The fat man hooked his hold-all over his shoulder, and accepted two portions of kleftiko from men who seemed particularly cheerful, and were showing off a winners’ shield. Holding the plates up high, out of the range of careless elbows, he set off around the courtyard perimeter towards the gate.
Halfway there, he paused. An eighth lamb was laid out, in a bizarre display. The flesh was barely touched by heat – enough only to discolour it to an unappetising grey – and yet it too seemed to have won an award. Bemused, the fat man leaned over to read the shield’s engraving, and in doing so caught something unpleasant in the smell coming off the beast: blood, smoke and oregano combined with a sharp, ammoniac tang.
The award had been won in the previous year. He might have asked for an explanation, if there had been anyone to ask, but the Papayiannis tables were deserted.
Dino had found a pair of rocks which made reasonably comfortable seats. He poured large measures of wine, and raised his glass to the fat man before he drank. The fat man chose a piece of crisp-skinned lamb, and ate it with a generous smear of tzatziki.
‘This is truly excellent,’ he said, taking a bite of bread.
They ate, and drank, and discussed the best method of preparing kleftiko, and disagreed over whether it needed any seasoning other than salt. They argued over whether dill or mint was a better flavouring for tzatziki, and whether olive or apple wood was best for baking bread.
When Dino went to fetch more wine, he was gone for some time.
‘I was talking to the lady in charge of the barrels,’ he said, settling himself back on his rock. ‘She seemed to know a fair bit about wine. A nice-looking woman, too, but too old for me. You should have a look for yourself. I found out her name for you – they call her Meni – and I’m telling you, she’s just your type. Go on, have a look for yourself, see if you can catch her eye.’
But when the fat man returned to the courtyard to refill their plates, he avoided the press of people around the wine barrels. He chose potatoes lemonato, a few snails in vinegar, spiced beef flavoured with Metaxa and red mullet grilled over coals. When that was gone, he went to find dessert, and brought back honey cakes with sweet cream and a syrupy walnut baklava. Dino went again for wine, but the barrels were running dry, and he came back with the carafe only half-full.
‘That’s all there is,’ he said. ‘They’re clearing the tables for dancing.’
‘I don’t dance,’ said the fat man. ‘As you know.’
‘Ah, come on, brother!’ Dino punched him in the arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Not for me.’ The fat man rubbed his swelling stomach. ‘There’s no dancing inside me this evening.’
In the town down below, a fresh column of smoke was rising into the dusk. A young boy ran by, heading downhill.
‘Eh, mikre!’ Dino called after him. ‘Where are you running to?’
‘Down to the square!’ shouted the youngster, over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to leap the bonfire!’
‘Leap the bonfire!’ Dino was slouching on his rock, but at the boy’s words, he sat up straight. ‘That sounds like something I should try. I’ll show them how it’s done.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the fat man. ‘You’re half-drunk, and far too old for such stunts.’
But Dino stood, and hands on hips, grinned down at him.
‘You think so? I shall take that as a challenge!’
He set off after the boy. Slowly, wincing at his overfull stomach, the fat man gathered up the detritus of their feast, and when he had disposed of it properly, reluctantly followed his half-brother down the hill.
Democracy Square had been the project of prosperous citizens, three generations before. Paved in tawny marbles, there were dignified, ochre mansions on all four sides, with ornate balconies on every storey and pretty French windows painted coral and white; the largest building had become a folk museum, another was the National Bank, whilst the others served as restaurants and kafenions.
At the heart of the square, a fire burned. From time to time, its bow-legged and toothless guardian fed it olive branches, or poked it with a rake to let the fuel burn through. Around him, boys and youths shouted taunts and dares, shoving each other towards the heat, whooping and jeering as they waited for the flames to die back.
The prospect of the spectacle was drawing people from the church, and the kafenion tables were all taken, but Dino had found space at the Odyssey ouzeri, a cheap place favoured by traditionalists and old men. His order for wine had already been brought out. As the fat man sat down, Dino filled his glass.
A matron in widow’s black approached the fire, and threw in the dried remains of a May Day wreath. The dead flowers flared briefly in the flames, and were gone.
‘Why do they do that?’ asked Dino. He sniffed his wine, and pulled a face.
‘More commonly, the wreaths are burned at midsummer,’ said the fat man. ‘I assume the ceremony here is a hangover from first-sowing celebrations related to Artemis, and the replacing of the last year’s offerings in the temples.’
An old man with a leather bag slung over his paunch was moving between the tables, carrying a staff filled with lottery tickets.
‘Kali spera sas,’ he said to Dino and the fat man. ‘Lottery?’
‘What do you think, brother?’ asked Dino. ‘Are you feeling lucky?’
‘Perhaps,’ said the fat man. ‘How about you?’
‘I never gamble,’ said Dino.
The fat man’s eyebrows lifted.
‘You say you’re going to jump that fire, and you don’t regard that as a gamble? Here, friend, I’ll take one.’
‘You should, kyrie, you should,’ said the lottery seller, who stank of ouzo’s aniseed, and sweat. ‘Top prize this week is twenty million.’
He held out the staff of tickets, and the fat man chose one, apparently at random.
‘It’s no gamble,’ said Dino, staring at the fire. ‘Anybody’s grandmother could get over that.’
The fat man paid for his ticket, and studied the numbers. As the lottery seller gave him his change, he offered him the ticket back.
‘A gift for you,’ he said.
The lottery seller was confused.
‘That’s your ticket,’ he said. ‘I just sold it to you.’
‘And I’m making a gift of it, to you. Please, take it. Perhaps you’ll be lucky.’
The lottery seller looked doubtful.
‘I’m not a lucky man,’ he said. ‘Bad luck has ridden me for years.’
‘The offer’s there,’ said the fat man. ‘Take it or leave it, friend.’
‘I’ll take it, thank you,’ said the lottery seller, folding the ticket and slipping it into his shirt pocket. ‘If I win, I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said the fat man.
As the lottery seller wandered away, Dino was still studying the blaze.
‘I don’t know about anybody’s grandmother,’ said the fat man, ‘but to me, those fit young men don’t seem as confident as you.’
‘Then it’s time they had a bit of a prod,’ said Dino, and he drained his glass and headed towards the fire.
The fat man took a sip of his wine; it was sour, and musty, and so lacking in body it might have been watered down. The patron brought out a dish of salted peanuts, which the fat man, being not at all hungry, at first ignored; but being fond of peanuts, before long he took a few, and popped them one by one into his mouth.
Dino was talking to the boys, trying to persuade them to jump; he was pointing to the bonfire, then measuring his estimation of the flames’ height against his body. He marked a point on his upper thigh; a young man disagreed with him, touching the side of his hand to mid-chest.
Dino laughed, kicked off his sandals, and walked away from the fire, until suddenly, with a cry that was almost a roar, he ran at the blaze. Heads turned to watch. Dino’s speed was surprising, and the fire’s guardian, seeing him coming, grabbed the shoulder of a boy in Dino’s
path and pulled him out of the way. For a few moments, the only sound was Dino’s bare feet slapping on marble; then, as he reached the fire, he shouted again, and leaped. His feet passed through the flames, and he landed heavily on the other side, staggering to keep his balance.
He grinned, and theatrically bowed. There was a ripple of applause, and a single cry of ‘Bravo!’
As he sat back down in his chair, Dino clapped the fat man on the back.
‘So what do you think, Hermes?’ he asked, still grinning, pouring himself more wine. ‘Your turn next!’
‘You’ve had far too much to drink,’ said the fat man. ‘And I prefer to keep my dignity intact.’
Led by Dino’s example, the fire-leaping had properly begun, though the guardian was protesting that the blaze was still too high. Alongside the woodsmoke was the smell of burning fabrics – the singeing of trouser hems, and the scorching of shoes.
Dino watched in amusement, and drank his wine. The fat man, feeling weary, let his eyes close.
‘No!’
Gasps came from several quarters, and the fat man opened his eyes. A shriek of intense pain rang out, piercing and distressing as an animal in a trap. The fire’s guardian had thrown aside his rake, and seemed inexplicably to be stretching his hands into the flames; but other hands were reaching out to him from within the blaze, and the guardian seized them, and with an energy far beyond the capabilities of a man his size and age, pulled a figure from the fire and to its feet.
It was a youth, and he was burning. Flames had hold of his jacket sleeve and his hair, and one leg of his jeans was blackened and smoking; yet paralysed by shock, he seemed incapable of any action to help himself, only shouting, over and over, ‘Put it out! Put it out!’
The guardian’s hands were raw and blistered, but he began to pat the youth’s hair, and succeeded in putting out the flames there. A waiter snatched the cloth from one of his tables, and as plates and tumbled glasses smashed, ran to the youth, wrapped him in white linen and knocked him down, rolling him to douse the fire until others rushed up with bottles of water, and poured them over the covered figure.
Women were shrieking and crying. The children had all become quiet.
‘Is there a doctor anywhere?’ shouted the waiter, crouching by the youth’s covered head, adjusting the cloth to give him air. ‘A nurse? Theé mou, isn’t there anybody?’
‘They’ve called for an ambulance,’ someone told him.
Minutes went by. The fuel of the bonfire lay scattered and glowing, its smoke blending with the smell of the youth’s burned clothes and hair. Ashen-faced people pressed around the boy, anxious to help, but ignorant of what to do. The youth himself was troublingly still.
An ambulance arrived, sirens blaring, blue lights strobing off the ochre walls. The paramedics worked quickly, and took the boy away.
A doctor was finally fetched to the guardian, who sat at a kafenion table with his burned hands resting on his knees, unable to drink the whisky he’d been brought. As his injuries were salved and bandaged, he refused the doctor’s offer of painkillers.
‘I never felt it,’ he said. ‘I never felt a thing.’
‘You’ll feel it, soon enough,’ said the doctor, and he left a bottle of tablets beside the whisky.
‘Panayia mou,’ said Dino, deathly pale. ‘How did he miss his footing? Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘A terrible misfortune,’ agreed the fat man. ‘As dreadful an accident as I have seen.’
The patron stood behind them, solemn-faced, with a tray tucked under his arm.
‘Accident my backside,’ he said. ‘A Kapsis youth, and a Papayiannis there to make trouble? There’s history there, and bad feeling which goes way back. Anyone in Dendra’ll tell you, that boy didn’t miss his footing. Take it from me, that was no accident at all.’
Three
The sobered people drained their glasses and signalled for their bills, and the waiters broke off their recounting of the drama to take customers’ payments, before hurrying back to the conversations they had left. The crowds drifted away, and before long, the square was all but empty.
The fat man paid for the wine, and was ready to leave.
‘Stay!’ insisted Dino. ‘The night is young! Let’s have another carafe.’
The fat man shook his head.
‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘I’ve had far too much already. I shall find myself a bed for the night, and hope the price of your company won’t be a sore head in the morning. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘No thanks,’ said Dino. ‘This is a festival, and festivals don’t end until I’ve seen the dawn.’
‘It will be difficult to go on with the festival by yourself. Plainly, the majority has called a halt to the celebrations, out of respect for that young man’s misfortune.’
‘Damn the majority,’ said Dino. ‘That young man’s misfortune – terrible though it is – is only proof that my life’s philosophy’s right. We must seize the day, brother, and seize the night too! Patron! Bring me another carafe!’
‘As you wish,’ said the fat man. ‘Kali nichta, then.’
His gait as he crossed the square was somewhat unsteady. Dino called after him.
‘Hey, Hermes! Where will I find you?’
‘It’s a small town,’ said the fat man, without looking back. ‘No doubt you’ll manage to track me down.’
He found himself on a quiet cobbled lane, looking up at the brightly lit Hotel Byron – a pension formed from three antiquated buildings, with its entrance at the top of a long stairway. He made heavy weather of the steps, swaying backwards and forwards alarmingly until he found a handrail, then climbing much slower than his usual pace. When he asked for a room, he forgot to ask its price, and set off up the internal staircase, key in hand, with no memory at all of the owner’s instructions on how to find his bed. As he stood swaying on the first-floor landing, a glance at his key-fob reminded him he was in Room 11, though he had no idea whether that would be on the first or second floor. Unable to remember, he stumbled searching along the first-floor corridors. Room 11 wasn’t there.
When he returned to the head of the stairs, the owner was waiting.
‘The very person,’ said the fat man. ‘Could you perhaps remind me where I need to go?’
‘Been at the feast, have you?’ asked the owner.
‘I have.’
‘That feast is responsible for a lot of amnesia. Next floor up, second on the left.’
The fat man thanked him, and by repeating ‘second on the left’ over and over, found his room, though the lock was reluctant to take the key, and he spent several minutes persuading one into the other. Finally inside the room, he tossed his raincoat on to a chair and lay down fully clothed on the bed, thinking he would close his eyes just for a few minutes.
He was woken by sparrows squabbling in the branches of a lemon tree growing so close to his window, he might reach through and pick its fruit. Beside his bed, the lamp still blazed. Somewhere below, dogs whined.
The fat man assessed his condition. Having slept without blankets, he was cold. His mouth was dry, and the surface of his tongue felt brittle. Swollen veins at his temples pulsed with headache, and his bloodshot eyes were sore.
His watch showed a little before six. Swallowing nausea, he got up from the bed, turned off the lamp, and looked out of the window on to dog kennels and a run where three hunting dogs – liver-and-white pointers – waited at the gate. With pauses to rest, he undressed slowly, placing his shoes side by side under the dressing-table, hanging up his raincoat and his crumpled suit, folding his polo shirt over the chair-back. In the bathroom, he drank a glass of water, but as it hit his stomach, the nausea grew dangerously worse.
He ran a fresh half-glass of water, sat down on the bed with his hold-all beside him, and searched it until he found a tin which had once contained strong peppermints. Inside, where the scent of peppermint oil still lingered, were folded papers of medicinal powders, finely gr
ound and speckled with blue and grey. He tipped the contents of a wrap into the water. Lacking a spoon, he swirled the powder in the glass with his finger, and whilst the powder was still held in the water’s whirlpool, drank it down in a couple of swallows, grimacing at the foulness of the taste.
Until he was certain the mixture would stay down he stayed very still; and when he was as sure as he could be, he turned his pillows so the cool side was uppermost and lay down, pulled a sheet and blanket over himself, and slept.
He woke again a little before ten. The headache and the nausea were almost gone.
Standing at the end of the bed, he prepared to do his morning stretches and toe-touches, but when he bent towards his feet, he was unsettled to find he couldn’t see them. Frowning, he faced the wardrobe mirror, and convinced himself that, though his belly was undoubtedly generous in its proportions, there had been no significant increase in its size; but disheartened by the disappearance of his feet, he allowed himself to forgo his exercises for that morning, and stepped into the shower.
The water was hot, and he stayed under its jets for a long time, until he felt the remnants of his hangover were washed away. He dried himself, and tried to wrap a towel around his waist, but the towel seemed to be too short to stay in place. He soaped his face with a badger-hair brush, and shaved with a silver-handled razor, then splashed on a few drops of cologne – a recent gift from an old friend, a blend of bergamot, white cedar and oak moss, and underlying all, the heady, sweet crème brûlée of immortelle. He ran a fingerful of pomade through his damp curls, and cleaned his teeth with powder flavoured with wintergreen and cloves, then ran the tip of a steel file behind his fingernails and polished each one with a chamois buffer.
The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7) Page 4