The Oracle

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  She became fascinated: Harvatis’s theory was that the rite for calling up the spirits of the dead as described in the eleventh book of the Odyssey was the same rite used in the Necromantion of Ephira as early as the Mycenaean age. In other words, the rite set on the shores of the Ocean in Homer’s poem – when Odysseus seeks to learn his destiny by calling up the Shades of the Dead – could actually have taken place in Epirus, at the mouth of the Acheron. The ‘city of the Cimmerians’ mentioned by the poet could be identified as the Cimmerian promontory, just a mile from Ephira.

  Michel had written a couple of notes alongside, under the heading ‘The prophecy of Tiresias’:

  The three animals that Odysseus was told to sacrifice – a bull, a boar and a ram – could refer to astrological signs. There is much evidence that the ancients applied the map of the constellations to the sites of their ancestral cults on the ground for magical or divinatory purposes. The axis of the zodiac which, transferred upon the earth, connects Siwa in Egypt with Dodona in Epirus also passes through the entrance to Hades at Cape Tenaros (the caves at Dirou) and the entrance to Hades at Ephira. What’s more, the great sanctuaries aligned by the axis, including Olympia, the great temple of Panhellenic Zeus, are linked to symbols of the zodiac (N.B. The boar is a water sign identifiable with Pisces and is linked to the sanctuary of Zeus in Dodona).

  Note: Harvatis’s hypothesis regarding the notion that an axis of the zodiac joins all the main sanctuaries of the ancient Mediterranean is not wholly original. It is nonetheless not often taken into account by scholars because it has never been demonstrated that the ancients were capable of calculating latitude and longitude, much less of tracing the loxodromic curves between such distant points (like Siwa and Ephira, or Dodona).

  Mireille copied out the notes page by page, as well as the sketch of the line that Michel had called the ‘axis of Harvatis’. When she was about to put the notebook back where she’d found it, she discovered another couple of pages scribbled in Michel’s writing, starting from the back cover.

  The first said: ‘Problem: Cults have arisen at every point in the Mediterranean where Odysseus’s ship is said to have landed, or one of his companions died, or another Homeric hero was present (Diomedes in Apulia, Teucer in Cyprus, Antenor in Veneto, Aeneas in Latium); such events have typically been commemorated with sanctuaries, statues, etc. In Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus, there has never been a cult dedicated to the hero. Why? No man is a prophet in his own land? No, too banal. There has to be a deeper reason. But what could it be?’

  The second page was headed by the word ‘KELKEA’ in capital letters. Underneath it said: ‘See Scholium Homer XI, 112. The term “Kelkea” (associated in some texts with “Bouneima”) is perhaps the only remaining trace of a lost poem. The sequel to the Odyssey? Kelkea was the place in which Odysseus was supposed to conclude his adventure for all time, celebrating the sacrifice of the bull, the boar and the ram. Where was Kelkea?’

  How odd, thought Mireille. Everything he’d written seemed to revolve around the Odyssey. She’d never known Michel was so interested in the subject. Perhaps some research he was considering to obtain that promotion at the University?

  There was more. Another note at the bottom of the page read: ‘Look for Harvatis’s publisher at 17 Dionysìou St., Athens. How will I ever find the heart to see Athens again?’

  Mireille stayed up late copying notes, reading, following the thoughts that the sight of those sheets and of Michel’s nervous, fragmentary writing called up in her mind. She finally undressed and crawled into Michel’s bed. She thought of the last time they’d made love in that bed, of Michel’s lean boyish body, his long legs, his flat, muscular stomach, his black eyelashes, his eyes as moist and deep as a thoroughbred’s. She wanted him then, terribly.

  17

  Athens, Glifada airport, 2 November, 9.30 a.m.

  MIREILLE LANDED AT Glifada airport in Athens on a hazy day and took a cab directly to the small residential hotel she’d booked near the Plaka. At home she had left a message on the answering machine in case Michel called: she didn’t want him to know she was in Greece, not right away. There was so much that Michel had kept hidden from her; she needed to check out a few things first.

  As soon as she arrived, she took a shower to rinse away the smoggy air of Athens, then lay on the bed in her bathrobe to look at the notes she’d taken from Michel’s papers in his study on rue des Orfèvres. What had struck her most was: ‘Look for Harvatis’s publisher at 17 Dionysiou St., Athens. How will I ever find the heart to see Athens again?’ Something awful must have happened in Athens, something he wanted to forget. She took a map of the city and found Dionysìou Street. It was located in the centre near the old city . . . but why look for the publisher? Why not try to find the author first?

  She took the phone book and looked up the name Periklis Harvatis, but found nothing. She thought she’d try the city registry. She dressed well and had a taxi take her to the City Hall, where she found the registry office tucked away in the basement. The clerk was quite distinctive-looking. Closer to sixty than fifty, short and impeccably dressed in a light-coloured suit with a carnation in his buttonhole, he sat behind a table smoking an elegant oval Macedonia and taking little sips of his Turkish coffee. She made up the first story that came into her head: ‘I worked with Professor Harvatis many years ago, and I’d like to look him up while I’m here in Athens but I’ve lost his address.’

  ‘He may not be in Athens at all. If you didn’t find his name in the phone book, I doubt that he still lives here. Wait . . .’ He opened the drawer of a file cabinet and began to look. ‘Here it is,’ he said, just a few minutes later. ‘Harvatis, Periklis. Born in Ioannina on 4 April 1901 and deceased in Athens on 17 November 1973.’

  ‘Deceased?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, miss. The professor passed away some ten years ago. Yes, that’s right – in two weeks’ time it will be exactly ten years.’

  ‘Couldn’t you at least look up his last address? Perhaps some of his family members are still alive. Please help me, I’d really like to contact them. Would you mind if I took a sheet of paper to make a few notes?’

  Anyone could see that the clerk would have gone through fire for her. He handed her a sheet of City Hall dimos athinon letterhead, with the seal of the owl.

  ‘Sorry, his records say that he lived in the Neapolis district. Alone apparently; there are no other names listed. I am sorry, miss.’

  Mireille wanted to offer the clerk a tip for his help, but he refused courteously. She was about to go when she thought of another possibility. ‘Could you do something else for me?’ she asked, with just a hint of flirtatiousness. There was no need: an aura of femininity surrounded her, enveloping even the steel cabinets. The gentleman nodded, eager to do anything that would make her happy.

  ‘Do you think you could find his death certificate and the name of the doctor who signed it?’

  ‘Certainly. That can be done.’

  ‘Do you think that in a couple of hours . . .’

  ‘A couple of hours? I’ll need more time than that. I won’t have time during my working hours, but if you’d like to come by my house tonight . . .’

  Mireille was expecting such a proposal, and had her own counterproposal ready. ‘I’ll come by at two and we can have lunch together. Is that all right, Mr . . .’

  ‘Zolotas, Andreas Zolotas, but please call me Andreas. That would be fine. I’ll try to have the information ready.’

  Mireille thanked him with a smile and left the basement, where the slow movement of a single fan could not clear the damp air of a gloomy day.

  17 Dionysìou Street. It wouldn’t take long to walk over from City Hall. When she saw nothing but a lowered shutter at the address, she went to sit at the bar across the street and ordered an ouzo with ice, nearly as good as her favourite, Pernod.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone live at number seventeen?’ she asked the waiter serving her. The waiter told her that she wasn’t the
first to want to know. Another foreigner had asked him the same question, a man about so tall, hair like so, and he’d told him no, that he’d never seen anyone. But then that very night he had seen a light filtering from under the shutter, and he’d seen it again since then, always late at night. But the man had never come back, so he’d never been able to tell him.

  Mireille realized from the waiter’s description that the man asking about the occupant of number 17 could be none other than Michel. She gave the waiter a thousand-drachma note as a tip and left her hotel phone number, asking him to call her if he should ever see that light under the shutter again. The waiter thanked her and assured her that he would.

  She still had some time before her appointment with Mr Zolotas, and she walked back towards Odòs Stadiou, glancing over at the dusty, closed shutter at number 17. If someone was working there, they must have got in some other way. That shutter looked like it had been closed for years.

  Andreas Zolotas had been very efficient, and was quite proud of himself as he pointed out to Mireille that he’d succeeded in getting quite a lot of difficult-to-access information in such a short time.

  ‘I could tell right away,’ said Mireille, ‘that you’re a man with important responsibilities here at City Hall.’

  ‘Professor Harvatis died of a heart attack at three a.m. on Saturday the seventeenth of November 1973. It was the night of the assault on the Polytechnic. A terrible night, indeed. You see, miss, I’ve always sympathized with the left. I’m against dictatorships—’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Mireille, although Zolotas looked very much like a conservative lower middle-class government worker nursing his job at City Hall.

  ‘The act of death was signed by Dr Psarros at the Kifissìa hospital. I’ve called: he still works there. And he lives at Odòs Spetses, number twenty-eight.’

  ‘Goodness, I’m amazed by such efficiency, Mr Zolotas. How can I ever thank you?’

  ‘There’s no need. When I found out the circumstances of Professor Harvatis’s death, and the cause, I realized that your curiosity, miss, probably went beyond the reasons you gave me. Many students died that night, and a number of professors – the ones who were on their side – were targeted by the police as well.’

  ‘Mr Zolotas, I . . . I don’t know whether . . .’

  ‘Don’t say another word, miss. I had a son at the Polytechnic that night: they carried him back home over the rooftops. He was wounded, covered with blood, ruined for the rest of his life. Today he still doesn’t have a job; maybe he’s a thief. Maybe he takes drugs. He was a good boy, miss. Good-looking, tall, much taller than me . . .’

  He prevented her firmly from giving him a tip. He took a fresh carnation from the table to replace the wilted one in his buttonhole, kissed her hand with a light, elegant gesture and walked away.

  Mireille felt ashamed for imagining that she would have had to fight off the unwanted attentions of a middle-aged lech. She looked at her watch: she’d been in Athens for just a few hours, and yet she felt like a fast current was pulling her under. A whirlpool. She didn’t know how much faster it could get, or what the point of no return was, and she didn’t want to think about it.

  SHE WAS WAITING for Dr Psarros in front of his home on Odòs Spetses when he finished his work shift at five-thirty.

  ‘Why are you interested in Professor Harvatis?’

  ‘It has to do with some research I’m working on. Harvatis was writing an article of enormous importance to my work when he died, and it was never completed. If I knew something about the last days of his life, it might help me to understand certain aspects of his study.’

  ‘We can go up to my house,’ he said, rummaging through his pockets for his keys. ‘Or if you’d rather, there’s a tavern around the corner where we could sit down and have a drink.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love that,’ said Mireille. ‘A glass of retsina would be perfect.’

  ‘Fine, then. I have to tell you, first of all,’ he said as they walked down the street, ‘that when you called me an hour ago I was really surprised. I’d nearly forgotten all about that episode; it’s been ten years, not just a couple of days.’

  ‘Right. Exactly ten years ago. Two weeks from now is the anniversary of the Polytechnic battle.’

  Psarros grimaced: ‘Battle? Please, miss, that’s hardly the word. It was a normal police operation for restoring order at the University. A handful of ruffians were preventing a public service from being carried on properly. The media made a big thing of it, talking about dozens of deaths, hundreds of wounded. A few bruises, a few heads bashed in, nothing more than that. Look what this country is reduced to now! They wanted democracy? I hope they’re happy now. Just look,’ he said, opening a copy of To Vradi that had been left on the table. ‘Look at this – double-digit inflation, national debt out of control, corruption, drugs. Believe me, when the army was in charge these things just didn’t happen. Young people cut their hair and dressed decently . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s true that democracy has its drawbacks . . . You Greeks are the ones who invented it. You Athenians, if I’m not mistaken,’ offered Mireille. ‘But please tell me about Harvatis.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Harvatis. Well, there’s not much to say. I dug up his old hospital file, and a few notes that I wrote in my own diary. Harvatis was brought to the hospital at about two a.m. by a certain Aristotelis Malidis, who worked with him, a custodian, I believe, employed at the National Archaeological Museum. The professor was in a critical condition. He seemed to be in shock and was practically unconscious. His heart was in fibrillation and his overall physical condition was quite poor. Although his chances for recovery were slight, we put him under intensive therapy. Without success. He died an hour later. The man who’d brought him, Malidis, had disappeared. I notified the police, a certain Captain Karamanlis, Pavlos Karamanlis, if I remember correctly, because his death seemed suspicious, but I was never told the results of their investigation. I have no idea if there was an investigation, actually.’

  ‘Do you know where Professor Harvatis was buried?’

  ‘No. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d like to know what he looked like. Maybe there’s a photograph on his tomb.’

  ‘That’s possible. You could try the Kifissìa city cemetery. Do you know where it is?’ He took a pen from his pocket and began to sketch out directions on a paper napkin. ‘We’re here. Go back to the main road and follow it all the way down, then turn right here. At the third traffic light, turn left . . .’ he finished his little map, folded the napkin and handed it to her.

  ‘Doctor Psarros, was an autopsy done on his body?’

  ‘I did request an autopsy. It wasn’t done immediately; things were very busy just then. But the autopsy was done. I remember it perfectly.’

  ‘What was found?’

  ‘It was strange, actually. We thought he’d had a devastating heart attack.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. There was no damage to the heart muscle.’

  ‘But what was the cause of death?’

  ‘Cardiac arrest.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean much, does it?’

  ‘Exactly. Practically nothing.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Who knows. Some kind of a shock. There’s not much you can say in a case like this. Maybe the man who brought him, that Malidis, could have told us what had happened, but I never saw him again. Perhaps Captain Karamanlis interrogated him. I have no idea.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘Not at all. If you discover something, let me know.’

  Mireille got into her rented Peugeot and thought of driving out to the cemetery, but it was nearly six o’clock. It was surely closed by now, but perhaps if she found the custodian, she could give him a tip and have him open it.

  ‘For one thousand drachmas, I’ll even dig him up for you, miss,’ said the custodian, who had been about to go home when Mireille slipped him the bill.


  ‘But you have to come with me,’ said the girl. ‘It’s getting dark and I’m a little afraid of walking around here by myself.’

  He smiled and followed her in: ‘There’s no need to be afraid of the dead, miss. It’s the living who are sons of bitches, if you’ll pardon the expression. Like my brother-in-law – I gave him some money to open a shop five years ago, and I’ve never seen a penny of it . . .’ The custodian turned to the right and pointed to a tomb. ‘There he is,’ he said. ‘Mr Periklis Harvatis. I know all my boys, each and every one.’

  Mireille looked at the small oval photograph which showed an old man with thin, snow-white hair. A gaunt but very dignified face. The inscription had only his first and last name, date of birth and date of death, but there was a fresh bunch of flowers, and the area was well taken care of. ‘Do you put the flowers here?’ asked Mireille. The custodian raised his head and closed his eyes. Negative. Mireille smiled to herself, thinking what an odd way all the inhabitants of the south-east Mediterranean – from Sicily to Lebanon – had of saying no. He led her to the exit and pointed to a flower shop: not the one on the right, the second on the left. The lady from the flower shop came by every so often.

  ‘How often?’ wondered Mireille. He shrugged; too much to ask. Mireille thanked him again, shaking his hand warmly, then crossed the street and walked into the flower shop.

  THE WAITER MADE himself a sandwich with feta cheese, olives and tomatoes and poured himself a glass of wine. His usual snack before going home. He sat down, finally, after serving so many people, and relaxed, paging through the newspaper. The wind was coming from the south and the weather was still warm, but you could feel that it was about to change. The sports pages were the most crumpled, but still legible, and there was nothing he liked better than checking the results of the horse races to see if he had won. He’d lost.

  He closed up the paper, calculating how much money he’d thrown away over his lifetime betting on the horses every Sunday and always losing, when suddenly he noticed a black Mercedes moving slowly up the street and stopping in front of number 17. He waited to see who would get out. The engine was turned off, as were the headlights, but no one left the car. Strange.