“I have not asked you here only to read my Constantine’s poetry. Perhaps the poems are not important. But I think you must have some information of him. Or perhaps Miss Farrar knows something she does not tell me. This is why I ask you here—so it is possible to speak quietly, like two friends—yes?”
“I wish I could help you,” Dorcas said. “But I really don’t know anything at all about your husband. Gino never mentioned his name to me. If Miss Farrar has remembered anything, she hasn’t told me about it. I have no wish to cause any scandal over this, madame. There’s nothing to take to the police. So you needn’t worry about that.”
Her hostess seemed only partially satisfied with this assurance, but Dorcas agreed to come again, and they parted on a somewhat formal basis. By now, Dorcas suspected, Constantine’s wife was glad to see her go. Obviously she had received a shock and was being torn in several directions by her own explosive emotions. Dorcas refused the use of her car back to the hotel and returned on foot.
Johnny had driven Fernanda somewhere and Vanda was out with Beth, having left a note to say they would visit the aquarium a few blocks away. Dorcas walked in that direction and met them coming back. As the three followed the pleasant, turning streets together, Beth talked excitedly about the fish she had seen in the underwater tanks, but Dorcas’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“This morning,” she said to Vanda, “I worked for Madame Katalonos, typing her husband’s poems. While I was in his studio I saw the head in terra cotta he did of you. It is a fine piece.”
Vanda Petrus looked sullen, resembling very little the likeness Constantine had created. Dorcas could see nothing in her face of passion or nobility, but merely the usual careful watchfulness and air of resistance to any friendly overtures.
“At least I found out who it was who called himself the Owl,” Dorcas said, alert to Vanda’s response.
Vanda, however, did not show by the flutter of an eyelid that she had any understanding of what Dorcas was saying. Her silence seemed indifferent. Perhaps because she knew very well where Constantine was? After all, if he had really gone to America to look for Gino, why would he have mailed a letter to him from Greece? Knowing where the marble head was buried, Constantine might well be lying low in the absence of the partner he had depended upon, waiting for an opportunity to get the treasure out of the country. If a buyer could be reached, a buyer who perhaps waited for it in Turkey, Constantine would find himself a rich man and free of the domination of his wife. In the meantime, might he not fear that the existence of his letter would give the secret away to someone else before he was ready to get the bead away?
While this course of speculation intrigued Dorcas, she knew that there was too little evidence to rely upon. She was guessing wildly—that was all. And Johnny Orion would say so at once.
She must tell him soon what had happened in the house of Xenia Katalonos and see what he made of it.
For the rest of the day there was no opportunity. Fernanda was full of whims and notions and she kept both Dorcas and Johnny occupied.
In the late afternoon Johnny, hurrying to report to Fernanda, tapped on Dorcas’s door and left a book with her.
“Pindar,” he said. “I picked this up in a bookstore downtown. Since we’re driving to Camiros tomorrow, you might like to have a look at his seventh ode. See you at dinner.” He was gone, and there was no chance to talk to him.
Vanda was out with Beth, and Dorcas sat down to leaf through the volume. A long time ago her father had read Pindar aloud to her. He had called him the poet of the elite. She found the ode Johnny had mentioned and began to read.
… Out of the winding water the island blossomed, held of the father of searing sun-rays, master of horses that breathe fire. Rhodes mixed with him bore
seven sons that displayed the shrewdest wits of the men of old time.
Of these, one sired Kamiros,
Ialysos, eldest born, and Lindos; sundered they held the land of their patrimony in triple division, each a city, and these are called by their names.*
Dorcas put the book down, thinking of tomorrow when they would see the first of the three ancient cities named for the grandsons of Apollo and the nymph Rhoda. She had begun to look forward to the day. At sometime or other there would be a chance to talk to Johnny, and at least she would be away from the hotel and the strange things that happened here. Vanda would be off to her own village, and Beth would be wholly in her mother’s hands.
Restless, and eager for tomorrow to come, she put the book aside and went to stand in the balcony doorway. Palm trees stretched late-afternoon shadows across the pavement below. On the far side of the street a man leaned against a stone wall smoking a cigarette. Something about him arrested her attention. She could not see his face because the collar of his workman’s jacket was turned up and his cap visor pulled down. He stood half lost in the shadow of a tree that overhung the wall and his attention seemed focused on the hotel entrance. Dorcas stepped out upon the balcony and the watcher flung away his cigarette and moved briskly down the street.
She was struck by the feeling that she had seen somewhere before a man who walked in that particular manner, and a stab of uneasiness went through her. The smoker had disappeared around the next corner and the street stood empty in the late-afternoon sun.
Dorcas returned to her room trying to thrust back the sudden unease that filled her. She mustn’t be up to her old imaginings. There was no reason why a man might not lounge smoking opposite the Olympus. No reason to think he might be watching the hotel, or that she might be the object of such a vigil.
Prompted by a whim, she went to the dressing table and opened a top drawer. In it she kept the zippered satin case that held the few pieces of jewelry she had brought with her. She slid the zipper back and looked inside. Then she dumped the contents upon the bed. For safekeeping she had put the silver owl coin among these things. Although she searched through the trinkets more than once, the coin was not there. Had it been a “loan” then? Something to frighten her with and then take back?
It was Vanda, of course, who had done this. Vanda was the only one who had easy access to her room. True, Beth had brought the coin home originally, but it was Vanda who must have taken it back. Dorcas opened the door between their rooms and stood looking about at Vanda’s few possessions. The thought of searching through someone else’s things was repugnant to her and she made no move. Besides, if she searched and found the owl coin in Vanda’s room, what then? She could imagine what might happen if she showed it to Fernanda. It was possible that Fernanda would infer that she had put it among Vanda’s things herself. Or else she would find the means to excuse Vanda. Nevertheless, she had to speak to Fernanda about this.
Closing the door, she returned to the balcony and went along it to the next room. Fernanda’s doors stood open and her room was empty. As usual, it was in a carefree muddle. Sometimes Dorcas suspected that Fernanda never picked anything up unless she wanted to put it on. Sandals and high-heeled pumps were strewn about under chairs and under the bed—probably where they had been kicked since the maid made up the room that morning. A box of honey-nut candy stood open on her dressing table and Dorcas could count three half-eaten pieces left in various quarters of the room—one in the middle of a pillow on the opened bed. Since Fernanda never smoked, she used ash trays for catchalls and the two in sight were heaped with earrings, safety pins, rolls of film …
Dorcas stopped her rueful checking and went quickly into the room. An object in one of the ash trays had caught her eye. She slipped a finger beneath a roll of film and pulled out the flat silver coin. She was standing there with it in her hand when Fernanda breezed into the room.
If she was surprised to find Dorcas there, she gave no sign. She’d never had much sense of property or privacy. She borrowed and loaned casually, and seldom closed her doors or paid much attention to the closed doors of others.
“Hi,” she said. “Looking for something?”
Dorcas held
out her hand. “This. It was missing from my jewel case and I thought Vanda had taken it.”
Fernanda came across the room and took the coin almost playfully from her hand. “I do wish you’d get over being suspicious of poor Vanda. We’re lucky to have someone so devoted to take care of Beth. As for this—it’s mine now. Finders keepers!”
“Do you mean you went into my room and searched through my things deliberately?”
“Oh, dear, you make me sound practically dishonest. I was only doing it for your own sake. I knew that you’d keep taking the coin out and brooding over it. It seemed wiser to borrow it from you for a while. Of course, if you insist on having it back, here you are.”
Dorcas did not look at the extended coin. “What were you going to do with it? If it’s a genuine coin of old Athens, I suppose it has some value.”
“I wasn’t going to sell it, if that’s what you mean,” Fernanda said, laughing without self-consciousness.
“I didn’t suppose you were. But you meant to return it to someone, didn’t you? Fernanda, what do you know about Constantine Katalonos? When you first heard that he had worked for Gino, you thought his name sounded familiar. Have you remembered why?”
The expression on Fernanda’s face was suddenly guarded, alert. “What do you mean? Did anything happen at Madame Katalonos’s when you went to work for her today?”
“Quite a number of things,” Dorcas said. She took the coin from Fernanda and went back to her own room. It would not have surprised her if Fernanda had come after her, demanding to know more. Instead, she heard the soft closing of Fernanda’s doors, and then only silence from her room.
Dorcas lay upon her bed and tried to think. It was clear that Fernanda had either remembered something about Constantine, or she had been informed about him. Through Vanda, perhaps, who was quite probably in touch with him. Or even through Constantine himself.
The intruder on her balcony that night had been a man. She was sure of that. It made her shiver to think that it might have been Constantine.
The plan came to her quite suddenly, and she knew it was something she would suggest to Johnny when she managed to catch him alone.
That night she went to bed quietly enough. No slouching watcher with pulled-down cap stood in the street before the hotel. The silver coin remained securely in her jewel case and the letter in her handbag. She fell asleep thinking of her plan. Perhaps Johnny would regard her as wildly foolish, but she had one definite, clear lead now, thanks to Madame Xenia. And she knew it must be followed. Johnny, whatever his reluctance, must be persuaded to help her. She fell asleep still trying to marshal her arguments.
Having a plan had given her a sense of peace and despite the happenings of the day, there seemed less likelihood of disturbing dreams that night. Yet some time during the dark hours after midnight the dream enveloped her with all the acute painfulness of reality. She stood in the white halls of a museum, the statue of Apollo before her. She knew it was Apollo, yet she did not at once look up into that calm, familiar face. Therein lay her terror. She knew she must, inevitably, raise her head and gaze into the face of the god. And she knew disaster lay in that moment. Yet in the dream her eyes were open and in spite of herself she raised her head and looked. The face of the statue had the pallor of marble and the eye sockets were blank—yet it was the face, not of Apollo, but of Gino Nikkaris. In the fantasy of her dream she knew that Constantine had somehow imprisoned Gino forever in cold marble, though no prison of stone could contain his evil or suppress it.
Like water stirring, the dream shifted and she knew that in a moment the statue would move. The head would turn to look down upon her, the blank eyes would find her there with tears upon her cheeks. She must have made some struggle to escape, some physical movement that awakened her. Horror was a turbulence that washed through her body in wave after sickening wave, and she lay drenched in her own perspiration.
With a sudden jarring movement she turned to reach for the light. The room seemed quiet and peaceful. She got up to change her nightgown, and thought of going next door to stay for a while in Fernanda’s matter-of-fact company. But she knew she must not. She must place no further weapon in Fernanda’s hands.
Instead, she sat on the bed with her knees drawn up, her forehead against them. It was only a dream, she told herself. It would not return when she went back to sleep. Gino could not touch her. Not any more. Still—there were those whom Gino had left behind, those who watched, those who whispered. Their faces, their very voices, their number—all these were masked, and she feared to see behind the mask. They followed some course that Gino had set for them and it was a course that could eventually destroy her. Where Constantine Katalonos stood in this was the greatest mystery of all. Was he for the watchers, or against them? Was he one of them? Tomorrow, without fail, she must tell Johnny her plan. It must wait no longer lest the faceless enemy move first.
*Richmond Lattimore’s translation of Pindar’s Odes. The University of Chicago Press, 1947.
11
The way to Camiros lay inward from the sea. In ancient times, Johnny said, the very road they traveled had been lined with statuary. Now it was edged with trees and wild underbrush. Gently the way rolled uphill and there was no sign anywhere of the place itself. No columns rose on a hillside, no crumbling ruins stood shining in the distance. There were only the woods and the hills hiding the place where Camiros lay dreaming in the sun.
The road turned at length into a sandy open place and a guard came yawning from his hut to greet them. It was clear that they had come at a good hour and would have the place to themselves, free of other sight-seers.
Johnny parked the car and they got out. In Vanda’s absence Dorcas felt a certain freedom, but the dream of the night before had left its dregs behind. She had not been able to free herself of fearful brooding. Always the pattern seemed the same. Just when tangible proof was placed in her hands concerning matters far from imaginary something would happen in the old way within herself—something to shatter the delicate balance and make her unsure of herself. Like last night’s dream.
At breakfast Fernanda had sensed her mood and tried to persuade her to stay home. “Let Beth come with us,” she said. “You’ve got circles under your eyes and you’re much too pale. Stay here and rest. I’m sure it will be better for Beth if you do.”
Dorcas had dug in her heels and been as obstinate as Fernanda could be. She was quite all right, she insisted, and she meant to make the trip. Johnny had put himself gently on her side, although Dorcas saw concern in his eyes. Fernanda had given in.
When they were on their way, the feeling of an unknown dread had persisted, even though it had no place in a day so brightly blue and gold. At first when they had set out she’d had the jittery suspicion that someone was following them in a car. But after they turned off on the road to Camiros the persistent car had been lost on the coastal road and that particular sense had faded. Now that they were here she felt a little better.
Except for a few rough excavations there was still nothing to be seen of Camiros. The guard showed them the way they must take and then, since he spoke no English, left them to their own devices, posting himself on a high place where he could observe their progress.
Climbing a dirt path up a steeply banked ridge, they came upon the town suddenly, unexpectedly, and stood in silence looking down upon the astonishing display at their feet.
The empty, ancient ruins ran down a gentle slope of hill, from a high point at the back toward the sea they never reached. The two sides were contained and limited by ridges of hill overgrown with pine. Somewhere below the foot of the town the ground pitched off into emptiness and the sea lay distant and beyond.
“It looks so neat,” Fernanda said in surprise.
This was true. Where other ruins might lie with tumbled columns all about, patches of restoration incomplete, and the earth rough with scattered rock, none of that was true here. In a sense, the town lay before them intact. Its stone foun
dations occupied the sloping space solidly from hill to sea, from ridge to ridge. There were no upper walls, no roofs, yet all the rooms were there to be looked down upon. Door spaces opened from one room to the next, partial walls made barriers between the houses. The buildings of Camiros had been built one against the next and there were no openings between except for places where paved streets ran through. A long stone avenue divided the town in half, running up the hill. At its foot were the remains of a market place, a few broken columns, some tombs.
The focus that arrested the eye, however, stood at the highest place above the town—that place to which all Greeks had looked for their gods. Only six columns remained rising against the sky—six slender columns with a narrow stone roofing connecting them, and a stone platform below. The Aegean blue of the sky burned between the shafts and the columns themselves glowed with a soft pinky yellow—the color of a cloud at dawn, the living, breathing color of the sandstone of Rhodes.
“How quiet it is,” Fernanda said.
That also was true. Camiros lay sleeping in the golden light, its stone cupping the warmth of ages.
“I think,” said Johnny softly, “that this must be the loneliest place in the world. In the end people didn’t even die here. They just let the town go and moved away. No one knows exactly why the three cities were abandoned, but they all went the same way. Camiros, Iyalisos, Lindos, built by the grandsons of Apollo and all forsaken at last for the most recent upstart, Rhodes.”
Fernanda started down the dirt path to the level of the town, her expression rapt, absorbed. Dorcas knew that she would make her readers see this, she would make them know what it was like to walk through the streets of this long-dead Rhodian town.
Johnny swung Beth to his shoulder and they followed Fernanda down the path. On the lower level they picked their way across sandy earth where weeds grew between the stones, where pine cones had fallen and sand burrs abounded. The main avenue of the town led upward toward the columns at the top, mounting in the Greek way of long, shallow levels of steps.
Seven Tears for Apollo Page 17
