His eyes are armed with rage and his meninges move upwards, as he presses his lower jaw. He thinks about his daughter’s murder by the Russian composer. Life brings back mistakes of the past that he would like to delete forever from his mind. He remembers his grandmother telling him that he should not praise anyone if he does not see his end. He sees his own development right in front of his eyes. The images liven on the wooden surface of his desk.
He looks to the right. He sees his shadow in front of Natalie’s tomb. He hears his voice shouting at her loudly sorry. He feels a few drops on his face. The rain soaks his expensive gabardine. It does not recognize him. It does not know that he is Orpheus Nomikos. The rain does not discriminate people. He is just one more person mourning over a tomb. He is one more person welcoming the raindrops.
He turns his eyes to the left. He sees Aris closed in a room, being under strict medical supervision and medical treatment. He imagines himself trying to approach him but he sends him away. He is his son. The only one that has been left to him but Aris hates him. He looks at him curled up in a corner and shouts at him with the eyes sorry.
He rotates the chair and grabs the photograph with his wife and children. He looks at Natalie. He missed the chance to tell her he admired her. He did not have time to tell her he would have been in the first seat to applause her in her first concert, even if he didn’t support her choice to follow a violinist’s career. He did not tell her that he saw himself in her eyes… Audacity, fist, and determination. He loved her in his own way; he just did not tell her.
Aris is a fair copy of his mother, Dimitra Nomikou. Sensitive, shy, vulnerable. Orpheus believes that his son has faithfully absorbed the emotional world of his mother, but he has inherited his own intelligence. Aris was the future; the engine to drive each of his new visions.
He caresses the photo, and his cheeks are cooled by two drops. It is the rain that cannot discriminate because such is its nature. For the first time in his life, he is faced with this feeling. Cleansing.
Error recognition is the bell of the spontaneous instinct. You hear it. You distinguish it between the noise of life. You have the option to ignore it. This choice is made by the strict politician.
‘‘Father?’’
Aris knocks hesitantly on the door of his office. He has loaded the necessary power needed and wants to speed up the process. Ideally, he would like to reveal the whole truth to him, then get no answer and run to his room. He notices his father’s eyes that are more wet than usual. ‘‘Have you been crying?’’ the question comes out from his lips before he has time to edit it.
Orpheus’s gaze is despoiled in front of his son. ‘‘Sometimes even the powerful bend.’’
The young politician suppress his long-term memory. He has lived this scene again. He has seen his father cry again. He is trying to remember, but his mind brings forward only the moment he himself cried more than ever in his life. In the last goodbye he said to his mother.
Orpheus gets up and approaches his father’s portrait. ‘‘You were seven years old when your grandfather died. You don’t remember him well...’’ he says and smiles. ‘‘My father was a soldier in all his life, so he raised me with discipline. I always obeyed his orders. Your grandfather was an extraordinarily strong man and he armed me with the same vigor. At the beginning of my career, I felt ready to change the world... I thought I could do anything, but the world has changed me...’’ he confesses and returns to the desk.
The image comes forward. The memory Aris was trying to revoke is from his grandfather’s funeral. He was hidden behind the half-opened door and was staring secretly at his father. Tears were descending his strict face and his mute eruption made Aris shudder. An outburst of Orpheus Nomikos that never came out to light.
‘‘And you are strong… I am not...’’ The young politician confesses his weakness, feeling an unprecedented intimacy with his father. He feels like he is talking to Orpheus and not Nomikos.
‘‘You are wrong... Not being tough it doesn’t mean you are not strong either. If someone hits you with a big stone, you will hurt. If he hits you with a small piece of glass you may even die. Strength is inside us, in the material of which we are made...’’ his father says making Aris get lost in his codified message. ‘‘I always believed in you and your abilities. I knew you were very smart and could succeed in everything. Maybe my insecurities affected you; this is why I constantly kept helping you, to drive you on the road of success. And finally, you managed it...’’ he gets up and sits on the chair opposite his son.
Aris’s eyelids are moving nervously. His blood is running in his veins as if trying to heal several wounds at the same time. His heart is pounding like crazy, controlled by an unprecedented sensation.
‘‘Forgive me for not being by your side when you needed me... Forgive me for being distant and not helping you trust me... This is how I grew up... This is what I learned... You must know, however, that I never abandoned you... I was your shadow. I protected you in my own way. I am not saying that what I did was right, but I did it for you...’’ The individual drops become a wave that is devouring his eyes. ‘‘Forgive me for my mistakes, Aris… It is better for you to leave the party. I don’t care if we win the elections. I am interested in winning you. For me, you are already a winner and I am immensely proud of you, my son...’’ he hugs him, letting his feelings to be covered in silence.
Twenty years. For twenty whole years he has been waiting to hear these words from his father. For twenty years he has been seeking to be rewarded. He outbursts with sobs in his hug, removing any negative thought from his mind.
‘‘Aris... I know what happened at the graduation party two years ago in America. I know you have been involved in two murders...You don’t need to worry anymore. The case has closed.’’
Posthumous fame
The door of the airplane opens, and he immediately feels the intrusion of cool air inside. A sweet breeze at a temperature of ten degrees, impregnated with humidity. He reminds himself not to complain about humidity in the future. The Greek climate is friendly for the human body.
The first move he makes could be marked as reflexive. He dials Andrew’s number and proceeds to the baggage claim area. ‘‘I am listening.’’ His voice holds an excessive quantity of stress, which is preparing to blast with a sigh, as long as Andrew delays to announce the results.
‘‘He sat for the Panhellenic Examinations four times. Each time he managed to collect around 17,000 points and re-registered with the Nursing Department of the Kapodistriakos University. He participated regularly in the laboratories and the examinations until the third year. Then he quit,’’ he says, and Peter mentally notes a positive next to the first clue. ‘‘He has participated in many composition competitions. The best distinction he has received is the fifth place,’’ he continues and a second positive rings in his mind. ‘‘The year he quit the University his divorce came out. He has a young son, and his ex-wife won the custody. He was only twenty-six years old then...’’
Peter notes an additional clue. He fastens the mobile phone to his shoulder and puts the suitcase in the boot of the car. He takes his seat at the steering wheel and wears his headphones. ‘‘What else?’’
‘‘The girls went to the pub where he said that he was on the night of the murder, but the owner was not there. The store is under renovation. Magda spoke with the workers who have undertaken the exterior painting and...’’
‘‘Well, well, that’s enough. Take three of us and come to the record label Voice Record. He is the murderer.’’
He takes the gun out of the glove box of the car and hides it at the back of his belt. He double-parks under the five-storey building and walks towards the entrance.
The Voice Record inscription is in a prominent position to the right of the bells and under the inscriptions of different surgery specialties. On the bottom, 2nd floor is written in black letters. He pushes the main door and runs up the stairs.
He reaches
the second floor and a glass door with an inscription similar to the one of the entrance makes him move towards there with steady steps. He looks behind him. He walks forward and pushes the glass knob of the door, taking a look behind it.
‘‘Good evening! How can I help you?’’
A blonde girl with an asymmetrical hairstyle and a symmetrical smile is sitting behind a glass desk, next to the entrance.
‘‘I would like to speak to Mr. Giannatos. Is he here?’’
‘‘Yes. He is in his office.’’ she tries to pick up the handset, but Peter obviates her.
‘‘You don’t need to...’’ he says and shows his police identity card. ‘‘He is waiting for me.’’
He smiles at the girl and walks down the aisle that leads to the offices. He assumes that he is a shareholder of the company. This indicates wealth. This probably secures his alibi.
Among the glass doors, on the grey wallpaper, he notices several photographs from awards and record prizes. Overload of glory and recognition in a few meter corridor. Somewhere just before the end, he stops.
Nektarios Giannatos
Manager
He raises his eyebrows. He wonders who placed him in an administrative position. He enters and sees Nektarios sitting in a tall, leather chair.
‘‘Mr. Deligiannis...’’
The lack of surprise on his face makes Peter realize that the blonde secretary managed to inform him of his coming.
‘‘Good evening, Mr. Giannatos...’’ he greets him with a formal handshake and sits in front of his desk. The record label is based on a glass world which, in a few minutes will be self-destroyed.
The criminologist turns his attention to the framed photograph covering almost half of the wall opposite him. It was taken at the recent award ceremony of Vasilikos’s platinum record. Giannatos is posing next to him with a bright smile, holding the record along with Ioannis.
‘‘Would you like to be in Ioannis’s place?’’ he asks him, while sitting cross-legged.
The manager of Voice Records smiles. ‘‘Probably not... I’m not such a talented singer...’’ he responds in a cheerful mood.
‘‘Right. It would probably be better to try acting. I am sure you could become an incredibly good actor...’’ he throws his first 3-point shot.
‘‘Why did you come up to here, officer?’’
‘‘Don’t worry, Mr. Giannatos, it won’t take long. I just came to inform you that your collaborator was released, because we found the true killer.’’ Second strike.
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Yes... Let me tell you a little bit about what happened... The killer knew about Dima’s date with Natalie Nomikou and made sure to visit her a little earlier. His own acquaintance with the girl gave him an easy access to her space. After sedating her, he took a knife from the kitchen and deprived her of her life offering her a melody as well, which would be the key for the composer’s guilt. He left the shower turned on, left the house and, a short while before Dima’s arrival, he called from a telephone box, claiming that he was a neighbor hearing voices from Nomikou’s apartment.’’
Nektarios looks at Peter expressionlessly.
‘‘Unfortunately for him, we couldn’t identify the required percentage of his fingerprints, neither on the knife nor on the stick, although he had used both of them, just not for murder.’’ The criminologist continues his narration, changing cross-legged. ‘‘Would you like to tell me the sequel with the second murder? Surely you can describe it better than me...’’
‘‘I don’t get you, officer...’’
He sighs. ‘‘OK...’’ He puffs and blows. ‘‘I will say it, and if I make any mistake you can correct me,’’ he says making the first spark to the lyricist’s eyes. ‘‘So, our killer chooses to commit one more murder, with greater care this time, so that he is absolutely sure of the composer’s apparent guilt. Ioannis took his blood sample to run additional tests and our killer either offered to take this sample to the hospital or took blood residues from the syringe or the cotton used by Ioannis. So, all three years of studying in Nursing School wouldn’t be useless...’’ He puffs and blows. ‘‘I can’t know exactly what he did...’’ He raises the eyebrows. ‘‘Do you see? I have to make assumptions now...’’ he sighs again, throwing gold dust of irony on the lyricist’s desk.
Nektarios is waiting patiently for him to complete his speech.
‘‘A new melody, Dima’s blood, and his conviction is a given!’’ A sarcastic smile takes its place on Peter’s lips. ‘‘He secured his alibi for every, paying I imagine a great sum of money I suppose... Unfortunately it costs a lot of money to renovate a two-storey pub nowadays... Therefore, he secured a typical alibi for every case and waited to celebrate the trophy of his victory with the composer’s arrest.’’
The lyricist smiles. ‘‘Mr. Deligiannis...’’
‘‘Surely the killer would like to keep the two melodies he composed, as a moral trophy, so he would have to hide them somewhere as an eternal proof of his victory. If you were in his place, where would you hide them, Mr. Giannatos? At home? No, no... At home, it would be quite unsafe, as Vasilikos could find them by chance and he should be killed afterwards...’’ he nods his head negatively. ‘‘On the office’s computer it would be quite risky...’’ he continues staring at Nektarios’s laptop on the desk. ‘‘So, two colleagues of mine are heading with a warrant to your post office box right now. Please tell me that I have assumed correctly, and they will find inside it one or two memory sticks with the melodies you wrote for the two girls.’’
Nektarios opens a drawer, without taking his gaze away from Peter and grabs his pistol.
‘‘Don’t bother... Outside the office, three policemen are looking forward to handcuffing you. But first, you will give me the answers I want. As he is going to die in a few years why...’’
‘‘Because I hate him!’’ he shouts and springs from his seat. His eyes are filled with red spots of rage. ‘‘I hate him because he had everything, I wanted... Glory... Recognition... He conquered the top... Everyone talks about his name!’’
‘‘He is ill...’’ Peter says, while two policemen enter the office pointing their guns to Nektarios.
‘‘And what does this matter? He has disappeared for so many months from the musical scene and everybody is still talking about him!’’ He unburies a few pages from the drawer and throws them on the glass desk. ‘‘In Russia, they have been looking for him frantically since he disappeared... In Greece, they are looking for the composer of Ioannis’s hits... Everyone is speaking about him...Yes, he is ill, but so what? And the posthumous fame? This counts more than everything... If I knew I was going to die tomorrow morning, but everyone would speak about me, I would be happy...’’ he reacts in a strong voice. ‘‘And Dima was pretending to be indifferent... That he was supposedly not interested in applause... Who is indifferent to glory, officer?’’ he asks him smiling. He leans his back against the wall and lowers his gaze to the glittering, black tile. ‘‘For a lifetime I have been trying to reach the top, but there was always someone better than me... I was never the best, nowhere. Neither in a woman’s heart nor in the heart of any other people... Even my son’s... Even he was taken by somebody else... My ex-wife kept telling me constantly that I am a failure and that I would never do anything of importance in my life, but you know what? I, the failure was capable of committing three crimes with absolute success... So there is something I am very good at, isn’t there?’’
‘‘Three? Is there another girl as well?’’
‘‘Let’s say that someone wanted to give loads of money to have Dima on his side and I simply facilitated the situation...’’ he responds sarcastically, taking off his black glasses.
‘‘Who is it?’’ The criminologist’s angry face causes a terrifying laughter at the lyricist.
‘‘I didn’t write this awful melody!’’ he shouts, looking at Peter. ‘‘So, he called my compositions...’’ his lips are slanted and
his eyes redden. ‘‘He had suggested to me to say that I had written Ioannis’s song for the competition... He wanted to offer me a bit of his glory... To give me a few crumbs of his fame...To see what it is like to be told by everyone that I am perfect, but I didn’t want it that way...’’ he nods negatively and returns to the desk. ‘‘Marinakis gave me 100,000 Euros to take him to Replay Music. I will give you as much as you want as long as you bring him here... Everyone wanted the top composer next to them, but now his name will remain in history interwoven with two murders... Even if he is released, people will always have doubts... They will always remember him with repulsion... This is what I wanted and I achieved it... I am the winner...’’ he says, the moment the policemen are passing him the handcuffs.
‘‘Bravo.’’
The commander is standing in front of Peter with his hands tied behind the back. He is aligning his body, in an attempt to state his superiority even now. My husband is stretching his torso to the back, noting his own hierarchy power.
‘‘You did very well this time...’’ he continues, and Peter’s look shows signs of intolerance. He surely believes that the commander could show greater enthusiasm. The champagne that Andrew opened in his name last night, probably didn’t satisfy him enough. ‘‘Bravo to you as well, Magda.’’
‘‘I didn’t do anything. Peter was the one who, from the beginning, didn’t believe in the composer’s guilt,’’ I confess the truth, and the signs of intolerance are covered by records of pride.
‘‘You were a team...’’ he insists and congratulates Antonella as well, who can’t believe how much she fell out. ‘‘Bravo to the three of you,’’ he congratulates us once again and we leave into the conference room.
The Last Symphony Page 25