by Tony Kaplan
The van driver stands awkwardly, not knowing whether he is required further. “Thank you for your help,” I say. “Efcharisto poli.” “Parakalo,” he mumbles diffidently. Yianni makes his enquiries of him in Greek, when he gets a reply, he smiles broadly and slaps the van driver on the back and embraces him.
“I take him downstairs,” Yianni says to me. “I fix him something to drink and eat. He is good man. You want something also?” I could do with a bottle of cold water. He says he will send Bobby up with it straight away. He sees me examining my leg. “You need to go hospital?” he asks.
Agapi asks me, “You have something to make clean?” pointing at my wound, which is a long and wide graze down the side of my left thigh, nothing more, luckily. I have a small First Aid kit which I take by habit on all my travels abroad. Agapi gets it from my bag.
Yiannis snatches it from her, looks inside and decides he has a better one, for the restaurant… “bandages, creams, everything…” He goes off, quite excited now by the drama and the reassurance that I am going to be ok. The van driver follows him out like a puppy – I can almost see their tails wagging.
Agapi takes my hand. “It is sore?” she says, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“No, it's okay,” I say, being the man, but wincing sharply as I extract a piece of cotton from the wound. Her hand tightens on mine.
“Wait,” she says, “I will clean properly, when Yiannis comes back.” She looks around, sees the pitcher next to the basin, goes over, turns the hot tap on and waits. When it is the desired temperature, she fills the pitcher and comes back to squat on the floor next to me. I offer my hand again, she takes it and is pleased with my gesture of gratitude.
Yiannis come in and hands over his First Aid kit, which looks like an ex-Army issue one. Inside are rolls of bandages and dressing, gauze for burns, I notice. That should do the trick. Agapi examines the contents. “Before I was marry, I was, one year, a nurse,” she tells me. She has a look of shy pride, and I intuit, a nostalgia for the future she once had.
“You will help him, Agapi?” Yiannis asks. She nods. He nods back, then leaves her to it. I thank him as he goes out.
Agapi, frowning seriously, pours something strong smelling into the pitcher of hot water, then from this onto a patch of gauze and she very gently begins to wipe the blood off my leg. She glances at me for my reaction and interprets my silent grimacing as permission to proceed. She is focused and precise, only exerting the smallest pressure needed to get the wound clean. Her left hand, placed further up my thigh to keep my leg still, is comforting and sure. She bends close to my thigh to see she has the wound perfectly clean. I see the top of her head and her glorious hair spreading out, and I involuntarily imagine her going down on me, and... I tell my male-brain to shut the fuck up and focus on the pain. My look of exaggerated distress alarms Agapi. “What?” she asks. “Is sore?”
“It’s okay, but maybe I should lie down,” I say and get up, with Agapi’s help, to my bed.
“Wait,” she says and gets an impregnated dressing and a roll of bandage to finish the job. I mustn’t stain the sheets. She finishes the dressing with Elastoplast to keep it all together. The pressure of the covering is soothing. Agapi plumps my pillows, smooths the sheet and helps me get my tee-shirt off.
Then she locks the door, climbs out of her dress, unhooks her bra and gets into bed with me, cuddling me like a wounded child into her delicious soft warmth.
35
When I wake up, she is gone. I can still feel her glow in the bed next to me. The satin touch of her skin and the curve of her breasts are still with me. She was so careful with me, so careful not to hurt me as she stroked me and covered me with light kisses, healing me. Then she’d turned on her side with her back to me and pulled my hand to her breast and with her other hand, guided me into the sumptuous heat of her wetness. Her hair smelt of honey.
My erection is back. I long for her, for the comfort of her body. I ease my legs over the side of the bed and sit up and become aware of the throbbing in my leg and in my left shoulder. I get up, wash my face and take a couple of paracetamols. My erection recedes. I get myself dressed. Luckily, I have a pair of loose cotton pants. Just the thing. I slip on sandals and go out. I must thank Agapi for her kindness, and reassure her that I have no claim on her.
But first I go to thank Yianni and Soulla. They sit me down and insist that I eat something before I go any further. Soulla delivers a bowl of broad bean soup with what looks like arborio rice. To be honest, I would have preferred a salad; soup is a bit too warming in the middle of the day, but I cannot refuse their hospitality. The soup is certainly nourishing and actually very tasty. Yiannis insists I drink a glass of wine also. He hovers solicitously. He is conscientious about taking care of his guests. “Its okay, Yiannis,” I say, “It’s good. Efcharisto.”
“I can’t help,” he shrugs, “Is philoxenia. To welcome in strangers.” He opens his arms wide to show his commitment to brotherliness and social responsibility. I reciprocate by drumming with my hand on my heart. He nods. “Nai,” he says. “Philoxenia!”
After I’ve eaten, they are prepared to let me go, but not before Yiannis has offered me a walking stick, which he looks for and finds in the kitchen. I try it out and, actually, he’s right – the walking stick helps. So off I go, limping, but mobile on my stick, to break the news to the proprietor of Zeus Motors that I have wrecked his bike and he’ll have to go and collect it half way up the mountain road. Mr. Zeus (I establish his name is Yiorgos) is not best pleased. I eye the wrench in his black-oiled hand with trepidation as I see his knuckles whiten. He growls and stamps his foot. Then he notices I am leaning on a walking stick and he regains his composure and asks if I am okay. Maybe he’s worried the accident was caused by some fault on the bike and I will sue him. I don’t know. He tells me the insurance will pay – I mustn’t worry. But there is paperwork and I must report the accident to the police – to the Sergeant. He takes me to his make-shift office and eventually locates his phone under a pile of car manuals and unopened letters. He dials the number for me and hands me the phone.
Kosta answers. I recognise his off-hand manner. I ask to speak to Sergeant Valoudsakis. Panagiotis comes on the line.
“Kalimera, Panagiotis, its Tom,” I say.
“Hello, Dhomas,” he says coolly. I assume his tone is a rebuke to me for my recent syndicated article which no doubt he has now read. I tell him what happened. “Oh, my friend, this is not good. You must be carful,” he says. I notice the apposite mispronunciation with a wry smile.
I ask if he knows what car Jurgen Preissler drives. “This I do not know,” he says. “We have checked all the car rentals, but nobody has rented a car or a motorbike to him by this name. Maybe he has use a different name. I will check now all jeeps – all the ‘4 times 4’ cars on the island. If we find one paid with German card, maybe is him. This is how we catch him. Yes?”
“Thanks, Panagiotis,” I tell him. Before he hangs up, he reminds me to keep safe. A bit late for that.
I’ve forgotten again to ask about Lucy’s scooter. I turn to the mechanic and owner of Zeus Motors. “Did you, by any chance, rent a motorbike, a scooter, to my friend, Lucy Discombe?” I ask. Maybe if he has, he would have been and collected it from the harbour.
He looks at me nonplussed and shakes his head. “She said I rented to her?”
“No,” I say, “It doesn’t matter. Dhen peirazei.”
But it does matter. Where is Lucy’s scooter? Perhaps I should go and look around the harbour myself.
36
I am aching, even from the mild exertion, so I go back to my room, lie on the bed and promptly fall asleep. Probably a self-protective response. I’ve heard our bodies heal themselves while we sleep. I will see Agapi later.
I am woken by a restrained knock on the door. It is dark. I must have slept for hours. I put on the bedside light, ease myself upright and then limp over to the door. It is Antonis. He has heard of my accident (wor
d travels fast in the village; it’s a small village) and has come to find out how I am and to invite me to dine with him at the Seaview. I feel I owe it to Yianni to dine here tonight, but Antonis is keen on the Seaview (“So we can be served by the beautiful Agapi”) and won’t be dissuaded.
As soon as we are seated at a table for dinner he tells me that the autopsy on “Miss Discombe” (he won’t use her first name out of respect; he is professional) will take place in two days’ time (“Then we will know when she died, and if she suicided or something else was happen”). Agapi brings us each a menu, as she puts mine down, she strokes the back of my arm and gives me the briefest look of intense longing before walking away. Antonis of course notices this straight away: the intimacy of her gesture and look. His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches and his Adam’s apple takes a ride – up, pause and then down. He studies his menu. Did he think he still had a chance with her? Xanthe and he were certainly loving it up at the concert. What has happened while I have been away? Local intrigue.
As if to change the subject, he starts to tell me about his progress with the body in the bridge case. His voice is terse, official and his speech is directed somewhere over my left shoulder. He and Panagiotis have been through the list of all the employees from Hektor Papademos’s construction company and Konstantin Garidis’ concrete factory and have cross-checked against any right-wing political affiliations. They identified three people of interest, but two had died and the other one was now living in America. It’ll take time to trace him. He has a cousin still living right in the south of the island; she may know where he is living. They still don’t know the identity of the body – there were no recorded missing teenagers on Mythos, nor on the big island at that time. It’s a mystery.
The deep-throated roar of a motorbike drowns out his speech for a moment, as the bike comes to a stop and revs boastfully to announce its presence. Then it cuts out and Kosta dismounts, undoes his helmet with one hand and strides, wide-based and manly, into the restaurant. Xanthe comes to greet him and allows him to kiss her lightly on both cheeks. She sneaks a look at Antonis as she submits to Kosta’s familiar greeting. Antonis affects a look of supreme disinterest, which shows he must have some interest.
Agapi comes to take our order. I order the lamb chops and Antonis chooses the meatballs in tomato sauce - the soutzoukakia. Antonis turns away as Agapi gives me a meaningful, amused look, pressing her lips together and lifting her breast as she straightens. Antonis pretends to be enraptured by the after-sunset sky, which admittedly is spectacular in a quiet way – deep purples and mauves. The first stars are emerging. Once Agapi has left, he turns his attention back to me and I can see he is hurt and even accusatory. I feel I may have been treacherous, but through no fault of my own – Agapi has clearly made the running. I don’t know if I should apologise, but that would be patronising, so I don’t.
Antonis sees Xanthe standing at Kosta’s table, talking to him without smiling. “Xanthe,” he calls to her, “Xanthe, ise poli oraia!” with a gesture indicating that she is very beautiful, from her elaborately coiffured hair to her gold strapped platform sandals. He kisses the tips of his fingers at her. “Come and say hello us, you special young lady.” He is, in his own mind at least, exuding ostentatious charm with his caramel voice and a grand chivalric sweep of his hand. Xanthe smiles at his attention and saunters over.
“Hello, boys,” she says, “You alright?”
“Oh, yes, but we would love your company,” Antonis says with what I am sure he thinks of as a seductive dipping of his head and raising of one eyebrow only.
Xanthe does the love-chuckle. “Oh, but I am working,” she says drily. “I have other customers to serve.”
“But not ones who will offer to take you dining in Athens,” he says. “You will come on a date with me in Athens when you go back to university?” (They speak in English for my benefit - I am the audience. Is Antonis wooing her to show me that to him there are other pretty fish in the sea? Is he doing it to make Agapi jealous?)
Xanthe frowns. “Mmm, I’m not certain. Maybe you have missed the boat, Inspector. There is someone else who has reserved me,” she says and chuckles again. She is not a girl who will settle for being second best.
I see the disappointment flit across Antonis’s face, before he quickly restores his benign countenance. I notice, also across the balcony, Kosta, has been observing the interaction and he is smirking.
“But maybe,” Xanthe says and swaggers back to her post, hips moving sensually. Saucy minx! She is playing hard-to-get! As she goes past Kosta, he grabs her arm and says something. She says something back and he responds, she looks over her shoulder at us, amused by what he has said evidently. Kosta grins sardonically and challenges Antonis with a mocking stare. Antonis stiffens, but his face is expressionless. He turns away, as if unaffected. But I can see he is fuming. When our food arrives, we eat in silence.
"Excuse me," Antonis says, as he pats his lips with a serviette, neatly places his cutlery on his now empty plate, gets up, and goes over to Kosta and says something quietly in his ear. There is menace in this. Kosta gets up and follows him out of the restaurant. Kosta is cocky and makes a mocking sign to Xanthe. She, for her part, looks concerned to see her two suitors leaving together.
I follow. Antonis leads Kosta around the corner into the shadows, then - he must be some sort of martial arts expert - Antonis has Kosta on the ground and Kosta’s arm is twisted behind his back, his face is pressing concrete and Antonis has a knee in his back. Antonis growls at him. Kosta winces, but is too embarrassed, I guess, to call out. “I will speak to you in English for the convenience of my friend,” Antonis says. “You will address me as Inspector, you mother-fucker. You understand?” Kosta grunts. “You understand, motherfucker?” (Antonis has been watching “The Wire” or some other American cop show.)
Kosta whispers urgently, “Nai, nai. Yes.” Antonis twists his arm, an impressively vengeful look on his face. I’ve clearly under-estimated him. So has Kosta.
Antonis extends Kosta’s arm into an even more painful hold. “Yes who?” Antonis seethes.
“Yes, Inspector,” Kosta hastily concedes. Antonis lets go of his hold on Kosta, slowly. Kosta gets to on to all-fours and shakes his head clear. Antonis steps back, alert, ready to act again if Kosta tries anything.
“Okay, now you will come with us to Miss Discombe’s house. I have some questions for you,” Antonis says.
Kosta looks up, frightened. “Ti? What questions?”
Antonis tells him, “Bring your motor bike. You will ride in front of us there. Slowly.”
The fight has gone out of Kosta and he obeys, like a small boy, his head hung in shame. He starts his bike and we follow him up the lane to the house where Lucy used to live. The old lady across the road is watering her plants with a watering can. As soon as she sees Kosta, she bumbles over to her front gate as fast as her arthritic legs will carry her and she shouts at him as he comes to a stop.
Antonis calls out to the old woman and she responds, “Nai, Nai!” pointing with a belligerent prodding finger at the downcast Kosta. Antonis taps Kosta on the shoulder and Kosta turns fearfully. “You visited Miss Discombe late at night? What for?” Antonis asks him.
The old lady is still having a go. Kosta turns to her and growls and then shouts a command at her. She backs off and shuts up. “Endaxi! Endaxi! Nai, nai!” he shouts almost in tears and babbles away. Antonis doesn’t compel him to talk in English now. He lets him loose and Kostas spills the beans, his voice desperate, pleading, imploring. Antonis lets him dribble to a standstill, then he turns to me and translates.
“He says he did come here to see the ‘deceased’… ‘deceased’ is right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, “Lucy.”
Antonis nods. “Miss Discombe. Correct. He says it was she that wanted him to come. For sex only.” Antonis asks Kosta something and Kosta replies in a dull tone. He mumbles like a teenager caught shoplifting. “Yes, he says. She wanted ju
st sex. He wanted too. He says he didn’t kill her.”
“Ask him about the computer and the e-mails,” I say.
Antonis asks him. They talk in Greek, rapid-fire questions and answers. Antonis says Kosta doesn’t know anything about her computer. Kosta says something jocular which includes what I take to be a lewd reference to “laptop”. Antonis shouts at him and the smile shrinks into his face, he goes mournful.
Antonis considers the options. Then he seems to conclude that there is nothing further to gain, he dismisses Kosta, who looks mightily relieved and rides off at a respectful speed, until he gets to the main road, at which point he guns the engine and his tail-lights disappear in seconds. Antonis looks to see if I am critical of his actions. I am disappointed he has not got more out of Kosta, but I can see it his way. Some rules you have got to stick by. Kosta was too shit-scared to be fabricating, his story was kind of plausible and there is actually, as yet anyway, no evidence to the contrary. So, on balance, it’s likely he was telling the truth – a truth anyway.
Antonis has shown himself in a different light. He is a man of purpose.
But we are still no closer to finding out what happened to Lucy and how she ended up at the bottom of the sea.
37
Yiannis puts down the plate with the eggs Soulla has fried for my breakfast, next to it, a basket of cut bread and thick-cut butter. “Wait, I will get the coffee,” he says and goes back inside.
In the distance, walking down the hill into the village, dragging a suitcase on wheels behind him, an elderly man with a face so dark I cannot see his features against the shock of white hair. He has on a black suit, his white shirt open at the neck. The suitcase clatters on the uneven surface. Soon this will be smooth tar. There will be no clatter, just glide.
