by Tony Kaplan
“Shepherd?” I offer.
“Nai,” he says, “Hut for the shepherd. I was take him food sometimes there. He was live like a wild animal. Dirty. He was not right in the head. I feel sorry. And Soulla. We feed him, me and Soulla. (Is he saying this to exonerate himself?) Stavroula, she no care. Only she care for Michali.” He takes another swig of his beer. “Then one day, Eleftherios he was gone from the hut. We do not know what happen.” He shrugs. “What to do? He was not my relation.” He slaps his forehead. “But how I’m forget altogether Eleftherio? The poor boy.”
So, what did happen to Eleftherio?
An hour later, I am sitting at my usual table, a second beer at hand, typing up a report to send to Marsha, when Antonis appears. He did not press Mavro to give him the whole story, but Mavros did say, straight out, that when Eleftherios was brought to him in the makeshift prison he was held in in Agia Sofia, where he was tortured, amongst the gang restraining Eleftherio and humiliating and frightening him to the extent that he wet himself, was Konstantin Garidis. Garidis will know what happened to the boy. Garidis will be brought in for questioning.
39
After I send off my report, I wait for Agapi with a cup of coffee for company. We will talk when she has finished the lunchtime shift. Michalis and his family have not come down. There is a waiter I have not seen before doing a shift. He is all sinew and bones, with a prominent Adam’s apple and the kind of protuberant front teeth which suggests bad breath. But he is attentive and diligent. He takes his job seriously.
The heat of the day has gathered and there is electricity in the air. Towers of greying cloud on the horizon promise rain. “Rain later?” I say to the waiter as he collects my cup.
“Only for the sea. The rain will not come here. You can zwim later,” he says without humour.
I watch the sea lapping lazily, giving itself up to the beach as if it’s bored with its own fluidity, then relenting, withdrawing and coming in again, as full and as bored as it was before, the loss of water to the sand an illusion. Oh, Lucy, so much you had to give. What would we have been like together? Never to be. A wave of grief washes over me, an immense sadness, a pool of blackness, swirling turgidly, smoking grey, condensing into a blinding red and I am angry, frustrated - with myself for not saving her, with her for not being more careful, for the arbitrariness of Death. But Lucy’s death was not arbitrary – someone was to blame. Someone has taken Lucy from me, robbed me of my time with her. Someone is going to pay.
Just after two p.m., Agapi collects her bag and we leave the restaurant together. She sees I am agitated and takes my hand as soon as we are outside. She looks at me, concerned. “Come back to my flat with me,” I say hoarsely, urgently. I want to fuck her. I want to expel the fury I feel, the impotent rage burning in me.
She gives her Mona Lisa smile, amused by what she must see only as the urgency of my sexual arousal. “I have only little time to see my daughter and I must sleep. Tonight I work,” she says, giving my hand a little squeeze of condolence.
“Please,” I say, pleadingly, “Sleep with me. See Eleni, then come and sleep with me. Or come with me now and sleep later,” I babble pathetically.
Agapi chuckles. “Okay, quickly,” she says and leads me hurriedly next door and up to my flat, where I’m out of my clothes in a flash and she has her panties off, I don’t even let her get her top off before I’m up inside her, she’s so wet, I fuck her hard, I pull her hair, her back arches. In minutes it’s over. She puts her panties back on with a small self-satisfied smile, pleased that she could rouse my passion to that degree; that she could make me come like a schoolboy. I flop onto the bed and let my perspiration evaporate pleasingly. Oh, God, the release… I whisper, “Thanks,” as she leaves and as the door closes, “I love you. I think I love you,” before drifting into a slowly undulating drowse. Oh, Lucy!
I dream of the swim I will have later, the water’s surface smooth and wan, the only sound will be the lapping of the ripples my strokes make as I pull myself effortlessly forward. I am surrounded by soft, white clouds, reflected on the water and above me in the sky. I am alone, at peace. I do a languorous duck-dive and see the light through the water, before going further down into the grey-blue depths. Then, suddenly, I am being dragged down into a vortex. I kick and try to get back to the surface, but the harder I pull towards the light, the more urgent the force, which is dragging me down. Then I see her face, her red hair billowing. I am being sucked into Lucy’s gaping mouth. The hollows of her eyes are being eaten at by crabs. My lungs are exploding. I can’t hold my breath any longer. I have to breathe. The foetid water is in my mouth. I breathe it in.
40
The interview with Konstantin Garidis is arranged for ten the next morning. I get a ride into town with Antonis and his driver in the silver Merc. There is no news about Lucy yet, but the autopsy has been scheduled for later in the day. The Australian Ambassador has given his consent.
The interview with Garidis will happen in a back room, which is accessed through a locked door between the two cubicles in the Charge Office. Panagiotis’s office is too small to fit us all in. The “interview room” is an antechamber to the holding cell behind. A small table has been set up in the middle of the room with four folding chairs arranged in front of and behind it. Garidis hasn’t yet arrived. Panagiotis eyes me suspiciously, his concern for me after the attempt on my life (or was it just an accident?) now supplanted again by his resentment towards me for the report in the Greek tabloid. I have hurt him and his standing in the community, and he wants me to know it. Antonis and Panagiotis have a brief exchange, glancing at me, each in turn holding up a hand to dismiss the other’s objections. I surmise that the Chief doesn’t want me there and Antonis is saying, in effect, “He is with me. I am in charge.” Antonis prevails, Panagiotis gives in by turning his head away from me and examining the graffiti left on the far wall by drunk or disgruntled citizens detained against their will.
The door behind us opens and Kosta announces the arrival of what our cops at home would term “the man who is helping the police with their enquiries”. Konstantinos Garidis shuffles in, leaning heavily on his stick. He will want sympathy and an easy ride. He is followed in by a harried looking man in a badly-cut suit and crumpled tie. Is he the lawyer or a relative? From the formal manner towards him and the briefcase he carries, I presume he is the lawyer. His nervousness probably indicates he is not used to cases of this importance, with the national press involved and ready to take him down for any misstep. Panagiotis signals to Kosta, and moments later Kosta returns, transporting an ancient folding chair. He sneers at me as he plonks it down still folded and leaves me to unravel it. It hasn’t been opened in years and I wonder if the intention is for me to fall flat on my arse. The smell of mould is effulgent as I open the canvas supports. I sit down tentatively.
The lawyer has placed his briefcase on the table and has extracted a ring-bound notebook from it. He wipes his face with a yellowed handkerchief, before writing a heading on his pad, underlining his writing twice and inserting a full-stop with alacrity. Antonis’s measured, almost bored tone indicates he is telling Garidis his rights. This is the preamble. Garidis makes out he is having difficulty understanding (or is it hearing?) what he is being told. He looks to his lawyer, who gives him a non-committal response. Garidis shakes his head sadly, as if to say, “Why are you putting an old innocent man through this?” He wets his lips and fiddles with the head of his walking stick.
As the interview progresses, the old Fascist becomes more agitated, his voice rising an octave in protest, his fist drumming on the table to emphasise his mortification at the insult to his good name, his eyes wild with anger, flickering with fear, no vestige of his swagger of old. Antonis proceeds calmly. He is being systematic, logical, formal, but his politeness carries a whiplash, its sting unexpected and the more painful for it. Garidis’ hapless lawyer makes notes and intervenes only once, appearing to concede the point to Antonis, who responds with pa
tience and exactitude. Garidis’ eyes fill with tears, his expression disbelieving, exasperated. He sits back in his chair and shrugs. There are a few more questions, to which he responds tersely. Then he and his lawyer get up and leave, the old man bent double over his stick, holding his hip and groaning pitifully at the pain he has been caused. We should, he thinks, be ashamed.
Antonis completes his notes and then looks to Panagiotis, who has sat, arms folded and impassive, throughout, for his response. Panagiotis says, “He knows more than he is say.” Antonis nods. “But he said enough for now,” Antonis says, before turning to me. “Okay, so this is what we have. He was present during the interrogation of Mavros Epistemos. But he says he knew nothing about the killing of Aris Lambros or the other ELAS prisoner. He reminded us that he said already Marvos was not executed. But he says he does not know what happen-ed to the boy, to Eleftherios. He thought he was return-ed to his mother, but maybe he was also sent to Macronissos – he would not know this – what happen-ed to the ‘politicals’ after questioning was above him. He just helped bring them in. He claims he knows nothing about how the body got into the bridge.”
“Do you believe him?” I ask.
Antonis waggles his head. “Maybe.”
Panagiotis chuckles. “No way,” the Chief says, “How you believe a man like that?”
I agree with the Chief.
As we are leaving, I turn to the Chief. “Oh, can I ask you, did you find Lucy's scooter at the old harbour?”
Panagiotis looks bemused. “What is scooter?”
“A Vespa maybe?”
“She have?”
“Yes. I mean if she killed herself, she would have had to have driven to the old harbour, yeah?”
He gives this some thought. “We no find.”
41
Unintended consequences. What can tangle, will tangle.
My article on the body in the bridge is taken up by the Greek media in a flash. It’s even on the national television news. The tabloids mangle my story into a shape of their fancy. The headline in Eleftherotypia, the most widely circulated newspaper in Greece, translates as “Island of Shame”.
Antonis is furious. He shakes the newspaper at me and prods his finger at a picture of himself on page three. He lets me know in no uncertain terms he is finished with me. He has helped me, he has given me access to every interview, he has been my friend. Now I have stabbed him in the back. “Inspector Antonis Ionides solved the case when the deceased handed himself in!” he translates angrily. “You say I wasted everybody’s money, that I am a stupid flatfoot! Why am I on the island? Why was I sent here by my Department? – now also I am in trouble with my superiors. Why is this not a job for the local police? The newspapers ask, like it is a scandal that money is spent on finding the guilty parties from crimes of long ago.”
I try to stop him, to explain that my report was not critical of him at all, that I didn’t write anything about his investigation being a waste of public money. Not even close. But he is so angry, he does not hear me. He storms out. Damn, I was counting on him to help investigate Lucy’s death. Doesn’t sound like he is in the mood to do me any favours now or in the near future. I’m guessing I won’t be getting privileged access to his investigation from now on. But, Jesus, it’s a bit of an over-reaction – not even letting me explain. Is his anger also to do with Agapi, that she likes me more than him?
Okay, so now I’m on my own in ensuring the police draw the right conclusion in their investigation of Lucy’s murder, that they investigate it properly. Well, fuck it! I’ve been on my own in the field before. Maybe it’s better. This way, I don’t owe anyone anything. I’m free to do what I like, to write what I like. That’s actually better.
But I notice even Yiannis is cool towards me now. Kat finds it amusing – “You’ve stirred the shitpot, dude!” she laughs when she sees me. It seems I am being blamed for the bad feelings that has arisen between neighbours all over the island – between people who were on the Left against those who supported the Right, between those who wish to forget and those (I suppose like Calliope and her ilk) who say we must remember. As if I am to blame for it all. Talk about shooting the messenger…
Later in the day, I see what I’m up against if I’m to go on covering the body in the bridge story. The Greek press arrive in numbers, even a television crew arrives. I see from a distance a smartly dressed young woman with an oversized microphone interviewing Antonis. I’m not going to get a look in.
Among the horde, I notice Calliope and Nektarios. Nektarios is being his usual glum self. Calliope is expostulating to any journalist who will listen about the injustices the Left have had to suffer and why are there no statues to the Communist Party’s fallen heroes? They have come on behalf of the Communist Party to welcome back one such of their fallen heroes, the esteemed Gregorios Epistemos, also known as Mavros. When Calliope sees me at my table at Yianni’s later, she comes over to shake my hand. “You understand nothing, but you have put the story of our heroic struggle in the light. For that I thank you,” she says grandly.
I invite them to sit with me. Bobby comes over and the venerable lady orders a beer for herself and for her husband, water – he is driving. Nektarios looks aggrieved, but says nothing.
“You know Mavros is ashamed of having given away his comrade? It’s why he didn’t return.” I say tentatively.
“My young friend,” she says, “what people give away under torture is not their fault. We don’t judge him. He is still one of us. He suffered. He should also be rewarded,” Calliope says. I am impressed by her humanity. Not a Stalinist then. “We told him this. He is welcome among us.”
When her beer arrives, we clink our bottles and she agrees to an interview, for me to write a profile of her and her campaign to have a statue built to honour the Communist heroes of the struggle against fascism. “We will not forget,” she says.
42
The next morning, early, I get a ride to the old harbour with Bobby. Yiannis heard I wanted to see where Lucy died and asked his son to take me. He will persuade Kat to cover for two hours. Breakfast is not a busy time. He and his family wish they could do more for me. He doesn’t like what I’ve written about the island, but they can’t help it - they are good people - they feel bad for me losing my friend.
After about twenty minutes on the road going north, we turn down a pot-holed road, which is more of a track - basically two furrows and a Mohican of weeds. The harbour has two jetties of cracked concrete, its sides protected by tractor tyres, grey with age and decorated with brushstrokes of green algae. The only building is, what was once a warehouse, now a rusted shell, the doors half-off their hinges. Concrete blocks and broken bricks lie in dissolute heaps, next to upturned oil drums, empty, now except for their echoes. The only sign of life is a single seabird, which flies off as soon as we park.
No scooter. I check the warehouse. A shaft of light beams hazily through a miraculously intact but dust-encrusted pane of glass in a high window. It illuminates an assortment of decrepit machinery and rotten planks of wood. The weeds have colonised the floor-space, paying little heed to the concrete which was meant to keep them at bay. No scooter here either. A rat scurries across the surface and into a dark corner and is gone.
Bobby and I scout around, but there is definitely no scooter to be found. Either she came here with the person who killed her, or she was killed elsewhere and her body deposited here by her killer.
I walk onto the jetty. With a heavy heart I look out at the water where Lucy was found. What happened here? There are no clues.
The surface of the water is smooth and at this early hour, silvered. The precise reflections of fat-bellied clouds could be a Renaissance painting, a religious epiphany. I remember what Lucy said about just such a reflection when we’d walked along the Lee - and feel for my beautiful and troubled Lucy: she'd found her way to Heaven.
43
After breakfast, Antonis seeks me out. He is contrite. He apologises for having
judged me too severely. He has read my original article online and realises he was too hasty. Pride does not allow him to make a full apology and I don’t press for one. I suspect the coverage he is now getting in the Greek press and on television has helped. He is famous. But it also means he no longer needs me for his publicity.
But what has he come to see me about really is to give me news about Lucy. He has the autopsy report. Because of the immersion, they can’t accurately say when she died. But from the accretion of dust on the clothes she left behind, this was probably at least three weeks before she was found. But this was a very rough estimate. What the pathologist has said with more certainly is that Lucy had extensive bruising to her neck and face. The marks on her neck suggest she was held from behind with some force and the scatter of the bruises suggest she would have struggled with her assailant. She also had abrasions and bruising on both knees. It could be she was hit in the face to subdue her, forced onto her knees and then held under water and drowned. Her lungs contained a high concentration of a rust red algae (they are still waiting for further analysis on this) and of rabbit fish spores, neither found in the water of the disused harbour where she was found. The conclusion is that she was killed elsewhere and her body tied to a concrete block and dumped in the disused harbour. So I was right. “They are still examining under her nails for human tissue for DNA, from her struggle. Maybe…” He trails off. Then quickly, “I’m sorry,” he says, “this is a terrible death.”
Red algae and rabbit fish spores – the Poseidon. Has to be. In my mind I see the red slick in the sea off the lagoon; I see the windswept rocky beach - was that where she was murdered? I blurt this out to Antonis. He holds up a hand to slow me in my tracks. “You must discuss this only with Panagiotis. I am now only busy with the case of the body in the bridge. This is now a big story in Greece and to get me back my good name I must solve this case. You understand? We have the list of workers from the cement factory and the construction companies – I have to make interview with lots of peoples. Panagiotis is now dealing with your friend’s murder.”
