by Emma Lathen
Thatcher and Gabler were frozen by this improbable speech but Bacharias seemed to feel that this was the proper mode of discourse for a home economics teacher from Ohio. At any rate, he replied with deadly courtesy: “Koulouria. They are sold throughout Greece. They are very good.”
Lorna in white gloves, a flowered hat, and rhinestone earrings she had unearthed somewhere, showed that her notions of Cincinnati’s whereabouts were hazy. In an accent that Thatcher pegged as Louisiana-cum-Al Jolson, she said: “Oh, I’m sure they’re delicious. But it’s so unsanitary. You know, Mr. Bacharias, I just can’t get used to your Greek notions of hygiene. And I don’t care what you say, Kate, I wouldn’t think of drinking the water . . .”
“You say that we can buy some nice brasses at the Piraeus?” Kate demanded, shark like, avid.
Bacharias’ smile was forced. “Yes. Yes indeed. Many interesting stores . . .”
“I certainly hope their prices are more reasonable than those stores on Ermou Street, or whatever you call it,” Lorna said acidly. “There was this adorable rug I saw yesterday . . .”
While she rattled on, Thatcher glanced at Everett who was he could see also apprehensive. Surely the ladies were laying it on too lavishly.
Not it developed for Bacharias. After pointing out an interesting fragment of wall that was worthy of attention he turned to Gabler and Thatcher and, sotto voce, said: “I think it will be best if the ladies can occupy themselves shopping—I will direct the driver—while we inquire at the docks. After all we do not know what to expect . . .”
“Very wise,” Thatcher agreed. There would be plenty of time for Bacharias to learn that dispensing with American women is easier said than done. And soon he would have other things to worry about. Their descent on the Piraeus, which is the port of Athens, had been carefully timed to coincide with the arrival of the cruise ship Capodistria. If Bacharias wanted tall blond Americans, the Capodistria promised a more than ample supply.
Before leaving the hotel Everett had foreseen that supporters of Bacharias would be in the offing.
“Do you realize that that scoundrel probably plans to have Ken shot before our eyes?” Kate Murphy, perfecting her disguise by draping a string of large crystal beads around her neck, had been soothing.
“Don’t you worry, Everett. Bacharias may have one of his sharp-shooting gorillas stationed at the pier but remember, Nicolls won’t be there. And by the time we’re finished with Bacharias his shooting days will be over—for good!” Now, in her improbable Midwestern drawl, she broke into speech again. “Oh no! We’d just love to see a ship come in. We’ll shop afterwards. There’s just something about a ship . . .”
Lorna was more explanatory. “We don’t see that often in Cincinnati.”
Thatcher choked slightly but Bacharias merely shrugged and accepted the inevitable. So the Buick with its full complement continued to nose through the rabbit warren of streets to the great harbor. When they finally reached the wharves gay sunlight illuminated a scene rare indeed in Cincinnati. In the busy harbor two large ocean liners were moored; surrounding them were smaller coastal vessels and small gadflies of fishing boats. Along the crowded walks were further evidence of unhygienic practice; vendors of koulouria, roasted nuts, and cooked fish hawked their wares, their shrill cries echoed by mocking gulls and raucous ships’ whistles.
“Perhaps you ladies would care to wait in the car,” Bacharias began vainly. Kate had already flung open the door and was heaving herself out. Planted stolidly on the sidewalk, she looked around with wide-eyed interest as heavily burdened stevedores veered around her.
“Well now isn’t this just fascinating?” she asked the world. “What do you suppose that man was saying to me?”
“Oh do hurry, Lorna! This is the real Greece at last. Just like that movie!”
Bacharias was vexed. “Perhaps if we divert Miss Murphy, she would . . . er . . . draw less attention to us . . .” Abruptly he went white. At his side Thatcher and Gabler stiffened involuntarily. Lorna, hard on Kate’s heels, had loosed an ear-splitting scream.
“Kate! Kate, do you see who I see?”
“Where . . . oh! Well, of all people! Carl! Yoohoo, Carl!” With loud cries, the ladies flung themselves forward against the tide of passengers debarking from the Capodistria. “Yoo-hoo! Carl!”
“I had hoped,” said Bacharias, deeply moved, “that we might aid Nicolls without attracting undue attention.”
Thatcher could understand this. People planning ambushes do not appreciate audiences. Aloud he replied that the ladies did provide excellent cover.
“You are right, of course,” Bacharias said, forcing a smile.
“No one would ever take them for . . . oh well. Where did you say our meeting is?”
“A tobacco warehouse.” Carefully Thatcher spelled out an address. As he spoke, they were edging forward. Just then, one of the ship’s officers passed near them. A heavyset man, he had an expression of jaundiced patience that deepened when his eyes fell upon Everett. Nevertheless he halted civilly at Bacharias’ command. There ensued a good deal of rapid Greek. Then with a sardonic smile the bald man sketched a salute and moved away.
Bacharias muttered under his breath. “It is just around the corner. Down an alley on the right,” he reported. “I asked if he had seen a young blond American. But he does not know one American from another. And there are many of them.”
Bacharias looked around with open loathing at American college boys, American servicemen stationed in Germany, Americans of Greek extraction visiting the old country, and American school teachers broadening their cultural horizons.
Leaving the ladies to their yoohooing the three men followed the officer’s directions. The warehouse proved to be a solid structure located amidst the factories and distilleries that cluster around the Great Harbor. Inside years of use had impregnated the atmosphere with the rich moist aroma of Latakia. But the building seemed empty. However, as soon as their footsteps echoed through the lofty spaces a small man issued from a door to one side. They could see behind him a cramped office and several men bent over papers.
The small man approached in silence until he was within three feet. “Please to pretend you are customers!” he ordered in a sharp undertone. Then his voice rang out jovially. “Ah, you have come to the right place! The Olympus Tobacco Export Company! Only the finest leaf! My card, gentlemen.”
The business card was extended toward Bacharias.
“Where is Mr. Nicolls?” Thatcher whispered urgently. “Has he been here?”
“But of course. He had to leave when these others came in.” Again the reversion to booming salesmanship: “And with whom do I have the honor to do business?”
From the office door two men were now watching the performance. Mechanically, Thatcher, Gabler, and Bacharias all reached for card cases and produced cards.
“We will require delivery before September 1st,” Gabler said loudly. “Is that possible?”
“Of course, of course! And you need two lots, you say? There would be a substantial reduction on three. Here, I will quote you my prices.” The warehouse owner placed a piece of paper against the wall and wrote rapidly: He has joined the American tourists’ car. The large guide at Daphni will have a message for you. Go quickly! There is danger here.
In the street outside Bacharias started to speak.
Everett however urged him forward. “Come! Time is of the essence!”
As they hurried back to the car Thatcher realized he would have to keep an eye on Everett too.
“Well there you are!” Kate yodeled.”Carl here is our football coach at good old Mann High School! It’s a small world isn’t it?”
There goes the ball game, thought Thatcher. Anything further from a high school football coach than Ingraham would be hard to find. Or at least so it seemed to Thatcher. He had never seen one of these leaders of youth wearing thick glasses. And Ingraham still seemed to be taking unholy glee in assuming disguise. He vibrated in a flowered
sports shirt. He was also, Thatcher noticed with pleasure, festooned with cameras, one of which he had just finished using.
“Ay-up,” said Carl with a shy smile.
Really, these classicists needed refresher courses in the geography of their native land. Ingraham had just placed Cincinnati somewhere on the coast of Maine. “Say,” Ingraham said, heavily bucolic, “you folks meet up with your friend? Or is he in one of the cars that’s already gone on ahead?”
“Ahead?” Bacharias demanded.
“It’s just fascinating,” Lorna announced, righting the flowered hat that had somehow been knocked askew. “Carl—and everybody—have just eight hours here. And I declare they’re going to see more than Kate and I will see in five whole days. And the cruise only cost . . . .” Her interesting calculations were interrupted by a sudden explosion of loudspeaker orders.
“Gee!” said Carl, “that’s my car! They warned us to stick together and to be on time. We’re going to see this here Daphni . . .”
“Daphni?” Bacharias murmured. “That explains why . . .”
“Then we’re going to have a ding-dong tour of Athens,” Carl confided. “With lunch included. Then we have a whole hour free for whatever we want to do. Well I’d better be going.”
They watched him lope over to a waiting car. Clearly a whole caravan was required for the passengers of the Capodistria.
“It really is a small world.”
Before the ladies could get well and truly launched on this original theme Everett spoke up. “Has it occurred to you,” he asked Thatcher and Bacharias, “that Nicolls may find this the safest way to get into Athens? He can go along with the group until he gets near the center of town. After all he can’t be sure that we’re here to help him.”
Bacharias glancing idly at the upper story of one of the shops facing the wharves, nodded slowly. “Yes, you are right. But perhaps we can still intercept him.”
Thatcher who had noted that glance professed doubts. “Perhaps,” he said, “it would be wisest to leave him to his own devices. He certainly seems to have displayed considerable ingenuity up until now.”
“No!” Bacharias said sharply. “Pardon me I do not wish to sound rude, but no! Remember the closer Mr. Nicolls comes to Athens the greater his danger. It would be wiser I think, if we can locate him.”
“You’re probably right,” said Everett in a fine show of being convinced. The limousine bearing Ingraham left at that moment, to the accompaniment of enthusiastic adieux from Kate and Lorna who returned to their companions in time to hear Bacharias say: “I am sure of it. Come we must not lose time. To Daphni!”
His voice rose as he spoke. He could be overheard by the ladies and perhaps by some of those persons standing beyond them.
“But what about that store you told us about?” Kate Murphy lamented.
Lorna upheld the reputation of Cincinnati home economics teachers by placing first things first. “Carl says there’s a church of some sort that we shouldn’t miss Kate. I expect there are stores there too.”
Faced with imperative needs Bacharias added perjury of his immortal soul to his other sins. “Yes indeed,” he assured them. “Daphni is one of the finest shopping areas in Greece!”
“Well then,” said Kate Murphy brightly, “let’s go!”
The monastery at Daphni is a very ancient edifice. Built at the end of the eleventh century it has subsequently had an eventful history encompassing Frankish looting, religious animosity, and architectural restoration. It has survived all this with its great mosaics relatively intact.
As Thatcher and his companions hurried past the cypresses into the body of the church the somber eyes of Christ Pantocrater were brooding over a flock of Americans from the Capodistria and a small band of Germans helpless for once in the face of superior tourist odds. Bobbing around the whole seething mass were the blacksuited guides who prey on all visitors to Greece’s historic sites.
Although undeniably an artistic jewel, the monastery at Daphni is very tiny; the day was already very hot; the overall effect was indescribable.
“Somehow,” Lorna bawled over the din, “it doesn’t seem very religious. Now our Presbyterian church back home in Cincinnati doesn’t have any fancy art but there’s a feeling—if you know what I mean.”
Bacharias looking feverish was scanning the crowd. Not surprisingly there was no sign of Nicolls.
“You want guide—excellent English?” A black suit was at their elbow. “I explain the mosaics, the battlements. Then, afterward, good lunch. Then to buy post cards . . .”
With a snarl Bacharias replied in a whiplash of Greek and shook off the offending hand. With a scowl the guide melted into a group of Norwegians who had just entered. As he left another figure emerged camera at the ready.
“Say here we all are again! How about that?” Carl was all innocent enjoyment. “I don’t know if I can get the right exposure in here . . .”
“Now you know Carl that doesn’t seem right to me,” Kate Murphy told him virtuously. “It isn’t respectful, taking pictures in church. Do you think so, Mr. Bacharias?”
In view of the steady popping of flashbulbs around them Thatcher rather hoped that Bacharias would rebuke this fatuousness. Furthermore Kate’s accent was proving unstable; it had now slipped to an unfortunate blend of North Texas and dust-bowl Oklahoma. He reminded himself to speak sternly to her once this adventure was terminated.
But Bacharias intent on the crowd was not listening.
“I said,” said Carl, giving him a playful football coach’s punch, “this isn’t a church any more is it?”
“What? Oh no. Daphni is a historic site. It has been secularized.”
Lorna then went too far. “Well, I swear,” she said with wonder.
Everett not a man to show emotion passed a handkerchief over his gleaming brow.
Fortunately Ingraham was capable of carrying on.
“Guess I’ve got to say so long again,” he said, consulting a mimeographed sheet. “We’re due in Athens.”
With an effort Bacharias pulled himself together. “Your party?” he said with a ghastly parody of a smile. “They have already proceeded?”
“Oh sure,” said Carl. “Well see you around!”
But Bacharias plunged right after him.
“So far so good,” said Kate in matter-of-fact tones.
With audible feeling Everett beseeched both ladies to be very, very careful. Thatcher reserved his fire and concentrated upon the great solemn Christ figure.
“Nonsense,” said Kate. “The man’s . . . oh, there you are Mr. Bacharias. Now where were those stores you were telling us about?”
Bacharias looked faintly unwell. He was leading a burly guide who looked oversize compared to his colleagues most of them small, dapper men. The guide did not look like an authority on churches nor for that matter an ex-seminarian. With a villainous wink at Everett he put a familiar hand on Bacharias’ arm.
“Quiet!” he snarled. “We may be overheard. First you can identify yourselves?”
Wearily Thatcher, Gabler, and Bacharias produced their business cards. After a fleeting inspection the cards were engulfed in a huge fist incongruously encased by a white cotton glove. Ponderously he relaxed his vigilance.
“Good! I’ve passed Nicolls on to one of our men in Athens.”
“He is still with the others?” Bacharias asked anxiously.
Once again Thatcher understood: as this pursuit continued, Bacharias was facing the danger that Ken Nicolls and the precious microfilm might become separated. And Nicolls now represented Bacharias’ last chance at the microfilm.
The ex-seminarian looked down from his height in disgust. “Of course. They are agreed to stay with him until he is restored to his friends.”
Bacharias was too relieved to speak.
“And your man in Athens?” hissed Everett, getting into the spirit of things.
The guide leaned down and began to whisper. The chauffeur fell in enthusiastically w
ith injunctions to hurry but unfortunately the road from Daphni to Athens does not lend itself to high speeds. He and the VW trailing him since the Piraeus proceeded at a decorous 40-miles-per-hour. The seedy commercial development unrolling was not sufficiently interesting to divert the ladies from a burgeoning sense of grievance although they made valiant efforts to remain good-natured.
“Of course we’re just thrilled at seeing so many interesting things we might have missed,” said Lorna sounding profoundly dissatisfied.
Kate seconded her. “Yes indeed. And of course it’s a privilege to get to really know the people. . . .”
The atmosphere in the car was so charged that Thatcher momentarily missed the significance of this last, emphasized as it was. But the only Greek present, Bacharias, alternately peering out the window or checking a showy wrist watch was anything but gratified by the tribute.
“But,” said Kate, weightily, “we had hoped to pick up a few things. I certainly will be sick if I can’t get my niece Gladys a little something. Gladys is really crazy about really nice things . . .”
“And I told Mrs. Evers—she’s my landlady and a really lovely person—that I’d try to find one of those lovely rugs for her. She wants to put it in the dining room Kate. You know where the braided rug is.”
“That would be lovely,” Kate said firmly. “Just lovely. And those beautiful bags. Now they’d be just perfect for Syl and the girls.”
Thatcher was not surprised to see the thrust of American women bent on shopping penetrate even Bacharias’ preoccupation. As a banker he would back the American woman qua consumer against anything short of a tidal wave and perhaps not even that.
They were nosing into Athens proper amidst the inevitable chaos of local traffic. Bacharias leaned back and said hollowly, “I will be most happy to show you some very fine shops . . .”
“Not too expensive I hope,” Lorna said militantly. “No, no!”
Thatcher turned aside to conceal a smile. This was the first and only time he felt any sympathy for Bacharias.
