The Messenger of Athens

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘You know what I think?’ Lukas leaned back in his chair, and held his hands behind his head. ‘Love’s the worst affliction known to man. Life’s greatest curse. I fell in love once.’ For a moment, he was silent, and turned his face from the fat man. ‘She’s married now, to someone else.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lukas turned back to the fat man with a grin, but the muscles of his face were tight, and the grin did not fit with the sadness welling in the goatherd’s eyes.

  ‘No need for sorry, friend,’ he said. ‘I reckon I had a lucky escape. Life’s easy; I take what I can get. Tourist season, there’s plenty for all. If I ever thought I was falling in love again, I’d take the next ship out of here.’

  ‘I cannot disagree with you, Lukas, that such a course of action would be sensible,’ said the fat man. ‘But others are not so prudent. I’ve seen your cousin, Andreas. The loss of Irini has almost cost him the will to live. He’s taken it very hard.’ He shook his head. ‘Very hard.’

  ‘I was at the funeral,’ said Lukas. ‘I saw him there.’

  ‘Irini’s dead, poor girl, and your cousin’s life’s in tatters,’ said the fat man. ‘Don’t you agree that whoever is responsible should be found, and punished?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lukas, vehemently. ‘Only a fool wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘Then you must help me.’

  Lukas slammed his hands down on his knees.

  ‘I can’t tell you, dammit,’ he protested. ‘It’s more than my life’s worth to tell you anything.’

  ‘But you do know something.’

  Lukas hesitated. ‘I saw something.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  On his shirt cuff, there was a length of cotton where the fabric was frayed. He rolled the thread, backwards and forwards, between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘It didn’t mean anything at the time,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know that she was dead.’

  The fat man laid a hand on Lukas’s forearm, and applied a little pressure in a squeeze.

  ‘Lukas, you have to tell me what you saw.’

  He looked the fat man full in the face.

  ‘If I trust you,’ he said, ‘if I tell you, you must swear never to repeat it. You must never give my name. Or they’ll make sure I’m not around to tell the story twice.’

  ‘I give you my word. Now tell me. What did you see?’

  ‘The day after she disappeared, I saw the police car, the Suzuki.’

  ‘Looking for Irini?’

  ‘You might have thought so. But it was very early, barely light. I wasn’t far away. I’d some beasts penned up there, for milking, and I went to give them water. I saw someone get into the police car. He wasn’t in uniform, but I knew him anyway. It was Harris Chadiarakis.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The fat man recalled the man: the bovine desk sergeant. ‘And what was Mr Chadiarakis doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Just got in, turned the car round, and drove off. I saw him, clear as I see you now, parked at the top of the cliff where she was supposed to have fallen. But this was two full days before they found her. When I realised where they’d found her, I was scared. I thought, the police were supposed to have been looking for her, but it seemed to me they knew where she was, all along. So I kept my mouth shut. Except I told Nikos. He told me to forget everything I’d seen. And if you say anything, I’m a dead man. But I see the misery of my poor cousin now, and if those bastards . . .’

  ‘Lukas,’ interrupted the fat man, ‘listen to me. I’ll make use of what you’ve told me, but no one will ever know where I got the information. That’s a promise.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must be on my way. It’s a long walk back to town. But I’ll leave this for you. A little “thank you” for information received.’ From a pocket tucked away inside his jacket, the fat man withdrew a pint bottle of golden liquor, unlabelled. He held it out to Lukas. ‘You’ve a good heart, friend,’ he said, ‘and you’ll appreciate this. It’s a little-known speciality, from the North.’

  Taking the bottle, Lukas unscrewed the cap, and sniffed at the liquor.

  ‘It smells,’ he said, ‘of warm honey.’

  He made to put the bottle to his lips, but with a shake of his finger the fat man stopped him.

  ‘It’s not for every day,’ he said. ‘You must treat this liquor with respect. Where I come from, they use it as an antidote to love. So, if you ever find a woman getting a foothold in your heart, take a shot of that, and keep your heart where it belongs – with you!’

  They laughed, and Lukas clapped the fat man on the shoulder. The fat man picked up his holdall, and crouched to tickle the mongrel beneath its chin.

  At the first bend in the track, he looked back, and would have waved goodbye; but on the lonely hillside there was no sign at all of either man or dog.

  The fat man walked briskly back to the road and headed in the direction of the village. Approaching the turn for St Savas’s bay, he glanced at the gold-plated watch on his wrist, and decided there was enough light left in the waning afternoon to pay another visit.

  At the seafront, the onshore breeze blew cold. Nikos’s terrace was deserted, but the door to his kitchen stood open, and from within a radio played the primitive music of the islands: harshly scraped fiddles, a woman’s nasal chant. The fat man stepped up to the door, and knocked. Immediately the radio was silenced.

  ‘Nikos!’

  He caught the chink of glass as a bottle was replaced amongst the liqueurs and whiskies. Then came a light belch and a profanity.

  The fat man knocked again.

  ‘Nikos! It’s me, Diaktoros! Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Nikos stood before him in the doorway; his smile was unconvincing, and the sagging skin beneath his eyes spoke of insomnia.

  The fat man frowned.

  ‘Forgive my bluntness,’ he said, ‘but you look unwell, my friend.’

  Nikos laid a hand across his belly.

  ‘I have a bit of pain sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘It comes and goes, but lately the coming has been longer than the going.’ He winced, and his face grew pallid.

  The fat man took his elbow, and guided him towards the terrace chairs.

  ‘Sit,’ said the fat man. ‘Rest. If you’ll permit me, I’ll take the liberty of making you some tea.’

  Nikos shook his head.

  ‘No tea,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything. But help yourself to something from the shelf – whisky, Metaxa, whatever takes your fancy. Then come and sit with me; you’ll take my mind off whatever’s eating my guts. You’ll be interested in some news I’ve had of our good friend Zafiridis.’

  He closed his eyes, and waited for the pain to pass. The fat man lay down his holdall, and turned his back on Nikos to hide the bag from view; unzipping one of its side pockets, he withdrew a cork-stoppered blue glass vial and concealed it in his hand. Inside the disorderly kitchen, he poured himself a generous measure of whisky, then filled a second glass with water from the slow-running tap. Uncorking the vial, he let three drops fall into the water glass, where they spread slow as smoke, tinting the water the lightest pink.

  ‘I brought you some water,’ said the fat man, sitting down at the table, ‘because I hate to drink alone. Yammas.’ He raised his glass to Nikos, who, out of habit, chinked it with his own. The fat man sipped his whisky; Nikos took a deep swallow of water, and the fat man smiled.

  ‘I’ve been to see Lukas,’ he said. ‘We had a most interesting conversation. A very useful conversation, in fact.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Nikos. His pallor was lifting; there was a glow about his cheeks as if long-absent warmth was finally reaching them.

  ‘You said you’d news of Zafiridis,’ prompted the fat man.

  The pain in Nikos’s stomach was easing. He sat back in his chair, stretched his feet in front of him and crossed his hands on his stomach.

  ‘I have indeed,’ he said. ‘According to George the bus driver, our much esteemed Chief of Police h
as been having some trouble with his car.’

  The fat man frowned, remembering the police car in perfect running order.

  ‘Mechanical trouble?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Nikos. ‘Someone removed all its wheels.’

  The fat man laughed, and raised his glass again.

  ‘Here’s to the thief,’ he said. He sipped at his whisky, watching Nikos closely as he too took a drink. ‘Do we have his name, or a motive for the crime?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve both. And we know as well the criminal’s punishment, which is, I’m afraid, no laughing matter. There’s been a dispute, about money. It seems that, keen as he is in his official role to collect in fines and fees, Mr Zafiridis is far from prompt in paying his own debts.’

  ‘All the more inexcusable,’ said the fat man, ‘considering how fond he is of collecting monies not due to him at all. My information is that, for a man in his position, he’s made himself quite wealthy.’

  ‘It comes as no surprise,’ said Nikos. ‘The constabulary is well known for it. But it’s despicable then that he has failed to pay his rent for the best part of a year. His landlord is George Psaros, a man who’s known to struggle for money. He was a farmer, in a small way, until some years ago. He lost a leg to diabetes. The house that Zafiridis rents from him is his only source of income. The family have helped the old man out as best they could. But last night his two sons had had a drink, and went to claim the debt in their own way. They spirited away the police car’s wheels, and left a note naming the price of their return – the exact sum Zafiridis owes their father in unpaid rent.’

  ‘I approve wholeheartedly,’ said the fat man. ‘The plan has wit. But the humour is at Zafiridis’s expense – and he’s not a man to enjoy being laughed at.’ He took lighter and cigarettes from his pocket, lit a cigarette and inhaled. ‘How does it stand?’

  ‘Janis, the youngest, has been arrested. They’ve got him in the cells at the police station. Petros, the elder, Zafiridis told to put the wheels back and sent on his way. And Petros has done it; he thought he’d made his point, and shamed Zafiridis into paying his debts. But now the Chief’s threatening to send Janis Psaros to the mainland; he’s charged him with theft, resisting arrest, assault, you name it. He’s going to throw the book at him. And he still hasn’t paid the rent.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said the fat man, ‘that the man wearing the uniform is more of a thief than his prisoner. And why lock up one brother and not the other? Is Janis more guilty than Petros?’

  Nikos shook his head.

  ‘It has nothing to do with guilt. It comes down to Zafiridis’s . . . proclivities. Poor Janis has made a very bad mistake in taking him on; he’s played right into Zafiridis’s hands. Whilst Janis is gone – safely shut away in a mainland jail – Zafiridis will doubtless take advantage of his absence. For all I know, he may already have done so.’

  ‘Take advantage in what way?’

  ‘Young Janis has a very attractive wife. It’s my belief that Mr Zafiridis will happily abuse his position to advance his suit with Mrs Psaros, especially if the lady needs Zafiridis’s influence. And if Janis goes to the mainland, she’ll need all the influence Zafiridis can muster to get her husband out of that jail.’

  The fat man man’s expression was thoughtful. He drew again on his cigarette.

  ‘Our Chief of Police seems to have a taste for other men’s wives,’ said Nikos.

  ‘The inclination towards forbidden fruit is unfortunate, but for a man in a position of trust to force himself on vulnerable women is unforgivable. Has our friend made a habit of doing so?’

  Nikos considered.

  ‘One other, at least,’ he said. ‘Manolis Mandrakis’s wife. Manolis is a house-painter – a bit slow in his mind, but a reliable worker. He caught his wife with our man in the back of her father’s shop. There was a divorce soon after. At the time, why she had entertained Zafiridis was a mystery; his attractions are all in his own head, as far as I can see. But the rumour went round for weeks that she’d been coerced – that her father’s business was at stake. Maybe the family put that rumour about to restore its honour. Or maybe it was true.’

  The fat man’s cigarette was burned down almost to the filter. He inhaled once more, and reluctantly stubbed it out.

  ‘I told Zafiridis more than once,’ went on Nikos, ‘he paid too much attention to my Irini. I told him it wasn’t appropriate, but an old man’s warnings made no difference to him.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter now – she’s out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Out of harm’s way, yes,’ said the fat man, ‘and we’re a step or two closer to finding out who put her there. I persuaded Lukas to talk to me by giving him my assurance he could rely absolutely on my discretion. He seemed concerned there’d be repercussions for the help he gave me.’

  Nikos clenched and stretched the fingers of one hand, loosening the cold-stiffened knuckles.

  ‘You mention help,’ he said, ‘and I have been wondering if I have kept something from you which might have helped you.’

  ‘Then tell me now.’

  ‘I thought it had no connection with Irini. The lark belonged to Andreas, after all.’

  ‘Lark?’

  ‘Andreas had a lark that he was fond of. He called the bird Milo. He caught it himself, with lime smeared on a twig. Irini always said Milo would sing only for Andreas, and not for her. When Milo died, I assumed it was a grudge against him – someone short-changed, some other petty grievance. They can be like that here: the smallest offence gets blown out of proportion. But the thought’s come to me, lately – I’ve too much time for thoughts, these days – would someone with no close connection to them know the bird was Andreas’s, and not Irini’s?’

  ‘What makes you think there was a grievance? Caged birds die every day.’

  ‘Not in this way. The bird died of a broken neck. It was done by human hand – the cage door was left open. At the time, it seemed unkind – and petty, as I say. But now, when I look back on it, the action has an undertone which seems . . . sinister.’

  The light of afternoon was fading. Outside the hotel, a single street-lamp cast pale shadows on the road. For the first time in many days, the pain in Nikos’s stomach was gone, and he felt sleep might come, if he lay down. He yawned.

  The fat man stood.

  ‘I’ll do my best for Janis Psaros,’ he said. ‘And for his wife. But you must rest. A few hours’ sleep will build your strength.’

  The fat man held out his hand, and Nikos took it; the fat man’s grip was firm, and his hand was warm, despite the cold.

  ‘I’ll call again, before too long,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt you’ll find me here,’ said Nikos. ‘I shan’t be going far. And I’ll be glad, my friend, to see you. Your company seems to do me a world of good.’

  That night, for the first time in weeks, Nikos slept soundly for many hours.

  At the Seagull Hotel, the fat man’s bed was hard, and cold, and he heard the clock strike eleven, and twelve, before he fell asleep.

  At half past midnight, Haroula Psaros – lying awake, and not thinking of sleeping – heard a car pull up outside the house. The engine ran on until Haroula left the bed, and, pulling on a robe, crossed to the window and looked out; as she did so, the police car’s headlamps were extinguished, and the ignition was switched off.

  Delighted, she rushed to greet Janis. But as she unlocked the house door, only one door slammed shut on the police car, and only one dark figure walked through the courtyard gate.

  ‘Mrs Psaros.’

  The Chief of Police removed his cap, and placed it beneath his arm. His oiled hair glistened in the yellow lamplight; the citrus scent of his aftershave was potent, as if very recently applied. As he looked her up and down, he smiled.

  She pulled her robe close round her, clutching it tight about her neck.

  She did not return his smile.

  ‘Where’s Janis?’ she asked.

 
; ‘May I come in?’ He took a step towards her, and she, feeling him too close, stepped back. ‘Janis, I’m afraid, is still at the station. There’s paperwork. Formalities. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘When will he be home?’

  His smile grew wider.

  ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘depends largely on you. By rights, tomorrow I should hand him over to the mainland force. He should be charged there. But I’ve been thinking. I’m a reasonable man; I can be very reasonable. With your help, all that unpleasantness might be avoided. So, may I come in?’

  Her instinct was to spit at him, and slam the door; but Janis was still locked in some cold cell, and the ferry for the mainland was leaving early in the morning.

  If they took Janis away, who knew when he’d be back?

  ‘I’ll come down to the station with you now,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute, and I’ll dress.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.

  He took another step towards her; it brought him inside the door, and with the toe of his polished boot he kicked it shut. His fingers stroked the hand that held the robe and moved on to a tress of long, loose hair.

  His touch revolted her.

  ‘So lovely,’ he breathed. ‘So very lovely. Let’s sit down, and make ourselves comfortable. We’ve a great deal to discuss, you and I, if Janis is to be home with you tomorrow.’

  Fifteen

  When my brother Takis came for me, I was out in the yard.

  The memory of that day will never leave me. I was on edge. Every moment, I expected trouble, because deep in my heart, I knew it was impossible I’d get away with it. I’d been seen with her, and it wouldn’t be too long before the storm would break over my head.

  I was spending a lot of time thinking, trying to make sense of what was happening to me, looking for a way out. I had finally learned the meaning of every crass lovesong; I knew why people sang of being set on fire. I was burning up. I had this balls-ache which wouldn’t leave me alone, a permanent hard-on, wet dreams. Nothing relieved it. Only one thing could relieve it, and that was Irini. I spent all my time resisting the urge to go to her, search her out, do what had to be done.