The Last Symphony

by Tonia Lalousi

  The idea that he will be next to Phaedon Danaos calms him instantly, but he cannot tame his uncontrollable anxiety. He wonders if he should confess everything to his father now, but Orpheus’s hand on the desk terrifies him more. He imagines him lifting it up and slapping him with force because he failed. Because he failed to fulfill his desires. The thought that he has never hit him in the past, reassures him again.

  ‘‘In the morning we will send a statement to send to the Press. On Wednesday, the funeral will take place. We will postpone your speech for Saturday. Until then, don’t make any move without asking me.’’

  He leaves the room without any further discussion. Aris wants to pose him a storm of questions, but he is scared they will all hide a bomb that will reveal his secret. He will no longer speak for tonight.

  ‘‘Am I extravagant? If it was your child, I think you wouldn’t give the same characterization. I am explaining to you that he is crying non-stop for three straight days now, mainly at night. After a small search I made, I read about the rare disease Von Willebrand. I want you to prove to me that he is not suffering from it.’’

  I walk into the living room and hear Peter complaining about our son again. His concern has invaded the field of compulsion.

  ‘‘No, he is not bleeding, but can you say with certainty that there is no internal bleeding?’’

  My eyes turn around.

  ‘‘Should I take him to another pediatrician? If you are not capable of serving the science you have chosen, I would suggest you quit and do something else, maybe some art.’’ He hangs up the phone exhaling.

  I am sitting at the table peeling an orange. ‘‘You must calm down a bit… It is just his teeth growing.’’

  ‘‘You’ve always been so gullible, Magda… That’s why it was so easy for me to conquer you…’’

  What?

  ‘‘Peter you yourself confessed that I won the battle you started between us. Don’t forget it…’’

  ‘‘Magda, you didn’t understand…’’ he says and comes in front of me. His goal is to detune me and, statistically, he has many chances of achieving it. ‘‘You didn’t beat me. You beat the other candidates, who would do everything to conquer me!’’ His look becomes wildly erotic. He stretches his chest to the back to express his superiority to me, showing me his fit body.

  I process all my counter-argument files trying to find something that matches. Time is passing. His eyes are scanning mine. The hourglass completes its game.

  Damn.

  ‘‘I’m going to get ready…’’ he says hitting my shoulder gently.

  I look at the fruit bowl and at the next moment a banana slaps his back. ‘‘You should improve your reflexes, Mr. Deligiannis…’’ I advise him in a spicy tone.

  ‘‘This is called a backlash, Mrs. Iliopoulou. I couldn’t have predicted it.’’

  ‘‘And yet…’’ I show him the mirror at the entrance reflecting the position I was sitting in. ‘‘You could have avoided it, my love…’’ I pick up the banana from the floor and give it to his hand.

  Peter - Magda: one - one.

  We arrive at the Department and a storm of information breaks out. Antonella and Peter are checking the results from the Directorate of Criminology Research and I am studying Dima Vladimirov’s profile. By no means did I expect that the main suspect for Nomikos’s case would be one of the greatest composers in the world. Peter is still angry that he didn’t recognize him nor did he show more interest to his name.

  ‘‘Sit down, I want your attention,’’ he says and turns to the board. ‘‘We have Maniatis’s death and an innocent - guilty man in the face of Aris Nomikos. Almost certain blackmail and no evidence of guilt. The case closed as suicide,’’ he stops and marks Aris’s name on the board, circling it. ‘‘Some days later we have his sister’s, Natalie’s Nomikou, murder with him being again in the spotlight as one of the main suspects. Right?’’

  I nod positively. Antonella drinks a big sip of coffee and makes a gesture to Peter to continue.

  He dries coughs.

  ‘‘The knife of the murder and a USB stick were found on the corpse. The girl died from bleeding. Vladimirov’s fingerprints were not identified on the knife or on the stick. Basically, there was not the required identification rate. Moreover, no traces of him were found anywhere on her body, however…’’ he says and notes the word ‘‘melody’’ on the board. ‘‘The memory stick implies his guilt, as it contains a melody. Dima Vladimirov is one of the greatest composers in Russia and all over the world,’’ he emphasizes, and I think he is preparing to present us his work of art. ‘‘This strengthens the possibility of him committing the murder, but…’’

  ‘‘But there is no motive?’’ I interrupt him and he assures me with his eyes.

  ‘‘But Peter, as you said, this melody increases the possibilities of his connection to the crime.’’ Antonella hastens to condemn the Russian.

  ‘‘We have to find out the type of their relationship and if it is true he first met her two days ago, but I haven’t told you something else. According to the medical examiner, a specific dosage of anesthetic drugs was found in Natalie’s body.’’

  ‘‘Which means?’’

  ‘‘Which means the dosage was such she just fell asleep. She didn’t die of an overdose, plus the drug was injected on the thigh. The murderer seems to have known well what he was doing.’’

  ‘‘If so, then the injection will be in her apartment. Was anything found? Also, did she suffer any sexual abuse?’’ I ask possessed by indefinite stress. This case is like a sponge. There is always something new that negates the previous clues.

  ‘‘Nothing was found in the apartment and she was not sexually abused. The motive was probably not sexual.’’

  ‘‘So, lets summarize…’’ Antonella suggests, and I reset my mind. ‘‘A corpse was found, narcotized and stabbed, with a knife, a melody, and a composer at the scene of the crime. What doesn’t fit to conclude that he is the murderer?’’

  Her insistence on the composer tires me. Peter is walking in the room, knitting his fingers behind his head. ‘‘I am someone who has set as a goal, for my reasons, to kill this girl… Do I arrange the murder early in the evening? And why drug her? And why dedicate a melody to her? And, most importantly, why leave the knife on her body?’’ We have an imaginary killer inside the meeting room. ‘‘Let’s assume that the melody implies an erotic connection, the narcosis a way to have control over her body, but why leave the knife?’’

  ‘‘Maybe he didn’t have time to take it…’’ I claim with disbelief.

  ‘‘The Russian is too cold-blooded for a mistake like this and Aris too unstable to organize such a murder…’’ he adds to our chaotic scene and sits on his chair.

  The police officer informs us the most controversial suspect has arrived. Aris Nomikos enters the meeting room accompanied by a man wearing a suit. Up close his face deceives you. He has erased every trace of tension. I can’t see any anxiety, any terror or any other of the emotions which he has showed us generously in the last few days.

  ‘‘My client doesn’t have much time,’’ the man in the black suit and same-colored tie claims sharply.

  I did not expect anything less from Phaedon Danaos, one of the many people my husband despises. Danaos can acquit even the guiltiest defendant, without much effort. Like a great conjurer, he is capable of showing evidence that can burn any opponent out of nowhere.

  ‘‘I would probably say that for you…’’ Peter says and I hide my laughter. ‘‘In the preliminary investigation, the presence of a lawyer is not allowed. Don’t you know that Mr. Danaos?’’

  He avoids answering his ironic comment. The strict lawyer is a copy of Orpheus Nomikos. Laconic, concise, compendious. ‘‘I am just pointing you to be specific to your questions. Not like the other times, Mr. Deligiannis…’’

  I am irritated by the half grimace of laughter on his face.

  ‘‘Mr. Danaos, I have many degrees to
submit for you to show me how to do my job.’’

  ‘‘There are always better…’’ Attack by the defense.

  ‘‘Is this a self-characterization?’’ Peter has opened his lips and his eyes sparkle. He is mocking him.

  ‘‘Simple finding.’’ I feel an escalating retreat on Danaos' part.

  ‘‘I am sorry but your observation won’t be helpful for your career. For the time being, you can enjoy a coffee in the corridor.’’ Peter’s hand points the door and leads there the loser of the argument.

  Aris seems unaffected by the charged environment and I am trying to understand if he acquires such acting skills or we were watching a twin brother of his during the last few days.

  ‘‘Your choice to be a candidate was yours or your father’s?’’ My husband starts with an unexpected question.

  He remains expressionless while playing with his fingers. ‘‘What does this have to do with my sister?’’ he asks with a straightforwardness that surprises me. Again.

  ‘‘For me, even the black scarf you have tied so intricately around your neck may have to do with her.’’

  A distraction. The interrogator lowers his look at the knot of the scarf.

  ‘‘You are perfectionist, meticulous, overly responsible, a worthy soldier for your father…’’ Peter continues, and the atmosphere is dangerously charged.

  ‘‘Please focus on the questions about my sister, because as I told you I don’t have much time.’’

  ‘‘Your lawyer told me, not you. Honestly, do you put others to talk on your behalf? How stressful is it to take so many initiatives at this age?’’

  The speedometer hits red.

  He increases speed in the pulling of his fingers, a move that he tries - unsuccessfully - to hide. He exhales accumulated air. ‘‘I do what I have to do.’’

  ‘‘Piano and French?’’

  ‘‘Those too’’ he answers, and I observe that the muscles on his forehead relax.

  ‘‘Why did you go to Natalie’s house last night?’’

  Field question.

  ‘‘She moved in to her apartment yesterday and invited me for dinner,’’ he serves the - in all probability - prepared statement.

  ‘‘And why did you quarrel? The neighbors told us they heard you quarreling.’’

  Aris’s gaze instantly falls on us. His eyes are focused on Peter’s face, probably because he is looking at him so insistently. ‘‘Nothing special. We didn’t quarrel.’’

  ‘‘Did she tell you how she was planning to spend her night?’’

  ‘‘I don’t remember.’’ This is the first time I think his speech is bringing out honesty.

  ‘‘If I ask you to give us fingerprints and a DNA sample will you collaborate? We have found some fingerprints and we want to exclude every possibility.’’

  He swallows crookedly. He touches Adam’s apple. He unties a bit of his scarf. ‘‘I am not accused of anything. I know my rights, therefore, I don’t think it is necessary to get into this process.’’ He touches his scarf, rotating it around his neck.

  ‘‘Don’t let stress exhaust your life, Mr. Nomikos. The surrendering to the imperfect is the solution. Imperfection may bring an ideal balance.’’ My husband lets an encrypted message and falls behind on the chair. ‘‘You may go.’’

  Aris is standing in front of the desk, looking only at Peter. The latter has crossed his hands, avoiding the typical farewell handshake. He looks down at the palms of the young politician so intensely that three pairs of eyes are focusing on him now. Aris leaves a sharp breath and leaves the room.

  The speedometer resets.

  Peter leaves the mask on the desk and frowns. ‘‘The child really has a problem,’’ he notes in a voice full of empathy.

  ‘‘We had understood it. Anything else?’’

  ‘‘Magda don’t ask me for answers you have already received… He was surprised at the question about the piano, so he has no relation to the melody. He has a serious problem. His hands were sweating so much that if he was not wearing this black scarf to dry them, they may have started dripping. He has got an obsession with perfection, but don’t believe he is incapable of murdering. Especially two perfect murders, like those of Maniatis and his sister’s. Generally, I consider we have to close Maniatis’s case as well,’’ he notes with dubious certainty.

  ‘‘Then why did he refuse to give fingerprints?’’

  ‘‘Maybe because it’s not needed…’’ he shows us the arms of the chair where Aris was sitting. Liquid marks from his palms fading out.

  ‘‘This is not legal,’’ I point out to him in our commander’s style.

  Peter smiles with clear arrogance. ‘‘Magda…’’ he raises his eyebrows. ‘‘Such a careful killer wouldn’t make this move…’’ His lips open in a corner that makes him smile cunningly.

  My husband really enjoys our job. He is by far the best criminologist as stated.

  ‘‘Therefore, you also believe that the murder was committed by the Russian?’’ Antonella asks and prepares to declare the case closed with a very nice guilty in the indictment.

  ‘‘Not necessarily. Maybe someone wanted to incriminate him.’’

  ‘‘Peter with all the evidence we have, I would end up with him…’’ she insists on her opinion. ‘‘Don’t forget the melody…’’

  Peter believes the killer is someone unknown.

  Antonella believes the killer is Dima Vladimirov.

  I believe that the killer is Aris Nomikos.

  Perfect!

  The composer comes before us for the second time.

  Peter presses the play button on Antonella’s laptop and the death melody fills the void of the meeting room.

  Rhythm. Intensity. Escalation, without a peak. By no means would I believe that this music was written by such a top musician; another element in favor of my point of view.

  ‘‘Do you recognize this melody? Is it yours?’’

  ‘‘It is not mine,’’ he declares effortlessly with a clear voice.

  ‘‘Have you heard it again?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He looks outside the window. Maybe he is looking for his freedom. Maybe he is simply indifferent towards us.

  ‘‘Your negative attitude won’t help you, Mr. Vladimirov…’’

  ‘‘I think it is obvious that I am not interested, officer.’’

  ‘‘It is equally obvious that I’m running out of patience. If you want to go to prison, you may make a request to the girl over here…’’ he says pointing at Antonella.

  The composer scans our faces in turn. ‘‘Some people live in different kind of prisons, just on their walls there are no bars…’’ he replies placing his own enigma.

  ‘‘I know what it is like not to be able to escape from yourself…’’ Peter applauds the Russian’s point of view and I feel that we are ready to start a philosophical discussion. ‘‘However, don’t you believe it’s unfair to be accused of a murder you claim that you haven’t committed?’’

  ‘‘To be accused?’’ he throws a nervous laughter. ‘‘I am not afraid of anything.’’ He keeps his hands hidden in his pockets and opens and closes the eyelashes, shouting with his eyes.

  Peter brings two clear plastic cases forward. One contains the knife and the other the memory stick. ‘‘Do you recognize them?’’

  ‘‘I think the knife is from the kitchen. The stick…’’ he stops shortly. ‘‘It is common.’’

  ‘‘Can you say you have seen it before?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he replies and coughs loudly. His eyes are becoming red. ‘‘May I have a glass of water?’’

  Antonella hurries up and fills one of the glasses next to the coffee machine. ‘‘Here you are.’’

  The glass is carried in the hands of the composer and in the next second, it is broken off on the floor.

  ‘‘Forgive me… I felt a weakness in my hand,’’ he says and exits the room with the company of our colleague, who has already convicted him.

&
nbsp; A small break is not enough for the tension to be discharged. Peter’s position is still in the void. He is betting on all the roulette numbers. The commander is wandering around our office with his military stand.

  ‘‘If there is no evidence, let him go. I don’t want us to mess up with the Russian reporters as well. Have you understood with whom we’re dealing?’’

  This is probably the first time Peter has agreed with him, even for a different reason. ‘‘Nomikos’s brother was the last who saw her alive.’’

  The commander looks at him inquisitively. ‘‘Considering his father’s power it is more likely you find yourself as the accused, rather than his son,’’ he is ironic. The commander seems to want to incriminate the weakest suspect, as long as the case doesn’t come to the light. He reminds me of Antonella. ‘‘The Russian will be put under surveillance. You focus on the phone privacy of Nomikos. Talk to her environment. Try to fill in the gaps. The reporters have already started their own scenarios. I advise you to be smart this time, Peter.’’

  If I were in the commander’s position I wouldn’t use this advice. His hands remain tied low and he is stepping towards the door. Peter’s eyes are throwing flames at his back. His right hand forms a fist, and he hits his left palm. His last look in the room charges us with more stress.

  ‘‘What has happened with him?’’ Antonella asks.

  Her transfer to our Department two months ago has not allowed her to create a picture of our commander’s profile yet. She is standing next to the long narrow window - close to my husband -and I predict that he will break out on her this time. She is taller than him at least three to four inches, but her shadow can’t cover him.

  ‘‘Don’t you see? He doesn’t care!’’

  ‘‘And you listen to him? Will we really set the composer free?’’ She nails Peter with a look of accusation, something which of course doesn’t deter our leader.

  ‘‘Since there are no fingerprints and the injection was not found on him or in the apartment, we can’t keep him here. He said that he will be put under surveillance. Maybe he will lead us to the true killer. This is the bright scenario; someone wanted to trap him. Otherwise, he was found at the wrong time in the wrong place and we are in complete ignorance about the killer.’’