‘These things take time. Two weeks, at least; perhaps as long as a month. But, since we know the money is coming, we can start to move ahead. When I get back to town, I’ll make enquiries of my own, and find the most efficient man I can to take on the job. Now, if we’re done, I’ll go and find poor Leda. She’ll be desperately cold and miserable, out there all alone in the dark.’
Like wildfire, like a virus, the news spread; the women carried it like contagion, and every mouth that repeated the story built on it, embellishing and embroidering, until only the smallest kernel of truth remained at the tale’s heart: that the poet’s bones were not human, but had been transformed into a beast’s. Some said he had been dug up and replaced by malicious hands; others that the matter was far more sinister, and that the devil was at work. First he was a mere pig, of average size; but with each telling he grew, until he had become a massive boar, with tusks so long they’d go straight through a man. The poet was destined to become a legend and his transformation a myth; and the news came quickly to the ears of Maria’s old mother, Roula.
Roula claimed now to be in her ninetieth year, but Maria was known to be only seventy-one, which made Roula’s claim impossible, as she had been married at thirteen. Housebound for two years, she was confined to the salone, propped up with cushions in her bed, and waited on and cared for by her daughter.
The tale was brought by Maria and seconded by the neighbour, who had also been amongst the women at the grave.
With a shawl around her shoulders and a tray across her knees, Roula was spooning broth into her toothless mouth and sucking on bread soaked in the soup.
Maria and the neighbour told each other the story, then told it slightly differently, again: poor Santos’s bones a boar’s, Frona angry and upset, Leda brought home silent with the shock, Papa Tomas refusing to speak of the matter at all.
‘The devil’s amongst us, here in Vrisi,’ wailed the neighbour. ‘Panayia mou, Panayia!’
Old Roula lowered her spoon, and regarded her daughter and the neighbour through milky eyes.
‘Eat your broth, Mama,’ said Maria.
‘Where will the bones go now?’ asked the neighbour, in excitement. ‘Not in the ossuary, surely? They must burn them, to purge the devil.’
‘They say they’ll get to the bottom of it,’ said Maria to the neighbour. ‘They’re hiring an investigator to look into it. Don’t say anything, but they believe that it’s an enemy, trying to rob them.’
‘An investigator?’ asked the neighbour. ‘What kind of investigator?’
‘A detective of some sort, I suppose. Someone who’ll make enquiries.’
‘An investigator?’ asked Roula. ‘Here in Vrisi?’
But her daughter and the neighbour both ignored her and went on with their speculation.
Roula spooned more broth into her mouth and sucked on the sodden bread.
‘I used to know someone you might suggest,’ she said, after she swallowed.
‘Have you finished your broth?’ asked Maria, taking away Roula’s bowl. ‘You used to know a lot of people, Mama. But as you’re always telling me, most of those you used to know are dead. It’s getting late, for you. Come on, and I’ll get you ready for your bed.’
For the second time that month, the moon was full – a rare blue moon – and the wind had shifted to the north, sweeping away the clouds to leave a night of remarkable beauty. Moonlight flowed in through the curtainless window, a delicate light with the dim glow of pewter, casting shadows with the soft look of gauze.
In her sleep, Roula was restless, shifting uneasily between drowsing and the strangeness of her dreams. In her dream, a dog was barking, though not the skinny hound her son-in-law kept now (which was a nervous dog, prone to crafty nipping of goats’ hocks, and always appearing where it was least expected, like the sly son-in-law himself). No: the bark belonged to Antonio, her father’s dog when she was a girl; Antonio, long-haired, sand-brown and kind-eyed, a pastoral dog by nature and biddable with the herd. Antonio was barking a warning, running up and down the yard as he had when someone drew near, his chain rattling as he dragged it through the dirt.
In her dream, Roula listened, waiting for whatever had disturbed Antonio – a rodent or a cat – to move away; but the dog barked on, and, since no one else got up to go and settle him, she threw off her warmthless blankets, and putting both feet to the floorboards, stood up.
She stood easily and confidently, independent of her sticks, and felt the sensation of woollen bedsocks under her soles; and she felt too the bones of her legs and feet doing their work as they used to, and her muscles strong and useful, without all their aches and pains, without the danger of their failing.
Antonio still barked, and Roula walked quite naturally to the door. Though she wore only her nylon nightdress and a crocheted bed-jacket, the night – to her – wasn’t cold. With newly dextrous fingers untroubled by their arthritic joints, she unfastened the bolt, turned the key and opened the door.
As the bolt was drawn, Antonio become silent, hoping for some ally to join him, but his silence was short, and he began to bark more ferociously, as if whatever – or whoever – was troubling him was growing nearer. And then someone snapped their fingers, and said a word, and the dog fell silent; and Roula heard the familiar, forgotten sound of his chain curling on itself as he lay down.
Curious, in her stockinged feet she stepped into the night, into the light of the blue moon, which to her mother had always been taboo, because of its dangers of madness and bewitchment; and, sure enough, it was playing its tricks, turning her long, grey hair – let loose for night – back to the splendid, shining black of her maiden days. She walked along the path from door to yard, delighted with the freedom of her restored body, stepping over the stones with the hem of her nightgown lifted over her toes. She blessed her obedient limbs, and with the easing of old age’s miseries, her spirits lifted; the bad temper and dissatisfaction which coloured her latter days left her, replaced by the joie de vivre she had felt throughout her youth.
She rounded the house corner, and there indeed was dear Antonio, lying head on paws. As he saw her, he lifted his big head and wagged his tail, not in great excitement but as if only minutes had gone by since he had seen her last. Roula wondered at how fondly she remembered him, and at how clearly memory presented him to her now, as many years had passed since he had even crossed her mind; but here he was, a welcome visitor from the foreign land of dreams, where time was an irrelevance, and the remotest yesterdays might put in an appearance as readily as last week.
The hens, in their coop, were restless, shuffling and fluttering on their perches, making low noises of unease, as if they sensed some predator. The night smelled of pine and cold wind; and there was a sweetness in the air she couldn’t name, familiar and agreeable as spring flowers, yet lost as the days of childhood, a perfume she had known but knew no longer.
And seated on an orange crate between coop and dog, was a man, with his back to her, who, like the sweetness in the air, was forgotten yet remembered, strange yet familiar, a figure who had long ago vanished from her memory. He heard her footfall and turned his head, and, seeing her, smiled and at once stood; and, though the moonlight cast dark shadows which concealed his features, she knew his face immediately, and was glad beyond expressing to see him.
‘Roula,’ he said, in a voice which hadn’t changed. ‘Roula, let me look at you.’
He held his hands before him, and she took them in her own, and in her dream could feel their warmth and comfort.
‘Hermes,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
They smiled in delight at their reunion. Inside the coop, the chickens fluttered and flapped. Antonio lay his head down on his paws, and whined uncertainly.
Hermes kissed her on the cheek, and as he bent close, she recognised the sweetness as his fragrance and picked out its individual components – the bitter orange of neroli, the honey fragrance of immortelle, the earthy tang of vetiver – which, all comb
ined, seemed the scent of very heaven.
‘So beautiful still,’ he said, and by the light of the blue moon, it was true; she had become how she had been when she had known him.
‘I was looking at the stars,’ he said. ‘Such a clear night, and the stars so magnificent.’
Hand in hand, they looked up at the constellations, and watched until a shooting star crossed the sky.
‘Quick, make a wish,’ he said.
‘I wish for a painless death,’ she said, with no hesitation. ‘I wish to die in my sleep.’
He squeezed her hand as if the wish were acknowledged, and turned his face from the sky to look at her; and with him too, it was as if the years had never been. He appeared the same, handsome and noble, smooth-skinned.
‘Why are you here,’ she asked, ‘after all this time?’
‘The years pass, don’t they?’ he said, with a touch of sadness. ‘Before I know it, my friends are gone.’ Then he added, more brightly, ‘I came to see you, that’s all. But now I’m here, I sense perhaps my being here is timely.’
‘In what way, timely?’
‘We must wait, and see. Come, I’ll take you back inside. This night air can settle on the lungs.’
‘Before I go,’ she said, ‘let me say goodbye to Antonio.’
She let go of his hand and crouched down beside the dog, who looked at her with grateful, loving eyes as she stroked his head and murmured affectionate words; and as she took her hand away, he licked it, and she felt the dampness of his tongue.
Hermes led Roula down the path, and followed her inside to the truckle bed, where she lay down, still lithe and free from pain. Leaning over her, he covered her with the blankets, which seemed, for once, as soft and warm as cashmere. Like a child, she lay content. He bent down, and kissed her forehead.
‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘And wishes shall soon come true.’
And he was gone.
She opened her eyes as dawn was breaking, and remembered Hermes, and the dream. But her hands were once again an old woman’s, the rough blankets were scratching her chin, and the pains and aches of every day were already pinching, in hips and knees and hands.
Nine
On the morning after the exhumation, Attis left the bedroom he had slept in and went quietly into Santos’s old study. With his back to the smoking fire, he folded his arms and lowered his chin to his chest, so if anyone had intruded on him, they would have believed him to be in a moment of quiet reflection, though in fact he was listening for any movement on the floor above. Along the hall, Maria clattered plates and pans, and ran water into the sink. She spoke a few words he couldn’t catch, and he waited to hear a reply; but none came, and he concluded she was talking to no one but herself. Only when he was certain he would not be disturbed, did he begin.
He sat down at the poet’s table, on the cushion-seated chair which had been Santos’s favourite. Though Frona had wanted to keep the place as Santos had left it, in truth nothing was as it used to be. When Santos was master of his own sanctuary, Maria had been banned from the room, except to tend the fire. In his absence, her tidying and cleaning – incompetent though it was – had changed it beyond recognition.
In each long side, the table had two drawers, where cutlery and utensils had once been kept. He opened the right-hand drawer, which faced him. On a lining of discoloured newsprint, it held stationery supplies – a stapler, a pot of paperclips, a pencil-sharpener, scissors – all ordered in a way Santos would never have managed. There was a bone-handled hunting knife, a medallion of no value on a chain, a well-used pack of playing cards. Attis closed the drawer, and opening the left-hand side, found nothing but a telephone directory, several years out of date.
He listened. Overhead, a floorboard creaked. He stood, and rounding the table, slid open the drawers on its far side. In one, the household utility bills of years past were fastened in packets with elastic bands; the last held a backgammon set from Santos’s boyhood, and an appointment diary for the year he died.
Attis flicked through the little diary’s pages. In the earliest months of the year, there were a few entries in Santos’s distinctive hand: appointments with Attis himself, a wedding, several days where there were only initials or times, and phone numbers. The empty pages reflected Santos’s life and his disinclination to be sociable; even if he’d marked a date in the diary, he could never be relied on to appear where he should be. Notoriously forgetful of engagements, he had caused Attis some embarrassment over the years, until Attis had developed a strategy which was often successful: he wrote a letter of reminder to Santos two or three days before a meeting, or a reading, or a dinner. To phone him and remind him had been pointless; Santos would make a scribbled note on some scrap of paper, and blank the phone call and the note from his busy mind. The diary’s last entry – a name, and a number – had been on a date just after his death. Beyond that, the pages were empty.
Attis slipped the diary into his pocket, and considered. Moving the chair out of the way, he bent to see the underside of the table, then pulled the right-hand drawer from its runners and lifted it over his head to see its base, but found nothing but a few fading carpenter’s marks. He returned the drawer to its runners, and slid out the left, holding this drawer, too, up over his head.
A brown envelope was taped to its base.
Over a wide aluminium bowl filled with water, Maria was using a paring knife to dig a weevil from a potato.
‘Maria, kali mera,’ said Attis from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m walking down to the village to get some air. Tell Frona I’ll be back before too long.’
‘Don’t you want breakfast?’ asked Maria. She dropped both knife and potato into the water, and wiped her hands dry on her apron. ‘There’re plenty of eggs. Sit down, and I’ll put the coffee on.’
‘Don’t trouble,’ said Attis. ‘I’ll get coffee at the kafenion.’
‘Is their coffee better than my coffee, then?’ asked Maria. ‘Sit, and eat. The eggs are fresh this morning.’
‘Thank you,’ said Attis. ‘Maybe later.’
Maria heard the front door close, and remarked to herself on the folly of paying good money for bad coffee; but there were weevils in the potatoes, and with her mind on dealing with them, Attis and his unwanted breakfast were soon forgotten. When Frona came downstairs a short while later, she at least seemed to have some appetite, and accepted not only eggs and coffee, but a bowl of goats’ milk yogurt besides.
Frona asked after Leda.
‘She came down a while ago, all wan, poor chick,’ said Maria. ‘I made her some tea, but she wouldn’t take anything else but a slice of bread. She said she’d eat upstairs. This business is hard on her, kalé.’
‘It’s hard on us all,’ said Frona, with a sigh. ‘I think the best thing for Leda is to get her out of here, and back at college. I worry how she’ll cope, after yesterday. When Santos died, for a whole month she barely spoke.’
‘Ah, but look how she rallied after that,’ said Maria. ‘The young are strong. She’ll take it in her stride.’
‘Do you think so?’ Frona pushed away her half-eaten eggs. ‘If it were me, I think the shock of those horrible remains would scar me for life.’
Frona was still drinking coffee when Maria went upstairs to make the beds. In Santos’s old room, at the foot of his brass bed, Attis’s small suitcase was fastened and locked, ready for his journey back to the city. In Frona’s room, next door, the bedsheets and blankets had been straightened. Maria looked hopefully for the indentations of two heads in the pillows; but the pillows had already been plumped, and the evidence she sought wasn’t there.
Down in the kitchen, Frona was washing the breakfast dishes.
‘He’s off today, is he?’ asked Maria.
Frona laid a chipped plate on the drainer.
‘Who, Attis? I believe so.’
Maria tied a cotton apron over her black dress, and sitting down with a blunt paring knife, began to clean a handful of wild greens.
‘You could ask him to stay, another day or so.’
Frona turned from the sink. Beneath her eyes, the skin was grey and swollen from lack of sleep.
‘Why would I do that?’ she asked. ‘We’re leaving ourselves, tomorrow.’
‘He could give you a lift.’ Maria snapped the stalks from leaves of chervil, releasing the scent of aniseed.
‘We don’t need a lift. I’ll ask Hassan. Where is Attis, anyway?’
‘He said to tell you he’ll be back soon,’ said Maria. ‘He watches you, kalé. I’ve seen him, watching you.’ With the tip of the paring knife, she tapped the corner of her eye.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Frona, turning back to the dishes. ‘Attis has no interest in me. Not in that way.’
‘You’re wrong, kalé. It’s in his eyes.’
‘He must be mad, then,’ said Frona. ‘Maybe he’s after my money.’
‘You don’t have any money,’ said Maria. ‘But he does. He’s getting long in the tooth, but he’d take care of you. There’d be no more money worries, with him. If I were you, I’d give him a chance. You’re getting no younger yourself, and at your age, there may not be many more offers.’
Roula sat in the chair where Maria had left her. The rugs she was wrapped in gave her no warmth; a breakfast of rusks and milky coffee had not tempted her failing appetite. Outside, her son-in-law called the dog as he set off to tend the goats, and she envied him his task; the morning’s predictable inactivity was wearying, and she closed her eyes to doze an hour of it away.
There was a knock at the door, and thinking the unwelcome neighbour had come calling, she feigned sleep. But there was no shrill call of Kali mera, no shout for Maria; instead, she heard the door quietly open, and sensed someone approach her in her chair.
She opened her eyes. The fat man stood before her.
‘Hermes!’
Smiling, he bent to kiss her cheek, then took her aged hand and kissed that too.
The Whispers of Nemesis Page 7
