The Oracle

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘A fake if I ever saw one. Inspired by some verses from the Odyssey, maybe; the Nekya, the journey into the land of the dead . . .’

  ‘But it’s made of gold!’ Michel stuttered.

  ‘Good fakes are always made of the best materials . . . makes them more credible. It looks like an imitation of the Ugarit cups, same style. It can’t be authentic. Give me the blanket.’

  Norman lifted the vase and Michel slipped off the blanket, handing it to Claudio who arranged it around Heleni.

  ‘What do we do with this?’ asked Norman, setting the vase back on the table.

  ‘Hide it,’ said Claudio. ‘It was hidden when we found it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Norman. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Looks like it was just unearthed. There are still traces of dust and mud on it.’

  Michel ran his finger over the surface of the vase, rubbing a little of the sediment between his thumb and index finger.

  ‘Blood.’

  Norman started: ‘What are you saying, Michel?’

  ‘It’s not mud. It’s blood. Centuries old. Millennia old, maybe. It’s so old it’s turned to humus. I’ve seen it before in a sacrificial trench in the Plutonium of Hierapolis in Turkey. This vase was immersed in the blood of a great number of victims. It certainly comes from one of the great sanctuaries.’

  Claudio shivered. ‘Hide it,’ he said, without taking his eyes off Heleni’s face. Norman and Michel obeyed. They put it into an old cabinet in the corner of the room.

  Ari came in shortly thereafter. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘The police are checking all the hospitals. Anyone going in with wounds or bruises is being arrested.’

  Claudio turned towards him: ‘Heleni needs help right away,’ he said. ‘I’ve staunched the wound, but she’s feverish. She needs blood, and antibiotics. The bullet is probably still in her body.’

  ‘In five minutes a taxi will come to the rear entrance; it will take you to a surgeon’s office. He’s a friend, he won’t ask questions. But he’ll need some medicine and supplies for the transfusion. Michel, you take your car and go buy the things on this list at the night pharmacy in Dimitriou Square, and bring them to the address I’ve written at the bottom. Does anyone know what blood type the girl is?’

  ‘A-positive,’ said Claudio. ‘She’s wearing a blood-donor medal.’

  ‘Like me,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll give her my blood.’

  ‘Good. Let’s not waste any more time. Come on, let’s bring her outside.’ He noticed the blanket that Heleni was wrapped in, looked under the table where the vase had been and then back at the boys.

  ‘We couldn’t find anything else,’ blurted Michel.

  Ari hesitated a moment, then said, ‘You did the right thing. What did you do with it?’

  Michel nodded towards the cabinet.

  ‘Please don’t speak with anyone about this. Please. It was discovered by Professor Harvatis. It was his . . . last discovery. He’s dead now. Swear to me that you won’t mention it to anyone.’

  The boys all nodded.

  ‘Let’s go now,’ said Ari, ‘we have to take care of your friend.’

  Norman and Claudio crossed their hands to form a makeshift seat and carried her to the taxi, which was already waiting with its engine running. Ari murmured the address to the taxi driver and the car sped off. Norman sat in front and Claudio, huddled into a corner of the back seat, held Heleni’s head on his lap. He touched her forehead: it was ice cold.

  Michel in the meantime was speeding in his little Deux-Chevaux down streets that were beginning to fill up with early morning traffic.

  It seemed as if the pharmacist were expecting him: they gave him the things he asked for without a word. Michel paid and took off again immediately. He was careful to avoid the streets in the centre and not draw attention to himself. When he was sure he was out of danger he stepped on the accelerator. The address was not far now.

  Just as he was about to turn left, a police car emerged unexpectedly from a side street, siren on and lights flashing. Michel thought he would die. The car passed him and signalled for him to pull over to the right. Michel did so and tried to stay calm.

  The policeman took a look at the vehicle’s French plates and approached the driver’s side with his hand to the peak of his cap.

  ‘Tò diavatirio, parakalò.’

  Michel took out his driver’s licence and passport.

  ‘Oh, so you know Greek,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michel. ‘I speak your language a little. I’m at the French archaeological school in Athens.’

  ‘A student, then. Well, well. Don’t you know there is a fifty-kilometre speed limit here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was going to pick up my professor at the station and I’m late. I didn’t hear the alarm clock go off.’

  The other policeman, the patrol car’s driver, had got out and was walking around the Deux-Chevaux, looking inside. He suddenly approached his partner and whispered something into his ear. Michel was sweating, but tried to maintain a nonchalant air.

  ‘Get out, please,’ said the officer, suddenly quite serious.

  ‘Listen, give me a break, I’m really late.’ He put his hand on his wallet. ‘If you can tell me how much I owe you for the fine . . . See, if my professor gets here and he doesn’t see me I’ll be in a lot of trouble . . .’

  ‘Please. Get out.’

  Michel got out of the car and stood in the middle of the street, wallet in hand.

  One of the policemen took out a flashlight and started to search the car interior. He directed the beam of light at the back seat. A large bloodstain. Heleni’s blood. Then he opened the pharmacy bag: bandages, a transfusion needle, xylocain, catgut, antibiotics.

  ‘I’m afraid your professor will have to get a taxi,’ he said with a sneer. ‘You’ll have to explain a few things to us, Mr Charrier.’

  They took him to a large grey building nearby and led him down into the basement, locking him into an empty room. He waited, trying to make sense of what was going on, the muffled shouts, moaning, footsteps, doors slamming, comings and goings. When a man came to interrogate him, he told him that he would not say a word unless a representative of the French consulate were present.

  But he did speak, almost immediately. Very few withstand the falanga. When the first blows hit the bare soles of his feet, he gritted his teeth, drawing on all the courage he had and all his affection for his friends, but the pain penetrated cruelly all the way to his brain, severing his will.

  He shouted, he cried and he swore, and then wept disconsolately. The cramps that tore through every fibre of his being and every centimetre of his skin did not prevent him from realizing what he had done. He was conscious that he had already broken down, had already betrayed. And this knowledge was even more painful than the torture.

  His persecutor struck calmly and precisely, as if he heard nothing. It seemed a job like any other, and he continued for a while, even after Michel had told everything he knew . . . everything. He seemed to want to punish him for allowing him to finish up so quickly.

  The interrogator wiped his forehead, and then his hairy, sweaty chest, with a handkerchief. He said something into an intercom hanging from the ceiling and a plain-clothes policeman came to accompany Michel to an adjacent room. He stood at the threshold for a moment while they brought another young boy in, handcuffed, his face bruised, mouth full of blood and eyes terrified.

  Michel tried to get up, but as soon as his feet touched the floor he collapsed, screaming with pain. Two policemen tied the other boy to the torture bed and removed his shoes and socks. They then picked Michel up bodily and took him out.

  The door closed behind them with a sharp click. As Michel was dragged down the hall behind an officer, he could hear prolonged, suffocated moans, almost animal-like, coming from behind the closed door. He lowered his eyes as he stumbled and tripped to his destiny. They threw him on to an iron chair.

  ‘Well,’ said the officer, whose
name tag identified him as ‘Capt. Karamanlis’. ‘Suppose you tell me all over again: who were you transporting in your car and where were you taking the medical supplies you had?’

  ‘A friend of mine who was wounded at the Polytechnic last night. We were trying to help her.’

  The man shook his head: ‘How stupid of you. You should have brought her to a hospital. Or were you trying to hide something?’

  ‘We had nothing to hide. We didn’t want her to have to suffer what you just did to me. Or to that poor boy back there.’

  ‘They are subversives; they deserve no compassion. They are the ruin of our country. You’re a foreigner. You shouldn’t have got mixed up in this. Now. You tell me everything you know, and we’ll pretend we never saw you. No one will ever know who was here tonight. No report will be made. What was that girl’s name?’

  ‘Her name’s . . . Heleni Kaloudis.’

  ‘Kaloudis, you said? All right. And now tell me where she is. Come on, I give you my word as an officer that no harm will be done to her. We’ll take care of her. Then we’ll see. When she’s better, she’ll have to answer some questions, naturally, but believe me, we don’t hurt women. I’m a man of honour.’

  Michel told him and the officer’s face lit up in satisfaction. ‘Finally, finally: the voice on the radio. That damned voice on the radio. Good boy, good work, you have no idea how helpful you’ve been. The girl you were trying to help is a dangerous criminal, a threat to the security of the nation. Naturally, you’re a foreigner, you couldn’t imagine . . .’

  Michel’s eyes widened: ‘What are you saying? What are you saying, God damn it? What’s this business about the radio? What dangerous criminal? I don’t believe a word of what you’ve said. You bastard!’

  Karamanlis chuckled. Throw him into a cell,’ he said to his men. ‘We don’t need him any more.’ He left the room and disappeared up the stairs. Michel was dragged out into the hall. The man with the hairy chest was leaning against the door jamb of the interrogation room, smoking a cigarette. No sound came from the room, not even a whimper.

  ‘I’VE DONE EVERYTHING I can,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ve put her on a drip to raise her blood pressure and I’ve stopped the haemorrhage, but this girl needs a transfusion and your friend is nowhere to be seen. Something must have happened to him.’

  Claudio twisted his hands: ‘I don’t understand, I just can’t figure it out . . .’

  Norman got to his feet: ‘Claudio, this situation could turn critical from one moment to the next. If there had been some minor snag, Michel would have called, he would have got word to us somehow. Something very serious must have happened. Why don’t you call Heleni’s parents? You’re taking too much responsibility upon yourself.’

  ‘They live in Komotini, there’s nothing they can do from way up there. It would just worry them to death. But what could have happened to Michel?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Even calculating for traffic jams, roadblocks, whatever, he should have been here more than an hour ago.’

  ‘Maybe he’s in an area that’s been sealed off by the military and he can’t get out.’

  ‘Well why hasn’t he called us, then?’

  ‘Maybe they’ve cut the phone lines, what do I know?’

  Heleni, lying on a bed, opened her eyes. ‘Claudio,’ she said, ‘we can’t stay here. We’re even putting the doctor at risk. I can’t go to the hospital; they’d arrest me immediately. Listen, I feel better, I really do. Call a taxi and take me to my apartment. Then you can go and look for the medicines and things that Michel was supposed to bring. The doctor could come by tonight and finish up. He said the bullet went right through me. I’m going to be okay. Michel will show up sooner or later, but now we have to get out of here, please . . .’

  ‘Heleni’s right, Claudio,’ said Norman.

  ‘Yeah, maybe it’s the only thing to do.’ He turned to the doctor: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe . . . She’s young, and she’s not losing blood any more. There are nutrients in the drip. But she mustn’t do anything, just lie still, and sleep if she can. My office is open until seven; I’ll come after I close. Where’s her house?’

  They told him.

  ‘I’ll be there at eight o’clock. The curfew doesn’t apply to doctors. Norman, you be there for the transfusion.’

  ‘When can we move her from there?’

  ‘Not before a week’s time. Absolutely not, for any reason.’

  ‘Of course. And I’ll tell her parents right away.’

  ‘Go now. I’ll call a taxi for you.’

  Claudio dressed her and Norman went down to the street to check that it was clear. The taxi driver rang the doorbell twice, and Claudio and the doctor came down supporting Heleni, who was pale and unsteady.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Claudio asked.

  Heleni tried to reassure him: ‘I feel better, really. You’ll see, everything will be okay. If we get to my place, we’ll be fine.’

  They got into the cab and Norman closed the door. Claudio lowered the window and gestured for him to come close: ‘Norman?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re not going to Heleni’s house. The police might be on to us. I’ll bring her to my room at the Plaka.’

  ‘You’re right, that’s a much better solution. I wanted to suggest it myself. I’ll see you there tonight.’

  Claudio took his hand: ‘Swear to me that you won’t say anything to anyone, for the love of God. Except for the doctor, of course. Tell him right away about the change of address for tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’ He smiled: ‘But I’m warning you, Heleni will never be the same with a pint of Welsh blood in her veins. You’ll be no match for her. Go now.’

  Claudio gave the driver his address and the taxi took off immediately.

  ‘Why did you give him your address?’ whispered Heleni.

  ‘The police will have interrogated dozens of people by now: they’ve arrested hundreds of students. So many people knew you . . . someone might have talked.’

  ‘There are no traitors among us,’ said Heleni, and the colour seemed to flare up in her pale face for an instant.

  ‘I know, but it’s better not to take risks. There were two thousand of you in there. In any case, no one knows me. We’ll call your parents from the booth near my house. Take it easy now. Lean on me.’

  Heleni rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The taxi driver glanced at them now and then in his rear-view mirror: they had been in a doctor’s office and she looked so pale, with those dark circles around her eyes. The boy was so big and so scared looking. That whore must have just had an abortion, and he was to blame, the worm. Young people had no morals nowadays, and no shame. They should be whipped. Give them an inch and they get into all kinds of trouble. Like those others at the University. Give them a finger and they’ll take your whole arm . . . what they needed was a good whipping, university my ass . . .

  The taxi took the long way round to the Plaka, behind the Olimpieion, and finally stopped in front of a little whitewashed house. A grapevine curled over the enclosure wall and a couple of cats were rummaging through the uncollected garbage bags. Claudio leaned forward and paid the driver. Heleni, who seemed to have dozed off, sat up.

  ‘We’re here,’ Claudio whispered in her ear. ‘Do you think you can walk? We don’t want anyone noticing us.’ Heleni nodded. Claudio got out and opened the door for her. He took her hand and walked her slowly towards the external staircase that led up to his little one-roomer. The taxi disappeared into the maze of streets in the old city and Claudio put his arm around Heleni to hold her up. He let her in and had her lie down on the bed, covering her with a blanket.

  ‘I have some meat in the fridge. I’ll make you some nice strong broth. You have to drink a lot and rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here. Nobody knows me.’ He double-locked the door.

  Heleni followed him with her eyes. ‘Do you know what the inhabitants of Plak
a are called?’

  Claudio opened the refrigerator door and took out the meat. ‘No, I don’t. What are they called?’

  ‘Gàngari. It means “bolts”.’

  ‘That’s a funny name.’

  ‘It’s in memory of the resistance of Plaka against the Turks during the siege of Athens in 1925. They bolted the gates to the city and bolted the doors to every house in the Plaka, determined to defend themselves house by house if necessary.’ She caressed him with a long melancholy gaze. ‘Now you are a gangaros, and it’s my fault.’

  ‘You got it: you’re worse than the Turks, you are. Now be quiet and sleep. I’ll wake you when the broth is ready.’

  He put the meat in a big soup pot, and added water, vegetables and lots of salt. ‘This’ll help raise your blood pressure . . . until Norman and the doctor get here to top you up, darling. But what in God’s name could have happened to Michel, why didn’t he call? . . .’ He lit the burner under the pot and fell back on to a chair. He watched the blue flame lick the pot for a while, but was overcome by fatigue. His head soon dropped forwards and he fell fast asleep.

  3

  Athens, the British embassy, 17 November, 2 p.m.

  THE DESK CLERK at the embassy put down the receiver and dutifully filled out the visitor’s pass: ‘Mr Norman Shields for Mr James Henry Shields, diplomatic affairs’.

  Norman impatiently pulled it out of his hand: ‘George, do you really have to go through all this red tape to let me see my father? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry, dammit? The air of Athens must be going to your head.’

  ‘It’s the rules, sir. And it’s a very bad day today.’

  ‘Come on, George, even the cleaning ladies here know me. You’re right, George, it’s a horrible day, and now can I see my father?’

  The clerk nodded and Norman slipped into the elevator and went up to the second floor. He reached his father’s office as he was dictating a letter to his secretary.

  ‘Dad, I need to speak to you urgently about something very important.’

  ‘Just let me finish this letter and I’ll be with you . . . “and given the traditional spirit of friendship that joins our two countries, I sincerely hope that this operation will be concluded successfully and to our mutual benefit. Allow me to express our deepest esteem, as I look forward to a note from your embassy which will permit us to proceed with our project. Sincerely yours, etcetera, etcetera . . .” Well, what is it this time, Norman? Have you lost at cards or got a girl in trouble?’