Ildar is waiting for him outside the credit card overload department store. They get into a taxi to the theatre the dancer is working in to meet up Dima’s music teacher.
‘‘He asked us to wait for him in the showroom. I don’t know him personally, but he sounded a little weird on the phone...’’ Ildar informs Peter and turns his attention outside the window. A woman is pulling a little child from the hand, while a man is running to catch a bus.
They arrive at the entrance of theater. They ascend three wide stairs. The dancer pushes the black door with the translucent glass inwards, while the criminologist focuses on the poster with the theater’s program.
They walk through the vestibule and then enter a room which is surrounded by grey curtains on one side- cutting off eye contact with the outside - and on the other side there is a minibar serving the guests. On the walls, there are frames with photos of dancers from the shows. The ceiling and the floor are also in shades of grey, with the alternation of white and black colour on the tiles and with the presence of oblong, squared luminaires.
Ildar could guide the Greek police officer with his eyes closed, as he has been a soloist in the particular theatre for more than seven years and therefore knows every corner of the building. They enter the showroom, and they head downwards towards the stage. Their appointment with the composer’s teacher is in half an hour, a period of time that seems extremely long for the impatient criminologist.
The dancer goes up on stage and puts his black backpack aside. He takes off his jacket and stays with his elastic trousers in the colour of skin and a black T-shirt. On the other hand, the temperature of the room allows Peter to open a little collar of his coat. Only this.
The young man sits on the edge of the stage, shaking his knees rhythmically. The police officer speculates that the dancer’s program will continue with a rehearsal or some other type of warm-up. Ildar closes his eyes, keeping on the reciprocating motion of the feet, while Peter chooses to sit in one of the front row seats.
He raises his sleeve on the right hand and realizes that there are still fifteen minutes left until they meet the Russian musician. His fingers start their nervous game on his knee and his breath follows their rhythm. His impatience is perhaps the first characteristic that anyone who comes in contact with him reports.
‘‘Are you always so quiet?’’ he throws an aggressive question to the dancer, as the calmness of the latter causes disorders to his nervous system.
‘‘I love silence. It creates ideas in my mind. It is the original source of inspiration for me...’’ he responds with a recognizable gleam in his eyes. ‘‘Then I play music and create choreographies, filling them with my emotions. All my creations derive from the union of silence, music, and my soul.’’
‘‘I am scared by silence. It shows me my fears, reminds me of my weaknesses. On the contrary, a chaotic world absorbs me and cuts me off from my darkness. You are lucky that you are not afraid of being exposed to the void. You are lucky that you are not afraid of silence...’’ he confesses effortlessly as if he feels safe next to the dancer.
‘‘Chaos is not only darkness. It is also light; glaring, fiery. If you don’t confront the truth you can’t hide anywhere. Do you believe in God?’’
‘‘Of course!’’
‘‘Faith means moving forward, despite being afraid. Life demands boldness, with an understanding of personal and general limits, but, above all, you need patience. Patience fuels hope.’’
The disciplined criminologist regrets his instantaneous loss of self-control and raises his body to show his high self-confidence. ‘‘I was referring to the people I save daily. Do you know how difficult it is to distinguish the light in the darkness? I love my job because it gives me the chance to identify errors and give justice, but think how difficult it is to stay unaffected by all this... I want my every choice to be right. I don’t forgive mistakes to myself.’’
‘‘When you love what you do, then you learn to convert the stress it may be causing you to creativity. Your choice to get here shows exactly this: that you love your job,’’ Ildar says, and Peter agrees with his words lowering his eyes. ‘‘For me, every dance is a trip to the world of emotions, memories, and desires. When the music ends, I return to reality.’’
‘‘It sounds fascinating.’’
‘‘And it is, but this is exactly the point where you may get lost... The moment when the light of shine may blind you and lose yourself, chasing glory...’’
‘‘How are you protected by this?’’
‘‘When you know where you started and where you can reach, then you can’t lose your way...’’ he responds highlighting a list of virtues that can be recognized in his face. The dancer’s eyes move away from Peter and meet a man at the top of the room. An elderly gentleman is at the door and after recognizing them, he proceeds towards them. The police officer’s gaze follows that of the dancer’s.
Alexander Jovanov, known in the worldwide music community with the nickname Yonshi, descends the right aisle, resting his weight on a plastic walking stick. On his head, he is wearing a blue beret and bone myopia glasses which, together with his neat beard, complete a poetic figure.
‘‘Good morning,’’ he greets them slightly rising the walking stick from the floor. ‘‘You must be the criminologist from Greece, right?’’ he asks him in fluent English, receiving a positive nod from Peter and sits next to him.
‘‘Ildar explained the situation to me. Dima was one of my first students… It was exactly thirty-two year ago when he started learning the notes... I noticed his passion for music from our first lesson. I saw the flame in his eyes! This warmth which if an artist doesn’t have, he will never do anything creative in his life...’’
Ildar recalls the first day that he went to the dance school when he was nearly seven years old. He remembers that, from the first moment, dancing unlocked himself. He can imagine the composer being enchanted by the notes, as he was fascinated by the force of motion.
‘‘He was a sensitive and sweet child... Maybe more than he should and that was his mistake...’’ he says with a heavy voice and dry coughs. ‘‘One day, while he was in the last grade of primary school, he came to our lesson three hours earlier than appointed. He appeared in front of me with melancholy in his eyes and he asked me if he could sit with me. I asked him to explain to me what had happened, but he didn’t respond and started playing a dramatic melody on the piano,’’ he continues having completely distracted the interest of his two listeners. ‘‘I sat next to him without telling him anything until he burst into tears. Life is created in such a way that it keeps alive the strongest. Dima was born to engage in the art, but school is organized in such a way that it doesn’t allow the development of individual creativity. It’s about a pursuit of the best grades, aiming at the conquest of perfection. If a student is not good at Mathematics or History, he is considered failed. The educational system won’t enter the process to discover a possible hidden talent, but gentlemen, not everyone was born to become a scientist! However, everyone is pursuing in studying a science, right?’’
Peter agrees silently. From Ildar a positive confirmation is heard.
‘‘He was always left out. His classmates start mocking him, making him believe that he is unworthy. The disapproval of teachers and the non-existent intercourse with peers drove him on the sidelines... I didn’t tell him to stop grieving, nor stop crying. However, I gave him a piece of advice I have learned during my life: when a person is vulnerable, he becomes an easy target for the toughest people but he can’t and should not expel that sensitivity, because it defines his personality. It complements himself. No characteristic is positive or negative. The influence of each element depends on the way we use it. Intelligence is a good thing, isn’t it?’’ he asks the two men, without waiting for a response. ‘‘Do you know how many people intelligence has destroyed by it?’’ he continues, turning his listeners into his fans. ‘‘So, I urged him to believe in himself and
to turn his sensitivity into a reason of admiration. I told him that, one day, people who didn’t believe in him will be saying proudly that they knew him. I told him to free his emotions in music, to start writing melodies. Sad, romantic, emotional... Sounds that will touch his heart and will ease his pain… At the same time, I asked him to become the toughest, and most cold-blooded young man towards everyone who would try to mock him, to express his feeling in music and his rationalism in social life.’’
The top pianist completes his speech, leaving Peter and Ildar clearly impressed. Specifically, Peter does not even make the slightest move to speak. Unprecedented.
‘‘From that day Dima became another child. The next time his classmates tried to tease him, he thought of my words and didn’t pay attention to them. Of course, they continued to mock him and this made Dima even more stubborn and dedicated to his goal. A few years later, these children didn’t dare to even utter his name. Dima is a strong man with a sensitive heart. A sensitivity he learned to hide well in the light of life.’’
Peter takes a breath as if he was the one who had been talking for so long and joins the palms of his hands. ‘‘So, you also believe that it is impossible he committed a murder...’’ he looks him into the eyes and now it is his turn not to receive a response.
‘‘I don’t claim that a sensitive person is incapable of committing a crime. I told you all this to help you understand that Dima can’t be a cold-blooded executioner who kills girls, for no reason. A person who respects himself can’t do that and Dima has learnt to respect and love himself against anyone’s disapproval...’’ He straightens his beret and tries to get up from the chair with the help of the walking stick. ‘‘I was glad to meet you and you made me remember all these beautiful memories, officer...’’
‘‘Wait a minute, teacher... I want you to listen to a melody...’’ He takes the mobile phone out of his pocket and plays the melody that was found on the corpse of Natalie. ‘‘Do you believe that Mr. Vladimirov could have composed it?’’
Yonshi smiles. He raises his glasses. ‘‘I hope his innocence is proven soon so he won’t suffer more,’’ he declares with a grievance and walks away.
Peter is again left without any essential answer. He returns to the chair. ‘‘I don’t want to quit, but I can’t find any evidence to acquit him,’’ he complains to his single listener.
‘‘Many times, when we feel ready to quit a miracle happens,’’ Ildar says and goes on stage.
‘‘I need proof. Incriminating evidence. These melodies...’’
‘‘You ask again and again who wrote the melodies,’’ he interrupts him, raising his voice slightly. ‘‘May I show you something?’’
Ildar proceeds to the left edge. The stage welcomes a soft white light, and the speakers are playing a melody by the composer Ilya Beshevli. Ildar passes his arm around his neck and brings it forward, while he is throwing his weight on one leg, lifting the other high. He falls on the stage, opening widely the lower limbs. He gets up making a sharp turn around his axis and steps backwards.
He touches the void. He is chasing it. He is seeking the light within a vast zero. He touches the floor; he supports himself on one hand and pulls his limbs giving a counter push upwards.
He extends his arms forward, forming an angle of ninety degrees with his elbows, and removes his trunk repeatedly on the left, as if someone is pushing him in that direction. A palette of emotions and colours spreads on the stage. A complete oscillation expresses the fullness of his soul.
He stops. He is immobilized. The music continues to play a melody that wakes up every dead cell. His gaze is lost. It is sinking into the vortex of the universe. He is sighing. He is suffering. His lips are trembling. His forehead is cloudy. His heart is struggling to tame its irregular beats in a battle preparing to show off only one winner.
His hands are armed with force. His gaze is filled with courage. This time he is lost in the abyss of power. He falls on his back, resting his hands on the floor and spreading his legs in a perfectly straight line. He swirls his body again and again, following the steps of the melody.
He returns on both feet and stretches his arms outwards with a gentle motion. The melody is completed. He flies into the air and returns back to the stage, folding his body in perfect harmony. The weakness turns into a fist and the daring wins the battle.
Peter applauds him shaking his head rewardingly. Ildar bows and approaches the edge of the stage. He rests his weight on his knees and is waiting for the criminologist’s comments.
‘‘Yes, yes, you are a very good dancer,’’ he confesses difficulty.
‘‘Very good?’’
‘‘You are a smart dancer. I believe your talent is hidden in your mind,’’ he adds. If their arguments in Athens had not preceded, he would have stood up and would have generously applauded him.
Ildar smiles sharply. He raises his left eyebrow and freezes his gaze on the criminologist. ‘‘If I am very good...’’ he says and lowers his voice, ‘‘...why become mediocre?’’
Peter half closes his eyes. His conscious is attacked by his subconscious.
Why become mediocre?
He has heard this phrase again.
The lyricist has an alibi.
He is trying to remember.
Maybe because he needs it.
An acute pain penetrates his mind.
For whom is everyone in Greece talking about, officer?
He wrinkles his forehead.
When someone is claiming your position, you want to get him out of the frame.
He knows the murderer.
When you love glory, you don’t want anyone to come in front of you.
He has spoken to him.
You want everything. You seek everything.
He grabs his head with his palms.
You can’t stand being mediocre...
‘‘It is him!’’ Peter shouts and runs towards the exit, but gets back to the dancer. ‘‘Thank you very much, sir!’’ he gives him his hand and hastens a charged handshake. He distances again as if time is chasing him.
‘‘Officer!’’ Ildar shouts and the criminologist turns towards him. ‘‘Why are you calling me ‘‘sir’’?’’
Peter smiles satisfyingly and runs as quickly as he can outside the theater.
It is snowing. The snowflakes are hitting his face, but he ignores any temperature transition. The air is swirling in his ears and under other circumstances he would return inside the theatre to make the call from there. This would have happened if the explosion in his brain had not deadened every nerve cell. He is standing on the side of the road and is dialing Andrew’s number with trembling hands, as if the future of the whole humanity is hanging on the combination of the keys pressed.
The passing cars are buzzing in front of him, amplifying the noise that exists in his thought. Waiting is burning his mind. He wants to make time run. Nervousness erupts in his limbs, causing the interest of the passersby.
‘‘Yes.’’ Andrew’s voice sounds as if he came out of lethargy.
‘‘Listen to me carefully. I want you to search for information about the lyricist, Nektarios Giannatos. Check if he has also studied medicine or something relevant to medicine at University, Technical College, or in a private school. Check out if he has ever dealt with music composition in his life, if he has taken any piano lessons and how he got into the field of discography. Find everything about him. Also, tell Magda and Antonella to go and check his alibi.’’ He gives his orders and looks for a taxi. ‘‘I will be in Athens in five hours. I am waiting from you to find me all I asked you for.’’
He closes his mobile phone aside and looks at the sea outside the balcony door. It seems so immense, indomitable. The waves are washing over the shore in anger. They are fighting with the pebbles and returning to their source. None returns the same. The momentum alters them. The sand distorts them. After a battle, nothing and no one remains unaltered.
He crosses his arms behind
his back and brings the five year old Natalie to his mind. He remembers her playing with the boys of the neighborhood, always being their leader. Aris did not play with them. He disliked team games. But she was a fighter. She fought in every way for what she most wanted. He bragged about it even though she did not know it.
One could say that Orpheus Nomikos is the father figure to be avoided; hardcore, a dynast who ruled his children, imposing his wants. For him, however, the story is written differently.
‘‘May I come in, sir?’’
Aimilios is standing at the politician’s office door and the latter makes him a gesture to enter. He proceeds and stands about a meter behind his turned back.
Orpheus lets the waves continue their battle and sits at his desk. He rests his palms on it and takes a few seconds before he proceeds with his announcement. ‘‘I want you to stop Aris’ medical treatment.’’
Aimilios chokes. Once again he is afraid and the thought of running away comes forward. ‘‘Are we going to change it?’’
‘‘I want us to stop the treatment,’’ he repeats with a steady voice.
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘It has nothing to do with Maniatis, I just don’t want us to intervene with his mental health any more. I considered that it was right, but I was wrong. He needs to be watched by the doctor.’’
The housekeeper feels his heart beating irregularly, as it is the first time he hears Nomikos admitting he was wrong. His unexpected statement makes him more afraid. ‘‘Do you need anything else?’’
‘‘Prepare the last details for tomorrow. If Aris approaches you again, I want you to inform me immediately.’’ The housekeeper nods positively and walks away from the office.
Orpheus Nomikos. He looks at his name on the professional cards that on his desk leather’s base. He recalls his enthusiasm when his father put him in the politics. In the beginning, everything was perfect; glory, money, success. The alteration came during the course. The distortion of clarity. The falsification of truth. When one lie started covering the other, it seemed impossible to return to the beginning.
The Last Symphony Page 24