The Madness of Grief

by Panayotis Cacoyannis

  But no, it was all too far-fetched. We had all acted peculiarly, in those hours after my father’s death. And there had not been a moment, after our discovery of his body in the bath, when Jack had been out of my sight. He had not been near the telephone once, so how would balaclava man have known when auntie Ada would be away from her flat? Nor did the “signal” hypothesis make any sense, unless Jack could have predicted precisely the course of unpredictable events, at the time of making the phone call in Cross Street. As for any bribery suspicion…

  I no longer sought all the answers. The truth was on the cover of The Giacometti Riddle, so beautifully complex that it had become a work of fiction.

  ‘I have something for you,’ auntie Ada said. ‘There, on the trolley, no, not the box of chocolates, the shoebox.’

  I wondered how a shoebox had found its way to auntie Ada’s room at the hospice. As far as I knew, her only other visitor was Edith, who had brought the box of chocolates the day before.

  ‘Edith brought it in this morning,’ auntie Ada explained. Her voice came in waves of whispering gasps, with all her crooked fingers in the air as though to punch her words through. ‘She’s known it was yours since I gave it to her, but really you deserve an explanation, so you should have it now, not after I’ve croaked it.’

  ‘Auntie Ada…’

  ‘Oh, passed away then, if you’d rather. Now go on, open it.’

  It was wrapped in plain brown paper and had a dusty ribbon around it, tied up on the top into a multiple knot. And no sooner had I picked it up than I knew what was inside it. I untied the knot patiently, and then I lifted the lid. I removed one by one the crumpled sheets of white tissue paper. And there it was. I took it out and stood it on the trolley, a mere nine or ten inches tall, including its plinth. I turned it around very slowly, so that both auntie Ada and I could see it from every angle.

  ‘You’ll find the receipt in the box, in case you want to change it.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said. I reached out and squeezed auntie Ada’s hand. ‘It’s even more beautiful than I remember it, thank you.’

  ‘Jane’s letters,’ said auntie Ada, taking back her hand as though without its movements she might not be understood. ‘They’re all in there too.’

  I lifted the rest of the tissue paper, to uncover a bundle of letters bound together with another piece of ribbon.

  ‘Can I read them?’

  ‘I’d like you to. And I wasn’t joking. In one of them you’ll find the receipt. In case you need to sell it one day.’

  ‘I’m never going to part with it, ever!’

  ‘She was a wonderful woman. Nearly as wonderful as you and your mum.’

  ‘But not nearly as wonderful as you.’

  ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’ Auntie Ada’s laughter was weak, and it tapered into a cough. ‘I tried to convince myself that I was doing what was best for you, but of course even that was a lie.’

  ‘Shush, auntie Ada, none of that matters now.’

  ‘You’ve forgiven me, I know, but I think you need to know what you’ve forgiven me for.’

  ‘But I don’t.’

  ‘For Jack’s sake.’

  ‘Okay then, for Jack’s sake.’ I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped my eyes dry.

  ‘That’s your father’s handkerchief,’ said auntie Ada.

  I nodded. ‘To wipe away his allergies,’ I said.

  ‘He was an odd sort, our George, but he knew how to make your mum happy. And if anyone deserved to be happy…’ Her fingers danced about her and finished the sentence.

  ‘They made each other happy.’

  ‘They did. And Jack would’ve been good for him too. Much better than that silly Mia-Mia.’ This time her laughter was barely a wheeze. ‘But he’d never got over your mum, none of us had.’ Auntie Ada brought her hands down to rest on her chest. ‘I told Jack that he had to stay away or you’d end up in care. You were right, I’d spoken with the sergeant and then with those men, and unless Jack took the blame you’d have hated me, and who’d have looked after you then? The boy who dressed up as a girl and caused your dad to take his own life? So Jack went along with it and took all the blame. And that’s when I knew I’d been unfair.’

  A longer silence might imply recrimination, and when auntie Ada’s hands began to slowly rise up, I took hold of them lightly.

  ‘Was big money dangled?’

  ‘Dangled, yes,’ said auntie Ada. ‘But neither Jack nor I took a penny. What I did was unforgivable, and I’ve carried it with me all these years, but I didn’t do it for money. Jack did it for you and I did it for myself, so I wouldn’t have to share you.’

  ‘And the burglary?’ I asked without demanding.

  ‘It happened,’ said auntie Ada.

  ‘But the sculpture wasn’t taken.’

  ‘That man was an incompetent, nothing was taken.’

  ‘It wasn’t in its place on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘That’s because I put it away.’

  ‘That same morning?’

  ‘When I heard you at the door.’

  ‘So already…’

  ‘Yes, dear, already.’ She took away her hands and used them to cover her mouth, but a movement of her head shook them off.

  ‘Later on, did you offer it to Jack? And did Jack refuse it, or did he take it and then give it back?’

  Auntie Ada’s mouth stayed pursed, both her hands taking flight before landing again by her sides. But then, as though to stop me from asking again, ‘Edith’s had the sculpture for years,’ she said. ‘And really that’s as much as I remember... Oh, don’t look so surprised… Now please, let’s talk about something else.’

  First it was a copy, then it was broken, then it was stolen, and now here it was. Was I really surprised? Did I believe this final version of “the truth”? I had plenty of time to decide by myself, and only little time to spend with auntie Ada.

  ‘I did have some news,’ I said.

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘My book’s going to be published, so yes.’

  ‘It’s going to be published and I’ve not read a page of it yet.’

  ‘I can read it to you if you like.’

  ‘Yes, let’s start tomorrow morning. Violence Likes the Dark, it’s a wonderful title.’

  That night’s dark had brought with it peace, and auntie Ada had been spared “tomorrow morning”.

  Three years had passed since auntie Ada’s death – three years that had not seemed to me to pass quickly. But they had given me time to decide.

  The distant green of Soho Square had not left me feeling sentimental. Rather it had left me with a fresh sense of wonder at how a mistake that had been so longstanding could have been so easily erased: barely had I blinked and Karl was gone, almost as though he had never existed.

  Greta Buchner was at the open double door, looking splendid in a flowing black dress and her customary single string of pearls. Already quite a number of people were waiting in line.

  Buchner & White was a large shop with old leather armchairs and heavy mahogany tables, creaking wooden floors and not enough light. Complemented in some strange way by the whiff of Greta’s perfume, the air was of dust and old paper, but also of something else, a familiar intangible essence.

  Greta made a little speech, and the line, which had now spilled outside, throbbed with a short burst of applause. I took my seat behind the designated table. Pen in hand, I looked up with a smile.

  The next time I looked at my watch it was almost eight o’clock. I raised my head again, as I had after opening every other copy of The Giacometti Riddle on the page with the short dedication:

  For Jack

  My smile had become brittle, exhausted. Impatiently I waited for a name, already counting the few people left behind the silent woman holding everyone up. Pierre was not among them.

  ‘For George and Mia-Mia,’ said the woman when she finally spoke.

  My focus fell on her sharply.

 
‘Oh my God, Mia-Mia, oh my God!’

  ‘Just for you, just for today,’ Jack’s voice answered.

  Note from the author

  Thank you for choosing The Madness of Grief.

  I very much hope that you’ve enjoyed it, and that you might consider posting a short review on Amazon.

  If you would like to contact me, or give me your feedback directly, I’d love to hear from you. You will find a contact email address on my website.

  http://www.panayotiscacoyannis.com

  By the same author

  The Dead of August

  “A sophisticated, comic novel that brilliantly captures the triumph and folly of art, media, and publishing."

  Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GLAAMGU

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GLAAMGU

  Bowl of Fruit (1907)

  “BOWL OF FRUIT (1907) is an incredible read, with well-crafted characters and a plot that is refreshingly original."

  IndieReader (5 star review)

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  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0142CQC8A

  POLK, HARPER & WHO

  “As with other Cacoyannis novels, the language, the cleverness, the juxtaposition of heartbreak and humor and the presence of truly hilariously drawn characters is at least half the pleasure of reading the book. The author has a way of describing mundane scenes in ascending lines of subtle humor that, for me, often results in an outbreak of irrepressible laughter by the end of the scene. The attention to detail and the complexity of his descriptions of both character and setting are captivating.”

  Casey Dorman - Lost Coast Review

  “In this literary novel, family secrets, friendship, and the resilience of love play out in a dinner party between two couples… A thoughtful, observant, and often humorous tale about real connections.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N5CXTPJ

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N5CXTPJ

  Finger of an Angel

  “Cacoyannis is known for his introspective protagonists, but in this exceptional novel he delves even deeper, excavating the darkest corners of the psyche.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Q1BWM2C

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07Q1BWM2C

  You will find a short extract from Finger of an Angel overleaf.

  FINGER OF AN ANGEL

  ONE

  On the road that disappeared

  Lily’s broken air-con

  GRRR…

  It was the middle of a Saturday in the middle of July, the hottest hour of the hottest day of the hottest month since records began, and the air-con in Lily’s old Mercedes was broken.

  GRRR, it went, but instead of icy cold, the air it blew out at her was hot, scorchingly hot.

  Lily swore under her breath and waved a fist at it.

  ‘You stupid, stupid machine!’

  GRRR, it roared back at her thunderously, tearing at her throat with the hardness of its heat.

  ‘Come on now, old friend.’

  A measure of appeasement might succeed where threats and rudeness had failed. Dissolving her fist, Lily had already soft-landed wiggling fingers on the grill of the air-con, to pet it as though stroking a cat.

  ‘Please will you stop?’

  GRRR, it carried on, if anything more loudly.

  ‘Bloody Mary!’ Lily yelled at it, affecting the retort of consolation even as she wiped off the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the four golden bangles that she wore on that side – on the other there were eight – jangling as they tickled her face.

  Some trickles of sweat had already found their way into her eyes, but she could see. The slight blurriness – the effect was of an old-fashioned photograph fuzzy from the grain of excessive enlargement - had not yet made her driving unsafe. But left unchecked, this polluting wetness was certain to bring on one of her migraines. She absolutely could not have driven safely with a migraine. Urgently she lifted up the collars of her blouse to dry first the left side of her face and then the right, each time bending her head just a little, always with one eye on the road.

  GRRR…

  ‘Large Bloody Mary with five dashes each of Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco,’ Lily barked at it indignantly.

  GRRR…

  ‘And lots of ice and lemon!’

  GRRR…

  ‘And coarsely ground black pepper!’

  But there was no getting around it; her show of defiance increasingly lacked self-assurance. The conjuring up of her favourite drink had completely failed to stem her perspiration, and she was running out of dryness to counter it with. She looked at the clock on the dashboard suspiciously. If she could trust it to be working, it was not yet half past twelve, and on Saturdays the traffic was light. If that last left turn she had taken five or ten minutes before was the right one (all these winding roads on the periphery of Hampstead were confusing, and Lily would be lying if she didn’t own up to her lack of a watertight sense of direction), she should make it back to Covent Garden in less than an hour. In fact, in much less than an hour she was certain to be stirring into a glass her signature concoction of vodka and tomato juice with seasonings and sauces and spices, served with lots of ice and the juice of at least half a lemon - she did not go in for garlic or olives or celery sticks.

  Impeccable taste

  Mouth-watering though it was, this vision of tranquil indulgence fell far short of any practical solution to the menace at hand. It was personal, this all-out war. GRRR, Lily’s old Mercedes was out of control, GRRR, a brazen, rebellious machine with a mind of its own, GRRR, a spiteful, malevolent mind.

  Lily had pressed all the buttons and then she had turned all the knobs, first this way then that, gently, as though tuning a fragile and favourite radio, like the bright-red transistor she had owned as a child. Oh, how she had adored that small transistor radio; in those long-ago days it had always been the little things that gave her most pleasure, not the expensive, glitzy, ostentatious things that her later situation had practically obliged her to covet as an adult.

  And yet this was the car she had chosen; foregoing the gadgetry and mechanical sophistication of the modern, and sacrificing safety, economy and comfort, she had quite deliberately opted for the elegance and poise of a Classic. How dare it be so ungrateful! Anyone would think it was bearing a grudge. Hadn’t she always taken good care of it, its interior spick and span and its hubcaps brightly polished? Many a stranger, and almost every semi-stranger she had ever dirty-dated in the woods, had commended her for her impeccable taste.

  ‘Lovely motor for a very lovely lady,’ Master Matador had swooned after fingering his way up her skirt.

  ‘Take us for a spin and I’ll throw in a blowjob,’ a dodgy-looking chav had hollered from his second floor window in a neighbouring council estate.

  ‘Shame on you,’ Lily had half-heartedly yelled back.

  ‘You ain’t seen my dick or you’d be gagging for it,’ the cheeky young man had riposted.

  From a distance he had looked quite a dish.

  ‘Need a lift?’

  ‘Down in a minute.’

  From close up, after 45 seconds, he had looked even more of a dish. And in less than half an hour his manhood had been proved and gobbled up, and twice Lily had swallowed.

  ‘Pleasure!’ the dish had declared enthusiastically as he got out of the car, shaking Lily’s hand with both of his in a gesture whose palpable warmth had surprised her.

  ‘All mine,’ she had replied, driving off with a wave and a rather exorbitant smile.

  ‘Gorgeous wheels for a very gorgeous lady,’ Master Matador had swooned while pinching her bottom.

  ‘The line, the finesse, the sheer sophistication,’ a hitchhiking elderly gentleman’s dentures had clanked, as he spread out his arms and drooled his admiration from the kerbside.

  Lily had pressed down on the accelerator, w
ithout even remotely being tempted to offer a lift.

  ‘Sexy guzzler for a very sexy lady,’ Master Matador had swooned before biting her breast.

  GRRR, buzzed more furiously the air-con of her Classic Mercedes, snapping Lily out of her daydream with its outburst of cacophonous heat; it was growling at her now, spewing fire like a bad-tempered dragon.

  Thinking back, she wasn’t altogether without fault; she ought to have remembered it was broken. Months before, on a particularly cold winter day, she had no sooner turned the heater on than it had rattled for a moment before belching out a gust more arctic and fierce than the wind whose frozen hiss was creeping through inadequately insulated windows - Classic cars undoubtedly did have their drawbacks. And now, half a year later, with even greater vehemence the temperatures indoors and outdoors were again in cahoots, the airlessly recirculating heat coalescing with nature as though in a conspiracy to choke her.

  Lily had wound down her window already, almost automatically as soon as, with a GRRR, the air-con had emitted the first waft of warmth, and now the fiery squall inside and the spurt of humid wind from outside were uniting in a whirl that was furiously the opposite of cooling, ripping through the frazzle of her hair with the force of a demonic tornado. In her rush to make it to her rendezvous earlier that morning, she had singed it into a deadness that she hadn’t had the time to revive. She had not been too concerned, confident that Cerberus, who had made his preferences plain (in spite of the sweltering heat, Lily found herself smiling at how smuttily specific he had been), was unlikely to be fazed by the state of her hair.