Z, 50th Anniversary Edition

by Vassilis Vassilikos

  “But what can the State Theater have against the Ministry of Northern Greece?” the Secretary General exclaimed as he walked down the steps.

  “Obviously it was carelessness or an oversight on the part of Personnel,” said the General. “In any case, I’d be very happy to give you my invitation.”

  “But I wouldn’t think of it!”

  “I insist. The fact is—between ourselves—I have no intention of going. I only said so because I thought that ex-Communist—you know the one, the present manager of the Salonika rice fields—was listening.”

  “He was listening? The ex—?”

  “The late leftist. In my files I have his statement denouncing Communism and all its fruits.”

  “I understand, I understand.” The Secretary General was sticking with the General as far as the Ministry exit. “Even in ballet, you can’t stand anything of Red Fascist origin.”

  “That’s not it. At my age, I’ve learned to distinguish art from life. It’s something else.”

  He lowered his voice as the guard at the door gave the military salute.

  “Tonight,” he said conspiratorially, “some so-called Friends of Peace are having a rally. I’m going to attend as an ordinary spectator and study the new slogans. Because, you must not forget, my friend—we who have been entrusted with the supreme task of protecting the state from infectious fungi are duty-bound to be omnipresent. That is why I am giving you my invitation to the Bolshoi Ballet with pleasure.”

  “Don’t insist, General. It’s impossible for me to accept this from you, truly impossible. I’ll send my complaint through official channels to the director of the theater.”

  Meanwhile the General had unlocked the door of his car. Protocol entitled him to a chauffeur, but he adored driving. He was getting in when the Assistant Minister and company appeared, hastily descending the staircase of the General Administration Building, in which the Ministry of Northern Greece was now located. They accosted the General just as he was turning on the ignition.

  “May I give you a lift?” he asked, rolling down the window.

  “I’m rushing to the airport,” the Assistant Minister told him.

  “My favorite drive,” said the General. “Come on.”

  Who would have dared to turn down such a flattering proposal from the General? Generals, especially police-department ones, were always needed. They set out for the airport.

  As they crossed the city, the General noticed that the evening lights were just beginning to glimmer faintly. The neon signs showed hardly at all in the darkness. The night, a beautiful, hot May night, was descending, ready to envelop all the strictly confidential secrets awaiting that evening. The General felt a profound delight. The plan had worked out to perfection; he himself was creating an alibi right now. So, chatting with the Assistant Minister about irrelevant matters, he drove him to the airport. On their arrival the first propeller of the plane, a D.C. Dakota, slowly started to revolve, the hulk still motionless. All the passengers were aboard; only the door remained to be closed. From his car the General watched the Assistant Minister and his retinue enter the plane. Then the flight of steps was removed. The other propeller was set in motion and the airplane taxied toward the runway.

  The General turned back to the city just as things were starting to happen.

  Chapter 2

  From his open seat on his three-wheel pickup truck, Yango caught sight of the General’s bony, retiring, cavernous features and took courage. He was running low on courage. The closer the moment came and the fiercer things around him got, the more clearly he heard a voice telling him: “Yango, don’t do it.” It was the first time he’d ever heard such a voice inside himself, indissolubly blended with the rattling cough of his machine, which still—where could he find the dough?—lacked mufflers.

  Yes, because he liked beating up Reds. He got a profound kick out of it. The last time had been three weeks ago, at their May Day get-together. He’d broken into the group along with the other guys in the organization and given them a little lesson. Especially that tall one with the glasses who didn’t know what it was all about and kept asking: “Why are you hitting me?” “Because I enjoy it, Four Eyes,” Yango had answered and kept on punching him in the head. This was what he called a real beating: with the club an extension of the hand, the hand an extension of the soul, the soul an extension of the teachings of Autocratosaur, Autocratosaur an extension of Hitler—the only man, as Autocratosaur said, who had really tried to save the world from the Communists.

  Only tonight, on the saddle of his pickup truck, he felt dependent like a rider on his horse. He knew his Benver; adored its every valve, its every pipe. From the starter to the speedometer, he knew its caprices. And the Volkswagen engine he’d installed in it had turned out to be a champion. He wasn’t afraid the axle might break, or the pistons get banged up. He trusted it completely. What bothered him was having no slugging to do, not being free to use his hands. And besides, why was he doing this except for his poor little truck, his livelihood, his faithful companion in the daily struggle to earn his crust of bread and feed the five mouths—five counting his own—which had fallen to his lot in this dog’s life?

  He still needed ten thousand to pay off Aristidis, his partner. They’d bought it together, but he was doing the work and giving Aristidis his share. Little by little he had seen the unfairness of it. Why should Aristo—a good guy—but why should he get money for nothing? Who faced danger every second, in the midst of trucks, buses, military vehicles—those killers? Who lived on the razor’s edge? He did. His partner didn’t do a thing but pocket the dough. That’s why he had decided to buy out Aristo and have the pickup truck and its revenue all to himself.

  But where was he going to get that damned ten thousand? Ten grand in one pile. The last time he’d seen one grand was more than three months ago. The time he’d smacked his wife because she’d given a cup of coffee to that dirty Communist who’d been installing a pipe outside his house. He himself hadn’t been there. He learned about it when he got back. He’d gone on a delivery job with some coffins. He took it hard, this being called by Nikitas, the varnisher, to take some coffins to a funeral parlor. They’d been sent to Nikitas for finishing. “Listen to that. I mean, polishing coffins!” Nikitas had sent his apprentice to call him from Vasileos Irakliou Street, at his regular pickup stand, to take them back. Not having any change himself, Nikitas gave Yango a thousand. Yango had changed it at the undertaker’s and then came back to Nikitas with the money, keeping only thirty drachmas for himself, the price agreed on for the haul. At noon he went home gloomy. The funeral parlor had turned his stomach. His wife was doing the laundry. The kids were out playing on the street, in the ditches dug by the workmen. And just at that point, as he was gulping down his boiling-hot bean soup, she told him that she’d offered coffee to the Commie.

  “He was working outside the house,” she told him, “and we know him, don’t we, Yango? So when he stopped to light a cigarette I invited him in for a coffee.”

  “And who do you think you are, you bloody bitch? Letting people into our house who don’t want our King. You’ve stunk up the whole house, you damned whore. I’ve been feeding you and keeping you all these years and you go and fix coffee for the …”

  And then one good slap—and another. He grabbed her by the hair. She started screaming. The children came running in. They got their share too. Just as she was, all wet from the laundry, she ran to the police sergeant, bawling and screeching hysterically that the brute had beaten her again, that she wanted a divorce, and the rest of it …

  Every time he thought of that scene his chest swelled with pride. A feeling like just now when the General had greeted him with a nod, as though telling him “Everything’s O.K.” Well, the police sergeant had summoned him and in the presence of his wife had told him severely that he shouldn’t do such things. They came under code regulations and as a representative of the law he would be forced to punish him. What punishment?—
well, the two of them would discuss it after the woman left. Marigo went off, wiping her wet eyes with her wet housedress. Then Dimis (that was the police sergeant’s name) got up and gave him a friendly punch on the back. “That’s the way, Yango. That’s what it means to be national-minded. Keeping the social parasites from even entering your house. Serves Marigo right, what you did. Next time she’ll know who to fix coffee for and who not to. These women—all women, Yango—have their brains between their thighs. They won the vote and upset the balance of the country. The Reds have increased. Would you like some coffee?”

  Ever since then, he and Dimis had been close friends. When they went for an evening stroll through the slum neighborhood—which, although it was in the center of the city, still had about it the misery and stench of a frontier village—Dimis would take his arm. That’s right, arm in arm. Yango had the three stripes leaning on his arm, and his soul felt chevroned all over. The tenderest female hand had never given him as much pleasure. As they walked together, the neighbors would greet him with respect—those neighbors, what hadn’t they called him? Louse. Lazy, good-for-nothing bum. Hooligan. Now, seeing him with the cop, they bobbed their heads as he passed. It gave Yango ineffable delight.

  Around that time he met Autocratosaur. And Autocratosaur started his indoctrination. In the course of this morning’s visit, he’d promised to pay the fine they’d slapped on him for the First of May disturbance. And to find the ten thousand to pay off his partner, so that in the future Yango could have the kamikazi—his pet name for the three-wheeler, because it was a Japanese make—all to himself. In return, Yango had only to take on the “transfer job.”

  That is to say, Autocratosaur put a lot of pressure on him. But slugging a guy was one thing; a traffic accident was another. Yango would do anything; he didn’t draw the line. Yet in this case he felt hesitant. A voice kept telling him: “Yango, don’t do it.” But Autocratosaur was a clever one, a real snake. This morning he had led him to the café under the arcades and explained things to him man to man.

  “Listen here, Yango,” he had said, “I’d never ask you to do anything unless I knew in advance that you weren’t going to come to any harm. The transfer job must be done. This VIP who’s coming here tonight is a VIP who must be out of circulation for a little while. Because he’s gotten very much under our skin. In London he stirred up that trouble for the Queen. At Marathon he made a peace march all by himself. In the Chamber he punched one of our deputies in the eye. And today he’s coming here to play the tough guy. We have to give him a little lesson, we Macedonians. The VIP must understand what Macedonia means.”

  “What’s the VIP’s job?”

  “Deputy.”

  “Communist?”

  “Yes, Yango. A fresh fruit, all shiny on the branch. And he’s gotten too full of himself. We have to trim his wings a bit. Otherwise he’ll fly too high and if they come to power they’ll slaughter us—you and me first and foremost—with a tin-can top.”

  “Well—must I use the kamikazi?”

  “Use the kamikazi.”

  “When does the VIP get here?”

  “This noon, by air. From the capital.”

  “This calls for thought,” said Yango, slurping his coffee down to the dregs.

  “It calls for immediate action. You must give me a yes or no right now. After all, don’t you belong to the death branch of the organization? What sort of a commando are you?”

  These words from Autocratosaur hurt Yango deeply. He stared absentmindedly at the coffee dregs, as though trying to read his luck in them. Then, taking a deep breath, he said: “For this transfer job—he’s a deputy, he’s no ordinary little man—they will have to pay off my pickup truck and pay my fine, both.”

  “So be it,” said Autocratosaur and got up. “We’d better go, because your colleagues are outside watching us. We mustn’t incur suspicion. Tonight’s the big night.”

  He paid for the coffees and they emerged from the arcade. It was sprinkling. A sudden springtime shower wetting the parked three-wheelers.

  “Just one question before we separate,” said Yango. “Today’s Wednesday. The stores are closed in the afternoon. What’s the excuse for the kamikazi being at the stand?”

  “Don’t you worry. You’ll get more specific instructions elsewhere.”

  And he went, leaving Yango to his fellow drivers.

  They had gathered under the marquee of the movie house to keep dry. Yango told them he was going to a tavern up the street for some retsina. Mastro-Kostas remarked that he too was thirsty. As they walked, Mastro-Kostas accidentally bumped against Yango and felt the club hidden on him.

  “What’s that?”

  “A club,” Yango said.

  “And what do you need it for?” asked Mastro-Kostas.

  “I’ve got it for a job this evening.”

  “Hey there, Yango, you’ve got a family. Just cool it.”

  “Somebody that’s coming today—we’ve got to give him a little lesson, we Macedonians.”

  Mastro-Kostas didn’t understand and Yango explained in a few words.

  “If it’s found out, it will be through you. Watch it!”

  Mastro-Kostas left. Yango went on drinking. Ever since he had woken up that morning, something had been bothering him. He had reached the stand at 7:30, and still not one pickup. He was champing at the bit; he wanted to let off steam somewhere. Then he caught sight of the Commissioner approaching in plain clothes: yes, Mastodontosaur himself.

  This was somebody he didn’t know very well. He’d seen him twice, at most three times, always wearing his uniform, the white strap and the insignia. Now in plain clothes he looked different. From a nod in his direction, a cop’s nod, he understood that the Commissioner wanted to talk to him in private. He threw down his cigarette butt and ground it out with his foot, then heavily—for the retsina had thickened his mood—went over toward him.

  Mastodontosaur was standing under the big posters of an American Western that was playing at the movie house that week. Turning around, Yango saw that two or three of the boys from the stand were watching him. As soon as he got close, the Commissioner ran his hand over his thick mustache: “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” asked Yango, feeling the club under his armpit to make sure it didn’t show.

  Mastodontosaur caught on immediately.

  “I fixed a cord around the top to make it easier to hold,” Yango explained.

  They were now moving toward the tavern where a few minutes ago he had been drinking murky retsina with Mastro-Kostas.

  “Can I get you a little drink, Mr. Commissioner?”

  “No drinks for you today. You’ve got work, heavy work, and your brain has to be clear.”

  They sat down in a bougatsa pastry shop. A great honor for Yango, sitting at the same table with the Commissioner. For himself he ordered a cream bougatsa with lots of cinnamon. It was hot. When he saw it on the baking pan, his mouth watered. The shopkeeper sliced a piece, weighed it, then took down the scales and cut it into smaller squares. With the wax paper underneath, he put it on a plate and sprinkled it liberally with cinnamon and confectioners’ sugar; then the waiter brought it with glasses of ice water. The Commissioner had ordered a cheese bougatsa and hot milk. Since the baking pan was now empty, he had to wait a bit till the next one came out of the oven. Before Yango had finished his bougatsa, the Commissioner’s arrived with the hot milk.

  “Be careful, it’s boiling hot,” the waiter warned. The Commissioner asked Yango if he’d like something more, but Yango said no.

  “Their meeting was scheduled for the Catacomb, but they won’t get that hall. However, they’ll gather there, until they find another one. You’ll go there too, early in the evening, without the kamikazi, and throw your weight around.”

  “Do I go into action on the spot?” asked Yango, shaking the powdered sugar off his lapel.

  “No. You’ll go there only to spread a little terror. You’re for the big VIP tonight. You mustn’t
show your hand too soon. The rest don’t interest us.”

  “And if it rains?”

  “If it rains, it rains. What do you mean?”

  “The tires might slip and I might not be able to …”

  “It won’t rain.”

  “And where are they going to hold their meeting?”

  “That you’ll find out at the police station. After the Catacomb you’ll go by there to get final instructions about time, place, etc. Do you understand? And something else. When de Gaulle was here, you left your post, I hear, and went off to a barbecue. I don’t want anything like that today. I know you’re a good man. Don’t mess things up for us. The orders are strict. I’ll be there too, and I’ll have my eye on you. And all the higher-ups will be there. It’s an honor they chose you. Understand? The VIP is strongly built. You may have to wrestle with him. Though that’s rather unlikely, because the kamikazi will do the job.”

  “I can handle them all with my little finger. They knocked off my father, so …”

  “Bravo. Your little koumbaros, your buddy, will be with you—Vango. He’ll get into your kamikazi by then. He knows.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  “He’ll find you. But you tell him what I’ve been telling you because I don’t have time to see him again. And today you haven’t seen me, and I haven’t seen you. Understand?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “I want a good transfer job. Now beat it back to the stand, and button your lip.”

  This last hint Yango ignored, however, once on his own. He felt the club strong in his armpit and calmed down. He had the happy feeling that the entire police force, which tracks down thieves and cheap crooks, drug pushers and pimps, had concentrated its attention on him. So, back at the stand, he couldn’t restrain himself. He peacocked to his boys there.

  “That man you saw is the Commissioner. He treated me to a bougatsa. A real full-grade Commissioner.”

  “Which Commissioner?”

  “Mastodontosaur.”