‘‘Did she complain to you? What did she say? That I am overprotective? That I have tired her? That she wants a divorce?’’
I am trying to remember if Eleftheria expressed the concerns exactly in the same order when she came to the office the other day.
‘‘It is not nice to eavesdrop, Andrew!’’
His lips wrinkle to the side and he blinks slowly. ‘‘I didn’t do it, my Magda. You believe I don’t know my wife?’’ he asks me, and I remind to myself that I have been underestimating his abilities for all the fifteen years I know him. ‘‘And your next question is why am I so extravagant, right?’’ he crosses his fingers on the desk.
Yes.
‘‘I didn’t say that… Simply the whole pregnancy situation may have stressed you a little more…’’ My index finger joins my thumb to point an insignificant exaggeration, which has led Eleftheria to madness.
‘‘Listen, Magda. The man that has tired her is exactly the one she fell in love with. That’s me! I’m sensitive, romantic, overprotective… I was always like that and I will remain like that till the end of my life…’’ he states and I subconsciously admire his self-confidence. ‘‘Don’t see it as selfishness… My mother gave me a piece of advice before coming to Athens: not let anything and anyone change me. I love Eleftheria and want to be next to her forever, but I don’t know if I will be able to achieve it. All I am sure of is me. Myself will be next to me, I will see myself in the mirror every day and I want to like what I see. I want to see my real self forever. If Eleftheria decides at some point that I don’t make her happy, then I will leave her, so that she finds happiness elsewhere, but I will always protect her because I love her. Because I will love her whatever happens. Because this is me…’’
His green, almond-shaped eyes are sullen, showing strict discipline; a discipline that I recognize for the first time in my favourite friend.
‘‘This is what Peter told me the other day… He thinks he can’t make you happy and asked for my advice.’’
I lift my eyebrows and my heart leaps like crazy in my chest. Peter was asking about me. So, he is interested in how I feel and tries, as always, not to show it to me. I do not want to lose anything to appreciate it. I want to appreciate, love and protect what I have. Andrew’s words are exactly the vigilance I needed.
‘‘I suggested him buying you red roses more often, many of them… To take you on a trip to Italy, so that you feel the ultimate love embraced in the gondolas… To buy you chocolates, cookies, teddy bears…’’
What is he talking about?
I cannot stand romantic men! If Peter ever brought me flowers, I would hit them on his head with them. I pull the arm of the chair as if it was blocking me, holding me captive in my place, and leave the office running. I open the door of the meeting room and see Peter standing next to the window.
The lights of Athens make a cinema backdrop that intensifies my sensitivity. I run towards him, hug him, and kiss him on the lips. I turn and watch the sparks that fly from his eyes.
‘‘Sorry… Sorry I challenged you… I love you for what you are and I don’t want you to change…’’
With tears in my eyes, I am trying to express both in words and with my look how much I love him and how unfair I was to him. He looks at me with a wrinkled forehead. He presses the lips he opens and closes them again. I am sure he wants to tell me that he loves me too. I am not interested in him saying that anymore, but I am sure he wants to do it.
‘‘Magda…’’ he grabs my shoulders and I smile with expectation. ‘‘The blood found on the knife belongs to the composer.’’
The science of balance
The police officer opens the door and I find out that the day will finish the way it started, just with a different version of me.
‘‘Good evening.’’ The dancer enters the room and I turn my gaze to Peter, who reciprocates with a sharp, murmuring greeting.
He is incredibly happy to see him again.
‘‘Thank you for coming…’’ he waves his fingers in front of him and the boy raises his neck. ‘‘I mean thank you for coming, sir…’’ He wrinkles his lips for a second. It is enough to discharge the negative energy the dancer is transferring to him.
‘‘We called you for one, let’s say, clarifying deposition. Dima Vladimirov said he has known you for many years, so since you don’t have the option to refuse your collaboration, could you tell us what you know about him?’’
The young man smiles with his eyes. ‘‘Really?’’ Now his lips are smiling as well. ‘‘What do you mean I don’t have the option? I came here voluntarily. Don’t speak to me as if I am accused.’’ He concludes with the well-known displacement of his eyebrow to the level of Peter’s irritation.
My husband is trying to control his anger. His neck muscles throb in Ildar’s every word. He really believes in the composer’s innocence, otherwise, I do not think he would choose to be once again exposed to the young dancer’s smartness.
‘‘We are having a simple conversation… You are free, sir…’’ His voice is colored with irony. Very early.
‘‘In reality, no one is totally free, sir. It is difficult to remain free and simultaneously be responsible, correct and ethical. Freedom is a science, and you have to learn it well to be able to feel it. When you are really free from obligations, in reality you become an indifferent person. Your freedom may make some other people unhappy. You have to find this thin line that brings balance.’’
‘‘We didn’t call you here for philosophical analyses… Your collaborator will be convicted of double murder and I would like to know more about him.’’
‘‘That is, you are interested in the psychological background of prisoners?’’ It is clear that a reciprocal dislike between them exists, which is quite enjoyable, as long as it remains on a verbal level.
Peter remains silent. I know what his next sentence will be. ‘‘I will talk to you openly…’’ he says and pushes his chair further forward. ‘‘Although the evidence reveals points his guilt, I don’t exclude the possibility of someone trapping him. The reason I brought you here again is that I am trying to understand who Dima Vladimirov really is. I believe that people don’t change. If I can psychograph the composer during the period of active action, then I will be able to clarify the current ambiguous versions of his character.’’
This is the first sentence in the argument without an ironic implication.
‘‘Our contacts were purely professional. He composed music for several of the performances I participated in in the theatre and at various festivals. I never hang out with him, so I can only tell you what I have understood about him through his work.’’
Second sentence with understanding. And the eyebrow is in its natural position.
‘‘He is very… right! He is a professional. I can say he is obsessed with perfection. He supervised our rehearsals and made comments to all of us in a quite severe way, but he was always apt. He is a very upright man; no one of us misjudged him. I think that his melodies alone are enough for one to realize his quality.’’
He is praising his partner with shining eyes out of excitement. I cannot understand what Peter is trying to find out, but he is forced to leave the room before he can answer, as the commander’s order comes requesting him in his office.
I am left alone with the dancer and observe him carefully. He takes his mobile phone and checks the time. His fingers are thin and long.
‘‘Will you return to Russia now?’’
‘‘I don’t know yet.’’
The calmness in his face is noteworthy. His gaze is a dark labyrinth lost in a deep green - honey that gives you the feeling of coffee.
‘‘You must be a great dancer, having been chosen to make the choreography.’’ I am trying to continue the discussion to fill in Peter’s gap.
‘‘No one is better than the best…’’ he claims, and I am waiting to hear the name of a top dancer. ‘‘The paradox is that the best doesn’t exist,’�
�� he emphasizes with his eyes and angles of his face. Absolute squared symmetry. ‘‘Some are better than some others, but perfection cannot be defined. It is expressed as the motivation for evolution and growth. This is the goal: a constant effort to touch a non-existent perfection.’’
I blink and see through the truth in his words. The purity of his eyes passes into his words as well. ‘‘You are right! Self-knowledge is a virtue that few people have…’’
‘‘It is not a matter of self-knowledge. It is a matter of choice and goals. It depends on where you want to go. I compete with myself. He is the only one whom I can confront. That is the only way I get better.’’
I nod positively. I’m still admiring his composed personality when Peter comes back in the room with overlapping frustration. Awkwardness.
‘‘Your collaborator has been detained,’’ he announces to him receiving a grimace of understanding. ‘‘Before you go, I would like to ask you a last question. Do you believe that someone of his collaborators, here or in Russia, could set him a trap?’’ The tone of his voice is hiding an expectation of a positive response.
‘‘I can’t know if I don’t know the people you are referring to.’’
‘‘What is your opinion about Vasilikos and Giannatos?’’
‘‘I first met them a few days ago. I can’t judge. However, I suppose that someone who organizes a murder to incriminate someone else must have absolute composure, ingenuity, and high self-confidence. In this case, I would exclude Mr. Vasilikos.’’
Ildar’s personal assessment is indifferent to my husband. ‘‘Could you say that this melody is written by Vladimirov?’’
I cannot stand the repeated reproduction of this music. It seems like a death lament. The dancer approaches the laptop and shakes his head rhythmically. He closes his eyes and is lost into the notes.
‘‘Mr. Vladimirov is the last person I would think as the composer of this melody. His compositions have a completely different flow, with frequent speed alterations and many peaks and falls,’’ he explains to us emphasizing with his fingers. Even Mr. Vasilikos’s songs have the same properties.’’
How can melodies be identified with composers?
‘‘Beyond this finding, you didn’t manage to convince me for anything more…’’ Peter declares his dissatisfaction. ‘‘You may go. Thank you very much, sir.’’
Ildar stands up and greets me and then he turns to his opponent. ‘‘I am sure you have a wall full of degrees related to your subject to be in this position. But what you know is a small part of the knowledge of the world. You are not prepared to confront everything. Knowledge doesn’t offer real power, but its proper handling does. We mustn’t give the power to the one who asks for it, but neither to the one who can’t handle it. Exploit what you have in the best way and don’t let your selfishness come forward. Even I am too selfish, to say that but guess what… I admit it, so I have the ability to control it. I hope you find the answers you are seeking for from those that can give them to you. Good night, sir.’’
We return home after a tiring day. Violeta is sleeping, as I assumed, but without hugging her teddy bear. She has spread on our bed with her legs on our pillows and her head at the lower part of the bed, ready for a fall on the floor. Grandma Barbara simply told us she fell asleep. She did not clarify where and how.
Harry is committed to the new game Peter bought him the other day; a inflatable pillow with small squares for learning numbers. Our son is pressing, again and again, the box number four and is laughing. Again, and again. He has stuck on the same number. In this case, I made a correct prediction. He will keep me awake again tonight.
A kiss on the hair and a hug from Peter are enough to move my daughter to her bed. Harry is still not complaining and has passed to the pressing of nine. I fall on the bed, curl up in a fetal position, and let myself relax on the comfortable mattress until he starts crying.
‘‘Magda, are you sleeping?’’
I open my left eye and see Peter half-naked, wrapped in a white towel around his waist. He walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a new pair of pyjamas. I close my eye again and overpass his question.
‘‘I wonder how you can sleep! I have incredible tenseness!’’
I open my right eye so that it looks like closed. I watch him as he has his naked back turned and melatonin competes with dopamine. I choke and try to block the scenes coming to my mind. He wears his pyjamas and dries his hair. He approaches Harry’s crib and smiles at him, holding the towel in his hand.
‘‘Don’t keep pressing the same.’’
I listen to the numbers from one to ten in ascending order. Keeping my eyes closed I can imagine Harry’s smile as a response to his father’s grumpy face. He falls next to me on the bed and the smell of his shampoo hypnotizes me in the most refreshing way.
‘‘The case is closed, Magda. From tomorrow all the media will be talking about the composer’s double murder and I am not at all satisfied with this at all.’’
I hear him puffing and blowing and I think that eventually it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for our son to start crying.
‘‘Even if he was bleeding from somewhere, he would surely have noticed and cleaned it or he would have used another knife. In the first murder we didn’t manage to find any evidence, why find now?’’
I slap my palm next to the pillow, knowing that I won’t be able to sleep.
‘‘Ioannis took his blood for medical examinations… Magda wake up!’’
I breath out. I turn on my back and lift the pillow. ‘‘Can we talk about it tomorrow? I am very tired.’’
‘‘Magda, the lyricist may have been right and Vasilikos may want to avenge the composer for the glory he is taking from him. He wrote two rudimentary melodies to accuse the Russian. In the first case, he simply failed with the fingerprints. In the second he was more careful. I’m sure!’’
‘‘My love, even so, how can you prove it? There is no evidence against him and even if he agrees to give a DNA sample, we won’t find anything incriminating for him.’’
‘‘Of course, we won’t move openly, but I will try to search…’’ he says and I respond closing my eyes. ‘‘Damn, I know that I may simply be extravagant, but I can’t forget the composer’s face. I am sure he is telling the truth. All these years I am in this field I want to do everything in my power so that an innocent person will never be punished. I can’t stand it. My consciousness can’t stand it…’’
I pull his left hand and cage his palm between my fingers. ‘‘Peter, few are so conscientious as you, but I believe your behavior sometimes exceeds the permissible limits. When we can’t prove someone’s guilt, then we must accept the facts as they have evolved. The commander is seeking for a chance to nail you. Don’t give it to him…’’ I advise him with a soft voice.
‘‘Yes, he will start calling me a airy-fairy again…’’ he frowns. ‘‘I don’t care! I have learned to believe to myself, my instinct, my experience!’’
‘‘And all these point to Vasilikos as the killer?’’ I join my eyebrows. ‘‘Really?’’
I don’t believe in any case that such a weak-willed creature would be able to organize two murders successfully. I agree with Ildar’s opinion. At the same time Peter’s advice buzzes in my head reminding me that I should not judge a person from his appearance.
‘‘I can’t be sure… Perhaps someone else may be hiding behind these murders, someone whom we don’t know at all. When a public figure is successful, he becomes a target for many people who are seeking for his fall. I know that I said the same things about Nomikos and now I have shifted my interest elsewhere, but I want my consciousness to be calm and now it isn’t.’’
He opens the door and makes a gesture to Ildar to enter. Ioannis is sitting on the red chair and resting his head on the adjacent, blue chair. Nektarios has taken the role of the host in the singer’s house, as the latter is committed to his position.
Ildar follows the lyricist in a corridor abo
ut three meters long and observes the paintings that are hanging on both sides of the wall. Frames from completed puzzles depicting images with the liquid element as a protagonist. Oceans, rivers, aquatic organizations. A square puzzle with two starfish on the sand catches his attention.
‘‘Did you learn anything else?’’ Nektarios picks up a cup from the table, he fills it with filter coffee and gives it to the dancer.
‘‘Only what I told you on the phone,’’ he responds and sits at the table. He chooses the green chair.
Ioannis’s apartment looks like a colored aquarium. Light blue dominates on the wall, while there are elements referring to the sea in every corner. A basket full of shells of different sizes is displayed in a prominent position. Every corner shines with cleanness and everything is in complete order. It is hard to believe that a man lives in this home.
‘‘What did they ask you?’’ Nektarios takes Deligiannis’s role. Ildar is under interrogation again.
‘‘More details about me. When I came here, when I first met Aphrodite…’’ he pretends drinking a sip, without swallowing the content. The trust to the people opposite him has been zeroed.
‘‘Do they suspect you of anything?’’
‘‘No?’’ The dancer’s full of wonder rhetorical question is addressed to the lyricist and his gaze ends to Ioannis. ‘‘Will you participate normally in the competition?’’
The singer raises his head in an attempt to keep it in its natural position. Exhaustion is spread on his face. ‘‘No. I will ask to have my participation cancelled,’’ he whispers with a voice, which is hardly heard.
‘‘Are you serious? We have done so much preparation! You will hang the production. You can’t do that!’’
Nektarios’s reaction seems absolutely justified to the singer’s ears but seems to be indifferent to him. ‘‘I won’t go with a song a murderer wrote…’’ he says arming his eyes with unprecedented self-courage. Ildar lets his cup on the table, and he turns his attention to Ioannis.
The Last Symphony Page 21