by Tony Kaplan
Antonis, serious and focused, speaks to the Mayor and the Police Chief. The Mayor hands over a wad of documents. The Inspector examines them carefully. He shuffles them and finds one he puts to the front. He comes over to me. “Okay,” he says without looking at me, still preoccupied with the documents he has been given, “The construction company building the new road, Atreus Constructions…” he consults the documents “… belongs to Christos Papademos.” (I register this is the same guy who is building The Poseidon. Could this be a link Lucy is pursuing?) “But it was a different company before that was building this bridge. If it was Papademos’s company, maybe he would not want a body to be found.” He chuckles and gives me a mischievous look. “But, okay, let’s see.” He examines the documents again. “The construction company that built this bridge, the old bridge, according to this document here, was owned by someone called… Konstantinos Garidis.”
Konstantinos Garidis – the bully boy for the Gestapo on the island in the war. That fits. He could have taken it upon himself to do his patriot bit by burying old communists in concrete.
I see Antonis and the Police Chief talking earnestly. The chief scratches his head. Antonis nods and comes back to me. It seems the Chief has had the same idea as me. He also knows Garidis’s reputation. He knows where the old man lives and has offered to drive Antonis to see him, not to formally interview him, but merely to root around – see what he knows, hear what he has to say. The Inspector wants to know if I want to go along for the ride. I notice that the Chief is not too pleased to have me along but seems to have deferred to his Athenian counterpart.
On the way to the patrol car, the Chief asks me if I’ve seen Lucy – the airport had no listing of her having flown out of the island. His tone has softened, I surmise he is trying to dissipate the tension there is between us, before we go on a long drive into the mountains and potentially spend the day together. I too feel conciliatory. Maybe I misjudged him. I tell him that Lucy seems to have popped in and popped out again, having collected her hoodie and her laptop. I’m sure she’ll be back shortly or call or e-mail me if she is going to be away for any time. He nods thoughtfully.
“Forget about her,” he says, “She a crazy woman!” and smiles ruefully. “You yoornaleest? – you write about this investigation, Antonis tells to me – is better. Peoples they must not forget their history,” he says somberly. He offers me his hand. “Parakalo, you call me Panagiotis. And the second name: Valoudsakis” – he spells it for me – “for when you write about me,” he says, smiling modestly. He hitches his trousers up so his belt circumscribes the widest girth of his tummy and rolls his shoulders back, with the briefest glance at my camera. Vanity? Camera-derie? (Ho-ho.)
“So who do you think the body belongs to?” I ask in the car as we make our way up into the hills.
Antonis talks over his shoulder to me in the back of the patrol car. He has to shout to be heard over the roar of the engine, which is struggling against the gradient. “The bridge was built in 1969. The time of the Colonels. Of the ‘junta’. So maybe political. We don’t know for sure. Maybe an accident? – someone working, fell in the concrete? But we do not have any reports of anyone going missing – does not mean to say it did not happen. We will check again. But if it is political… the Communists have given us the names of two of their comrades who were arrested by the junta and never seen again. One of them was the father of the man who owns the restaurant in Agia Anna.”
“Michalis Epistemos,” I say.
“Exactly,” the Inspector says, “Gregorios Epistemos, also known as Mavros. In English, “Blackie”. Very dark skin. Maybe from Africa in his family.” The Chief nods.
“And the other one?”
“Aris Lambros, the leader of the United Democratic Left on the island until the Colonels banned the UDL as soon as they took power – the UDL was the only properly left-wing organization in Greece. The Communist Party of course was banned in the 30s by the Great Patriot, General Metaxas. Gregorios Epistemos, Mavros, was also in the UDL. We will try to get dental records, but, you know, not many Greeks went to a dentist in those days, certainly not on an island like this. If your teeth were bad, a bone-fixer would pull the bad teeth out your head,” he chuckles. “But there are other ways,” he says. “We will find out who the body is.”
11
We get to Kasteli which sits precariously high up in a cleft in the mountain. At its highest point there is a small church with a blue roof. All that is left of the castle, after which the village is named (there is a hopeful sign pointing to it), are geometric fronds of inglorious rubble overcome by revanchist weeds. The village streets flow like rivulets finding their way from the church down to the square by gravity alone. The main street is cobbled – the other streets are a mixture of potholed concrete and dust. There is a kafenion, outside of which old men sit. An ancient oak has been preserved at the side of the square, its trunk whitened with lime to slow the industry of demolition ants. Two young boys kick a plastic football. Their heavy-set mothers, baskets of laundry on their hips, chat in high-pitched voices like pigeons.
As the Chief parks his car on the square, an old crone in black peeks out a half-closed door, scowls and goes back inside. The door closes. We walk a little uphill to one of only two double-storied houses in the village. The house has been extended over time, but in the main area it is a product of the 1960s with squat iron-framed windows and garish tiles. The Chief pushes open a wrought iron gate and climbs the stairs to the veranda and the front door. A small dog barks hysterically inside. “Garidis,” the Chief calls, “Kalimera!” He waits, then shouts out again, “Ela, Konstantino!”
He turns to us and raises his eyebrows and shrugs. I’m not sure what this is meant to convey. The dog goes on yapping. The furniture on the veranda has seen better days and smells of witch-hazel. There is a jumble of pots with plants in them - geraniums, nasturtiums, an assortment of miniature succulents and a bedraggled sweet pea creeper. A low table has an ashtray filled with butts on it and a glass half-emptied of some dark brown liquid.
The front door opens cautiously and an old man peers out from under luxuriant white eyebrows. “Ti thelete?” he croaks. I think we may have woken him up. “Geia sou, kirios Garidis,” the chief greets him. The old man peers at him, to catch in his fragile memory a glimpse of familiarity which will reveal the stranger’s identity. The Chief introduces himself and from the sweep of his arm, us too. He asks if we can go inside. The old man doesn’t reply, but, eyeing us suspiciously, lets us in. The interior is dark and cool. The old man shuffles to the far window and opens the curtains and squints at us, baffled, as if he’d imagined us and now finds we are real. A ginger and white cat is woken by the beam of light from the gap between the curtains. The cat is at first mystified, then displeased and haughtily jumps down from the couch it was sleeping on and sashays out the door, tail erect with disapprobation.
Konstantinos Garidis, one hand on the arm-rest, eases himself into his plump sitting chair and regards us quizzically. We have not been invited to sit. The Chief looks irritated and sits anyway. Antonis and I follow his lead. Antonis, in a measured voice, brimming with politeness, asks the old man questions, which the old man answers laconically. I hear him refuting something, “Ochi, ochi!” and sighing heavily, he gets up and goes to a portmanteau and scrabbles about in some papers. Shaking his head, he shuffles across the room to get his spectacles from the dining table, where they lie on an open newspaper. He makes his way back to his paperwork and tries once more to find what he is looking for.
“The original documents for the road and bridge,” Antonis whispers to me.
“Endaxi,” old Mr. Garidis says and pulls a bunch of documents out and proffers them to the Inspector. Antonis thanks him and peruses the papers. He compares two documents, frowns and then nods. “He’s right,” he says, “Although he signed the contract for the bridge to be built in 1969, it seems from this” – he thrusts a document at the Chief – “that he sold the
construction company two months later – before construction of the bridge had started.”
Antonis asks the old man another question. The old man answers, “Hektor Papademos.”
The Inspector takes this in. He turns to me. “He says that he sold the company to Hektor Papademos, the father of the man who has the contract for the new road and bridge.” (Also The Poseidon, I want to tell him, but I hold back – I don’t yet know if that’s relevant.) “Interesting,” he says.
“Doesn’t make no sense,” says the Chief, “The Papademos family are PASOK. When it was the time of the Colonels, they were against. They are democrats.” He was clearly wishing for the old fascist collaborator to be the guilty party. That would have been neat and clean.
The Inspector is evidently asking if he can hold onto the documents. But Konstantinos Garidis is not having that – he snatches the papers out of the Inspector’s hand and holds them to his chest defiantly. The Chief says quietly, “There will be copies at the Town Hall. Let’s leave him alone.” He gets up and we follow him out. “Fascisti skata!” the Chief murmurs under his breathe.
So, they will have to question Hektor Papademos. The Chief says he will set it up for Antonis, if possible for tomorrow. He knows the family. They will cooperate. Which reminds me, I have an appointment with the son next week. Doesn’t seem relevant, now that Lucy is back. I should phone to cancel.
12
We head back to Agia Anna in a pensive mood. Antonis invites the Chief to stay for lunch and I am invited to join them. The Chief recommends The Seaview. Suits me. “Sure, Chief,” I say jauntily – this is my home patch.
“Ah, but you must remember to call me Panagiotis,” he says silkily. He wants the locals to see he is a friend of the journalist from London who is covering the story in which he will feature.
We get there in time to see the Chief’s son pulling his 1000cc police bike onto its stand and unfingering his gloves. He is wearing wrap-round shades and heavy leather boots, which must be hell in this hot weather. Still, image is everything. Besides, Kostas Valoudsakis looks everything like the macho cop of his Hollywood fantasies.
Panagiotis (as I must remember now to call him) questions his son peremptorily and admonishes him in assertive hissing. Kostas looks suitably told off and slouches over to a side table and sits down glumly. But perks up with alacrity as Xanthe comes out onto the balcony. Panagiotis, the long-suffering father, rolls his eyes. Xanthe sees the Chief. “Hello, Uncle Pano,” she says sweetly and comes to kiss him on both cheeks. Kostas licks his lips in expectation. But Xanthe just nods at him and then looks away pointedly. Kostas is deflated and fiddles with the saltcellar, examining it assiduously, before glancing up again at Xanthe, to see if she has changed her mind. She hasn’t. She has seen Bobby at the tavern next door eyeing her with his lovely amber eyes and she makes a show of waving at him in a friendly way. Bobby half-waves back. He blushes and turns away. Kosta can barely hide his chagrin. She waves at Bobby, who is a kid, yet she can’t give him the time of day? I can see him fuming. Agapi goes to take his order, he mumbles, “Mia bira,” before quickly looking at his father, his boss, and changing his mind, “Ochi. Nero, mono, nero. Parakalo.” He is on duty. Its water only for him.
Meanwhile, Antonis has found us a table and the Chief is levering his corpulent frame into a wicker chair. I sit opposite the Chief. Michalis hastens to us. “Welcome,” he says in English. “Geia sou, Panagiotis,” he greets the Chief. His smile is forced. Panagiotis offers his hand. He and Michalis clasp hands with powerful muscularity. The Chief introduces the Inspector. The Inspector offers his hand too. Antonis offers to introduce me, but Michalis tells him we’ve already met. He gives me a broad smile like I’m a regular. Then Antonis looks grave and takes Michalis aside. They talk softly and go inside. Antonis comes back after a few minutes. “I think it is right I tell him the body in the bridge may be his father. He had already heard this.” He shrugs. “Poor man. I would not want to find this thing out about my father.”
“He won’t remember his father,” the Chief says, “He was a zmall boy when they took his father away. What he will remember? He does not even want to remember that it was my father who brought his father to the island. My father that paid for him, helped him escape the authorities in Athens. Michalis he knows this, but he never came to me and say thank you. Always at this taverna I pay full price! His daughter, Xanthe, she calls me Uncle – you hear her say this, nai? The family they know what we did to help them. Stavroula she knows this. But Michalis… pah!” He juts his lower lip into an expression of resentful irony. “He won’t even allow his daughter to go out at the invitation of Kosta, my son. Look at him, the poor boy. Look how he is look. Xanthe is studying to be a doctor – Michalis wants for her to find another doctor to marry. A professor. He doesn’t want her to go with a policeman. What you can do?”
At that moment, Xanthe comes to our table and with a proprietorial hand on “Uncle” Panagiotis’s shoulder, she introduces herself to Antonis. Antonis introduces himself formally and shoots out his hand to her. She flashes him a seductive smile. “Ah, you’re from Athens,” she says in English, “Thanks goodness, at last, civilization!” she says and chuckles flirtatiously. She asks where he lives and they find out, as Antonis translates for me quickly, they live not far from one another in the University district. Xanthe is clearly enamoured by the possibility of having a Police Inspector as a friend and protector in Athens. By her pout, she may be even more interested than that. Or is this just a show to rile Kosta? Certainly the policeman has her attention and he is having trouble suppressing his jealousy and rage. His father notices his challenging stare and glares at him, so Kostas goes back to examining the saltcellar.
Agapi brings menus and places one in front of each of us. She has to lean over to place Antonis’ and as she does so, I see his eyes fix on her cleavage and then up to her face with a look of longing. She catches his gaze and does her Mona Lisa thing, a smile halfway between cynical and pleased. She probably thinks men are like children. Antonis gulps and then tries to affect a suave expression. He is from Athens after all.
Xanthe is taking all this in, she is not best pleased. “Agapi,” she says in English, “Don’t just stand there. Ask the gentlemen what they want to drink. Look, this fork is not clean. Go and wash it. Bring a new one please.” She smiles benevolently at Antonis. Agapi looks skeptically at her and turns up a corner of her gracefully curved lips in a demi-grimace. But she demurs and goes off, with the culpable fork in hand. “The girl didn’t even take your drinks order!” Xanthe says, astonished by Agapi’s incompetence. She looks at Antonis, celebrating her small but easy victory. Agapi is merely an employee. Xanthe is the boss’s daughter. Antonis’s eyes are on Agapi’s swaggering bottom as she walks away. Xanthe frowns. I can see she is a determined girl, used to getting her own way. She will not give up the pursuit easily. “Inspector Ionides… or can I call you Antonis?” she asks coquettishly. Antonis nods his assent. “Could I offer you a complimentary glass of white wine, seeing this is your first time in our restaurant?” Antonis nods and smiles politely. “And you, Uncle Panagiotis? What would like to drink?”
“I will have the complimentary wine also,” Panagiotis says with guile. Xanthe chuckles at his wit. “No, that’s just for the Inspector,” she says. Did she just wink at Antonis? The Police Chief laughs too, but his smile is fixed and his expression has darkened. He is hurt by this casual putdown by a twenty-year-old girl.
I interrupt the tense moment by ordering a beer. Then we all study our menus. I notice Antonis’s eyes straying to the door through which Agapi went inside. He is waiting for another glance to tell him if she is as beautiful as when he first looked at her. I contemplate whether to tell him that her name means “Love”, but I don’t. I am irritated to find that I feel territorial about Agapi. I feel more inclined to point out to Antonis that the boss’s daughter is a far safer bet.
Once we have our drinks – the Chief also orders a bottle
of sparkling water – and the heat of the 2 o'clock sun, even under the awnings, has dulled us into a pleasant torpor, Panagiotis Valoudsakis, with an initial glance to see that Michalis isn’t within hearing distance, tells us the story of Michali’s father, Gregorios Epistemos, aka Mavros. As he talks, I wish I had my tape recorder with me, or at least a notepad. I don’t. So, I can’t say the article I compose and submit to my journal later in the day is accurate in all its details. But with the help of my History of Modern Greece, I get something down which is mostly faithful to the Police Chief’s telling. It is too long, and I know it will be heavily edited before it goes to print, but this is how it comes out.
The body in the bridge. A report from the frontline by Tom Pickering.
Uncovered in demolition to make way for a new road, in the crumbling concrete of a thirty-five-year-old bridge on the Greek island of Mythos, is an interred body. According to my informant, Panagiotis Valoudsakis, Chief of Police on the island, these are the remains of a left-wing activist from the era of the Colonels, the military junta, in charge of Greece in the late 60s/early 70s. His story encapsulates much of what the Left in Greece claims has never been properly addressed, and the finding of the body has fueled the campaign by the Communist Party to have erected statues to commemorate their fallen heroes of old. The body in the bridge has become emblematic of this struggle and the man in this inglorious concrete tomb has become lauded as a hero.
Gregorios ‘Mavros’ Epistemos was an eleven-year-old boy living with his mother in the Grammos mountains of Northern Greece when the German troops arrived in the summer of 1941. His father had died when Mavros was a small boy. He was his mother’s only child. From the age of eight, to help to support his mother, he herded his uncle’s goats, in the heat of summer and in the icy cold of winter, chasing his recalcitrant charges, who, without understanding why, tried, whenever the opportunity presented itself, to escape up into the high mountains. So, Mavros learned the terrain as a goat would. Later this saved his life.
