Greek Fire

by Winston Graham

  The party was getting ready to move off. There were ten of them—all the women superbly dressed. Gene might have felt conspicuous in his hired suit if it had been his nature to care. He had heard of one or two of the others before: a Yugo-Slav ballerina called Gallanova; a French marquis visiting the city; a Greek tobacco king.

  Gene found himself sharing a car with Anya and the Turk and the wife of the tobacco king. While he was making casual conversation with the girl, while he was taking in everything about her, her cool challenging indifference towards him, he was also listening to the conversation in Greek between the other two in the car.

  “If the Government had resigned in a normal way without attempting to change its colours …”

  “But why did Karamanlis dissolve the Greek Rally? It is playing into the hands of the extremists.”

  “Or the new Centre. EMO prospers. Ask Anya.”

  “Some say the Army is restive. General Telechos no doubt could say if he would.”

  “Is he back in favour?”

  “Oh, very much so. Anya, Telechos is very much in favour with the Army again, isn’t he? It is spoken of everywhere.”

  “My dear Maurice, I only know he is very much in favour with me, because he sent me orchids yesterday.”

  The Turk laughed. “Your innocence deceives no one. What does George think of it all?”

  “You’d be shocked to know how little he confides in me.”

  They were approaching the theatre. As they drew into the queue of cars waiting to give off their occupants, they could see the crowds of sightseers at the entrance to the theatre.

  Taksim said to Gene: “ I think, monsieur, you will be bored tonight. A Greek tragedy, in the language of Greece—could anything be duller for you?”

  “I’ve a kind of family interest in it,” he said. “My grandmother’s name was Electra.”

  Anya glanced at him then. “ Was she Greek?”

  “Yes. Electra Theroudakis. She went to the States when she was twenty-two.”

  “And never came back?”

  “No.”

  “What a calamity.”

  They drew up at the door of the theatre. “Perhaps you speak Greek, then?”

  He shrugged deprecatingly. “Just a smattering.”

  They went in. The Comte de Trieste had followed his briefing admirably, and Gene found himself between Mlle Stonaris and Mrs. Tobacco King. They were in the eighth row of the stalls and the theatre was blooming with the flower of Athenian society. Programmes fluttered, arms and shoulders gleamed, jewels and orders winked. There was a hum like bees on a lazy afternoon. Most of the ex-Government and the diplomatic corps was there. He saw the girl glint a smile across at one of the boxes, where a dark very pale man sat beside a plump woman whose attention just then was on the two young children behind her. George Lascou in his role of family man and representative of the people.

  Then everyone stood and the National Anthem was played as Royalty came into the opposite box. After it was over there was some applause before the audience rippled back into its seats and the lights were lowered for the play to begin.

  In the first entr’acte Gene said to the girl: “ She’s a fine actress but I’ve seen others I’ve liked better. For one thing, she’s too old for the part.”

  “Electra has to be at least fifteen years older than Orestes. Would you prefer Marilyn Monroe?”

  At least he’d got his reaction. “Have you been to the scene of the crime?”

  “Mycenae? Of course.”

  “The most impressive thing in all Greece.”

  “After Delphi.”

  “I’ve not been there. But I shall be going next week. You know of Michael Michaelis.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “My firm publishes him in America. He lives near Delphi, and I have to see him there.”

  “I envy you the experience.”

  “You’re interested in archaeology, aren’t you?”

  They moved through the crowd of people. “Who told you that?”

  “There was a paragraph in the paper a couple of days ago.”

  “I know nothing whatever about archaeology; but through a friend I’m able to take an interest in some diggings at Sounion. That was what you read of?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a Greek newspaper?”

  “Well, I guess I can pick out the words if I go slow.”

  “I guess you can follow everything that’s been said on the stage tonight.”

  “Tell me, do you know everyone in this foyer?”

  “No. They’re always changing the door-keeper.”

  A brief smile broke across his deeply preoccupied face. “Who is the man talking over there?”

  “The Mayor of Athens. He is leading a party at the election. Were you in the Army during the war?”

  “Kind of. You would be too young to remember it.”

  “I was nine when the Germans invaded us. I have the most vivid recollections of it all.”

  “You were in Athens right through?”

  “Yes. Where did your grandmother come from?”

  “Kifissia.”

  “She was rich?”

  “No. Nor was my grandfather when he came over here and met her and married her.”

  “Could she have been happy in America?”

  “It’s not impossible, you know.”

  “I suppose not quite.”

  “Anyway, she left me a legacy.”

  ‘A legacy?”

  “Not of money but of blood. Who is that going up the steps now?”

  “George Lascou. He leads the EMO party at the election.”

  “Anyone here who isn’t leading a party?”

  “Personalities count in Greece. Perhaps you don’t understand our politics.”

  “I’m always glad to learn.”

  “It is time we were going back.”

  At the second entr’acte she said: “Thank you, no, I’ll sit here.”

  “Then I’ll stay too—if I’m not in your light.”

  General Telechos on the other side had not gone out either, and for a while he took her attention. It left Gene free to watch her quietly and to collect his thoughts. She was as hard as nails, he could see that. Her brain was as sharp and as cutting as the diamonds round her beautiful throat. And it was beautiful. She might be a femme fatale but at least if you were fool enough not to care about the danger it would come awfully easy being one of her fatalities. Her eyes weren’t black, they were brown but made darker by their lashes, they had a sort of fronded brilliance which was quite devastating.

  As he thought this she turned her head suddenly and met his look. They stared at each other then for several seconds.

  She said: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I remember where I’ve seen you before.”

  “That must be very gratifying for you.”

  “At the Little Jockey on Monday.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was there.”

  “Now I remember you. You were sitting two tables away from us. Do you like cheap night-club women?”

  “They’re terrific.”

  Her eyes didn’t move for a second longer, they seemed to deepen with an expression they did not or could not hold, then a flicker of the lashes and they had moved beyond him.

  But it was as if they had looked at each other just too long. Some inner content of the look—though it was over—superimposed itself on what they were saying.

  “Well, if you do not like cheap night-club women, why do you sit with them?”

  “You know how it is when a man goes to a place like that alone—all the girls run away.”

  “Then why go alone?”

  “To see the show.”

  “You are interested in dancing?”

  “I’m interested in dancers. Did you know that the Spaniard, Juan Tolosa, was killed in an accident the following day?”

  “I read it in the papers.”

 
The others were coming back. General Telechos spoke to Anya again. George Lascou was re-entering his box. He stared down at the stalls before he took his seat. Gene stood up to let some of the party past. The whole glittering company was moving and murmuring about them.

  He said: “Does it strike you—being Greek—as much as it does an outsider, that the first night of this play—first day of this play—when it was first performed two and a half thousand years ago, was on a site probably not a mile from where we’re sitting? Or is it left for the foreigner to get sentimental and excited about it for the wrong reasons?—as you implied when we first met.”

  “Some Greeks think about it.”

  “It’s hard to imagine what that first performance ever would be like—probably connected with some Dionysian festival—people squatting round with their baskets, seeing it – on a dais against a plain backcloth. The author would be here, even though he was getting up in years; but what would his critical audience be? Euripides probably, come to see this new work by his great rival. Aristophanes too? Socrates would be here. Pericles, maybe, if he could spare the time from questions of high policy. No, I think Pericles would just have died by then. Plato may have been brought by his mother and father. And Democritus, who first put forward the atomic theory.… And that at a time when my ancestors—or most of them—were crouching over smoky fires in damp northern caves.”

  She looked at him. “We have gone down the hill ourselves since then.”

  “I shouldn’t let that depress you.”

  “It doesn’t. Go on.”

  He said: “ My speculations haven’t run any further. Except to wonder if you’ll lunch with me one day this week?”

  Her expression suggested she’d had fifty such invitations before, all put in just that way.

  “Thank you, but I think I shall be busy at present. How long will you be staying in Athens?”

  “Not as long as that.”

  She opened her programme again. “ Tomorrow afternoon I shall be driving to Sounion. If you have not seen it …”

  “I have not seen it.”

  “Then perhaps you would care to come.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Thank you. I’d very much care to come.”

  Chapter Eight

  She was in bed when the phone rang.

  “Anya?” Lascou said.

  “Yes, darling. Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “Good enough in its way. The evening was a social success.”

  She said: “Did you get to talk to him?”

  “To them both for three or four minutes. It was a good occasion, before the fight begins. And you?”

  “The usual crowd, as you saw. I think Solaris stole the play.”

  “Otho told me you rang me about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Yes. You weren’t back. I have a little news that may entertain you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, I mustn’t forget. General Telechos paid you one or two agreeable compliments. I think he is ready to make a deal.”

  Lascou listened to the compliments. “Good. And your news?”

  “Did you see the man sitting beside me?”

  “On your other side? Yes. I didn’t know him.”

  “Klaus was ill, Leon de Trieste invited this man in his place. An American called Vanbrugh.”

  “Ah.…”

  “Did you say something?”

  “Just ah.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. A coincidence after your telling me about him the other day.”

  “If it was a coincidence.”

  “I was wondering; but I should think so … I asked Leon about him afterwards and he said he met him first some years ago.”

  “What is he like?”

  “So-so. More grown up than one expects. You haven’t told me exactly what you’ve got against him.”

  “I tried to.”

  “Oh, pooh, some fracas in Piraeus five years ago. That’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “Not altogether.”

  “But you were not involved in some fracas in Piraeus five years ago.”

  “Of course not. He’s really nothing to me. As you gather, I never saw him until tonight.”

  “But you are interested in him.”

  “So are the police.”

  “What do they want him for?”

  “Some irregularity over his passport, I expect.”

  She laughed gently. “Couldn’t we be more original than that?”

  “No, seriously.… He’s a trouble-maker and always will be. To get rid of him is a simple insurance at a time like this.”

  “Well, if you won’t tell me you won’t. Perhaps I shall discover for myself tomorrow.”

  “You’re seeing him again? It might be of use.”

  “That’s why I made the arrangement.”

  “Find out where he is staying, for one thing.”

  “Apparently he’s a publisher or represents a publisher. Did you know that? He also speaks Greek and reads Greek; I’m not sure how well. He has lived in Paris for the last three years. His firm publishes Michael Michaelis. He knows quite a lot of people here; but he doesn’t seem anxious to be recognised. Two or three times in the foyer tonight he changed his direction to avoid people, including his own ambassador.”

  “It shows he’s up to no good.”

  “Even that doesn’t make him attractive.”

  “Go on.”

  “By the way, did you know the chief dancer at the Little Jockey had been killed in a street accident?”

  “No. One of those you saw?”

  “The chief male dancer. I wonder why this Gene Vanbrugh was at the club the same night as I was.”

  “When was the fellow killed?”

  “The following day.”

  “Find out as much as possible when you meet Vanbrugh.”

  “I’ll listen carefully to everything he has to say.”

  “And of course,” added Lascou, “he will say so much more to you.”

  Chapter Nine

  They met as arranged outside the King George at three. There was still no great heat although the sun was brilliant. It fell on a square strangely silent after the abounding life of two hours ago.

  She was sitting in a grey Silver Phantom Rolls. A chauffeur was standing beside the car, but when Gene came up he stepped respectfully back and opened the door. As Gene got in she looked at him thoughtfully but did not smile. She’d done her hair in a different way and was wearing Chinese jade ear-rings and a frock of grey jersey.

  He said: “ You should have warned me.”

  “What of?”

  “If I’d known we were travelling the hard way I’d have put on battle dress.”

  She lifted a half-ironical eyebrow and started the engine. The chauffeur stood back and saluted as the car turned off into Venizelou Street. It was not until they had gone some way that Gene spoke again.

  “You must be very rich.”

  “Why don’t you talk Greek?”

  “You must be very rich,” he said in Greek.

  “Scarcely any accent. It is as if——”

  “As if I came from one of the neighbouring voμoı. Never from the one I’m in.”

  “How do you speak so well? You have relatives still here?”

  “Nobody here.”

  “You are staying with friends in Athens?”

  “No, I have rooms.”

  She waited but he said no more. They left the suburbs of Athens and skirted the barren eminences of Hymettus, travelling fast through olive groves and vineyards. Once they were out of the town there was practically no traffic except for the occasional farm cart piled high and drawn by donkey or mule moving ponderously on businesses known only to the black-dressed, black-scarved peasant woman between the shafts. An occasional village street saw them by, inevitable café, inevitable yellow mongrels, tiny Byzantine church, eucalyptus trees, tattered buildings, black-clad idlers staring.

  He said: “Tell me about t
hese excavations.”

  “You will see them for yourself.”

  “The paper said you were closely superintending the work.”

  “That’s because it was a paper which favours the people I am friendly with. I act in this for my friend, who is too busy to come down.”

  “Tell me what you have found.”

  She said: “Tell me why you went to the Little Jockey on Monday.”

  He stared out at the road with his grave, craggy, withdrawn face. “Why not?”

  “Why did you say at the play that Juan Tolosa had been killed in an accident the following day?—putting on an emphasis as if you didn’t believe it was any such thing.”

  “Did I? No.… But it’s a little strange, isn’t it, that the car which killed him was badly damaged but hasn’t yet been found.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I went along to the police inquiry this morning.”

  “It was interesting?”

  “His widow said the car mounted the side-walk and deliberately crushed him against a house.”

  “She must have been hysterical.”

  “Quite hysterical.”

  She glanced at him. “ You don’t think so?”

  “The police did. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  As they came near Lavrion the green fields and vineyards gave place to old mine machinery, grey heaps of slag and rusty iron derricks. Then they were through the area of the silver mines and the brilliant sun lit up the low cliffs and ultramarine sea of Cape Sounion, with the white temple of Poseidon like a tall nun brooding on a hill. The girl drove up to the Acropolis and stopped the engine. They got out.

  He said: “ When I was a student we used to come here at the week-ends to bathe.”

  “You said last night you had not been before.”

  “I’ve not been before with you.”

  He stood by the car for a while looking about him, and she glanced once or twice at his face.

  He said: “ Fruitful study of aesthetics as well as of ancient history.”

  “Why?”

  “Where does the impact come from? Thirteen pillars. Half a dozen rectangles of fluted marble with the sea as a drop curtain. If you analyse it, it’s nothing.”

  She said: “A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.”

  He turned. “Exactly.” Then his eyes focused on her. “ Except that there’s a physical as well as an aesthetic element in a woman’s beauty.”