The Roses of Picardie

by Simon Raven

  ‘Like one ton of turds, I get it. But can I believe it?’

  Lord Constable, reflected Jones, had trusted the cricketer, or at any rate the statistic in Wisden. What persona could Mr Pandelios be got to trust?

  ‘Can I believe it?’ Pandelios repeated.

  ‘Like you can piss in a china pot,’ said Jones, rather wearily.

  ‘What ees this funny speaking of yours?’

  ‘Oz. Strine. Australian. I don’t get it right, but I try.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I find it amusing.’

  ‘You ever went there – to Afstralia?’

  ‘Yeez.’

  ‘Why you go?’

  ‘I went to play cricket,’ said Jones, S, feeling silly.

  The Kyrios Pandelios looked puzzled.

  ‘The English croquet?’ he said at last, pronouncing the ‘t’ hard.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Syd Jones, not wishing to complicate things.

  ‘Then I make you one deal. I like this ’Oz English, this Strine. Kyrios Blakeney teach me good filthy English but only English filthy English. You teach me some Australian filthy English, and if I like, I tell you where the good Kyrios Blakeney was going.’

  As Balbo began to come to, he was conscious that Count Komikos was hovering more or less benignantly about his head, offering a drink.

  ‘Where is he? Where’s Theodoraki?’ muttered Balbo, flicking his eyes nervously around the library.

  ‘He has gone back where he came from. He will not come again till he is sent for.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got control over the brute.’

  ‘He is not a brute. He is an old family retainer. Nearly two hundred years old, to be precise.’

  ‘What rubbish is this?’

  ‘No rubbish at all,’ said Count Komikos. ‘Is that drink to your liking?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Then if you’re quite comfortable, I shall now explain.’

  ‘“Shit a bastard brick”,’ pondered the Kyrios Pandelios. ‘Yes, ees quite funny. Also I am keen to “drain my snake” and “gobble a sheila’s cherry”. You are kind and humourful man, Kyrios Jones, and will not be hurting blessed Balbo. So I will now be telling you where he was going when he sailed away from Crete.

  ‘Only it will be assisting you but little,’ Pandelios went on, ‘as he was going to see my brother-in-law, Stavros Kommingi, curator of the antiquities at Nicopolis…who is now dead, having been – how you say? – raped? – by his dog. His throat was torn out while he was sleeping.’

  ‘Savaged rather than raped, I’d say,’ said Jones, S. ‘Some dog.’

  ‘The bones of a man, a young man, they think, were found nearby. They make a theory that the dog had become accustomed to human meat, and after long deprivation (the commodity being hard to come by) did turn at last on Stavros. God ’e knows about all that pile of crap, but the essential point, good Kyrie Jones, is that Stavros Kommingi, being dead of dogrape, will be telling you nothing of what passed between ’imself and blessed Balbo, or what intentions, if any, issued from the latter’s cake-’ole.’

  ‘I suppose I could go there and ask if anyone else saw Blakeney?’

  ‘And so you could. But they are big shitty bastards in Previsa and all that quarter, and they make you some tale for two ouzos and the merry hell of it, whether they saw him or not.’

  ‘Still, it’s a trail of sorts.’

  ‘So it is,’ said the Kyrios Pandelios, ‘and the best of Australian luck.’

  ‘So you see,’ Count Komikos was explaining to Balbo, ‘as a younger son’s bastard by one of the family’s maidservants, Theodoraki quite naturally grew up to become a privileged upper servant in the family household. In accordance with the custom of the time, he was brought up by his mother in the kitchen, put to simple tasks as soon as he could walk, watched for signs of intellect or vice (the former of which would have procured an education for him, in so far as was then to be had, and the latter his prompt expulsion from the house as soon as he could fend for himself), and being conspicuous for neither so much as for a friendly and loyal disposition was given, at the age of ten, to the ruling Count’s twelve-year-old grandson, as companion and body-servant, an appointment which in those days lasted for life.

  ‘As the years went on and the grandson rose to become himself the ruling Count, Theodoraki rose with him to become his major-domo. He was also, as he had been since they were boys, the Count’s most trusted confidant. But not long after the Count had inherited, when Theodoraki and he were fifty and fifty-two years old respectively, a terrible disaster came upon them.

  ‘The year was 1824, the war against the Turks was in full force – and the Count, attended by Theodoraki, crossed to the mainland to pay his respects to the English milord Byron, who was encamped at Mesolonghi. Now, as you may know, Mr Blakeney, Mesolonghi then stood, indeed still stands, in the middle of a coastal swamp, the vapours from which undoubtedly helped to wind down the mortal coil of the already much debilitated milord. When Count Komikos and Theodoraki arrived, the Lord Byron lay dying and around him a pretty curious crew was assembled, which included a lad from Ithaca, of noble birth, who was acting as a kind of esquire to his lordship, having been promoted to the office more for his comeliness than his capacities. It is, I think, common knowledge – you will certainly find it recorded in more than one reputable biography – that this boy subsequently robbed milord’s dead body both of money and jewels. What is not so widely known is that he was observed leaving Byron’s tent by Theodoraki, who followed him, questioned him, disbelieved his tale of a pious vigil by the bier, stripped him of every stitch he was wearing and uncovered the stolen goods which were secreted in the region of the boy’s privata. However, the boy’s family was important, the matter was hushed up, and the boy himself swiftly moved to Ithaca…but not before he had put the eye on Theodoraki in revenge for his humiliation.’

  ‘The eye?’

  ‘The evil eye. Some families tend to transmit through the generations the gift of casting it – This boy’s family was famous for it, and for the use they made of it to amass money and purchase nobility.’

  ‘I do not think any Komikos should comment on other people’s methods of attaining to nobility.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’ The Count smiled softly. ‘More of that later. Meanwhile…here was Theodoraki, smitten by the eye and knowing it, rapidly succumbing to the noxious fumes of Mesolonghi; and in a few days he was dead.’

  His Excellency paused and pursed his lips, as though a little uneasy about what must follow.

  ‘My ancestor, having buried his old companion with every office enjoyed by the Church of God and the charity of man, at length returned to Corfu. Having no stomach in him for the town, he came out here to his house in the country, and day after day he spent pacing the quayside an the shore, looking South over the waves towards Mesolonghi, where the heart of his heart lay rotting in the sea marshes. Or so he thought. But Theodoraki was quick in his grave and heard the call of his friend and master, as it was borne over Mesolonghi by the wind from the North and West; and so he rose, and took passage in a ship over the sea to Kerkyra, though it is well known’ – here the Count’s nostrils gave a slight twitch of embarrassment and he stumbled in his period – ‘though it is well known that vampires do not easily cross water, whether salt or fresh.’

  ‘Vampires?’

  ‘At this point,’ said the Count primly, ‘we must halt for a little lesson in Greek folklore.

  ‘Greek vampires, you should understand, are not necessarily bloodsuckers. Nor are they necessarily malevolent. While they often nourish themselves on human flesh, most are quite happy with the flesh of domestic or other animals. When they move about, which they can do as easily by day as by night, they tend to beat or rip strangers or persons they don’t like, but they are also capable of doing good turns, such as carrying heavy loads or ploughing fields, for their friends and families.

  ‘Now, Theodoraki is a va
mpire of the amiable kind. The loyalty which he has shown in crossing the sea, a painful proceeding for all vampires whether Greek or other, made that clear from the start. So when he reached here, he was given a commodious tomb in the garden and a sheep a day for his rations, for though kindly disposed he tended to become… obstreperous…if given less. He was then put to work. Menial work, it had to be, for although he had enjoyed a post of honour while living, his brain seemed to have been very badly damaged since he had become one of the living dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just let him rest then?’

  ‘When he was consuming a sheep every day? My dear Mr Blakeney, Greece is and certainly was a very poor country. No one who was consuming food on that scale could possibly be allowed to remain idle. Besides, Theodoraki was anxious to be of use. The trouble was that he had neither the discipline nor the intelligence which had characterized him before his death, and was capable of only the simplest tasks. But as time went on, it was revealed that the instinctive gift which he had always possessed for detecting hostility or danger to the Komikos family from any quarter, for scenting treachery threatened or even natural disaster pending – it was revealed, I say, that this gift was not only unimpaired but was operating more intensively and accurately than ever. Though he could not properly speak, he was capable of grunting an elementary warning and during the first year after his return he gave notice, weeks before the events proved him correct, of three attacks by Epirot pirates from the mainland, a freak tempest at mid-summer, a freak drought in the autumn, and of the dishonourable intentions of a prominent suitor to the hand of his master’s eldest niece. The latter prediction, which was totally disregarded because of the total probity, as it was conceived, of the young man in question, was sensationally vindicated and established Theodoraki as the honoured prophet and guardian of the Komikos family thenceforward and for ever.’

  ‘But why,’ said Balbo, ‘did Theodoraki ever become a vampire? In most accounts of vampire genesis, you only become one if you’ve been got at by another one and contaminated by his bite. Now, you say Greek vampires don’t bite –’

  ‘– I said that not all of them suck blood. Most of them will tear or bite human flesh if given no other.’

  ‘But there seems no reason to suppose Theodoraki was ever bitten, so how was he ever infected by whatever virus informs the…the living dead?’

  ‘He could have been infected by some chance contact… without himself or anyone else’s knowing of it. Or his bodily resurrection could have been caused, as is often the case, Mr Blakeney, by perturbation of the spirit.’

  ‘By the voice of his master’s grief, you seemed to imply just now.’

  ‘No. He heard his master calling to him, but only after he had already awoken. It was not,’ Count Komikos rather shrilly insisted, ‘his master’s voice that roused him.’

  ‘Then what was it? Theodoraki doesn’t sound to have possessed a perturbed spirit.’

  ‘Most likely of all, it was the effect of the curse cast upon him by the young Ithacot. The evil eye often makes revenants of its victims.’

  ‘As a former scientist,’ said Balbo, ‘or merely as a man of common sense, I must lodge another serious objection. How did he get out of his grave at Mesolonghi? I quite understand how he gets in and out of his tomb in the garden here, a tomb which is above ground, I presume’ – a nod of assent from Count Komikos – ‘and specially fixed up to make things easy for him; but a coffin buried in the earth – even in marshy earth – is another matter. You did say he was buried in Mesolonghi, I think?’

  ‘I did,’ said Count Komikos gravely, ‘and of course you are right. One more highly, disquieting mystery; how did he achieve his physical release? You will simply have to make an act of faith, Mr Blakeney.’

  ‘Or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘You may disbelieve if you wish, sir; I cannot compel you to accept this tale, and I don’t much care whether you do or you don’t. I have simply told you what we in this house and family believe, in order that you may understand the revered and mantic status – perhaps I should say, necromantic – which Theodoraki enjoys among us. That is why I called upon him to come to you – to determine your good or ill will and possible intentions. And now you have reason, Mr Blakeney, to be very grateful to him. For he has assured me that neither you nor your inquiries bode harm to my hearth or kin. He has authorized me to tell you whatever you wish to know in furtherance of your quest.’

  ‘Did he say anything about that quest? Whether it was well or ill fated?’

  ‘Theodoraki concerns himself only with the fortunes of the Komiki. All he said of you was that you could safely be told what you came to ask. So now, Mr Blakeney – go ahead and ask.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. Now then. Your family was once…involved…with the family of the Kommingi. Is it true that a certain ancestor of yours fraudulently converted the Kommingi’s patent of nobility to the name of Komikos and then got up an inquiry to discredit them?’

  ‘My ancestor showed well-timed ingenuity,’ said Komikos, ‘and if only on that account, he fully deserved to be ennobled.’

  ‘A debatable point, but it need not detain us. My concern,’ said Balbo, ‘is with what the inquiry revealed about the Kommingi.’

  ‘The inquiry was never completed. The Kommingi decided to fly from this island, which was what was wanted of them, so the inquiry was discontinued. You may be interested to know where they went – to Lycia, it was later discovered.’

  ‘Thank you, but I know where they went, or at least where they ended up. The, question is, Your Excellency, where had they come from? Where had they set out from when they first came to Corfu early in the eighteenth century? Surely the inquiry at least established that?’

  ‘Oh yes – but not very precisely. They had come from somewhere on the West Coast of Italy.’

  ‘A long coast, Count Komikos. Can’t you come a bit nearer than that?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The West Coast of Italy was at that time famous for its many ports which served…mariners…engaged in the dubious kind of trade favoured by the Kommingi. On one such port they were based, and near it they had their former home.’

  ‘But that could mean anywhere from Nice, which was then Italian, down to Scylla.’

  ‘It could indeed. But there is, Mr Blakeney, one circumstance which may help you narrow the choice. It is generally thought that when the Kommingi evacuated themselves from their house on Corfu harbour they left nothing whatever behind them. In fact, however, some time after their departure, a surveyor of the property found in the cellar a portrait made in oils, dated 1699, signed with the name “Giocale”, and labelled “Andrea Commingi” – Commingi with a capital “C”, the said Andrea, or Andreas, having been at the head of the family when it first arrived in Corfu (and adopted the Greek “Kappa”), and having ruled them there during the twenty-odd years before he took them on to Lycia. Here, then, was a picture of the man who had brought the family from Italy – and here, also, was a piece of landscape behind him. Now, Mr Blakeney, had anything been known of the painter Giocale, something might have been deduced about the provenance of the picture and so, perhaps, about the provenance of Andrea Commingi. But nothing was or is known of Giocale – except, on the evidence of the picture, that he was a better landscape artist than portraitist, as there is (I am told) a certain minor talent evinced in the view revealed behind the vilely painted Commingi.’

  ‘You’re told? Then the picture still exists.’

  ‘It has been preserved, Mr Blakeney. When it was found in the Kommingi’s house by the surveyor, it was first passed on to the Special Commissioner who was conducting the Kommingi inquiry, in case it should be of value as evidence.’

  ‘But by that time the Special Commissioner was surely in Venice, seeking assistance from Venetian experts in furthering the inquiry. Or rather, as it turned out, not seeking assistance, as the inquiry was already being tacitly abandoned.’

  ‘Quite right, Mr
Blakeney. The Commissioner was, at any rate, in Venice. He was called Baron Cuccumelli – his descendants still live on this island – and he was a distant connection by marriage of that noble and indeed dogal family of Venice, the Vendramin. So Cuccumelli was staying at the Palazzo Vendramin – whither came to him from Corfu the portrait of Andrea Commingi. It was, thought Cuccumelli, of no relevance, since the inquiry was, as you say, very soon to be abandoned. He therefore decided that he would give the picture as a parting gift of gratitude to his Vendramin host – who hung it in the remote corner of the Palace where it still hangs today, adorning the Salon of Chemin-de-Fer in the Winter Municipal Casino, which the Palazzo has now sadly become. Now, Mr Blakeney: some who have seen it have been charmed by the landscape view behind Commingi, but no one has been able to say what area it represents. But suppose it does represent a real area, and suppose you were ingenious enough, where others have failed, to recognize or discover what that area was; then surely you might have a clue as to precisely where, on the West Coast of Italy, the Commingi had lived before moving to Corfu.’

  ‘Always assuming that the picture was painted near their home.’

  ‘You will have to assume something, I think, in a quest of this nature.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Balbo bleakly. Then, ‘How do you know the nature of my quest?’

  ‘I don’t know anything, Mr Blakeney, except that you are hunting back into the past. Quests back into the past must always depend largely on assumptions, as the mouths of most informants have been closed for ever by dust.’

  Count Kommikos rose.

  ‘Luncheon,’ he said. ‘I thought it as well to settle your business first. During the meal I shall give myself the pleasure of questioning you – about our old Alma Mater and how it marches in these troubled times.’