They entered a small, decrepit lift and came out on a dusty landing, the walls covered with graffiti. Looking closer, Mavros realised that much of the scrawl consisted of lines from the composer’s songs. ‘Done by your fans?’ he asked the bearded, bull-like figure who opened the door in front of them.
‘Done by me,’ the man said, scratching his groin beneath a loose fisherman’s jersey, ‘to irritate the assholes who moved in next door. A pair of stockbrokers, would you believe?’ He stared at Grace, screwing up his eyes. ‘You didn’t say you were bringing your squeeze.’ He turned back to Mavros. ‘You are who I think you are, aren’t you?’
‘I’m Alex Mavros,’ he said. ‘This is my friend Grace. Do you speak English, Comrade Rando?’
The composer glared at him. ‘You invite yourself to my home and expect me to speak the language of oppression and global capitalism?’
Mavros raised his shoulders. ‘How often do you get the chance to converse with a beautiful American woman?’
Randos thought about that and smiled. ‘Since you put it that way…’ He beckoned Grace in with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Good morning, pretty lady,’ he said, in heavily accented English. ‘My house is your house.’
She favoured him with a quizzical smile, then pulled Mavros in after her by the arm. ‘Is this guy for real?’ she whispered.
The composer had the look of a man who hadn’t seen the light of day, let alone experienced polite company, for a very long time. His apartment was dim, the blinds all drawn and the only light coming from a small Anglepoise on the lid of the grand piano that took up most of the saloni. There was a strong smell of cats and hand-rolled cigarettes. Looking around in the gloom, Mavros made out a cardboard box on the floor. It contained a cat nursing a tangle of black-and-white kittens.
‘Ah, you see Psipsina?’ Randos said, running his hand through the grizzled stubble on his chin. He nudged Grace towards the box. ‘She had five little bastards last week. Now they suck all day and all night. This teach her not to make sex, no?’
‘I like cats,’ she said, kneeling down by the box and stroking the queen gently.
The composer went over to the window and pulled up a blind halfway. The trunks of the trees on the hill’s lower slopes were visible beyond. ‘I keep it dark for Psipsina. She is not liking the sun.’ He took a half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray and lit it.
‘She is not liking the smoke either,’ Grace said, standing up and staring pointedly at the cigarette.
There was a pause, then Randos let out a roar of laughter. ‘She is not liking the smoke! Very good!’ But he kept the roll-up alight. He turned to Mavros. ‘So you are Spyros’s son, Andonis’s brother,’ he said, in Greek, his expression clouded. ‘Great tragedy,’ he said. ‘Andonis was a hero.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘A hero. And Spyros too. He was a great man.’
The composer seemed nervous, whether because he was uncomfortable with an American woman in his home or for some other reason, Mavros couldn’t tell. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘And you, too, are a great man.’ Experience had taught him that artists of all kinds were susceptible to flattery, those on the Left more than most. ‘We grew up singing your songs. The country was sustained by them during the difficult years.’
Randos looked suitably gratified. ‘Thank you.’ He gestured to them to sit down on the sofa, which was covered with cat hairs. ‘You like wine?’ he said, switching back to English. ‘I do not make coffee—it is stolen by the big companies from the peasants. My woman is in the shops again. She is spending my money so that I stay a poor man.’
Mavros and Grace exchanged glances and declined the offer.
‘In fact,’ Mavros said, ‘it’s about one of your songs that we came.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The barrel-chested composer looked interested. ‘What song?’
‘“The Voyage of the Argo”,’ Grace said, taking the lead and ignoring Mavros’s glare.
‘You hear this song in United States too?’ Randos asked, in surprise.
‘Em, yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s known all over the world, isn’t it?’
‘But it is understood best in Greece,’ Mavros put in, trying to control the questioning.
Grace ignored him. ‘We wanted to ask you about the lyrics, Mr Randos.’
‘Don’t call me “Mr”,’ the composer said irritably. ‘Title of the bourgeoisie, no?’
‘Comrade Rando?’ Mavros tried.
The big man jerked his head back in denial. ‘Too late for comrades now, comrade,’ he said, with a weak laugh. ‘Communist Party fucked all over the world,’ he said, giving Grace a meaningful look, ‘thanks to very democratic America. No, you call me Randos only. No shit first name approved by shit-eating church.’ He looked more closely at them. ‘You want to ask about the stichous, the lyric? Why?’
Mavros realised that caution was necessary—the composer was already suspicious. ‘The voyage of the ship filled with heroes, it was a metaphor for Greece, wasn’t it?’ He made his initial question as general as he could.
‘Metaphora?’ Randos said, his face slackening. ‘Yes, but not only for Greece, for every country in the world. They must look for and fight for the—how you say?—sheepskin of gold that—’ He broke off when he saw the involuntary smile on Grace’s lips.
‘Golden fleece,’ Mavros corrected.
‘Yes, golden fleece,’ the composer said hurriedly, embarrassed by his mistake. ‘Golden fleece is symbol for better world, truth, freedom, justice. But many heroes die on the voyage and the ones who return are never the same again.’
‘“You, Iasona, are fated to lose your darling sons. You, Irakli, will soon endure the flames of the pyre,”’ Mavros intoned in a low voice.
‘Yes, yes,’ Randos said, grinning widely. ‘You cannot sing, young Mavro, but you know the lines.’ His expression turned serious. ‘Iason—’
‘We call him Jason,’ Grace put in.
‘Iason,’ persisted the composer. ‘You remember the myth, Amerikanidha?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘He returned home with the Princess Medea and took her as his wife, but she grew jealous of him and slaughtered their children.’
Mavros couldn’t put off the question any longer. If Randos passed on what was about to be said to the comrades, too bad. ‘Iraklis,’ he said, catching the composer’s eye. ‘Iason. They were the same, weren’t they?’
The bulky Greek went as pale as a sheet, drops of sweat sprouting on his face. ‘What you mean?’ he blustered. ‘Iason and Iraklis very different heroes.’
‘I’m talking about Iason Kolettis,’ Mavros said, stepping closer. ‘I’m talking about the terrorist group Iraklis. Iason Kolettis was an Iraklis member, wasn’t he?’
Randos opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came.
‘He killed my father,’ Grace said, her eyes burning into the composer’s. ‘I have to find him.’
Mavros put a hand on her arm to restrain her. ‘You knew him, didn’t you, Rando? You knew him in the sixties.’
The country’s most popular songwriter looked distractedly at them both. Then he began to weep uncontrollably.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KOSTAS LASKARIS lifted his head from the pages of manuscript that were strewn across the dining table in the tower. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was late afternoon. He had been writing all day, his thoughts with Iraklis as he battled the writhing Hydra at Lerna in Argolidha; each of the heads severed by the hero represented one of the evils that had beset Greece in the poet’s own time—collaboration with the Axis occupiers, black-market profiteering, treason, rape. Most difficult of all had been the depiction of Iraklis. In the earlier parts of the poem, he had restricted himself to a standard heroic formula—impulsive, strong of limb, indomitable will—but now he wanted to be more specific, more human. Inevitably the template had been that of his own hero, the kapetanios who called himself Iraklis during the mountain years of the Second World War—the warm voice, the hair that shone even th
ough it went unwashed for months, the one who had inspired his band of Lakonian freedom fighters and who had disappeared when victory was in sight.
Now the poet was also faced with the need to put himself in the work. Later in the war he had been known as Iolaos, after Iraklis’s faithful friend in the fight against the Hydra and subsequent mythical labours. He decided that that was how he would appear in the poem.
Dragging himself to his feet, he surveyed the scattered sheets of paper. It would be a struggle to put them in order. Often he had been encouraged by friends in the big city to use a computer, but he’d resisted. Computers meant sharing his thoughts with another intelligence. They also meant being in touch with the rest of the world. In the sixties when he had returned to the Mani to restore the old tower, he wanted to keep at bay the world that had ruined his life and the lives of those he had loved. So he had no telephone—landline or mobile—no electronic mail, no television. Even the radio he used sparingly, and never for the news. He took the Communist paper Rizospastis once a week and that sufficed. The modern world, with its technical sophistication and its glittering, empty heart, was not for him.
Laskaris put on his coat and opened the heavy door. The sun was low over the western peninsula, its rays turning the sea into a morass of seething purple cut with white now that the wind had got up. He took a stick, which he had whittled clean from a length of driftwood, and walked slowly down the path that led to Tigani. The headland stretched out before him, the crown of its ramparts standing proudly against the last of the light. Soon he had to stop, the pain in his abdomen jabbing regularly and the breath rasping in his throat. ‘That’s enough, old man,’ he muttered. ‘You can’t go any further.’
And yet he knew he must, in mind if not in body. The thought that had been torturing him since he’d been in Athens had to be confronted, and Tigani was the place to do it. Even if he had to content himself with looking down on the jutting rocks rather than trace his way across them as the two young men had done nearly thirty years ago, one of them the bright-faced, blue-eyed elder son of Spyros Mavros, who had vanished soon afterwards.
Andonis Mavros had arrived at the tower in the middle of a rough November night in 1972, knocking on the door twice, then three times, then twice again in the prearranged signal. Laskaris had made his way down from the top bedroom, his legs moving much more quickly than they could now.
‘Come in, my boy,’ the poet said, raising a hand to silence his visitor. There was no need of the password. He had met the young man occasionally in Athens despite the rift that had opened up with Spyros before his untimely death. ‘Did anyone see you in the village?’
Andonis Mavros shook his head. ‘No, Comrade Kosta. I was careful.’
‘Just as well.’ The poet took the soaked duffel coat the young man had removed and spread it on a chair near the roaring fire. ‘There are some who retain the Mani’s traditional love of extremist patriotism.’
‘And hatred of the Left?’ Andonis Mavros accepted the glass of rough brandy he was offered.
‘Oh, yes,’ Laskaris replied. ‘They sometimes try to break my windows.’ He shrugged. ‘These old towers were built to repulse far worse attacks.’
‘So I see,’ the young man said, taking in the roughly hewn stone walls and the small shutters. ‘I haven’t been down here before.’ He sat by the fire and started to unlace his boots. ‘Do your people still get involved in vendettas?’
The poet brought him a plate containing the heel of a loaf, some olives and a slice of siglino, the local smoked pork. ‘Some of the more hotheaded ones. The vendetta survives more as a threat, an invisible skein supporting their world, rather than actual violence.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Unless you assault their wives or daughters.’
‘Not my style,’ Andonis Mavros said, with an assurance that, despite his age, suggested he was familiar with the close attention of women.
‘Your mother?’ Laskaris asked. ‘Your siblings? They are all well?’
Andonis’s jaw jutted forward. ‘As well as anyone can be in these times of misfortune.’ His face relaxed. ‘Anna is fifteen and…wilful is the word that springs to mind. And Alex, little Alex, he is ten.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think he has much idea of what is going on around him. My mother tries to keep him wrapped in a cocoon. She remembers how much my father paid for his beliefs.’
‘She must be worried about you, then, young man,’ Laskaris observed. ‘It is not necessary for you to make the same sacrifices as Spyros. He achieved enough for all of you.’
Andonis Mavros smiled sadly. ‘Except the world does not work that way, Comrade Poet—as you know only too well. Without the dedication of the young, society will never change.’ His voice hardened. ‘This government of thugs and their American backers will never be overthrown unless we unite to act. Let’s hope the meeting you’ve arranged with Iason Kolettis ends in a new unity.’
Kostas Laskaris’s ears rang with the resistance leader’s words. He was right, there could be no argument about that. More than that, he was magnificent: a young god whose powers were immeasurable. What glory could he achieve with a band of willing helpers? How much good could he bring into the world?
And then the poet had remembered what had happened to his own generation of idealists, what had happened to Iraklis and Stamatina and poor deluded Dinos. Their labours ended ingloriously; they had brought no benefit to suffering humanity. Everything was shrouded in a mist of illusion, but he could not tell the young man opposite him that. It was his duty to struggle and go under, the same as had been that of the resistance fighters in the occupation and the starving remnants of the Democratic Army during the civil war. Life was an uneven struggle, and the struggle had no end but death.
Laskaris shivered as the sun finally disappeared beyond the fortresses of Koroni and Methoni on the distant headland. Andonis Mavros had come back to haunt him, his shade hovering in the wolf light of evening like an avenger. But did he have the courage to admit what he knew about the young man to his family, especially now that the Iraklis group seemed to have started operations again? His brother Alex was an investigator, an independent one rather than a lackey of the authorities. Maybe he would listen without passing judgement.
The realisation that he had one more duty to discharge before the disease prevailed over him almost crushed the old poet’s spirit.
Grace Helmer took the composer Randos’s arm. ‘Come,’ she said softly. ‘Sit down and tell us what you know about Iason Kolettis. You’ll feel better after that.’ She dabbed tears from the stubble-covered face after they had settled on the tattered sofa.
Mavros squatted down in front of them. ‘I know this is difficult,’ he said. ‘Dangerous, even—though only if you let anyone know that you spoke to us.’
The stricken man took a deep breath and gently pushed Grace’s hand away from his face. ‘You do not know what you are asking,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘There are some things that cannot be spoken. Like the ancient mysteria they must remain secret.’ His voice was hoarse and almost inaudible.
‘No,’ Grace objected. ‘This isn’t sacred, this isn’t a mystery that only initiates can know.’ She put her hand under the composer’s chin and forced his head up. ‘I was five years old when my father was murdered.’ She glanced briefly at Mavros, then turned her gaze back on Randos. ‘I saw the knife slit his throat, I saw his blood spray out across the paving stones.’
‘You—you saw—’ The composer fell silent.
‘Yes, I was watching from my bedroom window,’ Grace continued. ‘And you know what else? The murderer looked up and saw me, before he used the knife.’ She moved her face to within a finger-length of Randos’s. ‘I only want one thing in my life, but I want it so badly. I want the man who called himself Iason Kolettis to look me in the eye and explain why he did that, why he destroyed my family.’
Mavros watched as Randos tried to fashion a reply, the musician’s heavy body trembling under the woman’s relentless stare. Grace ha
dn’t told him that she had witnessed her father’s killing. It went a long way to explaining her motivation, but it also showed how skilled she was at concealing things. He wondered what else she might have omitted to mention.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ Grace was saying. ‘The pain of what you know has been crushing you for years.’ She touched the back of Randos’s hand. ‘That pain is in your music, isn’t it?’
The composer nodded. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘The pain is in—’ He stopped, tears flowering in his eyes again. ‘Lady, there is little I can tell you, but you are right. It is time I open my mouth.’ He wiped a heavy hand across his face. ‘Iason Kolettis, he was…he was nobody.’
Mavros and Grace looked at each other.
‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
Randos shook his finger slowly at them, as if they were children. ‘It means that he was a secret person, an undercover man with many names, a…what you call it? Animal that changes colour of skin, kind of savra?’
‘A kind of lizard,’ Mavros said. ‘A chameleon?’
‘Yes, chameleon.’ The musician pronounced the word in its Greek form, stressing the second e. ‘He changed his appearance, he moved among us and among the enemy like a ghost.’
‘Yes, but what was he?’ Grace persisted. ‘Some kind of agent? Who controlled him?’
Randos looked across to the cat with her clutch of squeaking little ones. ‘An agent?’ he repeated. ‘If you like that word. He killed people. I heard he was trained by the Soviets. The comrades here at first used him for the dangerous operations, the ones they were not sure about. But they didn’t control him. I don’t know if anyone controlled him. He made Iraklis himself, with a few people he took from the Party. There were rumours that someone else was involved, someone who wasn’t a comrade, but I never heard who that was.’ He sat back panting, as if confessing the secret knowledge had drained him of energy.
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 15
