Donatos leaned towards him, thinking he had misheard.
‘Sea water?’
‘My prescription is simple. Find a place by the sea which pleases you – a sandy beach, a promenade, a quayside if you like boats. Then sit down there, and watch the sea. I recommend three or four hours at a time, and the treatment must be taken daily. Within a month, most of your ailments will be cured.’
Donatos gave a bark of laughter.
‘Whoever has so much time to spend looking at the sea? We have a business to run.’
‘Your response to my prescription is a common one. People say they have no time, with no sense of irony at the fact that stress is shortening their lives, perhaps by decades. But I stand by what I say. In your case, though, I am surprised to hear you suffer from heart problems, since it seems probable you have pure olive oil running through your veins, and that should strengthen your heart. Is there a history of it in your family?’
‘On the contrary.’ Like a small boy, Donatos raised his chin to boast. ‘My father lived till he was ninety-three, and never had a day’s illness in his life. He went to bed one night after a good dinner and a glass of wine, and never woke up. That’s the way we should all go. Not puffing and wheezing like some damned invalid.’
The fat man held up the bottle and the tasting cup.
‘May I?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Donatos. ‘Try it. It’s not the new season’s, but the quality’s still there.’
The fat man poured out a measure of oil. Its colour was brilliant green, and as soon as it left the bottle, its aroma bloomed – grassy, vital, swelling with the scent of the fruit. He took a drink, holding the silky oil in his mouth, enjoying the burst of intense greenness, the depths of ripe olives on his tongue; then he swallowed, and the pepperiness of the oil burned his throat. He coughed, and shook his head; he coughed again.
Donatos smiled.
‘That’s Papayiannis oil,’ he said. ‘As fiery and peppery as you’ll find.’
The fat man nodded his appreciation.
‘It’s good. Very, very good.’
‘You taste that bite?’ asked Donatos, breathing hard. ‘Those are Koroneiki olives, through and through. No blending, no dilution. That’s the pure oil, as it should be.’
‘It really is excellent,’ said the fat man. ‘And I must admit to being slightly surprised. Your place looks like a factory, yet this oil sings of the orchard, and if I were asked, I’d say it could only be the product of old-fashioned methods.’
‘Pah!’ Donatos waved a dismissive hand. ‘People believe in the superiority of the old ways, but it’s all a myth. The ignorant will tell you the best olive oil comes from millstones and donkey-power. Rubbish! What you get from millstones and donkeys is hard labour and waste. All the major prizes these days go to mechanically produced oils. Since we installed these machines, we’ve better quality oil and far better yields. In other words, we get old-fashioned flavour, but it’s economically viable. Greek oil has always been the best in the world, and if more farmers would let go of their notions that quantity comes at the price of quality, the whole of the industry could be revitalised. But they can be stubborn and pig-headed, kyrie. They’re frightened of change, and they dress up their fear as patriotism. They’ll tell you Greek oil’s always been made the same way, two men and a donkey, and that’s how it should stay. But there’s no one more patriotic than me! Greek oil for Greek people, that’s what we produce here, the oil the heroes knew. Our oil is top quality, fit for the Hellenes, but we produce it cheaply enough that we stand a chance of not going bankrupt in the process. And let me tell you, the competition out there is fierce! They’re flooding us with cheap oil from Spain and Italy, even Morocco, and we must all work together and refuse to sink under the tide. We all of us have a duty to stand up to the importers, and stop the flow. Those machines are my legacy to the next generation, and the generation after that. If we can do well as a family, we succeed both for ourselves and for Greece, by keeping our pride in a national industry. That’s something money can’t buy. The oil you have there . . .’
He stopped, and grimacing, bent forward in his chair; the colour of his face darkened, and he held his breath, as if to carry himself through pain.
‘Should I fetch someone?’
Donatos shook his head vehemently. ‘I’ll do all right in a minute,’ he said.
A metallic-red Nissan pick-up drove on to the yard, kicking up stones as it turned in a tight arc, and parked facing the gateway, showing the sign-writer’s work on the driver’s door – Papayiannis Premium Oils. ‘Here’s my son. Don’t for God’s sake say you’ve seen me unwell, or he’ll be nagging me again to see doctors. I don’t want doctors.’
‘I shall say nothing.’
He watched Sakis Papayiannis as he crossed the yard, his hair uncombed and dishevelled, his work clothes scruffy and his boots dirty. Unlike many good-looking men, he moved without strut or swagger; instead, he walked with his head low, as if he might be shy, and quickly, as if he might be late. He checked his watch, and a look of anxiety crossed his face; then he began to search his jacket pockets, pulling out a wad of scrappy papers, shuffling through them for one which eluded him.
As he came into the mill, he was still searching.
‘Here I am, Papa,’ he said. He found the paper he wanted, shoved the others back in his pocket, and looked up to greet his father. His eyes passed rapidly over the fat man, flickering as he noticed the white tennis shoes.
‘Kali mera sas,’ he said. He laid the paper on the counter, and spoke again to his father. ‘I found Bouloukas’s number, so maybe you could ring him. Tell him Tuesday’s no good, it’ll have to be Wednesday. You’d better use the phone in the house, it’s too noisy in here. They’re almost done picking in the far orchard, but they’re running out of sacks, so I’ll take them some of the empty ones from the yard.’ He paused, and looked quizzically at his father. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right,’ said Donatos. ‘For God’s sake, stop worrying.’
‘Here. I almost forgot.’ Sakis dropped a paper bag into his father’s lap. ‘A gift for you.’
The old man smiled, and dipping his hand into the bag, chose a piece of almond praline. Before he put it in his mouth, he held the bag out to the fat man.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try some.’
‘Thank you,’ said the fat man, and took a piece, enjoying as he ate it the crunch of the brittle caramel, and the slight bitterness of the almonds.
‘My son says I eat too much of it,’ said Donatos, choosing another piece, ‘but I say at my age, a little of what you fancy does you good.’
‘The word there is little,’ said Sakis. ‘You do eat too much.’
‘If you don’t want me to eat it, don’t bring it to me. You’re not logical.’
‘I might as well bring it you. If I didn’t bring it to you, she’d bring it to you herself.’
Donatos smiled again, a little archly.
‘My son thinks the lady who makes it has a crush on me,’ he said. ‘And maybe she has. There’s life in me yet, and the ladies can see it, even if he can’t. By the way, Sakis . . .’ He pulled the notebook out from the side of his seat. ‘I still don’t think you’ve got the setting right on that macerator. We’d be better on a slower setting. You said you’d look at it earlier.’
‘And I did.’
‘I never saw you.’
There was a fraction of a pause.
‘If it will make you happy, Papa, I’ll check it again.’ Sakis turned to the fat man. ‘Can I help you with something?’
The fat man held up the oil bottle and tasting cup.
‘Your father has already been an invaluable help,’ he said, ‘and I’m about to buy some of your oil. But before I do, might you outline to me the process you use here? To the layman’s eye, one machine looks much like another. And the place is so orderly, it seems to introduce the chaos of loose olives would be a crime.’
Sakis laughed.
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‘It’s called progress, kyrie,’ he said. ‘And I’d be glad to show you, but the pickers are waiting for me back at the orchards.’
‘They’ll wait,’ said Donatos, his mouth full of half-chewed praline. ‘Show the gentleman what he wants to see. Those idlers will be only too pleased to have an extra five minutes on their backsides.’
Sakis opened his mouth to object, but changed his mind.
‘Very well,’ he said to the fat man. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour.’
‘I’d be very grateful. The last time I saw olives pressed, they were using grindstones and hemp mats.’
‘And the process was romantic, wasn’t it?’ asked Sakis. ‘A taste of old Greece? If you want to see it again, you need go no further than our neighbours, over at the Kapsis place.’
‘Kapsis,’ mused the fat man. ‘Kapsis. The name is familiar. Am I right in thinking it was one of the Kapsis family who was burned last night? The poor young man who fell into the bonfire? I myself was almost a witness, and I did see the aftermath. Were you there?’
‘I wasn’t there, no.’
‘In fact it was suggested to me – and please don’t take offence – but it was said that the boy might have been tripped, or even pushed, by a member of your family. Could that possibly be true?’
Donatos was studying his notebook, and didn’t hear. Sakis seemed untroubled by the question.
‘Gossip,’ he said, ‘nothing more. The boy missed his footing – that’s easily done, when you’re doing something as dangerous as jumping over a bonfire. There have been accidents before, over the years, and no one’s tried to say anyone was pushed. People know of the rivalry between our families, and they build it into something it’s not. Personally, I regard it as healthy competition. Kapsis’s and Papayiannis’s have more in common than they have differences. We’re both in the same business, and both our fortunes rise or fall depending on the crop from our trees. A bad harvest doesn’t recognise property boundaries any more than does a good one. We’re brothers in this trade.’
‘But you don’t approve of their methods?’
‘How can I disapprove? Their methods have been used for centuries. What I don’t understand is, when better methods come along, why don’t they embrace them? Maybe their sense of romance is overdeveloped, whilst I have none at all. I think what you’d call romantic is no more than ignorance. Though I admit those old ways have a certain picturesque appeal, a nostalgia which might be seductive. You should go and see for yourself, admire all their antiques. But believe me, there’s no place for nostalgia in modern oil production. We may lack sentimentality, but our oils are better and better for you, more hygienic and more economical to produce. With our investment – and it was a big investment, as you can tell – we can take our business forward. If we insisted on sticking with traditional methods, there’s no way we’d be producing oil in ten years’ time. Those are the economic facts. As a sideline, yes, of course – if you’re pressing oil for your family’s use, for a few friends, then by all means stick with your donkeys. But we have no business but olive oil, and as such we owe it to ourselves, to our family, to stay in business. This is the only way we can do that. So go and visit them, and try their oil. Then come back and buy ours, when you’ve proven to yourself it’s not only cheaper, but better.’
The fat man was thoughtful.
‘Don’t you find that in any way – sad?’
‘There’s nothing sad about making more of what God’s given you,’ put in Donatos, bullishly. ‘God gave us ingenuity so we could improve our lot, not to sit around wondering how to put food on our family’s plates.’
‘We can’t afford to find it sad,’ said Sakis. ‘We have bills to pay. And anyway, better to look forward in life, not backwards. Something old doesn’t automatically have more value than something new. Is electric light not an improvement over candles?’
‘Sometimes,’ said the fat man, ‘but not always. A romantic dinner, for example. In the glare of electric light, it isn’t romantic at all.’
‘But romance is overrated,’ said Donatos, with a sly smile. ‘There’s many a poor sap fallen for a woman by candlelight, and when the sun comes up been horrified at what he’s bedded! Candlelight’s a woman’s device, kyrie, and you’d be a fool to be sucked in by it. Never trust a woman who won’t let you turn on the lights!’
‘Maybe I might warm more to these new processes if I understood them,’ said the fat man. ‘Ignorance breeds mistrust, and I am not immune from that.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Sakis. ‘I’ll take you through it, from start to finish.’
He walked briskly towards the back of the mill. The fat man followed.
‘May I ask,’ he said, as they went, ‘how much did all this cost you?’
‘Look around you. You can see there’s many millions of drachma in this operation. We had some savings – Papa has always been good with money – but there was a bank loan too. There had to be. But we proved to the bank’s satisfaction that the new plant could pay for itself in six years. In year seven, we’ll be in profit.’
‘What year are you in now?’
‘This is our second year. And thanks be to God, the harvest is good.’
‘My congratulations to you. To have developed a plan and followed it through is admirable. You must be proud.’
Any answer Sakis gave was drowned out by the machinery at the back of the factory. Beyond the rear door, the fork-lift driver was still reading his newspaper, but the two young men the fat man had seen smoking had been roused by Sakis’s arrival, and were busy now loading a steel hopper, using hunting-knives to slit the twine that bound the overfilled sacks, grunting as they took the weight and tumbled in the olives.
Sakis reached down into the hopper, and picking out an olive, held it up to the light to examine it. Seeming satisfied, he dropped it back in.
‘Here’s where we start.’ He shouted over the noise of the compartmentalised conveyor belt, which was now carrying olives upwards, into the building. ‘The olives go via these belts to the first stage of processing, which is washing, which takes place up here.’ He pointed up at a great stainless-steel box, but from ground level there was little to see. ‘The first step in the oil extraction process is cleaning the olives and removing any leaves and twigs. We wash the olives with water, and any debris is left behind in the bath.’ He led the fat man on. ‘When they come out of the washer, the olives are fed into this hopper here . . .’ He slapped the hopper on its side. ‘They go through this pipe here . . .’ He pointed to a pipe leading almost vertically upwards. ‘Then into the crusher.’
Sakis led the fat man back through the factory, all the way shouting explanations of how the process worked; and all the way there was nothing to see but pipes and metal boxes, nothing to hear but the whirr and clatter of machinery, and the slooshing and trickling of unseen liquid.
‘Crushing releases the oil from the fruit. You can do it the old way, with millstones, or with metal-tooth grinders as we use here. We mix the paste in a process called malaxation, which combines the small droplets into bigger ones. Longer mixing times increase oil yield but allow a longer oxidation period that decreases shelf life, so we keep our malaxation process to a minimum. At this point the product looks very unattractive – it’s a mush of crushed olives the colour of soldiers’ camouflage. But then the magic begins. Now we come to separation.’
Sakis stopped in front of a huge metal cylinder.
‘We used to do this with presses and hemp mats, but now we use a dual-phase centrifuge, which separates the oil from the wet paste. Here you see the first centrifuge; over there, the second, with these overhead pipes’ – he pointed to them – ‘carrying the oil from one to the other.’ The fat man looked across at the second centrifuge, a complex arrangement of square tanks, gauges, pipes, and displays with lights and switches. ‘And there, you see the baths the final product runs into. Around the back are the tanks where we rack the oil – the final separation
which happens through gravity. What we end up with is the oil you tasted from that bottle over there.’
They made their way back to the counter. Donatos had turned to a clean page in his notebook, and was making notes in the awkward hand of one unused to writing.
‘Did you check those settings?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to get the engineer to come over here and see what he thinks.’
‘You’ve been very generous with your time,’ said the fat man to Sakis. ‘Let me take a litre of oil, and get out of your way.’
As Sakis reached a bottle down from the shelves, the fat man took money from his wallet.
‘I notice you have a stork’s nest on your roof,’ he said. ‘That’s a token of good luck.’
‘Luck?’ Sakis gave a dubious laugh. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were cleaning up their mess all summer. Sticks, and feathers, and muck! And the noise they make, fidgeting and flapping on the roof! If it were down to me, I’d shoot the damn birds, and pull that nest down and burn it.’
‘Not while I’m alive!’ objected Donatos. ‘And not when I’m gone, either! They’re beautiful birds, and that nest’s been there since my grandfather’s time. And the gentleman’s right. The storks are lucky.’
‘There’s a stork’s nest at the ruins of Ephesus,’ said the fat man, accepting his change. ‘On top of one of the pillars of the Temple of Artemis. It’s been there for many, many years, and is quite remarkable to see. Storks are very faithful birds, when it comes to nesting.’
Outside, a small Datsun pick-up swept on to the yard; its front wing was battered and rusted from some long-bygone collision; the headlight was held in place with electrician’s tape. The driver swung the Datsun round, pulled up alongside the red Nissan pick-up and gave three blasts on his horn.
‘They need those sacks,’ said Sakis. ‘I have to go.’
The fat man picked up his oil.
‘Thank you for this, and for the tour. You’ve shed light where I was ignorant. And I wish you the best of luck with your enterprise.’
The fat man walked slowly to his car. Sakis was loading empty sacks into the Datsun; when he was done, he climbed in beside the driver and slammed the door. As the Datsun drove away, the fat man raised his hand in farewell; but Sakis was in heated discussion with the driver, and didn’t respond.
The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7) Page 7