterday, he killed for the first time. It shocked him how easy it was to kill John. He watched the blood flow out of him. Ready and eager to leave, it came to him. A twisted epiphany. John was alive no more. He was a corpse, just like all the rest. He happily discovered a condom in his wallet and smiled at his luck. It was the warmest dead body he had ever been inside of. He came within minutes.
Just the thought of the previous day got him aroused. He soon realized little Alexis was peaking out from his robe, tall and proud. He ran inside, closing the door behind him. He dropped his robe to the tiled floor. He masturbated. Twice.
The rest of the day, what was left of it, passed by uneventfully. He cooked himself a terrific English breakfast. He had studied for a year in London and while he hated the British cuisine, he fell for the rich flavored breakfast. Since then, he indulged himself in milky black tea, juicy back bacon, fatty sausages, scrambled eggs and baked beans on toast. He then painted for a while, took a hot shower that left his skin rosy red and naked as he was, he fell on the sofa and turned on the TV. Five hours later and he decided on a run, down at the beach. He dressed warm; you did not want a cold at his age. The bugs never leave you.
A black-sand beach, Monolithos beach, stretched for miles. In the summer, families roamed the area. Now, it lay deserted.
Alexis gazed around him, taking in the colors and the serenity. He took in one deep breath for dramatic effect and began to jog. The wind, though calm, flew around icy. He tried to think where he had read that the cold was supposed to be good for you. It sure did not feel like that.
The orange color faded from the sky. The sun had half dipped into the Aegean sea when he sensed that he was not alone. He stopped. He looked around. Apart from a few noisy seagulls and a couple of fishing boats on the horizon, he stood alone. He continued to jog when he heard a twig snap.
‘Hello?’ He approached the bushy Acacia tree next to the rocks. The tree shook.
‘Why are you following me? Come out! I must warn you that I used to box in college.’ He tried to keep his voice from shaking.
‘Really?’ A deep voice came from right behind him. A rock hit him on the back of his head. He fell to the ground unconscious.
He woke up, five minutes later, a result of the icy water splashed on his face. Blindfolded and tied up, he lay on the ground.
‘Let me go, please, why are you...’
‘Shut the fuck up, you old pervert!’ The same deep voice. It echoed as if they were in a small, closed space. Maybe one of the many little caves along the beach.
‘Ready to pay for your sins?’ a soft, whispery voice asked, from lips right next to his ear.
He fought to move, but he was tied down well. He felt two hands pull down his track suit bottoms.
‘Ugh, the nasty fuck doesn’t wear underwear,’ the whispery voice said, getting louder.
For a moment, Alexis got excited at the idea of this being a sexual attack. He was always up for new things.
‘Open your mouth,’ ordered the soft voice. He did. But what he felt in his mouth was a hard piece of wood.
‘That should keep him quiet,’ the deep, manly voice said, followed by sadistic laughter. ‘Bring me the acid.’
The Church Murders: A stand-alone thriller (Greek Island Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
