Yes, he’d gotten off the subject. Please to excuse him. What had he been doing the evening of Wednesday, May 22? Nothing, because the shops were closed. He had left his stall at 2:30, gone home, taken a nap, and between 7:30 and eight he’d come back to the stall because he was expecting a delivery of figs from Michaniona. The bus arrived at 8:15, that’s why he’d got there a little earlier. He’d ordered those figs from the best orchard in Michaniona, and he’d paid an agent to select and deliver them to his stall. He was waiting for this agent when he heard people shouting: “Go back to Bulgaria!” So he left the stall for a couple of minutes and went to see what was happening. The shouts were being drowned out by a loudspeaker, it was a terrible uproar. As he said, since he never read the newspapers he had no idea what all the fracas was about. He didn’t care either. Let people knock each other’s teeth out; he had better things to do. Returning to his stall, he saw that the figs had been delivered. He spread them out, moistened them, and put a few in a bag to take home. To get back home, he had to catch the Ano Toumba bus, which stopped exactly where the rumpus was. When he reached the stop, he discovered that, because of the trouble, the buses were making a detour. If anyone saw him in the area, it was while he was waiting for the bus. Then he went to Kolomvou Street to catch the bus there. Back in his own neighborhood, he stopped for a drink at Chinky’s Café. It was around quarter after nine, and his pals were sitting there, drinking ouzo while the Armed Forces radio station played bouzouki songs. He passed his figs around—they’re great with ouzo—and in the end nobody would let him pay for his drinks. What did they talk about? About Sunday’s match.
Yango—no, he didn’t know him, and he’d only met Vango at the PAOK soccer field; once or twice Vango had let him sneak in without paying when he didn’t have money for a ticket. As witnesses he suggested all the people at the tavern that evening listening to the bouzouki. Pirouchas had to see him again, so he’d realize he was confusing him with someone else.
And so Baronissimo went to join Yango and Vango in jail. It was the Sunday of the big match—the first one he’d ever missed in his life. The blind baby birds would be hatching into the light; he was inconsolable not to be at his dovecote now.
Chapter 6
He felt his shoulders gradually weaken under the pressure of the material. He was just starting his career as an investigator eager for truth. But this case, for which he had been made almost wholly responsible, was coming to resemble an avalanche. The labor of investigation grew more difficult with each passing day. He was not faced with one or two guilty parties; there were dozens. Yet he could hardly indict society as a whole. In order to succeed, he must wage the battle in narrowly confined stages, win the field yard by yard, attacking the most vulnerable points first.
He was sure of one thing: the entire city was involved in the crime. Whatever stone he turned, whatever door he knocked on, he would find some thread, some link that in one way or another related to the case. He had never dreamed that so many relatively disconnected persons would converge at the same central point; that underneath this crust of legality existed an illegal mechanism, organized to perfection and functioning according to the laws of darkness.
Every contact made him feel soiled. He didn’t know if he could endure it to the end. He did not fear for his life. But he could see the chasm widening between himself and the others. As the case unfolded, its thorns cut into him more and more. Every uniform hid a sleeping viper. How could such rottenness be? He preferred to eschew theoretical questions, but he was compelled to conclude that there must be something very sordid in this society if so many people had become enmeshed in a murder which, after all, might have been carried out far more simply.
It was summertime. The heat was intolerable, and made worse by the humidity of the Gulf of Salonika. He should have been on vacation, but he requested his superiors to cancel it this year; he could not go off leaving so many loose ends. He felt the need to arrive at some conclusion. Why should the illiterates, the jackals, the protozoan scum be the only ones to pay, and not the pachyderms on top?
He knew that everything depended on him. Everyone was waiting for him to snatch the snake from its lair. So enormous was the snake that, once it was out, the hole might devour the ground. The boa constrictor could not be hauled out so easily. The boa had become one with its hole, or perhaps the hole had become one with the boa.
Meanwhile Salonika was closing in, asphyxiating him. He remembered his joy at his appointment; he had imagined it to be a city. Today it seemed the narrowest of provincial towns. People started snubbing him. They found it intolerable that prominent members of society, pillars of the regime, should be branded as suspect by an insignificant young investigator. From him they required support, not accusations. The heat made the investigations unbearable. He had installed two electric fans in his office and at home he worked all night to keep up with the accelerating pace of events; he lived under such tension that he doubted if he would be able to hold out. Only his mother’s presence, silently waiting for him at home every night, could renew his courage in his desperate struggle with the jungle, the monsters and mobsters he had vowed to combat to the end.
Chapter 7
The heat did not bother him in the AHEPAN Hospital. He had requested admittance more for refuge than for any medical reason. This was undoubtedly the first time in his life he had ever slept on a soft bed, between such white sheets, or been so pampered. It was like a luxury hotel. From time to time he went to see Pirouchas, who was in the same pavilion, a few doors away. But Hatzis was crushed by sadness. For the moment matters had gotten out of hand. There was nothing he could do. He’d already done all he could by jumping onto the kamikazi. Now it was time for education—which he lacked—to take over.
Yet the sadness lingered. His leader had died before his very eyes. He thought of him constantly. He had lived through Z.’s last moments; he recalled him walking down the stairs and drawing the bolt of the iron gate, a figure full of strength and beauty, with the mark of death upon him. A great wave had snatched him from his arms—arms which might have protected him, saved him. After all that, how could he recapture his taste for life? He followed every detail of the case in the newspapers. But it dragged on. They couldn’t find the guiding thread. He could have told them what it was. But he was in no position to say anything.
He missed Z. He was left with a terrible void. And true to his habit of conceiving everything in images, he saw him now as the beautiful stopper on a bottle of noxious gas. The stopper had been blown off and foul odors filled the air. By his sacrifice, Z. had let the abscess burst and drain. He missed his manly gait, his coolness in the face of danger. He missed him as a person. A sword among bent daggers. A fresh breeze in the doldrums. From his window he could see the new university buildings, the dome of the observatory, and the doctors’ cars in the hospital courtyard. “What is life?” he asked himself. Nothing, since it can be shattered so easily. Whenever he tried to think, his head ached from the club’s blow. Nowhere in the newspaper stories had he seen any mention of Yango’s club, the cause of his terrible headaches. Not a word had been said about it during the investigation. Why? Who had taken it? Where was it?
Chapter 8
“I have a carpenter’s shop on______Street, number______, in this city. I make clubs for the police. If I remember correctly, I have thus far received two orders from the high command of the police force of Central Macedonia, each calling for five hundred clubs. I should also add that sometimes a policeman in uniform comes to my shop to order a club. Then I have to make it for him free of charge. This doesn’t happen often, at the most once a month. I’ve never made any clubs for private individuals, nor has any private individual ever come to order a club from me with the authorization of the police. A month ago, three men in civilian clothes came to my shop and ordered three clubs; since I didn’t know who they were, I told them I’d have to have a note signed by the police. They went away, and I’ve never seen them again. The
clubs I make for the police are about sixteen inches long. At one end there is a hole for a strap. The clubs I made for the police high command (the large orders I told you about), I painted a dark walnut color. The ones I gave the policemen free of charge, I did not paint. I left the natural color of the wood.”
Chapter 9
His telephone rang. The voice on the other end sounded out of breath. At first the young reporter was on his guard.
“Who is it?”
“You don’t know me. My name’s Michalis Dimas, I’m a dock worker from Salonika. It’s important that I see you.”
The reporter thought it might be a trap. Since the arrest of Baronissimo, obscure threats had reached his ears.
“You’re the only person who can help me. I’ve got to see you.”
“Come over here to the newspaper office.”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever been in Athens. Where is it?”
“Where are you now?”
“In Omonia Square.”
“Fine. It’s very easy. Take Panepistimiou Street toward Syndagma Square. On your left you’ll see the sign with the name of the newspaper. Second floor, room 18.”
“I’m on my way.”
The reporter went out to tell the doorman that someone would be coming to ask for him shortly, someone who might be dangerous. “Watch out for him and look him over carefully,” he said.
Not that he was afraid. But since he had revived the investigation by uncovering Baron, he had reason to believe that efforts were being made to get him out of the way.
A few minutes later the man stood before him: about thirty-five, with deep-set eyes and the air of a hunted animal. He shook hands with the reporter and sat down. The reporter ordered coffee.
“Mr. Andoniou,” he began, “I’ve come all the way from Salonika to see you. I’ve been following your investigation in the papers, and though I don’t have much education, I want to congratulate you for your courage. But you’re somebody, I’m nothing. I’ve been forced to leave my neighborhood—I live in Ano Toumba; I’ve had to walk out on my wife and child to escape. It’s hell there. It’s gangland. Since the prize hoods got locked up, the rest are out for blood. No one dares speak. And if you don’t do what they tell you, it’s too bad for you. You’re done for. I can’t explain it very well but, you see, at night after I’ve locked and bolted the door I have to put the wife and kid in the back room and then go stay awake listening in case they raid the place. They did it night before last. I saw them ganged up in Chinky’s Café. I went in too, to have a little drink. ‘You’ve been playing the good little boy a little too much lately,’ said Hitler, slamming into me. Hitler is what we call Halimoudra, a guy at the dock, because he stops at nothing. ‘You finished Z. off,’ I said then, losing my temper. ‘Don’t think you can try it on somebody else.’ He jumped out of his chair and came at me. Luckily there were two or three other people around who aren’t part of the gang, and they stepped in between us. I didn’t want to be the first to leave the café. Why should I, do they own the place? I sat down again and drank down my retsina. Hitler kept looking at me with hate. He was plotting his revenge. He knows I know them all and can spill the beans. I left the café and went home mad. I locked and barred the front door and my wife and kid went to bed. A little later, I don’t know exactly when, I heard someone banging at the door. It was Hitler and he was shouting: ‘If you’re a man, get out here, Dimas, and we’ll have a talk. Come on out if you’ve got the guts.’ He must have been drunk. I couldn’t call the police; we don’t have a telephone. So I let him rave. My wife and kid woke up, scared as hell. They huddled up close to me. My little girl couldn’t stop crying, and she kept asking: ‘Who is it, Papa, who is it?’ Hitler kept right on banging. I’d have gone out, Mr. Andoniou, he’d cast a slur on my honor as a man, but to tell you the truth, I was afraid he might have his revolver. I’ve seen that revolver twice. The first time was at our annual election for the committee of the AETOU—that’s our soccer club. Hitler was treasurer of the old committee. He pulled out his revolver and put it on the table, as if to say: ‘If anyone wants me to account for anything, here I am.’ Of course, no one said a word and they reelected him treasurer by acclamation. They’re all petrified of him. The second time was when he was slugging Aglaïtsa. She’s a woman in our neighborhood who—well, she’s sort of a prostitute. Anyway, Hitler had grabbed her by the hair and was pounding her with the butt of his revolver. I made him stop. That was before Z.’s murder, so there wasn’t blood between us. You should have heard Aglaïtsa howling. She’s a good woman all the same. Her husband’s a sailor, he turns up once in a blue moon, and when he does come, he never stays more than a few days. He brings presents for everybody—last Christmas he even gave my daughter a little Japanese boat with lights that turn on and off. O.K., well, Hitler put his pistol away, he seemed pretty mad that I’d seen it. Then he shoved Aglaïtsa to the ground and spat on her. Aglaïtsa got up and said she was going to the police. She told him she’d have him in the clink in no time, since she had a witness. Hitler burst out laughing. One thing he sure wasn’t afraid of was that. He and Mastodontosaur were pals. He told her to go right ahead but she’d better be careful—he happened to have some pull with the vice squad, and if she didn’t watch out she’d be classified as a whore because she wasn’t married to the sailor. Aglaïtsa was so insulted that she fell into a faint. Hitler went off and I stayed there, trying to bring her to. That’s the kind of guy he is, Mr. Andoniou. That’s why I didn’t go out night before last. I was afraid. I knew that somewhere, in some corner—the streets in Ano Toumba are rat traps, you know, and there aren’t many lights—he was going to sneak up on me when I wasn’t looking. I haven’t wasted any time. I borrowed five hundred drachmas from my father-in-law and took the bus and came to you because you’re the only one, as far as I know, who can put them all in their place and keep them there. They’re scared because I know them, I was one of them before the crime.”
Andoniou smiled. “If I were public prosecutor,” he said, “I could do what you ask of me. Unfortunately I’m just a reporter and I can only write what I find out, and sometimes not even that.”
And he cast a significant glance at him. Dimas relaxed.
“Where’s the coffee I ordered?” sighed the reporter. He phoned the corner café. “Did it evaporate on the way?”
He turned back to his visitor, who was looking around the office with curiosity; he was shabbily dressed and kept tapping his fingers nervously on the table.
“Go ahead, tell me the whole story. This gang you mentioned—who are they? From whom do they take their orders? How many are there?”
“I work on the docks by the day. To have a regular, decently paid job, you’ve got to do a lot of pushing and a lot of ass-licking. The guys who run things at the port are the Bonatsa Brothers, Xanalatos, Yatras, Kyrilov, Jimmie the Boxer, and Hitler. Then there are others, like Yango, Baronissimo, and Vango, who are part of the gang but have different jobs.”
“I know about that.”
“Well, all these fellows get together in the Commissioner’s office, and he sends them out on various jobs. What sort of jobs they are, you know better than I.”
The coffees finally arrived. The waiter set them on the desk, took the coin Andoniou gave him, and left.
“If you want the particulars,” resumed Dimas, “these are the same fellows that beat up the woman deputy from the Center Union Party in 1961. She’d come to Ano Toumba to give a talk. That’s the kind of cowards they are. They even attack women.”
“And you—why didn’t you inform on them? Why didn’t you report them to the police, or to a newspaper?” Andoniou asked him.
The dock worker looked him straight in the eye. “Do you think I’m crazy, Mr. Andoniou? Don’t you think I could see that whatever was happening it had the blessing of the police? What do you think it meant that Yango’s best friend was Dimis, the police sergeant? Wasn’t I also invited to the Commissioner’s office for
instructions? Do you think my job is secure enough that I can fight them in the open? When you work on the docks by the day you can be fired any minute. I’ve got a wife and kid! They’ve got you coming and going. But Z.’s assassination was the last straw. I lost my temper and told them off. That’s why they put me on the black list. After that it’s been practically impossible to find work. It’s only because of the spot I’m in now that I got the courage to come and tell you all I know. They all have one thing in common: they’re not afraid. And it’s not because they’re brave. No. They’re not afraid because they know the police are on their side. I was in seventh heaven when those guys got locked up. When the rest of them found about it, it was weeks before they believed it. They were certain it had been done to trick the public, and that Yango and Baron and Vango would soon be out again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Z, 50th Anniversary Edition Page 22
