Aphrodite's Smile

by Stuart Harrison

  TWENTY-ONE

  As I sat on the ferry going back to Ithaca I watched a yacht as it turned into the wind, her mainsail flapping before somebody began hauling it down. I experienced the same nagging sensation which I’d felt the day before when I’d watched another yacht motor into the harbour at Vathy. This time, however I knew why.

  I had phoned Dimitri before I left Argostoli and he was waiting for me when I arrived at Piso Aetos. There was a moment of awkwardness when we met. Neither of us was entirely comfortable about our alliance, but we needed each other. I put aside my personal feelings and told him about my conversation with Michael Dova, and my subsequent discoveries after visiting the Hotel Ionnis. Then I showed him the photograph I’d found in Johann Kohl’s possessions.

  ‘Eric Schmidt was one of the men stationed here during the war.’ I pointed to the young man whose face was circled in the photograph. He was very young, little more than a youth. ‘My guess is that’s him. All of these men were killed in action some time during the attack on the Antounnetta or afterwards.’ I recalled what I’d read in the book about Dracoulis in my father’s study. ‘There were a few survivors. They were picked up by another German ship, but it was attacked and sank before it reached the mainland.’

  Dimitri handed the photograph back. ‘I do not understand. Why did the man you met ask if you knew Eric Schmidt if he has been dead for sixty years? And who was Johann Kohl?’

  I didn’t have the answers, but once again the link was the events which had occurred during the war on Ithaca. Before I’d left Argostoli earlier I had wandered among the bars and cafés where the foreign tourists could be found until I’d heard the accent I was looking for. It didn’t take long. A party of Germans were sitting down to lunch and when I approached them and asked if anybody spoke English, a mild-looking man in his forties had introduced himself. We shook hands and I told him I needed something translated. When I showed him the newspaper article he skimmed it and confirmed that it reported the discovery of the Dracoulis artefacts in Switzerland. He was good enough to translate the entire text for me, and though there was more detail about the history of the private collection where the artefacts were found, there was nothing that answered any of my questions.

  ‘It’s reasonable to assume that this article was what brought Kohl to Kephalonia, where he met my father,’ I said to Dimitri. ‘But I doubt that they knew each other before that. From what Dova told me it seems certain he wasn’t an archaeologist, and unless he was particularly unsuccessful, he probably wasn’t a collector or a dealer either.’

  I studied the photograph again, willing it to divulge its meaning. I was drawn to the figure of Hassel standing to one side, smiling faintly and squinting a little. I wondered again about the iron cross on his tunic, thinking of the one in my father’s study. But in the end whatever answers were there, I saw only more questions. I put the picture aside and asked Dimitri to drive us to Polis Bay. At least there, I believed we would find one answer.

  On the way, Dimitri told me that he had spoken to Theonas earlier. The police had checked all of the hotels and guesthouses on the island, but there were no reports of anybody answering the description of the man who was seen with Alex on the cliff, and no blue Fiat had been rented from the car-hire agencies. Nor had Interpol turned up any leads on Eric Schmidt, though that was hardly surprising given that I now knew he’d been dead since 1944.

  When we reached Stavros, Polis Bay far below was still and clear, shades of blue becoming progressively darker as the water became deeper. Several yachts drifted at anchor, their sails neatly furled. We drove down to the beach and parked in the shade beneath the olive trees. Cicadas whirred and rattled in the trees and the water lapped gently against the shore. A light breeze carried the scent of wild sage mixed with pine from the hills. A dozen brightly-painted fishing boats were tied up at the wharf, their nets hung over the wall to dry beside the bar, and a sign outside the building next door advertised marine supplies in English and several other languages.

  I told Dimitri what I’d remembered while I was on the ferry. ‘The day I followed Alex to Exoghi I saw a yacht anchored here in the bay. I watched a tender go out to it before it sailed out past the headland.’ It hadn’t meant anything at the time, but now I suspected that Alex was on board. ‘It would explain how she managed to vanish into thin air.’

  Dimitri gestured to the building at the end of the wharf. ‘Perhaps you are right.’ The front of a car was visible, parked along the side. It was a blue Fiat, several years old and slightly battered, but undoubtedly the one I had seen.

  ‘Who does it belong to?’ I asked.

  ‘The man who owns this place.’

  The inside of the marine supply store was cluttered with boating paraphernalia. There were shelves full of boxes of stainless steel bolts and screws, and all kinds of winches and cleats and pulleys. The kind of things that break unexpectedly and need replacing. Coils of rope and chain hung from the rafters, and fenders of all sizes lined the walls. It was an Aladdin’s cave for sailors, the kind of place you could poke about in for hours and discover things you never knew you needed.

  The owner was swarthy and middle-aged. His belly ballooned over the belt of his trousers. He scratched at his unshaven chin absently while Dimitri spoke to him. Though he spoke passable English, they conversed in Greek which Dimitri translated for my benefit.

  ‘The Fiat belongs to Nikos, but he rents it to people from the boats so they can go to Stavros for supplies or to visit tourist sites.’

  ‘Did he rent it out on Tuesday?’

  ‘He thinks there was a boat in that day, but we will see. He keeps a record.’

  Nikos vanished into a back room and when he returned he was carrying a book with a stained red cover. He opened it to a page of entries written in Greek. Dimitri pointed to one of the most recent and slid his finger along to the last box in the entry. ‘Look at the name.’

  It was a signature. I stared at it with slight shock.

  K. Hassel

  ‘Hassel?’

  The same name appeared several other times. He had hired the car on Sunday, the day he’d followed Alex and I from Kioni, and also the day I’d disturbed an intruder on the Swallow.

  ‘Did Nikos see a driver’s licence or something?’ I asked, wondering if there was something that would give us an address for him in Germany. Dimitri relayed the question, but I could tell from the man’s indifferent shrug that he didn’t bother with such formalities.

  ‘He says it is a casual arrangement. For cash. I also asked if he knew the name of the boat, but he says he did not notice.’

  There were hundreds, even thousands of yachts cruising the islands at that time of year. Without a name, even the combined resources of the police departments both on Ithaca and on Kephalonia had no chance of finding the one that I had seen.

  When we went outside, we lingered in the shade of the olive trees. Until then I’d believed that Alex was taken from Exoghi by force. The fact that the boy who saw her arguing with someone who we now knew was Hassel supported that idea, as did her disappearance. But now I wasn’t so sure. I remembered what Theonas had said. Perhaps I was the reason Alex had vanished so abruptly. I took out the photograph I had found in Kohl’s possessions again and looked closely at the image of Hauptmann Hassel.

  ‘There’s a certain similarity between him and the man I spoke to. Fair hair. Both tall.’ I couldn’t be certain, but the name couldn’t be simply coincidence.

  ‘How old was he?’ Dimitri asked.

  ‘About my age. Mid-thirties, give or take a year or two.’

  ‘That would make him Hassel’s grandson.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But not only that. It means he and Alex are related.’

  After we left the bay we drove to Stavros again where a truck had broken down in the square. A group of men were arguing about what they should do about it. A wheel had sheared off the axle and part of the truck’s load of rubble had tipped out, blocking the ro
ad to the coast. Rather than wait, we decided to take the mountain route back to Vathy.

  Dimitri drove silently, no doubt thinking as I was about what we’d found. I asked him if he thought Alex could have gone with Hassel of her own choice on the day she had vanished, but he shook his head emphatically.

  ‘What about the boy who saw them arguing?’

  ‘He thought they were arguing,’ I pointed out. ‘But maybe he misinterpreted what he saw. Alex had just been confronted by somebody claiming to be her cousin.’

  Dimitri wasn’t convinced. ‘Why has she not been back for her belongings? And how could she not know about the concerns for her safety?’

  Both were valid points, I admitted. And I didn’t have an answer for either of them.

  The road climbed steeply in a series of sharp curves, often so narrow that there was barely enough room for two vehicles to pass, though we didn’t encounter any other traffic. The landscape became increasingly barren as olive groves and cypress trees gave way to thick, almost impenetrable wild oak and laurel. Bare rock escarpments loomed over the road.

  The village of Anoghi near the top was almost deserted, though an old man sat outside the kefenio opposite the church. He stared as we passed. Two old women in the street wearing heavy black dresses and stockings stopped to watch us with the frank gaze common to Greek villagers. A couple of miles beyond the village, a turning led to the Kathara monastery perched on the very summit of the mountain where, according to Theonas, Kohl had been murdered. On impulse I asked Dimitri to go there.

  At the top of the road we parked outside the monastery walls. A pair of heavy iron gates stood open revealing a courtyard within where a single old Citroën was parked.

  ‘Does anybody live here?’ I asked, wondering why anyone would choose such an austere and remote place to build a monastery.

  ‘The car belongs to the priest. There are no monks here any more, but the priest comes from Vathy for a few hours every day.’

  By then it was late afternoon, but it was still hot. I knew from looking at maps that we were about eight hundred yards above sea level. Practically the entire north of the island and much of the south could be seen from where we stood. To the west, Kephalonia looked almost close enough to touch, while the islands and mainland to the north-east were visible as hazy blue-grey shapes on the horizon. The road beneath us vanished and reappeared as it twisted down the mountain side all the way to the coast road far below.

  Theonas had said that the only vehicle known to have gone to the monastery on the day Kohl was killed, other than the taxi which had picked him up from the ferry, was a tourist bus from Vathy. I saw now how he could know that with such certainty. There was practically no traffic on the mountain. It was difficult to see how another vehicle could have driven up there and gone unnoticed. But what had Kohl been doing there? Was it significant that this was the place where Hauptmann Hassel’s convoy had paused on the way to Frikes in order to loot the monastery?

  There was a movement from inside the monastery gates. The door to the church was open and I glimpsed a figure.

  ‘The priest,’ Dimitri said.

  We followed him inside. The church was decorated in the Orthodox style, though this one was faded and less gaudy than the one in Stavros where I’d been with Irene. The most striking features were the richly illustrated icons on the wooden panels around the walls. Images of Christ and the disciples gazed down on us as we walked down the aisle. In an alcove behind a high throne-like chair stood a life-sized statue of Mary. Her hands were clasped in front, her face tilted slightly downward, her features as always serene and beautiful, yet imbued with sorrow. She was painted in pale flesh tones, and her dress was robin’s egg blue beneath a white headdress and shawl. I turned questioningly to Dimitri and he confirmed what I’d guessed.

  ‘The Panaghia.’

  There was a sound from close by and a figure emerged from a small door set back in an alcove. He was tall with dark eyes, dressed in the black regalia of an Orthodox priest. The only adornment on an otherwise austere and somehow forbidding costume was a large, heavy-looking crucifix.

  ‘Unfortunately this one is only a plaster copy of the original.’ He came towards us, the warmth of his smile a marked contrast to the manner of the priest I’d spoken to in Exoghi the day Alex had disappeared. ‘Kalispera,’ he said to us both. He and Dimitri appeared to know one another, and a brief exchange followed in Greek during which I heard my name mentioned.

  ‘French? Ah yes. I knew your father,’ the priest said. ‘The archaeologist. He came here many times.’ He gestured to the statue. ‘Perhaps you are aware that the original was stolen during the war?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m curious to know why. I understood it wasn’t valuable.’

  ‘That is true. But the Germans took many things from the monastery in the mistaken belief that there might be something of value among them. The original statue was carved from marble. It was believed to have come from a town on the mainland, and when this monastery was built in 1745 it was given as a gift. But there are many such statues in Greece. The Panaghia is a symbol to the people of Ithaca. In the past soldiers claimed sanctuary here from the armies of the Turks. It was believed that no harm could come to those who prayed to her.’ The priest smiled sadly. ‘This copy was made after the war, but it is not the same.’

  ‘Did you know that before he died, my father talked about returning the original?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You said he came here sometimes. When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘It was not long before his heart attack. A week or two. I remember because he asked to see our small collection. It is a kind of museum containing items relating to the history of the monastery, though of course there was not much left after the Germans came. Only a few things that the monks managed to hide when they saw the convoy coming. Perhaps you would like to see it yourself?’

  ‘Thank you, I would, if it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Please.’ The priest gestured towards the door he had emerged from, and led the way along a narrow passage which connected the church with the main building. We passed several other passageways which the priest explained led to secret rooms and tunnels beneath the monastery. ‘In the old days they were used to hide from invaders. They are all locked now.’

  The room which housed the museum was in the main building. It contained a few religious artefacts, but the collection was made up primarily of books and various letters and papers, some of them centuries old, which gave an indication of what life had been like for the monks who had once lived there. There was one document which was a diary of sorts, kept by a man who had sought sanctuary from Turkish invaders and had remained hidden in the subterranean rooms and tunnels for more than two years, until he had eventually decided to become a monk himself.

  One item in particular caught my attention. It was a document written on several pages torn from a notepad and was clearly relatively recent, though what caught my eye was a familiar-looking stamp at the top incorporating the image of an eagle and underneath a phrase written in German.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘It is what your father wished to see when he last came here,’ the priest replied. Nearby was a framed picture of a statue similar to the one in the church. He showed me a notation written in German which was part of a long handwritten list. The ink had faded, though the text was still decipherable. ‘It says, “a statue in marble of the Virgin Mary”.’

  ‘The Panaghia?’

  ‘Yes.’ The priest explained that the Germans had recorded every item that they had removed. He turned over the page, and at the bottom was a dated signature and another stamp. The signature belonged to Hauptmann Hassel.

  I wondered what had interested my father about this list. The priest didn’t know. ‘Surely he must have seen it before,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the priest agreed with a mild shrug. Though he didn’t read or speak German, he knew every
item. He recited the entire document for us, but as far as we could tell it was simply an exhaustive record of every chalice, icon and crucifix which had been stolen, though none of it was of any great value.

  When we left to go outside again I asked the priest about the man who had been murdered at the monastery.

  ‘Ah, yes, a terrible thing,’ he said.

  ‘Were you here that day?’

  ‘Actually yes, though, as I told Captain Theonas, I do not remember the man at all. There was a tourist bus here. I escorted the people around the buildings and explained a little of the history of the monastery to them. It is an arrangement I have with the tour company. In return for my commentary, the tourists may make a donation to the church. But I am sure the man who was killed was not among them. Of course it is possible that I may have simply not noticed him.’

  ‘Where exactly was his body found?’

  ‘Outside. A little way down the hillside.’

  We emerged into the courtyard again and I thanked the priest for his help. As we returned to the car I said to Dimitri, ‘Kohl must have come here for a reason.’

  ‘Perhaps to meet somebody.’

  ‘Hassel?’

  ‘Perhaps Kohl had your father’s journal.’

  I thought about that. Even if it were true, he couldn’t have brought it with him because Hassel had still been looking for it a few days ago. Unless it wasn’t Hassel who he had come there to meet. Or perhaps the journal wasn’t why he was there at all.