The Last Symphony

by Tonia Lalousi

  I do not completely agree with Peter’s reasoning. I think Natalie was not weak, but she was fully aware of what she was doing as of consequences of her actions. ‘‘The incident at the party was excessive, Peter… I think that Natalie didn’t have any feeling of guilt and her movements were premeditated… I see a woman who always knew how to get what she wanted…’’

  ‘‘Throwing her brother in the pool, while knowing that he didn’t know how to swim and making fun of him with her friends, shows exactly her effort to appear stronger than him,’’ he explains to me. ‘‘Magda, strong person don’t need to show off…’’

  I am not going to admit he is right. My psycho-emotional condition doesn’t allow it to me, neither my selfishness.

  But yes. He is right.

  Again.

  ‘‘Are we sure that her friend is telling the truth? What if she was jealous of Natalie and killed her? It strikes me that she targeted only Aris, sharing all these details…’’ Antonella gives up on the composer and targets Victoria, but I have to admit that her thoughts are not absurd at all. From the beginning, I did not like the strange friendship between Victoria and Natalie.

  ‘‘We can’t suspect them all. First, we look at those who were motive…’’ Peter explains to her imperatively, as if he is teaching her criminology.

  Antonella retreats immediately and falls back on the chair.

  She got involved too much.

  ‘‘Why do we exclude the possibility of a hit to his father for the upcoming elections?’’

  ‘‘In that case there would be no melody, Magda. We are talking about a crime with an emotional background. There is a dedication to the victim, so it’s not a cold execution. The memory stick is the key element and leads us to three scenarios: either someone from the composer’s environment tried to tangle him in a very skillful way, either the dedication is coincidental, and we have a stranger killer who had a personal interest in killing Natalie, or Aris is a cool executor with manic depression.’’

  ‘‘Have we got anything from Vladimirov’s surveillance?’’

  ‘‘This was what I was going to tell you next. From the day he returned to the apartment that he mentioned he is hosted in, he hasn’t come out at all. I know it’s just two days, but if that goes on, then we should probably pay him a visit. As we saw he had no motive, but this man displays an undisputed purity, which, although it convinces me, could also be the perfect camouflage.’’

  I look outside the window. I hear Antonella’s positive response. The rain is getting heavier and heavier. The composer does not leave the house while he is on vacation in Greece. What would make him stay inside? Probably a girl. There may be something or somebody he wants to hide. He has left his successful career in Russia and came here to do what?

  ‘‘What have we found about his love life? Did he have a relationship in Russia?’’ I ask in a loud voice and frantic excitement, as if I have made the greatest discovery of my life.

  ‘‘We haven’t found anything. Generally, in Russia, he didn’t make many appearances, except for movie premieres. I found some photo reports from such events.’’

  We are throwing arrows that are diverging and cannot aim at the target. There is nothing more than loose ends, and the murderer is still enjoying his victory.

  The glass ashtray is filled with cigarette butts. He removes the last one from his lips and presses it with rage on the rest. His nostrils expel the remaining smoke and his eyes narrow. This instability can drive him crazy. He gets up and approaches the minibar. He fills the crystal glass with whiskey and throw three ice cubes inside. The sound of them falling into the alcohol intensifies the anger that is burning slowly within him. ‘‘You said everything was under control.’’

  ‘‘It still is. I only need a few more days. Give me a deadline until Sunday.’’ The man is trying to hide his anxiety, by giving promises he is not sure he will keep.

  ‘‘What’s wrong with you?’’ He raises the glass abruptly and whiskey drops are scattered on the surface of the desk.

  The man stabilizes his gaze on the manager of the record label, adjusting his voice. ‘‘There is no cause for concern, believe me.’’

  Marinakis rhythmically hits his foot on the floor as if he is counting the seconds of his patience running out. ‘‘I gave you all the money you asked for. I told you I could give you even more, as long as you bring this top talent to me!’’ he targets the table making the content of the glass spin on its walls. ‘‘If the demo for the contest is released, it will all be over!’’ he continues and falls back in his leather chair.

  ‘‘Everything is under control. Let’s say I approached a person who didn’t do our job well. No mistake will be made next time. He will find himself so much entangled that he will resign from Voice Record and he come to you by himself,’’ he bends forward and his tongue tangles with his lips in a cluster of rage and resentment.

  ‘‘I want you to tell me your plan. I want you to persuade me.’’

  The man counts his words. ‘‘Wait for the result. I can’t tell you more.’’

  The businessman spins the glass on his fingers, making a great effort to believe his interlocutor. All hopes for the recovery of his record label are in the hands of the unknown composer. The man sitting across him must keep his word. ‘‘I will wait until Sunday. If you don’t succeed, on Monday you will return me the money I gave you.’’

  These words make the man stubborn. He raises his head, trying to seem taller and stands in front of Marinakis’s desk. He challenges himself through a personal bet. A positive nod is his only answer before leaving the office.

  I am sitting on the couch with my legs bent, curling up in the corner, hugging my blanket. Peter and Violeta are sitting on the floor playing a word game. I love these games, as they are not causing any longing for further buying, like Barbie master chef.

  The TV is off. My eyes are lost on the black screen. The image of the composer makes a shadow on it.

  I am not here to persuade you about a murder I have not commit.

  ‘‘Time is running out.’’ Peter’s voice distracts me.

  I will be on my way after a call to my lawyer. Don’t tire me.

  ‘‘I can’t find it! I lost!’’ my daughter exclaims, and my peripheral vision catches her hitting her palms with frustrated stubbornness. My look can’t escape from the turned off TV as if its black is pulling me into the abyss.

  ‘‘Do you really want to beat me in the next round?’’ Peter asks her and her positive answer sounds like a siren in my ears. ‘‘Then you didn’t actually lose, as you just gained a new motivation. It’s impossible to be a winner in every battle, but you can gain from any game. The opponent has always something to teach you, Violeta. For example, did you learn anything from me?’’

  Peter’s question attracts my attention.

  ‘‘That I have to think quicker,’’ she answers with doubt.

  ‘‘The last word was ocean bottom and the card here says that you couldn’t describe it with the words sea, fish, summer, aquarium. Now that the game is over, can you think of a word apart from those?’’

  Some people live in different kind of prisons, even without bars on the walls…

  I turn on the TV in an attempt to keep my mind busy. There is an ad for the beginning of the upcoming next season of Next Top Model.

  ‘‘Yes, I thought; the place where sharks live!’’

  ‘‘Bravo, my star! When time presses us do remember that you must to think without stress, not faster.’’

  ‘‘Mom, mom! Turn it up! They are talking about Eurovision!’’

  Peter comes and sits next to me. He lifts the blanket and hides his knees underneath. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’

  I do not know what to answer to him. The images make unsuccessful connections, giving me a substantial result. Violeta is sitting on the fluffy carpet observing with remarkable dedication a blonde female TV presenter.

  ‘‘Therefore, we are expecti
ng the song that will represent our country in this year’s Eurovision Song Contest to be officially announced soon. Ioannis Vasilikos declared being excited about a relevant Instagram post he made, while he didn’t reveal who the composer of the song he will perform is. This year’s success is almost certain if the unknown composer of his great bits takes on the song for our participation as well. Let’s talk about top five positions or even about victory? The mysterious composer only signs songs that reach the top!’’

  ‘‘Mom the song will be out in a few days!’’ Violeta jumps up and down, making her braids shake backwards, while the blonde presenter passes the speech to a brunette girl with intense rouge on her cheekbones.

  Peter takes his mobile phone from the table and dials a number. In the next hour grandma Barbara is cuddling my son and explaining to Violeta how I and her grandson met.

  ‘‘Come on Magda, let’s go!’’

  The rain pounds the asphalt and forms small rivers that flow in the grooves of the sidewalks. I get in the car and fasten my seat belt.

  This is a police officer’s life; chasing the guilty.

  This is life with Peter; chasing the ghost of a hidden composer in the middle of the night.

  Those who were watching the apartments building Dima Vladimirov stated he is hosted in are set free from their duty as we take on. I fully understand the logic of my husband’s argument, but I do not understand the reason why we have parked opposite the apartments building.

  Why us?

  Why am I behaving like Antonella?

  ‘‘Why did he come here? Why is he hiding his identity? Why didn’t he tell us he keeps writing? Why are you looking at me as if you don’t understand, Magda?’’ His mouth constantly asks questions, for which I have no answer. ‘‘I don’t want to be unfair!’’ Uncommon statement. ‘‘I won’t stand to be accused by the commander again. You know he is looking for a reason to get rid of me. Failing in this case will be a big blow for me.’’

  From the stage of the incessant monologue, he passes at the stage of delirium on his contingent disapproval by the commander. Of course he is interested in finding the killer; however I feel that he cares more about solving the puzzle by himself. ‘‘And what exactly are we waiting for now?’’

  ‘‘For two days he hasn’t left this apartment at all, maybe because he shouldn’t come out…’’ he comments with a cunning smile and turns his attention to the entrance.

  One more newly built building is the centre of our surveillance. Those we are after always choose the best. The financial ease, in this case, is reflected on the fountain decorating the private parking, in front of the tall, barred gate which borders the building from the sidewalk.

  Moisture takes over my body the moment my leader is sweating due to his tension. I wiggle my head lazily right and left my nape complains to me with the usual vibrations. Peter has put his hands in his pockets as if he is waiting to get the target into a mousetrap. But there is no trap. Also, there is no target.

  A blue Audi comes out of the barred door and the ‘‘hunter’’ notes the plate number with insane enthusiasm. For a few seconds, I wonder why I am not like him. I feel so negative, pessimistic, supporting the futility of everything.

  He cleans the blurred by moisture windows and he is trying to locate our new target. Two men are walking along the apartments building towards the main entrance. One of them is wrapped in a black coat and looks husky with open backs, while the other is wearing a hat and has covered his thin body with a beige gabardine, which reaches well below his knees.

  ‘‘Isn’t this Vasilikos?’’ he asks me and I have no answer once again. If I played a quiz about the Greek music industry, I would definitely get zero points.

  ‘‘Magda, it is him! The one with the gabardine and the hat!’’

  I accept his remark, as I have no objection. Of course, neither Peter listens to Greek music, but as he constantly emphasizes to me, if you want to be considered educated, you must have general knowledge and opinion of each issue. He considers himself well educated.

  ‘‘I was right!’’ he exclaims and takes off his belt. ‘‘Let’s go!’’

  He walks fast towards the entrance. There are only two names among the eight apartments. The positive response of the first apartment’s resident is followed by my impressive fall on the floor. My beloved husband reacts with a grimace of indignation. He wants to laugh, he is angry and he wants to help me, all at the same time, but he has already ascended the first steps that lead to the target. I get up without his help as he finally chose not to move from the fourth step. He considers that I am fine. Even if I had my waist broken, maybe he would decide to deal with me later.

  We go up to the first floor and face two apartments. Four-storey apartments building, eight apartments, two on each floor. My useless calculations have placed me in the position of a simple observer in this mission. Peter is hugging the door of each apartment, trying to eavesdrop. No sound. We move on to the second floor.

  I avoid repeating my fall on the staircase leading to the third floor. The cries of babies on this floor bring us to the last two apartments. It is not difficult to find out which of the two we are looking for. The voices from within come to my ears like a roar.

  ‘‘Don’t fall again,’’ he advises me hitting the bell.

  The door opens and the composer appears in front of us, scanning Peter with a steady gaze. ‘‘Did you change your opinion, officer?’’

  His cheeks are flushed. He throws sparks with his sharp breath.

  ‘‘No, our daughter is just a fan of Vasilikos, and I want him to sign an autograph for us…’’ Peter says and passes arbitrarily inside.

  The man with the coat is sitting on the couch. My eyes cannot spot Vasilikos. I wonder who the owner of the apartment is.

  ‘‘Now you will spy my life, until you find the killer?’’ the Russian asks with a hoarse voice.

  ‘‘Don’t be rude, Mr. Vladimirov… Won’t you introduce me to the sir?’’ His attention turns to the man in black.

  ‘‘What do you want from me, officer?’’ the composer counters.

  ‘‘Do you have any specific reason for hiding you are working here now? For a Greek singer?’’

  ‘‘My business doesn’t concern you.’’

  I do not understand his denial. The man in the coat is observing us without speaking. I would do the same if I were him. The man in the gabardine appears in front of us and looks at me begging under his hat, however I am focused on finding out why he is dressed like Inspector Gadget.

  ‘‘Mr. Vasilikos… Are you more willing to talk about your collaboration?’’ Peter asks him, changing direction in his game.

  The successful singer approaches us. ‘‘I am glad to meet you,’’ he extends his hand to Peter, offering him an extravagant white smile. ‘‘Dima and I first met a few months ago and he’s been signing my songs since then. He has no connection to Natalie’s death. He first met her a few days ago.’’ Completion of apology. Now he can breathe.

  ‘‘You are reviewing what I already know to help me refresh my memory?’’ Peter is ironic to him but does not seem to upset the respondent.

  ‘‘Ioannis, you don’t need to say anything. Officer, I demand you leave. Now!’’ The musician’s imperative voice points at the door.

  Peter smiles smugly and approaches the man with the coat. ‘‘Who are you?’’

  ‘‘Nektarios Giannatos. Lyricist.’’

  ‘‘Have you got anything else to tell us?’’ Peter’s new question does not have only one recipient. He is simultaneously looking at Ioannis.

  ‘‘The day they first met I was in Dima’s house too. The girl was very rude to us. Instead of wasting your time here, it would be better to look for people in her environment who would want to see her dead. I guess they will be a lot.’’

  A lot? We actually have only an invisible visitor who led her to death.

  ‘‘Mr. Vladimirov, we are trying to solve a murder and we have no ev
idence in our hands, except for that melody on Natalie’s corpse. We are forced to connect it with you…’’ I explain to the composer.

  ‘‘I told you I didn’t write it! How could I do it? It is awful! What I write stands out… In no case would I have written such a mundane melody!’’

  ‘‘You may have connected it to the victim… If Natalie caused such feelings to you, you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to dedicate a beautiful melody to her…,’’ Peter impresses me with his comment, which, however, is revoked by his previous remarks.

  A single idea is spinning in my mind: Vladimirov had no motive, but Nomikos had. Maybe Victoria too.

  Certainly not the composer.

  Dima’s face hardens. Its corners narrow. Only pure rage can be discerned in his eyes. I look at his associates. Nobody seems eager to talk. I wonder if they know all the truth. They seem to support him, but this support is not enough. Arguments are lacking.

  ‘‘I had no reason to kill her, officer. No reason.’’

  Lowered looks from the other two men and glances that may be testifying a lie. Or maybe not.

  ‘‘It makes no sense… Nothing makes sense in this case, damn it!’’

  I turn the pen on my lips and look at the clouds through the glass of our office. I am watching Peter’s new monologue. He is moving around the desks, causing nausea to Antonella.

  ‘‘Nice… Nice… Let’s calm down,’’ he is trying to encourage himself by taking out an irritated breath. ‘‘I can’t calm down!’’ he exclaims falling on the chair.

  ‘‘We must focus on one of them, otherwise we will reach no conclusion…’’ Antonella explains to him, while I am still trying to set my thoughts in order.

  I have to find the reason for my lack of concentration. The voice of the subconscious comes forward and rings a red bell, making me admit that I actually know the cause. He sits next to me making air with his palms on his crimson face.

  ‘Focus on one of them… I agree… Our first suspect is a composer who has left his country and has been hiding in Greece denying every accusation. There is no evidence for his innocence or for his guilty. Our only clue is this melody,’’ he complains and looks at me with revolutionized eyes as if I am responsible for all of this.