The Bull of Mithros

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘Spoken like a sore loser,’ he said. ‘You’ll be thinking that the thousand I won off you last night’s coming back in your direction. Forget it. It’s gone, spent. I’m going to bed.’

  He stood up from the table, and as he passed behind their chairs, rubbed Lillis’s and Gounaris’s shaved heads, making them duck away. They cursed him as he wandered off to the bunkhouse.

  As Skafidis shuffled the deck, Manolis’s attention moved from the sea to the sticky cards as they dropped between Skafidis’s hairless fingers.

  ‘Who’s in?’ asked Skafidis. ‘Lillis, how about it?’

  Lillis dug in his pocket, and brought out a handful of money. There was no more than a couple of thousand, most of it change.

  ‘Count me in,’ he said. ‘I’m good for a hand or two.’

  Gounaris produced somewhat less.

  ‘I’m feeling lucky,’ he said. ‘Deal me in.’

  ‘What about you, Captain?’ asked Skafidis. ‘You want to lose some cash?’

  The captain smiled.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  Manolis was once again looking out to sea.

  ‘How about you, friend?’ asked Skafidis. ‘You fancy a hand of cards?’

  Manolis seemed startled to be spoken to.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘what did you say?’

  ‘Do you want a hand of cards?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Manolis. ‘Why not?’ But then he shook his head. ‘I’m being stupid, aren’t I? Count me out, son. I’ve got no money.’

  The soldiers looked uncomfortable. Manolis saw their disinclination to make him a loan, and turned sulkily away.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the captain. ‘Forget cash. We’ll use chips. Gounaris, go and find something we can use.’

  Gounaris came back from the kitchen with a packet of dried butterbeans, and emptied it into the middle of the table.

  Manolis laughed.

  ‘Not exactly Vegas, is it?’ he asked, moving closer to the group, pulling up a chair amongst them. ‘Not exactly a man’s game.’

  ‘You’re the one with no money,’ said the captain.

  ‘My credit’s good,’ said Manolis.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Lillis.

  ‘Believe me, it’s good,’ said Manolis. ‘Come on, pedia, let’s make it interesting. I’ve got money coming in a couple of days. Anyway, I’m not planning on losing.’

  ‘None of us ever plan on losing,’ said Skafidis.

  ‘How about we play for fifty drachma a bean?’ said Gounaris. ‘That would make it interesting.’

  ‘Not interesting enough for me,’ said Manolis. ‘My usual minimum’s a thousand.’

  ‘And look where that got you,’ said the captain. ‘Man overboard. We’re soldiers on soldiers’ pay. Besides, big stakes lead to bad feeling. One bean, fifty drachmas. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘But who’s the banker?’ asked Skafidis. ‘Who’ll cash us in, when we win?’

  ‘I’ll keep the cash over here, and pay out when we’re done,’ said the captain.

  ‘But what about him?’ asked Gounaris, looking at Manolis. ‘How will we collect what he owes us?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Manolis. ‘I don’t intend to lose.’

  ‘And how many is he starting with?’

  ‘We’ll give him fifteen hundred drachma credit,’ said the captain. ‘And I’ll make sure he pays his debts before he leaves. Fifty drachmas a bean. Lillis, hand them out.’

  ‘I’ve got eighteen hundred drachmas,’ said Gounaris. ‘How many beans is that?’

  There was silence around the table. Manolis smiled.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Lillis. ‘I’m just handing them out.’

  ‘Thirty-six,’ said Manolis. ‘Give him thirty-six.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said the captain, at last. ‘Gounaris, give him thirty-six beans.’

  Lillis began to count, and made a pile of Gounaris’s beans.

  ‘There aren’t going to be enough,’ said Skafidis. ‘Not at this rate.’

  ‘So double the value,’ said Manolis. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s play a man’s game.’

  Lillis studied him.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it your way.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ said the captain, ‘that the one who wants to play for high stakes is the one who’s got nothing to put in the pot. If you lose, friend, all you lose is a handful of beans. My boys here, they’re going to lose their beer-money for the next week.’

  Manolis looked around the table.

  ‘Then they’d better not lose, had they? Come on, lads – take me on! Is that the only deck you’ve got?’

  Whilst Lillis counted the beans, Manolis held out his hand, and Skafidis gave him the cards. Manolis slid a couple between his fingers, and feeling their tackiness, pulled a face. He riffled through a few more, fanned the pack, then gave it a couple of hand-to-hand shuffles, but fumbled it. A scattering of cards fluttered to the floor.

  ‘They’re lousy,’ he said, bending to pick up the cards he’d dropped. ‘Is this the best pack you’ve got? How’re we supposed to play with cards like these?’

  With the dropped cards retrieved, he knocked the pack back square and returned it to Skafidis.

  ‘You dealing? Here you go.’

  He looked expectantly at Skafidis.

  And Skafidis dealt.

  The moon was high, and a path of its soft light fell on the water. On Aphrodite’s deck, the fat man was reading a newspaper’s obituaries. As he read, he dipped into a bowl of salted sunflower seeds, discarding the cracked shells on to a white plate. The ice in the wine-cooler was almost melted; the wine itself – a Malagousia, from a small Attican vineyard – was almost drunk.

  Dressed in his uniform but barefoot, Enrico came up from below decks. In the heat, he had unbuttoned his shirt down to the waist, and untucked his undershirt from his trousers. The fat man appeared not to notice he was there. Enrico gave a light cough to announce himself.

  The fat man looked round at Enrico, who stood by his shoulder.

  ‘I was wondering if there was anything else you needed, kyrie,’ he said.

  He lifted the wine from the ice-bucket to check the level, and poured what remained in the bottle into the fat man’s glass.

  ‘I shall be fine, thank you,’ said the fat man. ‘You can go to your bed. I was just reading this piece in the paper – an obituary of Isaakios Nanos, the philosopher. You remember him, I’m sure. We came across him in our travels, several years ago. I found him very dry, and rather pompous – he took himself and his flawed ideas extremely seriously. He was capable of thinking only in absolutes; everything to him was black or white, right or wrong. Reading this description of him, you wouldn’t know it was the same man. Perhaps he changed after we left him, though I had little hope of that at the time.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Enrico, leaning forward to get a better view of the philosopher’s grainy photograph. ‘He wore spectacles he didn’t need to make himself look intelligent. See, he’s wearing them in that picture.’

  ‘That’s the man,’ said the fat man. ‘Still. We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. By the way, where is Ilias?’

  ‘Already sleeping, I wouldn’t doubt.’

  ‘Well, wake him, and send him to me. I have a job I want him to do. Tell him to bring the eucalyptus-wood box from the drawer in my study. You know the box I mean?’

  Enrico smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, kyrie. I know the box. And by the way, may I ask if you have plans for tomorrow?’

  The fat man looked at him closely.

  ‘Should I have?’ he asked.

  ‘I learned as I was buying vegetables that there’s a name-day service tomorrow morning, over at the hamlet of Kolona. It’s a deserted village, but I gather the church might be of interest. It’s a very old one.’

  ‘Ah, Kolona. The place was mentioned to me, today. And who is the saint being honoured?’

  ‘St Nikodem
os, I believe.’

  ‘Another philosopher, then. I wonder whether he was less dry than our friend here in the paper. I suspect not; and a holy man who was also a philosopher would not, I feel, make very cheerful company at dinner. Still, I should like to see if there’s anything of interest within the church, so we shall go. No doubt they will start early, and so shall we. What is our best route to get there?’

  ‘There’ll be trucks, if you wanted to hitch a ride. I gather the road is not fit for taxis, or regular cars. Or we might take the dinghy. The hamlet is by the sea.’

  ‘Why did you not say so in the first place? By boat it is. Have breakfast ready at seven.’

  An hour passed at the card table, and the game was amicable, with no winners and no losers. The beans went to the centre of the table, and were won by Lillis, or Gounaris; another hand was played, and they transferred to the captain, or Skafidis, or Manolis. Manolis’s play was amateurish, and matched the soldiers. From time to time a cigarette was lit, and smoke drifted over the table, slow to disperse in the still, hot night.

  But as the moon grew close to its height, the game underwent a change. Manolis seemed to have a run of luck. Within fifteen minutes, Lillis and Skafidis were out, and most of the butterbeans were piled in front of Manolis.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ remarked the captain, throwing his cards back on to the table. Manolis reached out, and raked the beans staked on that hand towards him.

  ‘Just luck,’ said Manolis. ‘Your deal, Captain.’

  ‘Let’s see how this one goes,’ said the captain. ‘Because it would seem unnatural to me, if your luck holds again.’

  But hold it did. Two more hands were played; Manolis won them both. The second hand took the captain out of the game.

  Manolis looked down the table at Gounaris.

  ‘It’s just you and me, son. You want to go on?’

  Gounaris considered the pile of beans in front of Manolis, and the five remaining to himself. Skafidis left his chair, and bent down to his comrade’s ear.

  ‘You can take him,’ he said. ‘Take him, and we’ll have a party on the proceeds.’

  ‘I can’t afford to risk it,’ objected Gounaris. ‘If I lose, I’ve no money left for a week.’

  ‘You won’t lose,’ said Skafidis. ‘How can he win again? No man has that kind of luck. Take him on.’

  The captain watched Manolis.

  ‘Can’t afford to take me on, son?’ asked Manolis. ‘Is that lack of money, or lack of balls?’

  ‘I’ve got the balls, malaka,’ said Gounaris. ‘But obviously I can’t match your stakes.’

  ‘I think you can.’ Manolis touched his neck. ‘That’s a beautiful chain you have there.’ And so it was; Gounaris’s chain was diamond-cut gold, of good weight and high value. ‘You can use that.’

  ‘Gounaris, stop,’ said the captain. ‘It would break your mother’s heart, and yours, if you lost that. It’s late, pedia. Time to turn in.’

  But the soldiers were considering the odds.

  ‘He can’t keep winning,’ said Skafidis. ‘His luck has to change. Take him on.’

  Gounaris hesitated; then he reached up to his neck, and unclasped his chain.

  ‘Come on then, friend,’ he said to Manolis. ‘Let’s see who’s got balls.’

  He laid the gold in front of him, next to his little pile of beans.

  Manolis passed him the cards.

  ‘You deal,’ he said.

  Gounaris dealt. Manolis picked up his cards.

  Play went on, and on, until all of Manolis’s beans, and Gounaris’s beans and his chain formed one pot in the middle of the table.

  Behind Gounaris’s chair, Skafidis struggled to keep triumph from his face.

  Manolis leaned down and scratched his ankle.

  ‘Damned mosquitoes,’ he said, and studied his cards. ‘I’ll see you.’

  Grinning, Gounaris laid down his cards: four fours, and the two of hearts. ‘Four of a kind. Beat that,’ he said, and reached out to draw the pile of wealth towards him.

  But Manolis’s smile was wider.

  ‘I think I can,’ he said, and laid down his cards: the six to the ten of clubs in a straight flush.

  Gounaris’s face fell. Skafidis banged his fist on the table.

  ‘Malaka!’ he shouted. ‘Cheat! How can you have those cards? The ten was played five minutes ago! How can it be in your hand?’

  ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ said Manolis, unconcerned. ‘How can it have been played, when it’s here? And I don’t appreciate being called a cheat.’ He took Gounaris’s chain from the pile, and held it up to the lamplight. ‘Very nice.’ He looked at the captain. ‘Looks like I won myself a ticket out of here. I’d appreciate a ride to the harbour, tomorrow.’

  Gounaris left his chair. In a quick step around the table, he reached Manolis and delivered a hard punch into his face. His fist found the scabbed-over cut inflicted by the Albanian mate; the cut split open, and blood began to flow.

  Dazed, and eyes squeezed shut against the pain, Manolis covered the side of his face with his hand. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked at Gounaris, who stood over him, breathing heavily and keen to land another blow; and if he chose to do so, it appeared neither the captain nor the soldiers would move to stop him.

  Manolis wiped a dribble of blood from his chin, and looked at his red-smeared fingers. His jaw was taut with rage.

  He looked up at Gounaris.

  ‘Under normal circumstances,’ he said, ‘I’d give you a good hiding for hitting me. A little piece of shit like you should know better, and if you don’t know better, someone should teach you. But I see the odds are stacked against me. A man could vanish in this place and this company, and never be seen again. So I’m going to let it go. But don’t cross my path again, son. You’ll regret it, if you do.’

  The captain rose from the table.

  ‘Don’t you ever speak to my boys like that again,’ he said, quietly. ‘Tomorrow, you go. For now, get out of my sight.’

  Manolis stood, and gave him a mocking smile and a salute.

  ‘Whatever you say, Captain.’

  In two fast paces, the captain stood nose-to-nose with him. With white knuckles, he grabbed the neck of Manolis’s T-shirt, and twisted it.

  ‘This is my base,’ he said, through clenched teeth, ‘and I make the rules here, including for civilians. So I’m ordering you to go to your quarters, now, and to stay there until I tell you you can come out.’

  Manolis was still smiling.

  ‘Amessos, Captain,’ he said. The captain let him go. Manolis touched his knuckle to his lip; it was still bleeding. In his other hand, he clutched Gounaris’s chain. He held it up to taunt them. ‘Well, it’s been a real pleasure, but it’s getting late, so I think I’ll take my winnings and turn in. I wish you all kali nichta.’

  He left them, walking unhurriedly away into the dark, in the direction of the stores.

  ‘Malaka!’ Gounaris called after him. His eyes were filled with tears. ‘Koproskilo!’

  ‘Enough!’ said Captain Fanis. ‘You brought that on yourself, Gounaris.’

  ‘What about my chain? How will I get it back?’

  ‘It’s gone, son, lost. Say goodbye to it. But let that be a lesson to all of you. In life, never, ever bet more than you can afford to lose.’

  Milto carried a storm-lantern to the stable, where it cast barely enough light to see. The stable door was propped open with a woodworm-peppered plank. The tethered mule snorted, and pricked its ears.

  A cat – a worn-out female, with drooping teats from many seasons of hungry kittens – came yowling from behind the hay stacked along the wall. Milto bent down and touched her head.

  ‘Yassou, agapi mou,’ he said. He unwrapped a foil parcel of table scraps – a thigh-bone with a little chicken-meat left on it, a few pieces of fatty skin from the same bird – and dropped them on the ground. ‘Not much tonight. Maybe we’ll do better tomorrow.’

  The sta
ble was hot, though the flies which bothered the mule in daylight hours had dispersed. Milto placed the storm-lantern on the stone floor, and held out a piece of carrot on the palm of his hand, smiling at the tickle of the animal’s lips as it took it. He stroked its muzzle and patted its neck.

  ‘Kali nichta, then, old man,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave the door open a crack, give you some air.’

  Milto removed the plank, and the door swung to. On its back hung a cobwebbed rifle case, and his violin case, which Milto reached up to, as if to take it down.

  The mule, crunching on its carrot, turned its head to him, and again pricked its ears.

  Milto took his hands from the violin case.

  ‘No, not tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ve work early tomorrow. Sweet dreams, old man.’ He patted the mule on its rump. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Skafidis, on watch, settled into the hammock. On the captain’s orders, Lillis had left the generator running, and the lights from the terrace shone in his eyes. That didn’t bother Lillis; he came from a family of eight, and had learned early in life to shut out distractions, and sleep whenever and wherever the opportunity arose.

  He might have dozed, but he was suddenly awake, alert. Something had disturbed him. He listened, though his hearing was impaired by the hammock’s sheeting; but there was nothing but the sea, and the slight movement of the branches over his head.

  When he opened his eyes, the terrace lights were blinding; but as his vision returned, he was sure of one thing: in the darkness behind the bunkhouse, someone or something moved.

  Eight

  The fat man rose from his bed just after dawn, and stretched – arms high, then from the waist to left and right – before touching his toes a dozen times. Lifting his elbows, he pulled them back to stretch his chest and, satisfied with his own suppleness, he slapped his generous belly with both hands and stepped into the shower.

  In the bathroom, he dried himself and wrapped a white towel around his waist. Using a badger-hair brush, he spread shaving cream over his face, and shaved with a silver-handled razor. From a bottle of his favourite cologne (the creation of a renowned French parfumier: a blend of bitter-orange neroli, the honey notes of immortelle and the earthy tang of vetiver), he splashed a few drops into his palms and patted it on to his cheeks. With a fingerful of pomade from a small jar, he smoothed his damp curls, then cleaned his teeth with powder flavoured with cloves and wintergreen, ran the tip of a steel file behind his fingernails and polished each one with a chamois buffer.