The Last Symphony

by Tonia Lalousi

  ‘‘We said that we would tell everyone that the song was written by me. You can’t quit… You owe it to those who trusted you…’’ Nektarios lowers the volume of his voice.

  ‘‘And what will people say when they learn that the composer of his songs is a murderer?’’ Ildar mocks Nektarios’s revolt in his authentic manner.

  ‘‘People always gossip, no matter what you do…’’ he returns the caustic hint and approaches his collaborator.

  ‘‘Ioannis please… This competition was your dream… Our dream! To go to Europe… To become known worldwide… To make everyone to talk about you…’’

  ‘‘From tomorrow everyone will talk about me…’’

  An unrestrained wave of tears visits again his eyes. For the umpteenth time today. He disappears in the corridor and a deafening noise from the closing of the bedroom door shakes the glass of the balcony door in the living room.

  There are only two players left on the table sitting opposite to each other. Ildar looks indifferently at Nektarios, having added him to the list of those people he detests.

  ‘‘Everyone meets many different types of people during a lifetime. A categorization criterion is their life goal. Some people would do everything to gain glory, fame and recognition; others would sacrifice even their freedom on the altar of money, while others would die for the love of their life. Fame, money, love. These are the main three categories that include different subcategories of people. All three are delimited by rules and commands which in case, they are broken by their members, can cause destruction to others or even self-destruct. Life is a game of choices, starting with desires and ending with their satisfactions. You, Mr. Giannatos, in which category do you place yourself?’’ Targeted question by Ildar.

  ‘‘Surely, I am not interested in love. Some don’t fall in any category. Take Ioannis for example He pretends not to be interested in anything. From the moment we returned from the Department he has been crying incessantly. He hasn’t been doing anything else. I can’t believe he is worrying so much for a stranger!’’

  ‘‘A stranger? I thought that he emerged in the musical scene thanks to him…’’

  ‘‘Yes, correctly. And he is crying because he won’t get any more songs. Ioannis is half without Dima. Not half. A quarter,’’ he says and seems to be regretting about his words. ‘‘He just irritates me a lot!’’

  Ildar is spinning the cup with slow, lazy movements. ‘‘I justify his reaction if we consider that we are talking about a vulnerable and fragile person. In this way, he is expressing his sadness.’’

  Nektarios throws a sarcastic smile. ‘‘Vulnerable and fragile? And how does he go on stage and confront so many people? He is just selfish. He only cares about himself! This is the best version I can think of…’’ he sighs and gets up from the table.

  ‘‘The stage is the artist’s refuge. It is the place where he can express what he feels through his art, hoping he will manage to transfer it to his audience. On the stage, selfishness doesn’t exist. The artist exposes his soul.’’

  ‘‘Ildar…’’ he takes a playful expression and approaches the dancer. ‘‘Do you know many artists experiencing what you say? Nearly all of them are interested just in money, to increase their accounts. And I care about that too! I am not a hypocrite; I say it clearly. I am absolutely honest,’’ he confirms with his every word with the opening of his eyes. His opponent rests his fingers on the cup with an irritating calmness.

  ‘‘Sometimes, Mr. Giannatos, absolute honesty is the alibi of hypocrisy.’’

  ‘‘Are you calling me a hypocrite?’’

  ‘‘You, Mr. Vasilikos, Mr. Vladimirov… Someone is pretending. Can you claim with sureness that I don’t know the killer?’’

  ‘‘Don’t tell me now that you are murdering together with Dima!’’

  ‘‘I said I may know him… I may have spoken to him, looking him in the eyes…’’ he says and spins the cup for the last time. ‘‘The people with true feelings. They experience on the stage what I mentioned,’’ he says and walks towards the corridor. Ildar is now on the list of people Nektarios dislikes.

  ‘‘Search!’’

  ‘‘Peter calm down a bit,’’ I advise him for the third time within half an hour. He is over Andrew’s head and is asking him with polite threats to discover something incriminating for Vasilikos.

  ‘‘There is nothing… Peter, I think that this time you may be wrong…’’ Second indictment on the part of Ioannis. Daring.

  My husband lets out a sigh with overwhelming desperation. I cannot understand if this rage to solve cases that have been closed is the result of the instinct or of some form of mental illness.

  ‘‘Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Dima didn’t ask for his own lawyer? Do you want me to repeat the words of that lousy lawyer they appointed him? He said that for the first time in his life he meets someone so uncompromising to confess the crime, without condemning someone else. And he will never confess because he is not the killer!’’

  I tend towards mental illness.

  ‘‘Or he just doesn’t care about prison, Peter! How many years has he left? Two? Three? He could easily accuse Vasilikos and he didn’t do it because he obviously lied about him tooking his blood…’’ the voice of reason cries through Antonella’s lips.

  He hits his palm on the surface of the desk and seeks for the black marker. He proceeds to the board and I fall comfortably back onto the chair to watch his show.

  ‘‘First…’’ He opens the marker and takes the style of an orator preparing to impress his fans. ‘‘We received an anonymous call for voices from Nomikos’s house, while the student from the next-door apartment said he didn’t hear anything. Second…’’ He opens and closes the marker simultaneously with his eyes. ‘‘We got there and found the killer, who is Dima Vladimirov, sitting and waiting for the police,’’ he says and notes on the board the words killer and police. ‘‘The same careful killer who doesn’t leave fingerprints anywhere, neither the syringe that administered the anesthetics to Nomikos’s daughter, while accidentally he is aware of the proportions and their effects, without having any contact with medicine,’’ he continues and notes the word anesthetics. ‘‘Third… He dedicates a melody to the victim, a melody that according to everyone was not written by him…’’ Next word: melody. ‘‘Fourth… He commits a second murder, incriminating himself with his blood!’’ he laughs noting the word blood. He frightens me a bit. ‘‘Finally, it’s worth noticing that he had no motive for any of the murders. So he woke up one day and decided he wanted to pass his last few years in prison…’’ he fills in the word motive and circles the words. ‘‘This is the killer: Dima Vladimirov,’’ he concludes and looks at us as if he is waiting for our applause.

  His passion excites me and worries me at the same time. His arguments make sense, but when there is no way to prove otherwise your initial assumption should be accepted. In this case, of course, this assumption should not be spoken out in the face of our criminologist.

  ‘‘He will never confess because he hasn’t committed any crime and I will prove it to you…’’ he says and picks up his phone. I wonder if it is a good choice to ask him where he is going. ‘‘Magda, I’ll be late for dinner. Actually, I may be away one or two days,’’ he says with a cool naturalness. ‘‘Don’t worry… Call me if you need something.’’ He gives me a quick kiss on head and leaves the room before I can find a proper word.

  ‘‘Thanks to Peter I learn to appreciate my own husband…’’ Antonella smiles making me immerse in grief.

  He throws the mobile phone on the tapestry of the wall and he scans with his left hand whatever exists on the glass surface of his desk. The ashtray, the glass with whiskey, the agenda and the mobile are scattered on the floor.

  ‘‘Are you well, Mr. Marinakis?’’

  ‘‘Don’t come into my office again, unless I call you! Go away! Now!’’

  His secretary closes the door in a flash. The director o
f the record label Replay Music fishes with trembling hands a cigarette from his drawer. The smoke fails to curb his rage.

  The man passes the inner door with his head lowered. He looks at the bombed landscape around the director’s desk. This was exactly the image he expected. He enjoys it with internal fireworks, which are imprinted in a mask of disappointment. This is what he is serving to Marinakis.

  ‘‘You knew it… You knew who he was…’’ his words sound like a delirium.

  ‘‘What does it matter now? He is a murderer. You are lucky he didn’t manage to come here… Voice Record is the loser now…’’ he points out calmly.

  ‘‘And what am I? So, Dima Vladimirov, eh? Damn it!’’ he throws the cigarette on the floor and extinguishes the cigarette butt with his foot. ‘‘I will accompany him to prison in a short time… I have risked a lot… I invested on names that destroyed me!’’ he shouts and looks desperately to the broken glass on the floor. He needs some alcohol.

  The man grimaces with understanding, trying to conceal the wave of pleasure running through his eyes.

  ‘‘I want back the money I gave you.’’

  ‘‘This can’t happen. The money went into moves that would bring Dima here.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care at all! If you don’t bring it back to me until tomorrow morning, everyone will learn that you tried to deceive him… Everyone will learn who is hiding behind your innocent face…’’ he threatens him lowering his eyebrows.

  Expected attack by the director. The man expected it. ‘‘I will try.’’ He fastens his jacket and walks to the door. ‘‘Ultimately no matter how perfect someone is, even if he has reached the top, he can be found at the bottom with a wrong move. And what counts most is the end of every person… This completes his story… This is how everyone will remember him…’’ he says and leaves Marinakis’s office.

  A trip to Moscow

  Peter is dragging his blue suitcase down the aisle of Eleftherios Venizelos airport holding his ticket and his passport. He has thrown in it two shirts and two pairs of trousers, while he did not add a jacket, a coat, or even a scarf. He considers himself tough enough to withstand the cold of the city he is going to visit.

  He is searching for his target in the waiting seats. He looks at the departures on the bulletin board. Their flight is taking off in forty minutes. He spots the person he was looking for, a few meters beyond. He notices that the young man is talking on the camera of his mobile. He supposes he is making a video call, or he is getting ready to upload a story on Instagram. He locks on the second choice when he sees him turning his mobile phone in the space and back to him again. He approaches him. He sits next to him, attracting his attention. The dancer’s eyes focus on the blue suitcase.

  ‘‘You wished me to find the answers I am looking for from those who can give them to me…’’ he says looking at the bulletin board. ‘‘Will you help me find those people?’’ Peter turns his gaze to Ildar with insufficient discipline. He is not used to asking for help, especially from people he dislikes. He wrinkles the eyebrows. His strict look places prohibitions everywhere and forces him not to distract his attention from the board.

  Ildar activates the flight mode on his mobile, closes the case, and hides it in his pocket. He aligns his back, and his gaze goes in a parallel line with that of the criminologist.

  ‘‘I know exactly with whom you should talk.’’

  ‘‘I was sure.’’ He returns the gaze to the dancer with complacency. Under other circumstances, they could even become buddies. Ildar is his calm alter-ego.

  Their seats on the plane are at a distance of five rows. Ildar places his black backpack between his legs and throws his head back. Peter is hitting his fingers on his knees, looking at the fellow passengers in his row.

  A man in his fifties, costumed with a gold bracelet on his hand, is reading a newspaper. He takes a sneak on the top. The header is writing the word Economy and he thinks he may be sitting next to a stockbroker. The lady next to him is wearing a purple hat and a leopard gabardine. She is sweating and searching for the air conditioning system. At the seat next to the window another middle-aged man is looking out of it, chewing a snack in a colored bag.

  The pilot in command states that they are twenty thousand feet above the ground and that the outside temperature is at minus thirty-five degrees Celsius. Peter crooks his lips and rolls his eyes. He always considered useless this piece of information. He does not understand why passengers are interested in the measurement of the outside temperature, as no one has the intention of going there. His nervousness peaks at the completion of two hours, while he has read half of the businessman’s newspaper. On the other hand, Ildar has his eyes closed and his hands crossed, listening to music on his headphones.

  After three and a half hours they land at Vnukovo airport. They are waiting for their suitcases on the rolling bench of position 7. Ildar opens the black backpack and takes out a black hat, a grey woolen scarf, and a red sweatshirt. Peter is watching him while he is wearing them and raises his chin. His selfishness does not let him admit that he should have brought something warmer with him. The dancer insulates his head with the knitted accessories and lifts the collar of the jacket up to the ears. Peter copies his last movement in a desperate attempt not to show his new informant’s superiority.

  They walk through the shops area and the criminologist’s gaze falls on the Russian inscriptions. A cafe in a green establishment draws his attention. He tries unsuccessfully to read the name of the shop. He considers the fact that the inscription is written in Russian rather than in English an unprofitable kind of marketing. This is his excuse. He wonders why he never learned some basic Russian, as much as he needed just to read the inscription.

  ‘‘Have you booked a hotel room?’’

  Peter nods negatively. Ildar does not seem willing to guide him, nor does he make any comment to him about his thin coat. As they walk towards the exit, the temperature decreases dramatically for the criminologist. Just outside he seems to be ready to start talking spontaneously in Russian, watching the temperature of minus ten degrees Celsius on his phone.

  ‘‘Meet me at the red square in the department store GYM in two hours, sir’’ Ildar says and gets into the first taxi.

  The proud criminologist is overwhelmed by anger. He has not learned to be given orders, let alone from people younger than him. Normally he would change the time, the place, whatever as long as he was the one who had the first word. However, a gaze around him makes him realize that Ildar has an important lead because he is playing at home.

  Or simply because he is smart.

  Peter proceeds to the next taxi, while his upper and lower limbs are trembling. The driver puts the suitcase in the boot of the taxi. The interior of the car feels like just one-degree warmer than the external environment. The chill of the limbs is transferred to his face as well.

  The taxi driver notices his sensitivity to the cold and turns on the air conditioner. They move away from the airport and drive on Leninsky Avenue for about twenty minutes. It is the first time he is visiting Moscow and maybe the last if he doesn’t buy two jackets from a local store soon.

  He is thinking about Magda. When he arrives at the hotel, he must inform her he will be late and reveal to her where he is. The excuse that he came to Moscow in order to locate old associates of Vladimirov, who were motivated to harm him, is completely convincing in his mind. He opens the maps application and searches for a hotel near the red square.

  The taxi stops in the heart of the city. Peter opens the door bravely and a cold wind hits his face furiously. No. It is not simply a wind. It is a mixture of hail and wind that pierces his semi-coat, transferring the cold even under his skin. The sky is hazy, but the people around him seem happy. He notices that each one of them is wearing a double-digit number of clothes and accessories. He frowns and pulls his blue suitcase.

  The hotel he chose is just two hundred meters away from the red square. He reaches the entrance w
ith the help of the GPS and he is impressed by its grandiose architecture and decoration of the buildings; Grotesque, strict, classical.

  Passing the high door with burgundy lining at the entrance of the hotel he feels blood flowing again in his tissues. He is in a hurry to book a room, motivating the blonde girl at the reception desk to input his data more quickly, and goes by elevator to the third floor.

  Room 302. He leaves the suitcase on the bed. He approaches the balcony door. His look spreads on the avenue in front of the hotel. He looks at the time on his right hand. Just a little more than an hour has passed from the moment they arrived in Moscow. His appointment with Ildar is in fifty minutes.

  He takes his mobile phone out of his pocket to make a telephone call to Magda. In the next moment, her condemning voice echoes in his ears making him end the call in a hurry. His logic supports his wife when the emotion leads him back to the red square.

  A beautiful chaos! This is how he would describe the most famous square of Moscow. He is walking on the paving looking at the artistic explosion around him. He is holding his collar tightly around his neck as he is increasing speed to compensate as much as possible for the attack of the crystal air. He is stepping with his mobile in the other hand, browsing Google to find out what is around him.

  He passes in front of St. Basil’s cathedral. He distinguishes the onion-shaped domes that remind him of swirling flames, due to their impressive colours. Their asymmetrical placement gives a special architecture to the temple that makes him want to see inside them. The consciousness rejects the suggestion of the subconscious. Opposite the temple, he meets the city’s Museum of History. The red colour of the bricks attracts his attention. He realizes that it is the colour prevailing around him, through various shades. He lowers his eyes on the paving and its tile-colored shade.