The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7)

by Anne Zouroudi

  The fat man reached the main thoroughfare via a street bordering a park with a children’s playground, where old tyres were strung from a pole frame to make swings, and the slide was without a ladder to the top. The playground was overhung by eucalyptus trees which sapped the autumn light, and made the place both dismal and forbidding. Behind the playground was a football pitch worn bare by many feet, where both goal posts were missing their cross bars. The refreshment cabin was boarded up for the season; short tarmac paths led between flowerbeds not replanted since the spring, and now overrun with weeds. At regular intervals, there were benches; on one, a white-haired man fed pigeons with seed from his pocket, whilst on another, a vagrant was sleeping off the night’s excesses.

  The route to St Laurentios’s lay over the main road, but busy traffic made it difficult to cross; where a gap appeared, some vehicle would jump into it from a side road. The fat man was waiting patiently, when something about the park-bench vagrant struck him as familiar.

  He made his way into the park, and stood over the man, who lay on his back, his hands behind his head, smiling in his sleep. There were wine stains on his yellow T-shirt, a smudge of lipstick on his neck and his sandalled feet were very dirty; stale alcohol came off him at every breath. Under his bench, pigeons pecked at the remains of a gyros in its wrapper, and the almost bare stalks of a bunch of grapes. An empty wine bottle lay on its side. The fat man picked it up, and read the label. The wine had been a poor quality factory blend.

  The old man feeding pigeons was watching him.

  ‘He’s drunk, friend,’ he said, tossing more seed to the flocking birds. ‘He was singing, and waving at the cars. I fetched him out of harm’s way, and sat him on the bench, and he went straight to sleep. He’s out cold now, I reckon.’

  ‘It would certainly seem so,’ said the fat man.

  He bent down, and shook Dino by the shoulder. At first, Dino didn’t react, and seemed still contentedly asleep; but when the fat man shook him again, he opened one blue eye, and seeing the fat man, grinned, showing his wine-stained teeth.

  ‘Yassou, brother,’ he said. He closed his open eye, and shifted his position on the bench, making himself more comfortable before he went back to sleep.

  But the fat man shook him again.

  ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘You can’t sleep here.’

  ‘Ah, but I can,’ said Dino, drowsily. ‘I’ve been making this bench my home, when I’ve had nowhere better to go.’

  ‘You have somewhere better to go now,’ said the fat man.

  ‘And where may that be?’

  ‘You can come with me, and we’ll find you some coffee.’

  Dino opened both eyes.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that might be a good idea. That cheap wine has given me one hell of a headache.’

  They didn’t speak as they walked. Dino was yawning and lacked the inclination, and the fat man was content to be silent. But as the fat man turned down a lane which would take them to Democracy Square, Dino stopped him.

  ‘I think we’d do better somewhere else,’ he said.

  ‘I presume you’re worried about your unpaid bill at the ouzeri? I gave the patron my word you’d pay him.’

  ‘You make it sound a fortune,’ said Dino. ‘What was it, a couple of ouzos?’

  ‘A number of ouzos for your friends, and several carafes of wine.’

  ‘A petty soul like him shouldn’t keep an ouzeri. How can he put a price on companionship and enjoyment? And I seem to remember we did enjoy ourselves! But no, it isn’t that. There was an incident, last night. It’ll be fresh in people’s minds, so I think I’m better staying away.’

  ‘An incident? What incident?’

  ‘Better you don’t ask,’ said Dino. ‘And anyway, to be honest the details are a little hazy.’

  The fat man sighed.

  ‘We’ll go elsewhere, then,’ he said. ‘I know a quiet place which will do very well.’

  At the gelateria, Renzo sat alone reading a newspaper, his dog asleep by his feet. As the fat man and Dino approached, he folded the paper and stood up to wish them kali mera. The dog woke as he stood, and raised its head, and as Dino took a seat at an outside table, the fat man stroked the terrier under its chin; but the animal gave a low growl, and padded off to a safe distance, where it lay down again, head on paws, watching.

  ‘What can I get you gentlemen?’ asked Renzo.

  ‘Alas, no ice cream for me today,’ said the fat man, with obvious regret. ‘My expanding waistline won’t allow it.’

  ‘I told you you’d put on weight,’ said Dino. ‘I’ll have Greek coffee, sweet, a double. No, a triple.’

  ‘And a Greek coffee for me too,’ said the fat man. ‘No sugar, thank you.’

  Renzo gave a willing smile, and went inside the shop. The fat man took a seat opposite Dino, and watched the Italian through the window. As he lit the butane burner and spooned coffee into a pot, the smile had left his face, leaving him looking downcast and troubled.

  Dino closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead.

  ‘My head!’ he said. ‘And every time I say the same thing – never again!’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re giving up drinking?’

  Dino laughed.

  ‘No, never that,’ he said. ‘Only the drinking of cheap wine. I’ve decided I’m going to go and buy some of that vintage we had at the festival. That was very drinkable, don’t you think?’

  ‘It was,’ said the fat man. ‘I had more of it yesterday, and I was impressed.’

  ‘Then you should go and buy some for both of us,’ said Dino. ‘You have the car. And I still think she was your type, Hermes. Besides, you know if I go, I’ll find it hard to leave. At least not until I’ve drunk the vineyard dry.’

  ‘I agree, it would be dangerous. By the time you left, the poor woman would be bankrupt.’

  ‘Get a case at least. Get two cases.’ He massaged his temples with his fingers. ‘You know, I swear my headache’s getting worse. It would have been better if you’d left me to sleep it off.’

  ‘On a park bench? Why haven’t you got yourself a room?’

  ‘Up to now, I haven’t needed one. I spent most of last night with a lovely creature I found somewhere around here. In fact I have a rendezvous with her later on. But I’ve grown quite attached to that bench. It gives me a view of what’s going on.’

  ‘And what is going on, apart from the flow of traffic?’

  ‘Sometimes the traffic doesn’t flow so well. There was an accident, yesterday. Not so much of an accident, actually. I didn’t say anything to the police because there’s honour amongst bikers, but it could have been a whole lot worse than it was.’

  Renzo brought out their coffee, in delicate cups decorated with gold Greek keys around their rims. There were glasses of iced water, and a hazelnut-studded biscotto in each saucer.

  The fat man thanked him. Renzo went back to his seat at a nearby table, and picked up his newspaper. Dino moved his biscotto from his own saucer to the fat man’s.

  ‘I can’t eat at this time of the morning,’ he said. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘A little after ten.’

  ‘So early! Really, Hermes, you should have left me to sleep. When I’ve drunk this, I shall go back to my bench.’

  Two boys came into the square, one bouncing a basketball whose thump as it hit the cobbles echoed round the buildings.

  Dino called out to them.

  ‘Hey, lads! Do you want a game? I’ll give you a game!’

  The boys ignored him, and disappeared down a side street.

  ‘They’re afraid to take me on,’ said Dino.

  ‘Why don’t you get a room where I’m staying, at the Hotel Byron?’ asked the fat man. ‘It’s comfortable, and really, brother, you are in dire need of a shower and a change of clothes.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But there’s no drama in a hotel. I’d miss all the excitement of my bench.’ Dino tried his coffee. ‘This is good. Maybe I w
ill try one of those biscuits.’ He took his biscotto back from the fat man’s saucer, dipped it into his coffee, and bit off the end. ‘There were three lads, on bikes,’ he said, as he chewed. ‘One had a very nice bike, actually, a Suzuki. I was thinking about one of those for myself.’ He dunked his biscuit again, and ate a larger piece. ‘I like these. Are they Italian?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said the fat man. ‘What were they doing, these three youths on their bikes?’

  ‘They were playing a dangerous game.’ Dino dipped the last piece of his biscotto in his coffee, and as he ate it, reached out and took the fat man’s. ‘You won’t mind if I have yours, will you, brother? I’m sure you’ve already had breakfast. I’ve never known you not have breakfast.’

  The fat man waved his hand to consent, and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes.

  ‘What game was it they were playing?’

  Dino picked a hazelnut from the fat man’s biscotto and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘They pinned a truck, a red Nissan, with an old man at the wheel. They were only playing. Boys will be boys. We all love to be boys. But even so, they went too far. The old man looked distressed, even before they scared the life half-out of him.’

  The fat man found his lighter, lit a cigarette and drew on it.

  ‘How did they do that?’ he asked.

  ‘They forced him into a U-turn, across the boulevard, and held him there – one at the front, one to the back, one to the side – in front of the oncoming traffic. At the last moment, they moved off, but he wasn’t quick enough getting out the way. He took a blow right on the wing. That did damage enough, but he almost took it broadside. Of course the bus driver braked much too late, but those lads were wicked. If I see them again, I shall tell them so.’

  He finished the fat man’s biscotto, and sipped his coffee. The fat man, seeming thoughtful, drew again on his cigarette.

  ‘The old man,’ he said, as he exhaled. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was in a bad state, very shaken up. A policeman got in the driving seat, and took him away, back to the oil mill, I suppose. My head isn’t getting any better. Have you got any of those special powders in your bag there?’

  ‘What oil mill?’

  ‘That’s where the truck had come from, some oil mill. It said so on the side. What are you thinking, Hermes? You’ve got that look on your face.’

  ‘I was thinking about what you said, about scaring the life half-out of him,’ said the fat man, resting his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and picking up his coffee. ‘What if they didn’t scare the life half-out of him? What if they scared him so badly that it killed him?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have done that,’ said Dino. ‘They were just youngsters, having a joke.’ He yawned. ‘Time for bed. And you’re right, I should find somewhere more comfortable than that bench. Where did you say you were staying?’

  ‘The Hotel Byron.’

  ‘The Hotel Byron it is, then. Don’t forget to fetch our wine, brother. You’ve seen how poorly I tolerate the cheap stuff.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

  As he walked away, not quite in a straight line, the fat man called after him.

  ‘Don’t you want directions to the hotel?’

  Dino raised a hand.

  ‘I’ll find it, when the time comes,’ he said.

  After Dino left, the fat man smoked the rest of his cigarette. Renzo turned the page of his paper. The little dog wandered over to Renzo, sniffed the hem of his trousers and lay down.

  The fat man stubbed out his cigarette, and began to look in his pockets for change. Renzo folded his paper.

  ‘Can I offer you something, before you go?’ he asked, picking up the ashtray. ‘Another coffee? Maybe something stronger? I have brandy, but only three star. I have a bottle of grappa, if you’d like to try it. My brother brought it from Italy, when he came to visit.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said the fat man. ‘Thank you.’

  As Renzo went inside to fetch his drink, the fat man reached over for the newspaper – that day’s edition of To Vima. The headline was of Athenian politics, and he read none of the lead article; instead, he went through the paper quickly to the last pages of news, the In Brief stories warranting only a line or two of print.

  The square was quiet, and the fat man heard the noises inside the gelateria – the hum of fridges, the click of the dog’s claws on the tiles as it followed Renzo inside, the clink of the bottle as the grappa was poured.

  Renzo set an elegant, antique liqueur glass before the fat man, and a clean ashtray painted with a map of Italy, with Rome and Venice, Milan and Naples marked in red.

  ‘The grappa’s on me,’ said Renzo, ‘in case you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. Are you going to join me?’

  Renzo shrugged, and went inside to pour himself a glass of the spirit, and joined the fat man at his table.

  The fat man tasted the grappa, and nodded approval.

  ‘It puts me in mind of the best of our raki,’ he said.

  ‘It’s intended as a digestif,’ said Renzo. ‘They make a lot of it, where I come from.’

  ‘A digestif is perfect,’ said the fat man. ‘My stomach has suffered too much abuse of late. Do you miss your home? Do you ever think about returning?’

  A distant look came to Renzo’s eyes, and perhaps the watery beginnings of tears.

  ‘I think about it,’ he said. ‘And then I put the idea aside. I have the business here. To go back, I would have to sell it, and selling it at present wouldn’t be easy. And Italy isn’t kind to people like me, and though they never say it, I know I am a disgrace to my family. Here, of course they call me names, and whisper and laugh behind my back. But they are respectful, mostly, to my face. Though I’ve done you no favours, sitting down at your table. If you’re seen with me, there’ll be talk.’

  ‘I choose my own company,’ said the fat man. ‘I have never allowed anyone to choose for me.’

  A silence fell between them. The fat man seemed to be reading, and sipped absently at his grappa.

  ‘There’s a story here,’ he said at last, his finger marking a place on the page, ‘an anecdote almost, a “fancy that” piece about a street in Patras being blocked to traffic for some hours by a dead horse. No doubt there was chaos. Here it is as an amusing aside, a page-filler – yet I doubt it was amusing to the horse’s owner. What was the animal doing in the city, I wonder? Was it one of those carriage rides for tourists, or pulling some sort of cart? I think I would assume it would be a working animal. That being the case, this was quite possibly a catastrophe for the owner, if the horse was his livelihood. Imagine it – his distress at losing the animal which he may have been fond of, dealing with the police who were no doubt called, the rage of inconvenienced motorists, the difficulty of finding someone to take away the carcass. Such a drama it must have been! In two lines, this is an amusing story, but extrapolate the story behind the words, and it’s potentially a very sad little tale. Isn’t that always the way with newspaper stories? The context, the human factor, is so often missed.’ Renzo was silent. ‘I took my trousers to your friend, the tailor, by the way. Miltiadis, I believe they call him, Miltiadis Sloukes. He was telling me you were in the news, quite recently.’

  ‘Not recently,’ said Renzo. A touch of colour rose in his cheeks, and he glanced over to the cutting in the window, where he was smiling as he received his award. ‘That clipping’s an old one. And sadly, Miltiadis and I are no longer friends.’

  ‘Miltiadis wasn’t referring to your prize-winning,’ said the fat man. He folded the paper, and laid it down. ‘He was telling me about an outbreak of poisoning.’

  Renzo left the table, and picked up the watering can which stood against the wall.

  ‘What is it they say, that there’s no such thing as bad publicity?’ he said, as he dribbled water from the can on to a pot of lavender. When he’d poured only a dribble, he touched the soil to check the mo
isture level. ‘You have to be careful with these. It’s so easy to drown them.’ He moved on to the next pot, his back to the fat man. ‘I wouldn’t agree with that. Twice now I’ve been in the papers. Once was a cause for celebration, as you see from the piece in the window. It brought people from all over the district, and business boomed. Then, there was that other business, and there I was again. No names were mentioned. They only said the suspected source was an ice-cream shop in Dendra. But there’s only one gelateria in Dendra. Within two days, my local trade dried up, and it has yet to come back to life.’

  ‘But there were people dead, weren’t there?’ asked the fat man. ‘Four, according to Miltiadis.’

  ‘I’m sure he couldn’t wait to tell you,’ said Renzo. He trickled the last of the water on to the lavender, and broke off a head or two which were past their best, taking them with him inside the shop. He returned with the bottle of grappa, and refilled the glasses before he sat down. ‘Miltiadis felt I implicated him,’ he said. ‘As did one or two others. Before the outbreak, everything I used to make my ice cream was local. My eggs came from Miltiadis, amongst others. He has a bit of a smallholding, and keeps a few chickens at home. I used to have some fruit from him, too. After the outbreak, I switched to eggs from factory chickens, chickens not fed on the scraps from someone’s table but on a controlled diet. I stopped taking local cream, and ordered in sanitised, pasteurised stuff, which I still use. I changed all my suppliers, and most haven’t forgiven me. Apart from the loss of business, they see the implication – which I can’t deny – that it was their products that were tainted. But what else could I do? The health inspectors took my shop to pieces. They tested everything down to the last teaspoon looking for anything suspicious, hunting for the fatal bacteria, but they found nothing, not a trace of anything that would kill a fly, let alone four human beings. But my turnover was fast, then. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that I had produced a bad batch, which was sold, and eaten. I was a factor most of those people – most of them, not all – had in common. I have no idea if I was guilty, or not. In my heart, I don’t believe so. Everything I make, I taste, and taste, and taste, but I wasn’t ill. My detractors say maybe I was ill, and hid it, and of course I could have done that. But people died! Was it my fault? Did I poison them? I live with that question every day. Meanwhile, they isolate me. They don’t come here, they don’t speak. I rely almost entirely now on summer’s tourist trade, out-of-town customers who don’t know my reputation as a poisoner. Without them, I’d be finished.’