Signs of a Struggle

by Tony Kaplan

  The Chief leads us in. He is avuncular now and greets Papademos the Older warmly. Hektor Papademos, for a man in his eighties, is upright and elegant. He is dressed in a grey suit and tie – old school. His wavy white hair is still decently thick and carefully maintained. The moustache over his wide, flat lips is precisely trimmed – a man who takes care of his appearance. To good effect. He is a handsome man, a man of stature. Only the hollowing of his cheeks and the dulling of a cataract in one eye suggest his true age. His full lips widen slowly into a smile which is considered – not bestowed without good reason and to good effect. He extends his hand. I half expect the Chief to kiss it. He doesn’t. He shakes it vigorously and turns to introduce us. The padrone regards me curiously, takes my hand is his meaty grip, his good eyes boring into me, before he releases me, and nods to us, indicating the chairs in front of this desk. Antonis is watching him carefully.

  The Chief hands over to Antonis. Antonis waits, pursing his lips as he considers his opening line of questioning. Then he begins, careful to maintain a respectful tone, enough to indicate that this is a conversation, an enquiry only. I read their body language. The old man remains patrician, his hands on his knees. Antonis straightens so as not to lean in, as the replies become more controlled, more carefully crafted. I hear the Inspector casually drop in “CIA”. I notice the Chief shift uncomfortably in his seat. Papademos Senior’s eyebrows lift. He eyes the Inspector coolly, then he smiles a benign smile and waves the question off with a contemptuous, “Pah!” and gives a reply, steeped in sarcasm. His eyes have not changed their expression.

  The Inspector lets this go and proceeds, his voice patient, modulated. Another question. The old man frowns with an air of erudition as he tries to remember a detail. He gets up, pushing on the armrests of his chair, grunting with the effort and goes to a filing cabinet, peers at the labels on each drawer, until he finds what he is looking for and calls Antonis over. He gives Antonis instructions and the Inspector sorts through files until he pulls out a folder, opens it and reads it through. Antonis nods. “Garidis,” he says to us.

  There follows a brief, business-like exchange with the old man, who looks pleased with the outcome, the Inspector and the Chief shake his meaty proffered hand and then we leave.

  We are just emerging into the sunlight, when I remember that I had a camera with me when we arrived. I have left it in Hektor Papademos’s office. I excuse myself and hasten back to the office to retrieve it. Just as I am approaching the door, I overhear the old man’s voice, a hoarse whisper, an angry menace. I get to the door and see he is on the phone, his back to me. His tone changes to placatory: "Stavroula... Stavroula...!" I knock discretely. He spins around, wide-eyed, then scowling, his hand over the receiver. “Yes?” he asks peremptorily.

  “I left my camera. Sorry,” I say, hastily collect the camera and leave. He takes his hand off the receiver and the conversation resumes with a long sigh of exasperation and a whispered exhortation.

  I return to where the Inspector and the Chief of Police wait for me near the air-conditioning vent. “Okay,” Antonis tells me, “He did own the construction company by the time the bridge was built. I asked him whether he’d ever worked for the CIA. He laughed. He said he was on the side of the people who were taken. Anyone will tell me that.” The Inspector shrugs. “My colleague in Athens had him down as working for the Americans. Maybe they are wrong.” I can tell he thinks they are not. “And, he tells me, the cement all came from Garidis. Garidis sold the construction company, but he kept the cement factory. It was Garidis and his men who poured the concrete for the bridge. He said if we want to know how the body got into the bridge, we should ask Konstantin Garidis. Endaxi,” he says with some satisfaction, “We will have to go back and speak again with Mr Garidis.”

  18

  Garidis sits squat in his well-cushioned chair, his fingers interlaced and his bulbous eyes mocking the Inspector. The Inspector is courteous, almost apologetic, as he sets out the reason for our return visit. I hear Hektor Papademos’s name more than once. Garidis scoffs. Then the Inspector subtly shifts into second gear. He produces a notebook and folds back the pages, until he gets to the questions he has prepared. Garidis watches him, a brief glint of alarm, then the blinds come down. Antonis, in a measured tone which coddles a threat, enumerates the questions he has formulated, a pen poised, ready to capture the old man’s reply.

  Garidis leans back into the plush folds of his chair. He takes his time, surveying the big city cop with disdain. His tone when he deigns to answer the Inspector’s questions is perfunctory, dismissive and rich with sarcasm. The Inspector persists, the tilt of his head deferential. Garidis explains something to the Inspector with long-suffering pedantry, condescension, but when Antonis does not demure, the old man’s voice rises with indignation. He is a man who is affronted by the insinuations, an innocent man he will have us believe. But Antonis has spotted something, some incongruity I intuit, and his next set of questions are delivered with a sharper point. Garidis starts to sweat, his eyes shifting to seek the support of the Chief of Police who knows him, who will not bully an old man. Panagiotis turns his mouth down to save himself a shrug. The old man attempts a smile, but without the affirmation from Antonis it calls for, it is stillborn; Garidis returns to squawking and blustering. Antonis folds his notebook away with a look of quiet satisfaction. Garidis offers something, at first with urgency, then, when Antonis accepts his offer, his offer becomes steeped in reluctance. He wants to regain his pride and his protestations of innocence. Panagiotis looks at him with a mixture of contempt and disappointment.

  In all the time we are there, Garidis has not offered us refreshment. On the way back to our car, the Chief tells us this was a definite affront – it is unheard of in the villages, if not the towns, not to offer guests at least a glass of water and dry biscuits or bread with salt. Garidis had signalled that he did not consider us his guests; we were intruders.

  The Chief and the Inspector discuss the interview on the way back to Agia Anna in the car. Antonis explains to me that Garidis has of course denied any knowledge about how a body came to be hidden in the cement of the bridge. He acknowledged it was his cement and blamed the memory of an old man for not having specified this at our earlier interview. But he said he knew all his men personally – not one of them would have dreamt of doing anything criminal, like disposing of a dead body. He acknowledged that he had supported the military coup, insisted that it had brought stability to the country and that the crimes of the Colonels had been vastly exaggerated at what he had considered to be “show trials” worthy of Josef Stalin. According to him, the Communist had got what they deserved. If the Colonels hadn’t taken over, the country would have gone to the dogs. “We would all be Albanians!” he said – Antonis mimics his gruff voice and chuckles. “The man does not know his history,” he says.

  Importantly, Garidis said that all the Communists who had been arrested had been sent to the political prison on Macronissos. There had been no executions on the island. He would have known. “He says we should check the records,” the Chief says, “The bastard even smiled. He knows all the records were destroyed before the Colonels were toppled. He probably burned the records for the island himself. We won’t find anything. He’s not going to talk. Malakas!”

  Antonis nods in agreement. He turns to me. “Anyway, we asked him to give us all the names of the men who worked on the bridge. Maybe one of them will talk, if any of them are still alive. It was a long time ago. I suppose we must get the names of all the construction company workers also. Or else Garidis will say we targeted him. Panagiotis, you will do this?” The Chief nods. “So now we will wait. Tomorrow is the naming day for Agia Sofia. Tomorrow we don’t work,” says the Inspector with a wistful look.

  Antonis is thinking of Agapi.

  19

  I turn down Antoni’’s invitation to dine with him – I feel a pressure to get something written to send off to Marsha and fear I will surely be distrac
ted by Antoni’’s anticipation of the picnic with Agapi tomorrow. Which reminds me, I need to get something from the store in the village to contribute - a bottle of wine maybe.

  On my way to the shop, I think to go past Lucy’s, just in case she has changed her mind and has returned. The old lady opposite is at her gate, as soon as she sees me, she jabbers away, gesticulating I think to indicate her head hurts. The rent – she is wanting the rent and hoping to get my sympathy. I go to her and take out my wallet and show her I don’t have much on me. She looks at me like I am crazy, she is insulted, turns and walks back up her path. Two cats scuttle into the house ahead of her.

  No-one at Lucy’s. No signs of life.

  The shop is busy – the young woman behind the cash register tells me they are closed tomorrow for the Saint’s Day and everyone is getting their last-minute additions – most will have done their main shopping in the port, in Agia Sofia. The shop has beach paraphernalia, two fridges with fizzy drinks, water and juice, an almost empty rack of vegetables and fruit – what is left is certainly not worth buying - shelves of tinned foods and at the back, a surprisingly well-stocked rack of wine and spirits. I know nothing about Greek wines, but select a bottle based on its price (reasonable) and its stylish label. I buy a tin of dolmades, stuffed vine leaves and for good measure (why not) a packet of fig biscuits. A pale cheese. A bottle of black olives from Kalamata. I don’t want to look like a cheapskate. Then again, I don’t know what Antonis will be bringing. I didn’t think to ask. How lavish will he be in his wooing?

  Back in my room, I go onto the balcony to take in the last of the light. Katerina is on her balcony next to mine. “Hey,” I say. “Geia sou.”

  “Hey”, she says, her eyebrows crinkling with curiosity in spite of her teenage torpor.

  “I’m Tom,” I say.

  “Kat,” she says, “I’m Kat.”

  “Hey, Kat,” I say, “I’m a friend of Lucy’s – the Australian?”

  “The crazy one,” Kat says in matter-of-fact voice.

  I grin complicitly. “Yeah, I guess you could say so.”

  Kat nods. “You want breakfast tomorrow?”

  When I say I do, she tells me her parents, Yiannis and Soulla, will be going to the church in the big village in the mountain for the service of thanksgiving to St. Sofia and she will be left behind to see to any tourists who come into the taverna. She doesn’t “do” religion, she tells me, so she doesn’t mind. Boring. Her father wanted Bobby to stay, but he insisted on going with them to the church. He never used to go, but this year, Xanthe will be there with her parents, and Bobby, she tells me gleefully, will want to look his best. She speaks fluent English with an American twang that comes straight from MTV. The devilish look is entirely of her own making.

  ****

  Something startles me out of my sleep in the night. I am suddenly wide awake. Something about that e-mail from Lucy wasn’t right. That wasn't Lucy. I don't know how I know that, but I know I'm right. I can't hear her saying those words in that order. Or what is it?

  I consider waiting for the morning, but now I feel certain I won’t sleep until I’ve worked it out. I open my laptop and check back in Outlook for Lucy’s e-mail. “Dear Thomas, I am going away. Do not wait for me. I will write you. Lucy.” What is it that doesn’t sound like her voice? Her calling me Thomas rather than Tom? – that could be just a jokiness. No, there is something else. The Americanisation of “I will write you”? – do Australians also do that? – leave out the preposition? They don't, do they? - they're like the English… Commonwealth, colonials. But it’s not that. I scroll back through my inbox and search for other e-mails from Lucy. There is something else…

  I re-read some of her old e-mails, and I see what the stylistic difference is. It is very clear.

  I’ll have to wait until I can get online before I can check it out. How early will Michalis open up at The Seaview? – it is Saint’s Day – he won’t want to be getting up too early. I may as well try to get back to sleep.

  20

  I wake at nine and go straight down to the Seaview with my laptop. Michalis is in a dark suit and tie, his hair slicked down, carefully parted. His wife, Nitsa, is in a fashionable two-piece, with a pill-box hat and carrying a small bag that bears the logo DKNY. Not cheap. Not bad for the daughter-in-law of a communist guerrilla. She does not look pleased when I ask to use the internet, but she unlocks the office and switches the modem on. She goes out and I hear her calling Xanthe in an assertive voice, some of the irritation I’m sure, emanating from having to indulge my untimely request. I hear Xanthe’s frustrated reply from somewhere inside, with the English-American “Oh my God! What do you want from me?!” added on.

  I send the e-mail I’ve composed to Lucy. No time for anything else. I don’t want to hold Michalis up. Right, let’s see what comes. With a mixture of excitement and foreboding, I press send. It’s gone.

  On my way out, I thank Nitsa and hand over my five euros, but she waves this away. Maybe you’re not supposed to exchange money on a Saint’s naming day. Or maybe she doesn’t want to be bothered. Michalis is helping his mother into the front passenger seat of his Mercedes. Stavroula sees me watching and gives me a steely look with her dark eyes. She does not like her infirmity to be on public display. Surely not the Stavroula the aristocratic Hektor Papademos was cajoling on the phone in his office yesterday? I presume there are lots of Stavroulas on the island, but they are of the same generation and I presume they know each other. It's a small island. Is there a connection?

  The old lady turns away with a look of disdain, as Xanthe emerges, flounces past her mother and sashays to her father's limousine. Bobby will not be disappointed. Xanthe looks like she stepped out of Vogue.

  ****

  I string out my breakfast to pass the time. Kat is not a bad little cook, I get sausages with my eggs and fried tomatoes sprinkled with wild thyme. After my third coffee, I go down to the beach which is occupied only by me and the Scandinavian party – the boys are slumped in their deck chairs, litre bottles of water at hand, their exuberance pulped by the ouzo and brandy they no doubt have over-consumed. I wait until I see the first of the church-goers returning in their family-full car, before I go up to my room for a shower and get ready to go to the picnic. My mind turns sporadically to the e-mail I’ve sent to Lucy and waves of excitement and trepidation ebb and flow.

  I take the bottle of wine and the provisions and set off. I see Antonis from a distance, coming from his cousin’s kafenion, head down, shoulders slumped. When he gets to me, he apologises even before he greets me. He has only drinks and crisps, he tells me, which he got at the last minute from his cousin’s bar. He left it too late to get provisions from the store, it was closed when he got there – so none of the extravagant delicacies he was counting on buying to impress Agapi. He looks forlorn.

  I hand him the dolmades, olives, cheese and biscuits I have bought. “Here,” I tell him, “You can say these are from you.” He looks at me in disbelieve, then gratitude. “Take it,” I say. He takes the bag from me. He looks deeply into my eyes. “For this, I owe you, file mou,” he says earnestly. He puts the bags down to give me a fulsome hug which goes on longer than I am comfortable with.

  We go over the ridge towards Agapi’s house, beyond the beach where the waves swell and break. She is standing, waiting. She waves when she sees us. She calls out, and first her daughter, then her mother, come out to stand with her to welcome us. They are dressed in their dresses for church, black and severe for the Giagia, green and simply-cut for Agapi (to match her eyes) and denim for Eleni. Their clothes are probably bought in a supermarket, from a rack of identical dresses, simple and inexpensive. They do not have excess. I had thought to buy sweets for Eleni, but my middle-class London values deterred me from buying sweets for a kid without the mother’s permission.

  Antonis hands the bag of meagre provisions to Agapi, with a brief apology. She hands the bag to her mother and invites us into her home. The cottage is
simply furnished. The table and chairs are old and bleached. Photos of the family compete for wall space, with copies of paintings of icons and saints. A large black and white wedding photo of two people from an earlier generation, stiffly upright in wedding attire, takes central stage. Agapi’s parents. I briefly compare the young woman in the photo with the old lady, now putting glasses on the table. She has made freshly-squeezed lemonade and there is, beside it, a bowl of breadsticks covered with sesame. A smaller photo, not on the wall, but in a standing frame, shows a younger Agapi in her wedding dress, her childlike features luminous, with a young and handsome man – her husband for such a short time. Agapi sees me looking at the picture and is amused but touched by my sympathetic regard. I hand my bottle of wine to her, she accepts it with a look of concealed pleasure. She touches my arm, her hand lingering, a simple act of intimacy which is not lost on me. Antonis is making formal conversation with Agapi’s mother, who stifles her grin and covers her mouth with her hand – she has no teeth and this embarrasses her in such company.

  “My mother has made lemon chicken and skordalya – potatoes salad with garlic and lemon,” Agapi says, “And we have a round loaf of aniseed bread, special from the festival. Come, let us go down to the beach further around. There is shade there, for my mother.”

  From the look on Antonis’s face, I can tell he wasn’t expecting Agapi’s mother to join us. But he quickly recovers and then is over-zealous in his hospitality to the old lady, taking her arm solicitously as we set off. Agapi and I are left carrying the provisions. Eleni carries a blanket and an old and scruffy hand-knitted doll. Agapi sneaks an amused look at me, as she watches Antonis shouting in the old lady’s ear, telling her to be careful at each step, she who knows this path better than any of us. She looks at him like he is a mental patient, but she lets him steer her. Perhaps it is indeed a long time since she had the arm of a man.