Going up the square, he meets the Kremlin Walls. The red filter comes in front of his eyes again but breaks with the silver colour in its towers. On the side he sees a huge building that also looks like a palace. On its top, he reads the inscription GYM. He raises his eyebrow in front of the huge department store and proceeds to the open entrance. The warm air from the inside makes him smile.
He singles out Ildar from afar and gets annoyed with his slow pace. He wants to run towards him and seize from his hands whatever valuable information he can offer. He hardens his look and waits patiently in his position.
‘‘This is the address of his mother’s house and this is his teacher’s phone number. He always talked to us about him. He knows him since he was a small child, so I thought you would like to talk to him,’’ he explains to him giving him a card. Peter is startled by his striking calligraphy, thinking of his own handwriting.
A doctor’s calligraphy.
‘‘Will I be able to communicate with them? Do you know if they speak English?’’
‘‘I could come with you.’’
‘‘I would appreciate it.’’
The dancer grimaces with his eyes. ‘‘Would you like to go for food first?’’
The proposal seems liberating for the criminologist who is sustaining himself just with a cup of coffee. ‘‘OK. We won’t be late,’’ he answers and follows Ildar into the department store.
The multilevel building has an aristocratic architecture, which escapes modernization patterns. He notices the carvings on the railings of the upper floor and the fountain on the ground floor. Ildar takes off his hat and his scarf and put them in his black backpack.
A girl with a white patisserie’s hat is handing out traditional pies in front of the fountain. Their smell challenges Peter to try them. They ascend by the escalator to the first and then the second floor, rejecting the proposal to test the pie.
Level 2. The influx of people is minimal here. Ildar enters a corner store with black carved tables. He suggests to Peter they sit at the left corner. Three hanging chandeliers give a retro sense to the place. They both order crepes - here called blini – with ice-cream.
‘‘I want to know the people he collaborated with. I want to learn whom he trusted. I don’t believe he is guilty. This is why I am here. ‘‘Do you exclude the possibility of someone having set a trap from here?’’
‘‘Until he came to Greece, he was the first name in every musical and theatrical stage in Moscow. Many of his competitors would like to end this endless course of glory; however, I consider your scenario impossible. If someone really trapped him, then I believe it is one of his collaborators and competitors in your country.’’
‘‘In Greece, he collaborated only with Vasilikos and Giannatos.’’
Ildar smiles softly as if considering self-evident his next sentence. ‘‘Mr. Deligiannis, where there is great success, there are a lot of hidden secrets as well. Can you be sure that he only spoke with those two people?’’ The raising of his left eyebrow returns triumphantly.
‘‘I suspect Vasilikos. He seems to have been jealous of the glory Dima was receiving for his creations. He decided to get him out of the fame, without interrupting their collaboration. Now Vasilikos is well-known in Greece. He doesn’t need him anymore,’’ he comments without receiving an answer from Ildar. ‘‘Also. the murderer seems to have knowledge of anesthetic medicines and he happens to be a doctor,’’ he goggles trying to convince the dancer.
‘‘It is not a nuclear experiment... After all, don’t get obsessed with this, sir’’ he discourages him and drinks some water.
Peter puffs and blows recognizing the correctness of his remark. A sense of the futility in his trip creates a weak knot in his stomach. He passes his fingers through his hair, pulling out a long sigh. ‘‘I can’t incriminate anyone else… The lyricist has an alibi.’’
‘‘Maybe because he needs it…’’ he says in a soft voice the moment the waitress in the blue uniform is serving them their crepes. He thanks the young girl, and she responds giving him a warm smile.
‘‘Are you suspicious of the lyricist?’’
‘‘I have told you, sir… I don’t suspect anyone… Simply Mr. Giannatos didn’t give me the best impression. He is disrespectful and possessed by a strong will for profit. The insolent personalities, in my opinion, are capable of anything…’’ He cuts a piece of his crepe and passes it over the vanilla ice cream.
‘‘And Vasilikos may belong to the category of the best actors. It is better to be insolent and show your true self than hiding behind tearful masks. He has such a sweet and innocent face… He is the only one who had a motive, but I need evidence to incriminate him. I will search a lot. But first I need to make sure that the composer is innocent and to examine if there are suspects here too,’’ he says and, in a few seconds, he disappears half the content from his plate.
Dima Vladimirov's mother’s house is situated in the Danilovsky District. There are foliages on both sides of the main street that give a note of oxygen in a quite polluted city.
They are standing outside her well-maintained house. They open the low barred door and pass through a narrow path with cultivated plants of various species. The red roses are prevailing.
‘‘Just a minute.’’ Ildar stops Peter before ringing the bell. ‘‘I am not sure if Mr. Vladimirov has spoken to his mother about his disease, so it would be better to be discreet.’’
‘‘We don’t even know if she has been informed of his arrest,’’ the criminologist adds.
The door opens and a tiny, old woman is hesitantly hiding behind it. Her eyes are swollen. The black robe that covers her body has lost its shining from repeated washing.
‘‘Good evening, Mrs. Vladimirov. My name is Peter Deligiannis, and I am a police officer. You speak Greek, don’t you?’’
Her forehead wrinkles making the ripples from her wrinkles even more distinguishable. ‘‘What do you want?’’ she asks sharply, trying to overpass the typical questions. Ildar is watching her lips without understanding what she’s saying in Greek.
‘‘I would like to pose you a few questions about your son. Did he contact you?’’
‘‘Dima is innocent.’’
‘‘I am here because I believe the same. May we come in?’’
The composer’s mother throws a sharp look to both men, trying to remember from where she knows the young blonde man. She steps back and lets them pass in. The smell of a sauce with spices has taken over the space. They sit on the couch. Ildar is looking at the three paintings with the old frames on the opposite wall as a mere observer. In the right corner, there is a candle smoldering on a small table full of icons.
‘‘Mrs. Vladimirov, your son is accused of two murders and has already been imprisoned in Athens.’’
‘‘My son is not a killer,’’ she says with the same steadiness and her dead voice.
‘‘I am the head of the case.’’ This time his statement doesn’t express pride, but a heavy responsibility. ‘‘Obviously, your son didn’t confess any of the two murders. I believe him and I am trying to examine the possibility of someone having trapped him. I am here to help him, trust me.’’
The woman seems to be convinced. She slightly relaxing the shoulders.
‘‘May you tell me for what reason he returned to Greece?’’
‘‘He said he needed a break.’’
‘‘So, there is no obvious reason? I mean maybe he had a conflict with one of his associates here?’’
‘‘He left very suddenly. I can’t know if something like that happened. He didn’t tell me anything.’’ The anxiety is reflected on her eyes as if she is sorry for her indefinite answer.
‘‘May you tell me if he had a relationship? I am trying to spot every person who would want to take revenge on him for something.’’
The black dressed mother drags her legs up to the kitchen and brings a small picture frame. ‘‘Their wedding would take place in June.’�
�� She passes the photo in the criminologist’s hands. ‘‘They were very loved…’’ Her eyes are watering. ‘‘I don’t know why they broke up… It is impossible for them to have quarreled. They were the most beloved couple… Julia is such a sweet girl and she loved him very much!’’ she confesses trying to hold her tears.
Peter brings the two murdered girls to his mind. They were both brunette. Julia is red-haired. He observes the bright smile they both have in the photo. It is difficult for him to believe that he is the same person he met at the Department.
‘‘How was your son at a younger age? Had he ever shown excessive aggression, especially to girls?’’
‘‘No, officer! From a young age, he was very sensitive…’’
‘‘Had he broke up again with this girl?’’
‘‘Never. They were inseparable from the first moment.’’
‘‘Where is she now?’’
‘‘I am trying to learn news from her, but she and her mother don’t even want to hear our name. She was severely depressed when they divorced, but the other day I saw her with her mom in downtown, so I suppose she feels a little better. Of course, I didn’t dare to approach them. I don’t know, officer, what happened between them, but my son is a very good person! I am sure he didn’t divorce her for an unimportant reason… He doesn’t speak…He doesn’t say anything… From the moment he went to Greece, he has distanced himself from everyone, even me.’’
The lyricist’s words come forward. Peter believes that Dima sacrificed himself to hurt as little as possible the people he loves; one more fact that confirms his innocence.
‘‘A beautiful red-haired,’’ he whispers as they walk out with Ildar on the main road.
‘‘What are you thinking of?’’
‘‘The composer learnt about his disease and decided to leave for Greece, lying to his beloved people with the sole purpose of not hurting them. He didn’t want them to suffer with him. He didn’t want to make them experience his new daily life. He didn’t want them to see him be disfigured… He chose to keep the pain for himself… I believe that he is a courageous man with a tough presentation and a sensitive soul. He wants to do everything in his power to find a culprit. Ioannis is stuck on his mind. Julia could also want to take revenge on him. I must definitely talk to her.’’
‘‘In the most tragic way, the identity of the composer of Ioannis Vasilikos’s great successes was revealed. Behind the enchanting compositions the distinguished Russian composer, Dima Vladimirov, was hiding, who today was remanded in custody for the murder of Orpheus Nomikos’s daughter, as well as for the murder of one of the dance school LET’S DANCE secretaries, Aphrodite Despotaki. The participation of the rising singer in the Eurovision is now on thin ice, while he has still not made any comments. Record label Replay Music shares the same mood of mourning, as a few hours ago its director, George Marinakis, died instantly on Poseidon Avenue, after his car went off the road, hitting the protective bar. Let’s watch the whole detailed report.’’
I turn off the TV. I cannot bear to hear more details about the story my husband doesn’t want to give an end to. His suppositions are not completely non-evidenced, but this conscientiousness of his sometimes goes beyond the permitted limits. I do not know what he is trying to find in Moscow, but I am preparing to meet an angry Peter, or even outraged, when he returns empty handed. Sometimes we should fight some instincts, as the truth is waiting at the corner to cancel everything.
Because this is the nature of truth.
‘‘Mom when is Peter going to be back?’’
Violeta, as his natural successor, did not believe me when I announced to her that he will be back in a few days and she thinks he has left home because we had a quarrel. Her frowning look cannot accept the truth.
There are times when I think about how her relationship with Stephen would be. I do not dare to ask her if she ever thinks of him, because I am a coward. I am afraid. She shows so much love to Peter that I do not want to overshadow a memory. When I told her that her father passed away and is with Christ in heaven, she did not speak for two weeks. I do not want to remember that period. Neither Peter could cheer her up. I do not know if my silence is right, but I would do everything not to make her cry again.
I change my mood and wear a bright smile. ‘‘Do you want us to cook?’’ I ask her full of appetite and excitement.
‘‘Will you cook?’’ she looks at me with a dejected gaze shouting her denial with her eyes.
An exact copy of Mr. Deligiannis.
‘‘We will cook together!’’ I announce to her, overpassing her reaction and I pull her from the hand towards the kitchen. ‘‘We will make a perfect spaghetti!’’ I choose to follow my beloved husband’s advice.
Two hours later, a pot with a watery tomato sauce and another one with boiled spaghetti, which was supposed to welcome the red sauce but stuck on the bottom -probably because I didn’t put much water- make us abandon the kitchen. We are sitting in the living room wrapped with two blankets and we devouring the burgers we ordered with french-fries and fizzing drinks.
Before going to bed alone, I think I should stop the cooking attempts. I feel euphoria when I realize that I am worried about such issues and not questions abot Peter’s love for me.
Calmness. Peace of mind is we must offer ourselves. Basic prerequisite for its acquisition is the pure consciousness and the replacement of negative thoughts with positive ones.
I rest my laptop on my legs. I type into the search engine Ioannis Vasilikos’s name. The first results are relevant to the news around the composer’s name. I try to avoid the immeasurable misinformation they contain, and I look for older publications. I stop at an interview he had given a month ago in a well-known magazine.
The reporter’s questions are common and predictable. How he started occupying himself with songs, how he feels with the great success he has noted in the beginning of his career, which kinds of music he prefers… I am trying to spot an element that can present him in my eyes as an ambitious person who would kill for fame. Just before I close the website, I find the trap question.
Do you believe that you would have the same success with the creations of the, unknown to us, composer?
His answer confirms my initial allegations.
Without these creations, I would never have started my journey in the world of music. These songs made me famous. Whatever I have achieved up to this day is due to this composer. He is the best. I admire him.
If Peter were here, he would tell me that these statements reinforce his possible guilt, but I think he is wrong. I notice sincere gratitude and admiration for Dima’s work. I believe that Vasilikos is one of the few people who express their thoughts with sincerity and selflessness. I continue the search until I surrender to a calm sleep.
Why become mediocre?
Today is their anniversary. Today he made a wedding proposal. Today he learned that he will become a father soon. All the words of love he has told her are passing through his mind.
You are the reason I smile every morning... You are my only thought before I fall asleep... You are the woman I want as the mother of my children... I want you next to me forever... To eat together, sleep together, wake up together, do everything together... You are the woman of my dreams... You made me believe in love again... I love you, Catherine... I love you...
He is holding Catherine’s note, having a negative premonition. His fingers are flickering. He is afraid that this note is hiding an end. She was distant in the morning, but she responded positively to the wedding proposal he made to her so eagerly. When his mother abandoned him, he was looking for love every day and Catherine gave him more than he needed.
He feels stupid. He realizes that he is extravagant. He thinks that it is nothing more than a love note, as like the ones at the beginning of their relationship. He wants to smile, but his lips do not cooperate. He sits on the bed and reads.
Peter, I am sorry... I am not what you want...I am not made fo
r this kind of commitment... I love my freedom and your love is restricting it... Please don’t compare me with your mother... I must leave because our relationship is suffocating me. You are suffocating me, without realizing it... We tried it many times, but you can’t understand me... In the morning I accepted the wedding proposal because you surprised me... I don’t want to give birth to our child. I want to be free again. I had told you I wasn’t ready to become a mother, nor get married... Maybe this relationship was my mistake... I came after you and now I am asking for your forgiveness... I wish you to find the one you are looking for and become happy...
Catherine
He jumps out of bed. His shirt is soaking from his sweat. The same nightmare. He lowers the temperature of the air conditioner to ten degrees. He clears his mind, reminding himself he has Magda and a beautiful family with her now. He is angry because he cannot forget the memories that whip his dreams. That letter is the reason he cannot trust Magda as much as he would like. He cannot feel confident, he can’t trust anyone totally. He is afraid that someone might betray him again. He had given everything to Catherine and she killed their unborn baby, leading him to a neurological clinic. Who can convince him that Magda will be beside him until the end? Who can tell him that she will not leave him, as his mother and Catherine did?
A person living with insecurities and fears is doomed to die several times during his life. Mental death is much more painful than physical death. He knows it. He confesses it. He admits it. He is sorry he cannot confront it. He extends his hand on the bedside table and takes his children’s photograph out of his wallet. He is sure that they will never betray him.
He forgets the bad sensation of his dream and looks at his watch. It is ten to nine. He wears it on his right hand and fixes the collar on his coat. In the last half an hour he has turned off the air conditioner to prepare his body for the cold that is waiting to welcome him in the icy, still beautiful Moscow. This city, from the least he got to know it, managed to charm him and he would very much love to visit it again with Magda.
The Last Symphony Page 23