The Messenger of Athens

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘But Elpida. She was different. He was different, Theo. I chose him for her because he wasn’t that way. He was a quiet boy. He had never put it about, tom-catted around. I didn’t want Elpida to go through what I went through. I couldn’t have borne to see her hurt that way. I wanted to protect her. But in the end, I couldn’t. By the time I knew what was going on, that whore had already got her claws in.’

  She reached up absently, pulled one of the purple blossoms from the tree, and laid it in the palm of her hand; lying there, plucked from the branch, its beauty was diminished, and, in a moment, its perfect form was gone.

  ‘And as for Theo . . .’ She shook her head, and a sigh of exasperation hissed through her teeth.

  ‘So Theo wasn’t different after all.’

  ‘Oh, Theo was different, all right. Theo couldn’t just go for the fuck. With Theo, it had to be love. All or nothing. I went round there once, and there he was, crying at the kitchen table. Crying like a girl. I knew then there was trouble brewing, and I was right. The bitch had already got him, body and soul. Men don’t cry for nothing. When I saw him crying like that, I knew he’d leave Elpida.’

  Holding its stalk between finger and thumb, she twirled the dying flower.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it, for her. The shame of it. She’s a good girl, a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve that. But I didn’t know what to do; I just knew I had to do something. Then rumours started to fly. George heard in the cafés that Theo had been seen with her, so then I knew. I knew my enemy. And Elpida knew something was wrong; she just didn’t know what. She cared for Theo – she cares still. But he doesn’t love her, and I don’t suppose he ever has. And that wasn’t important, it was just the way things are. I told her that. But it was important when he fell in love with someone else. Who was going to look after my Elpida, my little Panayitsa, if he left them? When I’m gone, who will there be to take care of them? Your kids come first. Your kids always come first. So when I knew who she was, we went to warn her off. We went to find her. To talk to her.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me. My other daughter, Yorgia. My mother. She’s a tough old bird, my mother. Looks as frail as a canary, but don’t be taken in. My father was as bad as George, always putting his dick where it shouldn’t have been. But she was strong, and she hung on to him. For what it was worth.’

  She dropped the flower; its petals spread, opaque and wilted, on the cold stones.

  ‘We knew where to find her. She had a bit of a garden, at the top of the village.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone said she was meeting Theo there. We thought we’d catch them together. But the first time we went up, she wasn’t there. We waited, but she didn’t come. So we just pulled up a few flowers, broke off the tomato plants, a few vegetables. We made our way to the house; we might have had it out with her, but there was no one there either.’

  ‘You didn’t go into the house?’

  Eleni blinked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘We went into the courtyard. We called her name, but no one answered.’

  ‘And when you were sure there was no one there, what did you do?’

  ‘We left.’

  ‘Before you left, did you do nothing else? Did you, for example, notice a bird in a cage?’

  She turned her face from him.

  ‘I don’t like to see birds caged,’ she said.

  ‘So did you turn the poor bird free, then?’

  She gave a slow and bitter smile.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I gave it its freedom. There was no more singing for its supper, was there? The bird was a warning to her, that’s all. Maybe we would have left it at that. But Mother said we should go back to the garden, really give the whore a scare. I didn’t know exactly what she had in mind; perhaps she didn’t either. So she and I went again, the next day. And this time, there she was.’

  In the high branches of a cypress tree, a dove was calling. Eleni raised her eyes to where it perched, then looked down at her hands, spreading and examining her fingers as if they were new to her.

  ‘Tell me everything, Eleni,’ said the fat man.

  ‘We walked up from the road. She was gathering up the chick-peas we’d snapped off the day before. She watched us as we came along her little footpath. She didn’t know us; I suppose she was wondering who we were, what we wanted. She looked quite ordinary – not as pretty as my Elpida used to be. Sometimes you have to wonder why they do it, don’t you?’

  She put the question as if he might provide an answer, but when the fat man didn’t speak, she went on without prompting.

  ‘She was polite, at first. She wished us kali mera. But then Mother started in. She told her to stay away from him, that he wasn’t hers, he was our Elpida’s and she called her a whore, a bitch, every name she could think of. So she began to get the picture, then. She asked us who we were, all hands on hips and nose in the air. She asked what the hell it had to do with us, and I told her we were family. I said our family didn’t appreciate homewreckers like her. She said she hadn’t wrecked anybody’s home. She said Theo never spoke to her any more, that he wouldn’t even give her the time of day. She said it was finished, over. So I told her she was a liar and a whore.’

  ‘I think she was probably telling the truth,’ interrupted the fat man. ‘At least as she saw it.’

  ‘And how would you know? What makes you think it was true? Whores like that, they’d swear on their own kids’ lives that black was white. A woman like that knows nothing about truth. Only lies.’ Her face was red, and ugly with bitterness; as she spoke, droplets of her spittle marked his clothes. ‘And we told her so. Mother told her she was a lying bitch. She started trampling on the garden. So then the whore started shouting, “Get out of here, get out!” and she grabbed my mother by the arm. Well, Mother’s frail, her bones are brittle. She might have broken something. So I said to her, “Don’t you dare touch my mother,” and I slapped her across the face. Not hard, but she didn’t like it, and she turned to go. She started to walk away. Mother was angry at the lack of respect she’d been shown. She picked up a clod of earth. She said, “Let’s show her the old way, let’s show her what happens to bitches like her,” and she threw the clod of earth at her. She threw it hard; it hit her in the back, and then the whore was really angry. She came marching back, shouting, “Who threw that? Who threw that?” And Mother picked up a stone, and said, “Me,” and threw the stone, and that hit her on the arm. She looked shocked, then, and I thought, This is the way to let her know we mean it. So I threw a stone. Only a small one. But Mother had a bigger one, and she caught her with it on the forehead. That made her stagger, and she put her hand up to her forehead and there was a cut, and blood, and she looked at us and said, “What the hell are you doing?” And Mother threw another stone. So I did too. We didn’t throw them hard, but they were hurting her, and I was pleased. We picked them up in twos and threes and pelted her. She was shouting, “Help me, help me!” but there’s no one up there to hear. Then she started screaming, and she tried to run. But she wasn’t running fast – we’d caught her on the knees, and she was limping – so I got in front of her. I cut off her retreat. So then she tried appealing. She said, “For God’s sake, no more,” and Mother said, “Don’t call on God, there’s no God for the likes of you.” ’

  She stopped. The breeze caught the tip of the cypress tree, and the dove rose, flying away towards the sea.

  ‘Eleni?’

  ‘She curled up in a ball. She lay down with her arms around her head. She was sobbing – I could see her body shaking – and she was saying, “Please stop, please stop,” over and over again. She was dirty; there was blood on her clothes. I prodded her with my foot and she yelped like a dog, so I told Mother, “That’s enough, she’s learned her lesson.” But Mother wouldn’t stop. She was so angry, fierce. The whore was on the ground, and Mother picked up a rock. She lifted it up over the whore’s head
, and I shouted, “No!” I took it off her; I lifted the rock out of her hands. I thought, It’s too heavy for her, she’ll drop it. So the rock was in my hands; I remember the weight of it. I was going to put it down, lay it aside, but then I thought maybe we hadn’t done enough; a scar or two would be a lasting souvenir, an everyday reminder to stay away from us. Her face was turned towards me, she was looking up at me, and I thought her cheek, or on the chin . . . She saw what I was thinking, and she said, “No . . .” And I dropped the rock.’ She met his eyes, defiantly. ‘How could I know the damage it would do? We meant to frighten her, that was all.’

  ‘You stoned her.’ The fat man’s voice was low. ‘You stoned her to death.’

  She gave no reply. The fat man stood, and, turning his back on her, lit a cigarette. For some time, he was silent.

  ‘So you solved your problem,’ he said. ‘Except there was a body.’

  ‘We covered her with the plants we had pulled up, and I went straight to Harris. I knew he’d help. He wouldn’t want a scandal; he’d do anything to avoid trouble. We went, he and I, before dawn the next day. She hadn’t been reported missing. Her husband was away.’ He thought of poor Andreas, keeping company with his whisky bottle. ‘We sat her in the front of the police car, and Harris took her up the mountain. I told him if she took a fall, the bruises that we’d made wouldn’t be noticed.’

  He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and turned to face her.

  ‘Eleni,’ he said. ‘Look at me. You have committed a cruel murder.’

  ‘Not murder,’ she said, coolly. ‘We never intended her to die. It was an accident.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was no accident. You thought – you and your mother – that the unhappiness of your own lives gave you the right to punish another. Yet you yourself have just said to me that the right to punish is reserved by higher authorities. Your motive was revenge for your own misery.’

  ‘I did what had to be done to protect my child. And I’d do it again. I’ve no regrets.’

  ‘You should be tried for your crime in a court of law.’

  ‘But you have no proof. And no legal standing.’ Rising from the bench, she smoothed the creases from the lap of her skirt.

  Resignedly, he shook his head.

  ‘No. There’s no proof. Only conscience. And if you truly have no conscience, and no remorse, what can I possibly say to you? Here. Go.’

  He held out her clutch bag, but as she took it from him, he caught the catch, and the bag fell open, spilling what it held on to the courtyard stones. Quickly, he bent and gathered up the fallen objects – a handkerchief, a powder compact, a few coins, a small icon of the Archangel Michael – and replaced them in the bag, snapping the clasp shut.

  ‘Go.’

  He watched her walk unhurriedly away, through the open doorway of the church, disappearing into its darkness like a landed fish slipping back into accustomed waters. When she was gone, he picked up his holdall and followed her, and stood watching from the porch as the liturgy droned on.

  Master, accept the thrice-holy hymn also from the lips of us sinners and visit us in Your goodness.

  The candle-tender picked up the offertory plate, and handed a stack of candles to a young girl dressed in pink. Together, they approached the small congregation.

  Forgive our voluntary and involuntary transgressions, sanctify our souls and bodies, and grant that we may worship and serve You in holiness all the days of our lives . . .

  The women opened their Sunday handbags, and fumbled inside them for coins to pay for candles.

  The fat man waited.

  There was a scream, and a gasp, and a muttering which grew to exclamations. The droning ceased, and a babble of excited female voices started up. A woman was crying; the young girl who had carried the candles passed him at a run.

  The fat man sauntered into the church, down the nave, to where the women were gathered around one who moaned, and clutched her hand.

  Across their heads, he called to her, ‘Are you hurt, Eleni?’

  A woman answered him; her eyes were sparkling in delight at the drama.

  ‘A scorpion!’ she said. ‘A scorpion in her handbag! It bit her when she went in it for change!’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ said the fat man. ‘Are you in pain, Eleni?’

  But Eleni seemed not to hear or know him, so he spoke again to the woman at his side.

  ‘I gather the bite of a scorpion is agony,’ he said.

  With relish, she agreed.

  ‘My father’s cousin died of one,’ she said. ‘His arm swelled up like a balloon, and his blood was poisoned. The doctor came too late to save him.’

  ‘To some,’ said the fat man, ‘it’s nothing but a pinprick, then to others, it can be fatal. One never knows. But then, nothing in life is certain, is it?’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Time presses,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Give my best wishes to Mrs Tsavaris.’

  Outside, a little sun was breaking through the clouds; beyond the church walls, the breeze carried the scent of early jasmine. From his holdall the fat man took a bar of almond chocolate, and, savouring the first piece, went on his way.

  Twenty

  At Theo Hatzistratis’s house, the fat man found no one at home, so he wrote a note, choosing his words carefully.

  Be good enough, he put, to meet me at St Savas’s jetty, at 10 a.m. tomorrow. We have a great deal to discuss, and my time here is limited.

  He signed it Hermes Diaktoros, Investigator, in an ornate hand, and lodged it in the letterbox, where it couldn’t be missed.

  In the window of the shipping company, the timetable showed a ferry due that evening. From the public phone outside the post office, the fat man made his call to the police station. It was answered by the undersized constable. In the background, a radio was playing.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the fat man. ‘May I please speak with Chief Zafiridis?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ said the undersized constable, shortly. ‘Try tomorrow.’

  ‘I wonder if you could give him a message,’ said the fat man, ‘from Hermes Diaktoros. The Athenian. Perhaps you remember me.’

  There was a short silence. On the radio, a woman sang of loneliness.

  ‘I’ll take a message,’ said the constable. ‘If it’s urgent.’

  ‘Would you please tell him,’ said the fat man, ‘that I am expecting a mutual acquaintance on the ferry this evening – an old friend of his from Patmos with whom I have some business. I mentioned Mr Zafiridis’s name, and his friend is very anxious to see him. Would you ask Mr Zafiridis if he will join us for dinner, after the boat docks?’

  ‘I’ll pass the message on,’ said the constable.

  The fat man made his way on foot to the remote limits of the upper village. The district lay in silence broken only by the small sounds of archaic domesticity heard behind walls and through open windows: the punch of a carpet-beater on a line-draped rug, the splashing of water from an emptied bucket, the snap of a chopping knife on a wooden board, the catching of the bristles of a yard-brush sweeping stone. Weeds sprouted in the steep, cobbled alleyways, and the branches of old trees – almond, pomegranate, medlar – stretched low over the pathways.

  He passed a kiosk, half-heartedly open on a Sunday, where a woman sat popping long, green pods of broad beans, flicking the grey, kidney-shaped seeds into a bowl. She gave him directions, but the directions were complex, and, forgetting them, he asked a young boy to show him the way. The boy led him further through the maze, until they reached a cast-iron gate set in a wall.

  ‘Here,’ said the boy. ‘This is where she lives.’

  The fat man tipped him, and watched him disappear, exuberant, down the lanes where the echoes of his running feet grew faint. Lifting the latch, the fat man pushed at the bars of the rusting gate, and stepped into a garden overgrown with flourishing thistles and feathered grasses, brightened by the heads of wild, scarlet poppies. A stone-flagged path led
to a house almost a ruin: from eaves to door-lintel, a deep crack ran across the façade, and tendrils of ivy intruded beneath the loose-hanging shutters at the upper windows.

  The door was many years unpainted, and the little paint remaining had disintegrated into brittle flakes; between door-frame and wall, the dry corpse of a crane fly fluttered in a broken web, and the delicately moulded brass knocker – an elegant and petite gloved hand – was marred by the patina of verdigris. The fat man raised the knocker, and let it fall, then rapped three times with his knuckles.

  She was slow, it seemed, in everything – in the slippered shuffling to the door, in the drawing of the stubborn bolts, in the hunting for the key which wasn’t in the lock. As she hunted for the key, she called out that she was coming, and then began a murmured monologue, as the slippered feet tracked back and forth behind the door. She announced she’d found the key, but she was talking to herself, and not to him; he heard the ring of metal as she dropped it on the bare tiled floor, and her complaints at her own clumsiness as she bent to pick it up.

  The key rattled in the lock, and she opened the door to him. She squinted a little, and blinked, like a nocturnal creature discomfited by daylight; on the back of her head, her greying hair lay flat, as if she had been sleeping. Beneath the uneven hem of a home-sewn skirt, the lace of a white slip showed bright against the faded black serge.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sofia?’ asked the fat man. ‘Sofia Bakas?’

  She peered at him, pulling her face into lines.

  ‘Do I know you?’ The question was of herself, and not of him; her brows drew close as she began the slow search of memory.