The Messenger of Athens

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the fat man, politely. ‘I wonder if I am in the right place for a cup of coffee?’

  Nikos pushed the peak of the cap off his face and regarded the fat man.

  ‘A stranger in paradise,’ he said. ‘It’s not the season for strangers. But coffee we can manage, winter or summer. How do you take it?’

  ‘Greek coffee, no sugar,’ said the fat man. ‘Thank you.’

  Nikos hauled himself out of his chair and limped into the kitchen. Beneath the chair he had vacated, a ginger cat with watering, inflamed eyes licked the thin hair of its flank. Beyond the boatyard, the bus turned the corner and disappeared up the harbour road. The wind drew ripples in the rainwater pools lying in the hollows of the terrace stones. The fat man shivered.

  Nikos brought coffee, and water, and a clean ashtray to the table, and sat down with the fat man. He held out his hand.

  ‘Nikos Velianidis.’

  ‘Hermes Diaktoros. Hence the winged sandals.’ The fat man pointed to his tennis shoes. Nikos smiled, as if he might have understood the joke.

  The fat man gestured at the bay and towards the mountains, whose peaks were hidden in lowering clouds.

  ‘It’s very beautiful here,’ he said. ‘Peaceful. A spot like this would suit me very well.’

  ‘Would it, now?’ asked Nikos. ‘Well, sir, I’ll tell you something. If I had a thousand drachma for everyone I’d heard say that, I’d be a rich man now. You know what they say. The grass is always greener.’

  ‘Sometimes, it’s true,’ said the fat man.

  ‘We have a lot of foreigners,’ said Nikos, ‘who think they’d like this life. A life of ease. It’s too much ease that drives them home again.’

  ‘It’s certainly very quiet.’

  ‘It wasn’t always like this. This island was a centre of industry, once.’

  ‘Really?’ The fat man peeled the cellophane from his new pack of cigarettes and offered it to Nikos, who took one. Nikos held up a gold lighter which burned with a small, steady flame, and the fat man leaned towards him to light his own cigarette. ‘May I say that, frankly, I have seen very little here of what I would term industry.’

  ‘Sponges,’ said Nikos. ‘They were the heart of an international business. We fished them, cleaned them, packed them and shipped them. There were thousands of people living here, all making a good living out of sponges. We were merchants, and exporters on a grand scale.’ The fat man thought of the derelict warehouses he had seen in the harbour square. ‘Now, we are importers. Germans, English, Dutch. We trade in ice cream and cold beer and sunbeds. Seasonal, but profitable. Six months’ hard labour, six months sitting on our arses waiting for the next wave to roll in.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘But you,’ he said, ‘if I may say so, are not typical of our clientele. We don’t get too many from Athens.’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Nikos. ‘You can’t pick your nose here without everyone knowing about it. And I expect the Chief of Police’s nose is out of joint now you’re here.’

  The fat man took a sip of his coffee and replaced the cup carefully in its saucer.

  ‘The state of Mr Zafiridis’s nose,’ he said, ‘is not my concern.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is,’ said Nikos. ‘Though he’s an interesting man, nonetheless.’

  He folded his arms across his belly and waited for the stranger to take his bait. The fat man smiled, and bit.

  ‘In what way could he possibly be interesting? I found him lacking both charm and intelligence.’

  ‘He is charmless and stupid, of course,’ said Nikos, wafting away the fat man’s observations with his cigarette smoke. ‘But he’s a man with a secret.’

  ‘Yes,’ the fat man concurred, flatly. ‘He is.’

  Nikos looked at him.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes, I know. Presumably, so do you. Weren’t you about to tell me?’

  Nikos stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘I must swallow my pride,’ he said, ‘and admit that I don’t. So if you know his secret, please satisfy my curiosity. The Chief of Police is an enigma I have puzzled away at for some considerable time. I know he is not what he seems. But the man is like a hermit crab: the more you try and winkle him out, the deeper he conceals himself. He’s a man with something to hide. Unfortunately, he is also a master at hiding it. If you know, indulge me, as a curious old man.’

  For a few moments the fat man hid his mouth behind his hand and looked at Nikos, assessing, considering.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, finally. ‘Are you the kind of man who can be trusted with another man’s secrets?’

  ‘I never break a confidence.’ Nikos bent and stroked the cat beneath his chair, concealing the light blush which the lie brought to his skin. The cat sniffed at his hand, then stood and ambled towards the kitchen door.

  But the fat man seemed to take him at his word.

  ‘Mr Zafiridis,’ he said, leaning back, relaxed, in his chair. ‘His secret is quite an unusual one, even amongst our nation, where lying is a way of life. He is not Mr Zafiridis of Patmos, as he pretends, but a certain Mr Xanthos, from Sifnos.’

  Nikos smiled in delight.

  ‘An imposter!’

  ‘Just so. He and the real Mr Zafiridis met on a ferry out of Piraeus. Mr Xanthos was heading home to a wife he disliked and some embarrassing problems with the tax man. Mr Zafiridis was on his way here, to take up his new post as Chief of Police; but he, too, had a lot on his mind – in particular a certain young lady who had proved unworthy of him, but not before she had spent every drachma he had. The two men got talking, and then they started drinking; Mr Zafiridis, especially – the real Mr Zafiridis – became very drunk. They talked of Mr Zafiridis’s work, and he made the statement several times that a trained monkey could be a perfectly adequate Chief of Police. In fact, he was quite correct: one has only to look at your own “Mr Zafiridis” to see the truth of this statement. Then the real Mr Zafiridis, maudlin drunk but rather rashly nonetheless, expressed a wish to die. Without his paramour, he said, life was not worth the living. Our “Mr Zafiridis” took him at his word, and helped him over the side twelve miles off Halkidiki. But not before he helped himself to the real Mr Zafiridis’s papers. He presented himself here as the new Chief of Police – and has been here ever since.’

  The fat man drained his coffee cup.

  Nikos’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  ‘How has he got away with it?’ he asked. ‘And what happens if someone who knows the real man comes looking for him?’

  The fat man licked a fingertip, and rubbed with it at a blemish on the trim of his right shoe.

  ‘The false Mr Zafiridis is not bright, but he is cunning. He is adept at making himself scarce when danger threatens. But his life here has not been comfortable. He spends a great deal of time looking over his shoulder. Chance, and Fate, are always there, ready to take a hand; and Chance is one thing in life no one can make provision for. In the end, his sins will find him out. His time will come. Sooner or later.’

  Nikos frowned.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘It’s quite simple. I read his mind.’

  Nikos smiled back.

  ‘It’s a good story. A very good story, in fact.’

  ‘You could dine out on it for months, no doubt.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  The fat man shrugged.

  ‘It may be. It may not be. You choose. After all, does it really matter, to you?’

  There was a brief silence, and Nikos had the uncomfortable sense of being chastised. But his curiosity pricked again.

  ‘So, if it’s not Mr Zafiridis you’re after, what is your concern here?’ he asked. ‘If I am allowed to inquire.’

  The fat man looked out across the sea. The tiny silhouette of a ship moved slowly on the distant horizon, passing them by.

  ‘I am here,’ he said, ‘to protect the int
erests of a young lady named Irini Asimakopoulos.’

  ‘Ah.’ All animation left Nikos’s face; it fell into sadness made poignant by welling tears he tried to wipe away like tiredness.

  ‘You knew her.’

  ‘Irinaki mou,’ sighed Nikos. He signed the triple cross, and laid his hand over his heart. ‘Yes, I knew her. The dear girl was my niece.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can I offer you a nip of something?’ asked Nikos, suddenly. ‘Metaxa, ouzo? Whisky?’

  ‘A small whisky, then.’

  Nikos limped into the house, and for some minutes the fat man was left alone. When Nikos reappeared, he carried two tumblers and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, three-quarters full. He slammed the glasses down on the table, unscrewed the cap from the whisky and poured out two generous measures.

  He sat down, and held up his glass to the fat man.

  ‘To Irini, God rest her,’ he said.

  ‘To Irini,’ agreed the fat man. They clinked their glasses together, and drank.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ said the fat man, quietly. ‘I want to know how she died.’

  Nikos looked at him with troubled eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  ‘But what do you think? What does your gut tell you?’

  ‘My gut tells me many things, none of them pleasant. My gut tells me that, on the balance of probabilities, her death was not an accident. If only because, in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never known anyone fall off the mountain. Not by accident. Not on foot, anyway. That idiot Stefanos from the wine shop in the harbour, he fell off it in his truck, but he was drunk at the time. And even he walked away from it. Not a mark on him.’

  The fat man took another sip of the whisky, and waited until he felt the warmth of the spirit hit his chest.

  ‘Mr Zafiridis told me it was suicide,’ he said. ‘Did you know that’s what they were saying?’

  Nikos nodded, slowly.

  ‘Might they be right?’

  ‘You’re the detective.’

  ‘But you knew her.’

  ‘I thought I did. I knew her as a little girl. I worked abroad, for many years; when I came back, she was all grown. We’re not from here, you know. We’re from the mainland. Not far away, but far enough . . .’

  ‘Far enough for what?’

  ‘Far enough for these small minds to think us foreign. Anywhere not here is foreign to them.’

  ‘But does that matter, if you fit in? Did she fit in?’

  Nikos hesitated.

  ‘Let me tell you my view on life. Everyone wants to be happy. Happy Ever After. But life’s not like that. We all know that. Just some people accept it better than others. Happiness is something that comes along in little bits, not in ever-afters. The day your kids are born, you’re happy. Ecstatic. Two days later, when you haven’t slept and the brat won’t stop bawling and your wife’s in tears, you’re miserable. You’re so miserable you want to throw the kid at the wall, walk out the door and never come back. But it’s too late. You can’t put them back where they came from. So you soldier on. And sure enough, the kid brings you more bits of happiness. The first time my son called me “Papa”, I cried, I was in tears. Then they throw up all over you. All in all, you wouldn’t be without them, but there are sacrifices to be made. Sometimes, those sacrifices are . . . significant. Do you see what I’m saying? What people should be looking for is . . . shall I call it “contentment”? Knowing that, on balance, highs and lows taken into account, they’re probably better off where they are than anywhere else. Not looking over the fence all the time to see what the other guy’s got that you haven’t. That way lies heartache. Settle for what you’ve got.’

  ‘That’s one point of view, friend,’ said the fat man. ‘But what would happen if everyone settled for their lot in life? What about Man’s great discoveries – medicine, literature, art? Without people who refused to settle, we’d still be thinking the world was flat and the seas awash with dragons. We’d still be waiting for some other guy to invent the wheel.’

  Nikos smiled.

  ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘Anyway. Irini had done things the wrong way round – married, then decided she wasn’t ready to settle. She had the idea that she could persuade Andreas the money he’d been saving for years was best spent seeing the world. He didn’t see it that way. All he wanted was a quiet life – a house of his own, a couple of kids, dinner on the table. But she was stubborn. If there was something she wanted to do, she wouldn’t give up the idea, and if there was something she didn’t want to do, she didn’t do it. She wouldn’t go to church, said it bored her. But it bores everybody, doesn’t it? Bores the pants off me. No one goes to church because they enjoy it. The women here go to church, it’s what they do. Gives them an interest outside the home. It’s their social club. But she wouldn’t go.’

  ‘She wasn’t happy, then?’

  ‘In the beginning she was. Andreas was a good match, in many ways. I wouldn’t have had her tied to anyone who wasn’t right for her. He’s a simple man, uncomplicated. He makes enough to be comfortable. He’s no debts, and he pays his bills on time. So when my sister was looking for a match for Irini, I vouched for him. My sister and I arranged the marriage together.’

  ‘And Irini was happy with your choice?’

  ‘She showed up at the church. I took that to mean she was happy enough.’

  ‘Our friend Zafiridis seems to have discovered almost nothing useful in investigating Irini’s death, but I have inferred from him that your niece was late in marrying – that she was, in fact, for these parts, almost an old maid. Was there a reason for that?’

  Nikos hesitated.

  ‘There’d been someone else,’ he said at last. ‘Someone she’d waited for. Someone she wasted a lot of time on.’

  ‘A broken heart, then.’

  ‘A broken promise. He’d had her heart and all her wits some years before. But by the time he left her on the shelf, it’s my belief she cared no more for him than he did her.’

  ‘Is it possible, then – forgive me – that Andreas was a port of last resort for her?’

  Nikos studied the back of his hand; behind his knuckles was a dark, oval bruise whose origin he couldn’t remember. He rubbed at the bruise with his thumb.

  ‘You didn’t know Irini,’ he said at last, ‘so it’s understandable you might think that. But Irini believed that life as a spinster – and you and I both know what stigma that role carries – was preferable to life with Johnny Anybody. My sister had a man in mind for her – from a good family, wealthy and well thought of – and Irini refused to look at him. She turned him down. My sister was mortified. It caused her great embarrassment, and created a rift between her and Irini that never properly healed.’ He stopped, and looked into the fat man’s face. ‘This is private business,’ he said. ‘I’m telling you this because I trust you to do the best you can for my Irini.’

  ‘You have my word on it,’ said the fat man. ‘And you may count absolutely on my discretion.’

  Nikos took a sip from his glass.

  ‘Things got difficult,’ he said. ‘To save face, the intended man’s family put it about that it was they who’d turned Irini down, rather than the other way around. People made up their minds she’d been putting it about. My sister blamed Irini for destroying the whole family’s reputation. And, when the rumours started flying, needless to say no other candidates stepped forward for her hand.’

  ‘Except Andreas.’

  Nikos bowed his head.

  ‘Except Andreas. He was prepared to take my word that there was no history a man wouldn’t want in a wife. They met; they liked each other. It was hard for her at home, I know; but no, Andreas wasn’t a port of last resort. They got along. He’s straightforward, he’s uncomplicated, and very skilled in his work, and she admired that. They could have been happy ever after.’

  ‘So if she was happy at first, what changed?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’
said Nikos, wearily. ‘Maybe nothing. That’s common enough ground for growing unhappiness, isn’t it – nothing changing?’

  ‘Could she have been unhappy enough to commit suicide?’ asked the fat man.

  Nikos considered.

  ‘I don’t think so. But what do I know? What can anybody know about another’s state of mind if they choose to hide it? But a suicidal state of mind is a hard thing to conceal. Especially here.’

  ‘Is it true she was having an affair?’

  Nikos laughed. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘The grass hasn’t been growing under your feet.’

  He picked up the whisky bottle and poured another measure into each glass.

  ‘So is it true, Nikos?’ persisted the fat man.

  ‘There’re only two people who could ever know the answer to that question. One of them’s dead. Better ask the other. Yammas.’

  The fat man picked up his glass and echoed the toast.

  ‘Yammas. But will the other tell me the truth?’

  ‘In his place, I wouldn’t.’

  The fat man smiled, and sipped his whisky.

  ‘What’s he like, this Theo Hatzistratis?’

  ‘You’ve got a name, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well done. Quiet fellow. Not a womaniser. But then, what do mothers say to their daughters? Never trust the quiet ones.’

  ‘Do you think there was anything between them?’

  ‘Maybe. She was bored, and the Devil finds work for idle hands. And other body parts. But if she was screwing him, she did wrong. She married Andreas in good faith, promised him fidelity. Then she sees something she likes the look of and she’s off, making a fool of him. Worst thing a woman can do to a man, cuckold him. If she’d been my wife, I’d have killed her.’