Z, 50th Anniversary Edition

by Vassilis Vassilikos

  The Chief of Police, who had just arrived on the scene, had a different opinion. He insisted that a policeman go up and order the loudspeakers turned off. But the General advised him to wait a bit. Though the Chief of Police didn’t catch on immediately, he kept quiet, for he was inferior to the General in rank and had learned to yield in all matters involving national security. Knowing the General’s passion for this kind of problem, he had come, over the years, to confine himself strictly to his duties as a policeman, leaving complicated matters of this sort for the old fox to handle. “Watch out that no photographs are taken,” the General told him as he moved over to the sidewalk on the right. The Chief of Police lit a cigarette.

  Chapter 10

  In the back of the pickup, Vango the pederast—hidden treasure of an hour destined to leave its mark on history—was smoking nervously. Holding the club tight between his thighs, he waited for Yango to knock on the window back of the driver’s seat. It was the signal for him to jump out and start slugging.

  He neither heard the slogans nor saw the faces; he had no interest in what was happening. He felt he was protected, and for a shady character like Vango this feeling was a vital matter: it gave him a kind of immunity. They’d never catch him, they’d never put him behind bars. In his imagination, the police had acquired mythical dimensions. He had a bicycle shop in his neighborhood and he spent much of his time with small boys. Sometimes he would loan them bicycles so he could fondle them afterward. Or he would blow up their balloons or slip them some money. He’d gone to prison twice, but each time his protectors had got him off after twenty-four hours. But then, he went to a lot of trouble for his protectors.

  At the Liberation, sensing that the left would come to power, he thought of joining the party’s youth organization, even at that late date, so as to be with them if they won. But the moment it became clear to him where the scales were dipping, he ran to the right, begging to be accepted as a true son. The main thing was to have the agents of law and order on his side. And so for a time he had been president of the right-wing youth branch in Ano Toumba, his neighborhood. However, when someone ratted on him for making indecent propositions to the boys, they had thrown him out. Next he was made a counselor at a boys’ camp, but again his enemies managed to oust him. In the end nothing was left but the police. He took good care to remain on good terms with them.

  The crowning of his efforts had been a brief appointment to the Queen’s bodyguard. A photograph showing him not fat from the Queen had been God’s greatest gift to him. It was no small privilege to tread the ground her royal heels had just stepped on, to breathe the fragrance of her perfume. Even if he wasn’t interested in women, a Queen was something different, something higher. She was a symbol of virtue. Ah, how he had prayed that some incident might occur on that tour. But, as usual, nothing happened. The peasants drew back, bowing to the ground as she strode haughtily past. Wherever she went, she was greeted by women in folk costume, the ringing of bells, a speech by the mayor, little girls with bows in their hair offering a poem and an armful of flowers from the Greek countryside. That day stuck in his memory as the high point in his life. It was a diploma conferred after assiduous training in the courting of authority. It’s one thing to be protected by authority, another to be called upon to guard and protect it. Nothing else in life counted for Vango. It had happened again when big-nose de Gaulle came for a visit. That time they’d promoted him to section head. And today, along with his friend Yango—a good kid, even if he was kind of wild—they had chosen him among so many others.

  He had lit another cigarette when he was seized with an uncontrollable desire to masturbate. What with the jouncing of the vehicle and his anxiety over the impending transfer job, he sought relief in the act which often appeased him when a coveted boy was not to be had. Usually he did it in the darkness of an anonymous neighborhood movie. Now there was the same darkness inside the pickup. Scenes from the summer camp floated through his mind, the nights when he had made the rounds of the dormitories, going mad with the bittersweet smell of unripe boys. Or when he saw his little pigeons washing themselves in the morning, almost naked, at the outdoor faucets. He had sauntered about among them on the pretext of asking who didn’t have soap or a towel. With these images he surrendered himself to his orgasm. But before he had time to finish, the signal on the windowpane pulled him abruptly from his trance. He sprang up, made sure of the revolver in his pocket, picked up the club, and was ready for action. He felt the three-wheeler braking to a stop. Before jumping down, he saw the piercing light of an ambulance approaching as if bent on crashing into them. Then he saw it stop a couple of yards beyond the kamikazi. Meanwhile Yango had got out and was there beside him.

  “Who are we clobbering?”

  “The wounded man in the ambulance.”

  “To death?”

  “Till he’s unconscious.”

  Looking about him, Vango noted that they were on Ion Dragoumis Street, near Nea Megalou Alexandrou Street. He recognized the shops, and for a moment he thought it was a risky business showing themselves in this part of town. But presently others of the gang gathered around the ambulance—among them Baronissimo and Jimmie the Boxer—and formed a protective wall with their big bodies, hiding the ambulance and its contents from the passers-by.

  He and Yango went directly to the rear of the ambulance, yanked open the door, and disappeared inside. A man of medium size lay on the stretcher, his head bleeding; the light that filtered through the door of the ambulance gave his face a greenish tinge. He made feeble efforts to resist, like an ant that’s been turned upside down. Yango grabbed him by the legs and Vango hit him on the head with the club, but he apparently missed his target; the man still struggled. Again Vango raised the club, this time striking the ceiling of the ambulance, which resounded with a hollow thud. “Help! Help!” cried the wounded man. To keep him quiet, Vango tried to close his mouth with his hand—the same hand he’d been masturbating with—but the wounded man bit him and Vango howled with pain. “You dirty dog, die and be done with it!” he roared. Behind the windowpane be glimpsed the staring, terror-stricken face of the driver. He became aware of the hospital orderly making feeble efforts to tear Yango away from the victim. The wounded man lay as if glued to the stretcher. After a mighty effort they finally managed to get him outside.

  “Give him some more, the Bulgar!”

  “Give it to him, the traitor!”

  “Let him have it!”

  Their job was done. Now it was up to Baronissimo and Jimmie the Boxer to take over. Vango saw them approaching, fists clenched, ready for action. The victim, half unconscious, lay on the street.

  “Move along,” he ordered the driver.

  The hospital attendant closed the door from inside and the ambulance drove off. Yango went back to his pickup, followed by Vango, who jumped in the rear. From there he saw the whole scene. Spurred on by the rhythmic chants of the impassioned onlookers, the two toughs finished their work and ran off, leaving their victim on the pavement. Yango then started the motor of the pickup. Just before they turned the corner, Vango had time to see two passers-by bending over and trying to lift the motionless body. He did not, for the moment, know if they succeeded.

  Chapter 11

  This man who, supported by the two passersby, was now stumbling toward the first-aid station, having miraculously escaped the assassination attempt on Ion Dragoumis Street, was the EDA deputy, Georgios Pirouchas, son of Vassilis. He had been traveling through Salonika that day.

  He had no particular reason for being here, and no reason at all for going this evening to the meeting of the Friends of Peace. But last night at Z.’s house in Athens, when the two were alone, after they had listened to some poetry on the record player, Z. suddenly remarked: “Tomorrow I’m going to Salonika to make a speech.”

  Pirouchas responded with a grimace.

  “Why?” Z. asked.

  “Go, but be careful. I’m from there and I don’t trust them. Let
me give you a last bit of advice. If they hit you, use your fist.”

  “Georgio,” Z. said, “if I were to punch someone, I’d knock him out for good. And I’d rather not.”

  That night Pirouchas took the train, without mentioning it to Z., and arrived in Salonika the next morning. He soon knew all about the difficulties with the hall, the plot against Z.’s life, the first incidents in front of the Catacomb. Although he was supposed to leave for Kavalla by evening, he postponed it to be near his friend.

  He admired Z. He admired his courage, his generosity. When Pirouchas had become ill six months before and was hospitalized in Athens, Z. had been like a brother to him. Everyone held him in great esteem. Pirouchas’s admiration for this man who so far transcended the commonplace but who sometimes betrayed a childish unworldliness took on a paternal aspect; he wished to protect him.

  Since they’d struck Z. on the way to the hall, his friend reasoned that they would lay an ugly ambush for him on his way back. Knowing how proud and brave he was, Pirouchas felt impelled to go to him, to keep him from leaving the hall without a group of strapping young bodyguards. If Z. refused, Pirouchas was ready to use force.

  Pirouchas set out from the EDA offices where he had been waiting for news. Accompanied by Tokatlidis, the only person he could find at that hour, he headed for the meeting. He had heart trouble, he was still convalescent, but it didn’t matter. His instinct told him to go. With his deputy’s badge pinned to his lapel, he hoped they would let him through.

  It was only a short distance from the EDA headquarters to the meeting hall. No sooner had he entered Ermou Street than he began to hear the muffled clamor of the angry night. A chill went through him. This time, he thought, they’ve thrown poisoned bait to the lions. As he went on, the cries grew more distinct. He never expected such savagery. On every corner he observed little groups, provocateurs freely circulating among them. In spite of his wretched physical condition, Pirouchas plunged ahead, intent on reaching the entrance. At first no one paid any attention. He crossed the territory with its hidden explosives like a mine detector who knew his job. He felt degraded, humiliated by the disgraceful scene. He stared intently at the faces around him, the better to stamp them on his memory, for tonight’s vile acts would certainly become, thanks to him, a major topic of discussion in the House. In his official role as deputy, he demanded to speak to the Chief of Police. A policeman answered that the Chief must be somewhere about, but by now it was too dark to locate him. Then, slipping past the crowds of police and demonstrators, he managed to get to the door. There a lieutenant of the police force, a police sergeant, and a policeman, all strangers to him, were guarding—guarding what? They assured him that it was safe to go inside. The loudspeakers on the balcony were silent. In front of the entrance he saw a litter of stones, sticks, iron, which had been thrown against the building.

  Then a blow struck him squarely on the head, he felt the world spinning. Turning around, he saw a solidly built young thug, an iron bar in his hands, preparing to strike again. The blood began trickling down Pirouchas’s dry, wrinkled cheeks. Before fainting, he was astonished to see the lieutenant, the sergeant, and the policeman, silent witnesses to the assault, standing there as motionless as statues in a public park.

  “Why don’t you arrest him?” he cried out.

  “Be calm!” was the lieutenant’s answer.

  “Be calm? They’ve split open my head. I’m a deputy! Deputy!”

  With these words, he felt his strength forsaking him. Tokatlidis was just in time to grab him under the arms and drag him behind the iron gate. As he was trying to wipe the blood with his handkerchief, he spied a taxi parked nearby, and decided it would be the simplest means of reaching the first-aid station. But before he could get to it two or three hoodlums had chased the driver off with menacing gestures. Again, no interference from the police.

  In the midst of his vertigo, blood flowing, heart faltering, Pirouchas heard himself say: “Someone must warn Z. not to come out alone. These are cannibals. They’ll eat him.”

  An ambulance appeared. From the doorway Tokatlidis signaled it and ordered them to pick up the wounded deputy. Some twenty dinosaurs now encircled the vehicle to prevent his getting through. A man carrying an umbrella shouted, “It’s for humans, not filth like this,” and with the tip of his umbrella indicated the wounded man. He looked like an English lord. Impeccably dressed, glossy-haired, he had the airs of a maestro.

  Two people standing near the iron gate helped Tokatlidis lift Pirouchas to the ambulance, the umbrella hovering threateningly over him. A police captain wearing glasses had appeared, and the deputy cried out to him, “Are you blind? Don’t you see they’re going to start again?” And the bespectacled captain condescended to speak to the man with the umbrella. “Move along, move along,” he said. But he made no move to arrest or penalize him. The elegant man walked away, still muttering threats and curses.

  They hoisted Pirouchas inside, laying him out on the stretcher; he was covered with blood and only half conscious. Tokatlidis and his two assistants were determined to get in too. It was not allowed.

  “But we must,” they protested. “They’ll kill him! Can’t you see? They’re ready to jump on him.”

  “There’s an attendant to look after him,” the captain answered.

  The ambulance drove away, turning on its siren to disperse the carnivorous throng; but it appeared to excite them all the more. The whole band began to chase the ambulance, hammering on the hood, the windowpanes, thirsting for blood.

  The General on the sidewalk sighed with satisfaction. He and Pirouchas had an old score to settle. During the Occupation they had both taken part in the Resistance, as members of rival units, each bent on getting rid of the other. This evening justice had triumphed. He, the General, had delivered the deputy to the savages.

  When Tokatlidis saw the ambulance surrounded by the wild pack of hoodlums, he rushed out to try to wrench Pirouchas from their claws. He was greeted by an avalanche of blows. Stones poured from the sky like rain, paving the street with stumbling blocks, and he was forced to retreat behind the iron gate.

  Alone, in the back of the ambulance with its broken windows, Pirouchas was conscious of blows reverberating on the hood and realized that the siren had stopped. Now the real bombardment had begun. He saw, silhouetted in the revolving red light on top of the vehicle, towering figures outside, felt his end approaching. It all happened too fast to take in.

  He had just been released from the hospital; now this ambulance was taking him back. This time he was not sure of getting there. There was still a chance for Z. If only they might expend their wrath on him and leave Z. alone! Z. was more useful than he. Whatever Pirouchas had to give, he had already given. Since 1935 he had devoted himself to the struggle. He had been imprisoned, he had taken part in the Resistance, he had fought the Germans and their Greek collaborators. He had been wounded and exiled. He had come out alive and for the past five years had been deputy from a region where year after year more and more tobacco fields were being withdrawn from cultivation and where the working people in the city were emigrating in a steady stream. Although he had done his best, he did not regard himself as indispensable. Someone else could do his job. But Z. could not be replaced. He had come into the struggle fresh, sound, intact. With his gallantry and his culture, he had much to give. “If only I had fallen in his stead!” passed through his mind.

  Images, also, of Negro lynchings: he had read about such things in newspapers. The hunted black animal accused of raping a white woman. Pure lies! They encircle him, isolate him in a field or a construction yard, turn him over to the fury of the mob.

  Touching his face, he felt the blood, now dry. Now an image of his daughter—a student of agronomy. If she only knew where her father was now! Tomorrow she would read about it and weep. He’d be lucky to be able to read newspapers tomorrow.

  He sensed, rather than saw, that a wall had been formed around the ambulance. All of a sud
den it felt abandoned like those trucks that, set wheelless upon hard cement, house the paupers of a city slum, a gypsy caravan on either side. The ambulance was no longer moving. They had walled it in, the way people block up windows with bricks, to shut out the sun.

  He had no strength to resist. “My hour has come,” he murmured. Then he saw the double door open and two fiends from the Apocalypse break in. After that he knew nothing. When he found himself at the first-aid station, his wounds being bandaged, he wondered that he was still alive.

  Chapter 12

  Baronissimo, alias Baronaros, or simply Baron, had done a fine job; he’d had his fill, he was satisfied. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then stepped back to settle accounts with a few others. Noticing the two men who were lifting up Pirouchas, he called out: “Why do you bother with this Bulgar?” But he wasn’t in the mood to insist.

  “We gave him a good lesson, we Macedonians,” someone near him said. He recognized Jimmie the Boxer. Baronissimo nodded his approval, but added: “You call that a man? He’s nothing but a turnip!”