by Leo Kanaris
It was a hot day, silent and still. He pushed on, quickening his stride. He was thinking about his life now. After a quiet summer, things were getting complicated again. Zoe was ill, Mario dead, his wife Eleni a bitter wreck… And that poor violinist, dropped in the bushes of the Tourkovounia like a piece of rubbish. She was not strictly his business yet – but if the police did their usual job she soon would be.
Back at home Zoe was out of bed and in the kitchen, peeling fruit.
He asked how she was feeling.
‘The same,’ she said glumly. For some reason the fruit seemed to him a good sign.
He decided to try Dr Pierris again. Two days had passed and he had not called back.
To his surprise he was put straight through.
‘I had a cancelled appointment,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
George said he had spoken to Zoe, knew about the tests and the conflicting plans for treatment, and asked for advice. Pierris was guarded in his reply.
‘There are diagnostic techniques that are far more advanced and complex than anything I know. Those two Athens specialists are well spoken of. I can’t tell you which is right.’
‘What would you do?’
Pierris did not reply for a few moments. ‘That’s difficult,’ he said. ‘If money was no problem I would say go to a generalist, someone with experience but not out of date like me. Don’t mention the other diagnoses, just present the symptoms. See what the reaction is.’
‘In other words a fourth opinion?’
‘It sounds terrible, I know.’
‘You know what all this costs?’
‘Of course. It’s not cheap.’
‘What do you do if you’re poor?’
Pierris sighed. ‘I’m just making a suggestion.’
‘Can you recommend someone?’
‘You could try Arapaglou or Skouras…’
‘Skouras?’
‘He’s at the Red Cross. He’s very good. But let him make his own assessment. Don’t load the dice.’
George thanked him and hung up. Skouras was one of the people Mario had seen on his last day. He had already tried ringing him once. Perhaps he might have better luck today.
The Secretary at the Red Cross Hospital was polite. She apologised for not ringing back, saying that Dr Skouras had been called away on urgent business.
‘You are on his list,’ she said, ‘and on his conscience.’ George was glad to hear it. ‘Dr Skouras will be back tonight,’ she added. ‘I’m sure that he will return your call tomorrow.’
George said he could do without the call; he simply wanted an appointment. Somewhat surprised, she offered him a time on Friday morning – two days from now. He agreed. He was not sure how he would combine the two parts of his visit, the personal and professional, but he would manage.
14 Three Brothers
Haris phoned him at the end of the day to tell him that Christos, the car dealer, had been able to give him some useful information about EAP. But he had been nervous about handing it over. He wanted to know who was asking and why. Haris had assured him that anything he said would be treated in confidence.
‘And I hope that’s right,’ Haris added, ‘because if this gets back to him in any form – any form at all – it will poison our family for the next five generations.’
‘Why your family?’
‘He’s my cousin.’
George gave a solemn promise.
‘OK!’ said Haris. ‘Get a piece of paper and a pen. These are the facts:
1. EAP is a genuine car sales operation, with a showroom in Athens and another in Thessaloniki. But even at their high prices no one believes they run at a profit.
2. They have further sources of income. One is vehicle and personal finance, which they offer to customers with very few questions asked. The rates of interest are high.
3. They also offer a security service, specially tailored to celebrities and wealthy individuals, which sits well with the luxury car business. The security staff are mainly Russian and provide useful back-up in the case of non-paying loans.
4. The owners are three brothers: Efthimios, Andonis and Pavlos Marangós. Hence the name EAP.
5. Efthimios is known as the clever one (exypnos), Andonis the ugly one (aschimos), and Pavlos the queer one (poustis). This is the unofficial version of ‘EAP’.
6. The family, originally from Edessa, has apartment blocks in Athens and interests in banking, art and media.
7. They are disliked by other dealers, who generally avoid doing business with them.’
George said, ‘Your cousin seems well informed.’
‘He should be. He’s president of the Car Dealers Association.’
‘Does he know which of the brothers it was our privilege to meet?’
‘Pavlos.’
‘Why?’
‘Efthimios is short and wiry, Andonis is fat, Pavlos is tall and fit.’
‘And a psychopath?’
‘He didn’t mention that.’
‘OK. I need to think about the implications of all this,’ said George. ‘Leave it with me overnight.’
‘As long as you like,’ said Haris.
George re-read the list of facts under the light of the reading lamp. Considered objectively, the story Pavlos Marangós had told him was plausible enough. Mario had been looking for finance, and people go to strange places for money, usually when the more obvious places won’t supply it. When they’re in trouble for example. Or have already borrowed too much. But why EAP? There was something unexplained there.
He called Eleni, and asked bluntly if her husband had been in debt.
She said he had not.
Her voice was hesitant, however. Defensive, just like before, but now more vulnerable and circumspect. He commented on this.
‘I’m so used to bad news about him that I expect more every day,’ she said.
‘You’ve had the worst,’ said George. ‘Nothing worse can come.’
‘Don’t say that! Each day brings horrible surprises.’
Not wanting to get into a therapy session, he returned to the subject of debt. Had she followed Mario’s finances? Did he have credit cards or loans? Did he have any major projects that needed the help of a bank?
She answered in the same vague, non-committal way each time. She had left all financial matters to him.
Had she opened his post since he died?
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t been able to face it.’
‘Open all his letters,’ he said. ‘And call me at once if any of them are about money.’
‘Why are you interested?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Did he owe you?’
‘No.’
‘Then why?’
George explained briefly about EAP.
She had never heard of them, nor of Marangós. Nor, when he asked her about him, of Dr Skouras. He was surprised how little she knew of her husband’s life.
George went to fetch a beer from the fridge. Catching sight of a packet of ham on the shelf, he realised he was hungry. He made a sandwich with some feta and sweet red peppers in oil, spread out the daily newspaper on the kitchen table, and began to read as he ate. The sandwich was good but the news was bad. The Prime Minister, Mr Tsipras, had called new elections. Experts were trying to predict who would win. George found it hard to concentrate. National politics gave him a deadly sense of déjà vu. One gang of parasites succeeding another, sucking the life out of the nation, giving nothing back but empty promises. How much did the people of Greece have left to give?
The other news was worse. The islands of the eastern Aegean were under assault from refugees, desperate families from Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan who crossed the sea from Turkey in inflatable boats. This had been going on since the spring. Some drowned – the paper showed a photo of a dead child in the arms of a policeman – but hundreds of thousands made it and travelled on up to Macedonia, Serbia, Hungary, heading for the prosperous lands of northern Europe, which were not part
icularly keen to have them.
At this rate, one way or another, Greece would soon be destitute. He pushed the paper aside, too depressed to continue reading. He finished his sandwich and swallowed the rest of the beer. He watched the second hand circling the kitchen clock.
He returned to his desk and read again the seven points on Haris’s list. Something else niggled him. He dialled Haris’s number.
‘I meant to ask you,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You served in the special forces, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t react more violently to your treatment at EAP.’
‘That would not have been a good idea.’
‘They gave you enough provocation.’
‘Sure.’
‘So?’ said George.
‘They also had superior force.’
George thought of the two massively-built security guards, their air of ruthless menace.
‘Could you,’ he asked, ‘have taken out those two big men, if you’d wanted to?’
Haris gave a contemptuous snort.
‘Does that mean yes or no?’
‘I’m not going to answer that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a stupid question.’
‘It seems reasonable to me!’
‘Think about it, Mr Zafiris! I go in unarmed, unprepared, and meet those guys. They’re big, they’re strong, they look like psychos, quite possibly on steroids or cocaine. And they have guns. Would you try to “take them out” as you put it?’
‘Of course not. But I’m not trained.’
‘Trained or untrained,’ said Haris, ‘there’s a choice – either control the situation or get out. You didn’t send me in there to “take them out”. Remember that. You said, “Go and find out what you can.” That’s what I did. After that it was a matter of survival.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said George. ‘I had no idea what we were getting into.’
‘Next time, buddy, make sure you do know. It’s not so bloody difficult. It’s just three words. “Know your target.” A little homework goes a long way.’
‘Haris,’ said George, ‘I respect what you’re saying.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ said Haris. ‘If you want to plan an operation against EAP let me know, and we’ll do it properly.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good night,’ said Haris. ‘Sleep well.’
15 Dr Skouras
Next morning George drove Zoe to the Red Cross Hospital for her appointment with Dr Skouras. His clinic was a surprise. Freshly painted, clean, with comfortable black leather chairs, a water machine, well-tended indoor plants, it might have been imported whole, vacuum-packed, from Switzerland. Zoe gave her name to the receptionist and they sat down. George held his wife’s hand, which was limp and nerveless.
She was not happy about coming here. It had been a struggle to persuade her. The last thing she wanted was more opinions.
George explained again. ‘Skouras has a good reputation. Let’s hear what he has to say.’
‘He’s just another specialist waiting for his fee.’
‘That’s exactly what he’s not.’
‘Let’s see.’
After a short wait they were called in. Skouras was tall, bearded, precise in his dress, with a silk tie and an ironed shirt under his clean white coat. His blue eyes observed Zoe attentively as she described her symptoms.
He asked her to lie down on a couch and drew a curtain. George heard him telling her to indicate where the pain started, what kind of pain it was, whether constant or intermittent, static or dynamic. Then he asked, ‘Here?… And here?’At one point she yelped. ‘Yes! There!’
He spoke softly to her after that and drew the curtain open.
Then he addressed them both.
‘You’ve consulted another physician?’ he said.
Zoe glanced at George, uncertain how to reply.
‘We have,’ said George, ‘but…’
‘Who referred you to me?’
‘My doctor in Andros,’ said Zoe. ‘Dr Pierris.’
‘I don’t know him,’ said Skouras.
‘Does that matter?’
‘Not at all. Have you had any tests?’
Again Zoe looked doubtful.
‘If you have, I might as well see the results.’
George said, ‘We prefer it if you start with your own diagnosis.’
‘That’s fine. But I’m sure you’ve had tests, and if you have the results, from a reputable hospital, you may as well let me see them, and then we can save time.’
‘Are we short of time?’ asked Zoe anxiously.
‘We could be,’ said Skouras with a slight raising of his eyebrows.
‘We’ve been given quite the runaround,’ said George. ‘Contradictory opinions, rival treatments costing thousands of euros. If you don’t mind, we’d like you to make your diagnosis without influence from others.’
‘I understand that,’ said Skouras. ‘It’s not quite how this works. With these symptoms we have three possible diagnoses, not fifty-three. This could be a tumour, a chronic infection, or a cyst. One of these would justify immediate intervention of a costly and possibly damaging kind. The second requires antibiotics, and quickly. The third is best treated by leaving it alone. The test results would confirm which it is. It’s your choice. Do you want to order new tests, or give me the results you already have?’
Zoe said, ‘Give him the results, George! For heaven’s sake, let’s finish this!’
George opened his briefcase and handed over a large white envelope. Skouras examined the contents. At a certain point he showed surprise, shaking his head, apparently in distress.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the papers back. ‘That’s very interesting.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Zoe.
‘In my opinion this is a cyst,’ said Skouras.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It poses no danger.’
‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so frightened! I feel sure I have cancer.’
Skouras said, ‘You do not have cancer. You can have the cyst removed surgically, but it’s not urgent. And I would like you to let me know in a day or two if the pain stops following this diagnosis.’
‘Of course.’
Zoe reached for her handbag and extracted a sealed white envelope.
Skouras glanced at it and raised his hand.
‘That’s not necessary.’
‘I know, but everybody does it, and I wanted –’
‘Forget it. What is more urgent is to make a complaint about the two specialists who recommended emergency treatment. That is pure gangster medicine.’
‘Does it involve the police?’
‘No. You can write to the general medical council. If you want to make a contribution, do that. Denounce them.’
‘I don’t want anything to do with public offices.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ A weariness swept over his features. ‘But you’ll do us all a service.’
Zoe smiled. ‘I’d rather give you the envelope.’
‘It’s easier, isn’t it? But the answer is no. Some time this disgusting system has to stop.’
George stood up. ‘You must have many more patients to see,’ he said.
Skouras stood up too.
‘I wanted to ask you about something else,’ said George, ‘but perhaps another time?’
Skouras said, ‘Why not now?’
‘It’s a personal matter. About Mario Filiotis…’
‘Oh.’ Skouras immediately changed expression. Gone was the relaxed professional. His eyes became troubled, uncertain. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I know he saw you just a few hours before he died,’ said George.
‘I’d like you to tell me what this is about,’ said Skouras.
George explained. ‘Mario was a friend from s
chool, and we’ve been close ever since. I’m an investigator by trade. I’m not convinced that he died by accident.’
‘Do you have any evidence?’
‘Circumstantial. But strong.’
‘I see. Well, that’s news to me,’ said Skouras.
‘Can you tell me what business you had with him, doctor?’
‘Business?’
‘Did he come as a patient, a friend…?’
Skouras thought for a moment. ‘I’m not comfortable discussing this. All I know is that you’re the husband of a patient. Possibly not even that.’
‘What can I say to reassure you?’
‘I would prefer to have this conversation another time.’
‘Of course. Let’s make a date.’
‘Give me your card and I’ll call you.’
George handed over his business card.
‘If you want testimonials,’ he said, ‘I have plenty.’
‘No doubt,’ said Skouras. He offered his hand, in what felt to George like a very final way.
As they walked away down the hospital corridor, Zoe said, ‘What a wonderful man.’
‘Let’s see,’ said George.
*
Zoe spent the evening on the telephone to relatives and friends, announcing that she was out of danger. She was suddenly youthful and energetic again, with the light of hope rekindled in her eyes. She seemed euphoric, almost drunk with new optimism. George was concerned but made no comment. He sent a text message to Nick: ‘Your mother is in the clear.’
Shortly afterwards his phone rang. He expected it to be Nick, but was surprised to hear the voice of Dr Skouras.
‘I hope nothing has changed in your diagnosis,’ he said.
‘Nothing at all,’ said Skouras. ‘I am not calling about that. It’s the other matter.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve gone to some trouble to check your credentials’
‘Fine,’ said George. ‘Perfectly understandable.’
Skouras went on. ‘Mario and I were in discussion for several years about a project.’
