‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. He pulled a sheet from the file, glanced at it, replaced it and continued his search.
‘Kali mera sas,’ said the fat man. ‘Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens.’
Surprised at the fat man’s beautifully enunciated Greek, the man looked up from the file.
‘Athens,’ he said. ‘I would have guessed so. Spiros Zysis.’ They shook hands. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I see you’re very busy,’ said the fat man. ‘I was wanting to try some of your oils.’
Behind the desk was a shelf of oil samples in green bottles, each labelled with a name and a code. Spiros looked at the samples, then at the silenced phone.
He hesitated.
‘Kyrie,’ he said, ‘I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t have time to taste oils with you today. Tasting these oils is a job for half a day at least, and today I don’t have half an hour, let alone half a day. It’s harvest, and every farmer for miles around is trying to screw me on price. There’s no one here now, but only because they’re all off drinking coffee, whilst I, as you see, am so up to my neck, I can only dream of having time to drink coffee.’ Through the open doorway, they heard a vehicle pull on to the yard. ‘See, we speak of the devil, and here he is. So, although I would love you to taste my oils – I have some beauties here, absolute top quality – please, come back next month. Come back in January, February. Then I have all the time in the world.’
‘Maybe your brother could help me?’
For a moment, Spiros was puzzled. Then he laughed.
‘You overheard my phone call. Tell me something. Are you here to try and sell me any oil?’
‘On the contrary. I’m interested in buying.’
‘Then I’ll let you in on a secret. I have no brother, only a sister, a wonderful woman who’s a housewife in Patra. She has a small share in the business, which my father left to her. People see we trade as Zysis & Co, and assume I’m in business with a brother. I let them make their assumptions, because my phantom brother is very useful to me. He’s a tough businessman who drives a hard bargain, and I’m always the nice guy.’
The fat man smiled.
‘Ingenious.’
‘A practicality. If it weren’t for my brother, these people would drive me crazy.’
In the yard an engine revved and then slowed, and a voice shouted, ‘Whoa! That’s far enough!’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Spiros. ‘I must see who’s here.’
He grabbed a clipboard and a pen, and left the office.
The fat man crossed to the sample shelf, and studied the row of green bottles, but there was nothing to distinguish one from another but their handwritten labels. He followed Spiros as far as the warehouse doorway, and looked out on to the yard.
Around a three-wheeled truck – a primitive contraption with an uncovered bench seat, and handlebars rather than a steering wheel – Spiros was in conversation with two men. One was very elderly, bent-backed and emaciated, formally dressed in a jacket and tie, his sparse hair combed and oiled, though his grooming was spoiled by open-toed sandals made necessary by the bandaging of ulcers on his calves and feet. The other was his middle-aged grandson, lank and lean from hard work, who wore a farmer’s filthy clothes. On the back of the truck was a hunting dog, a black Labrador unhappily pressed up against the truck sides by a plastic barrel lashed in place with baling twine. The old man was unsteady, relying for balance partly on his grandson, who kept a hand under his elbow, and partly on a handsome antique cane.
The lid was off the barrel. Standing on the rear bumper, Spiros took the spoon from round his neck and dipped it into the oil. Drawing out a spoonful, he sniffed and sucked, and, eyes closed, swilled and drank and coughed; then he refilled the spoon, and did the same. The old man and his grandson waited tensely.
Spiros’s face gave nothing away.
‘How much have you got?’ he asked.
‘Only this,’ said the grandson, ‘plus what we’ve kept for ourselves. There’s only me to harvest. I did my best.’
‘What’s he say?’ asked the old man, putting his hand to his ear and leaning towards his grandson’s mouth.
‘He wants to know how much we have,’ shouted the younger man in his ear, and the old man sadly shook his head.
‘Only a little,’ he said. ‘Just a little.’
Spiros looked inside the barrel.
‘It looks a little short on measure,’ he said, ‘but let’s call it a hundred and sixty litres.’ He dipped his spoon again, and took a quick taste. ‘What blend do you say this is?’
‘No blend,’ said the grandson. ‘Only Ladolia. What do you think?’
Spiros stepped down off the bumper, and for a few moments faced the two men in silence.
He smiled, broadly.
‘I think it’s superb.’
‘What does he say?’ asked the old man.
The son was grinning with relief.
‘He says it’s good, Pappou,’ he shouted in the old man’s ear. ‘He says it’s really good.’
The old man mumbled under his breath, made three crosses with the head of his cane, and turned away his face to hide tears.
‘But the market’s low,’ said Spiros. ‘Market price even at this quality is only two-six, two-seven. Every year, the foreigners put us under more pressure. In Spain, they’re giving oil away.’
‘Two-seven!’ objected the grandson. ‘Last year we got three! It’s not worth my time at two-seven!’
Spiros shrugged his sympathy. The grandson touched his arm, and spoke quietly.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This will likely be my grandfather’s last harvest. Please, give him something good to remember.’
‘I know what you’re saying,’ said Spiros, wiping his spoon on the white cloth and hanging the chain back around his neck, ‘but if I give you three, I’ll take a loss on it.’
With watery eyes, the old man was watching.
Spiros sighed.
‘You know what?’ he said, at last. ‘The oil is top quality, and I’ll take the barrel at three-ten.’
The son beamed, and clapped his grandfather on his bony back.
‘Three-ten,’ he shouted in the old man’s ear. ‘He says he’ll give us three-ten.’
The old man smiled, showing his empty gums, and gripped Spiros’s upper arm.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at his grandson. ‘I told you it was worth doing, boy. I told you it was good.’
‘Come into the office,’ Spiros said to the grandson, ‘and we’ll sort you out.’ He called out to the man with the sandwich, who had finished eating and was now enjoying a cigarette. ‘Tasso! We’ll have this in number twelve.’
As the grandson helped the old man back aboard the truck, Spiros made for his office, passing the fat man in the warehouse doorway. By the time the grandson joined him, Spiros was seated behind his desk, writing on the next available line in a ledger, across the page in green ink: the family name, the variety, the quantity, the date, the price, the location of their farm. When the details were complete, he stood and took a wad of cash from his back pocket, counted off a number of notes and handed them to the grandson, who thanked him profusely.
‘I won’t forget this,’ he said, offering an enthusiastic handshake. ‘You’re a gentleman.’
‘You take care of your grandfather,’ said Spiros. ‘And take care of your trees. They deserve it.’
As the grandson drove the old man away, a forklift truck was bringing the oil barrel into the warehouse. Spiros seemed to have forgotten the fat man, who was waiting patiently whilst Spiros made entries in a cash book.
‘I see how busy you are,’ said the fat man at last, ‘and I appreciate you’re not free to give me a lot of time. But I would appreciate your answering me one question. I’ve tried two oils from this region, both from Dendra. Is Dendra oil some of your best?’
Spiros seemed not to have heard. He finished writing in the cash book,
then flicked through the ledger, running his fingers down the entries, pausing at three or four. Then he stood up, efficiently picked three bottles from the sample shelf behind him and placed them in a row on his desk.
‘How can I not make time for a customer?’ he said. ‘Not as much time as I’d like, but let me show you something. These are last year’s oils, and they’re past their best. Soon the new crop will be in, and you should buy from that. But let’s try these.’
He found a plastic spoon in a drawer, and filling it with oil from the first bottle, handed it to the fat man, who tasted it.
‘Forgive the spoon,’ he said. ‘It isn’t the way it should be done. When you come back, we’ll do this properly, but you’ll get an idea at least. What do you think?’
The fat man was reluctant to answer, and tried the oil again.
Spiros laughed.
‘Not so good, eh? Industrial oil. Lamp oil, as the Italians call it, the very dregs. This oil is rancid, fusty, made with rotten fruit and the second pressing of the leftovers from virgin oil. You taste in there maybe something metallic, something vinegary? Not fit for pigs! But let me tell you, this oil made it on to the market, and was sold in supermarkets as extra-virgin olive oil! Yes, truly! And how? Because there are unscrupulous men out there – too many of them, my friend, far too many! – who will take a cheap oil like this and bastardise it – filter it, blend it, deodorise it and colour it, and voilà! To those who know nothing – and that, I am afraid, is the majority – it becomes first quality, extra-virgin. This oil might fetch good money in Frankfurt or Amsterdam. But virgin? Pah! This oil, friend, is a whore. It’s a whore which is destroying the true oil business, and putting quality growers like the gentlemen who have just left us out of business. Now, please. Forgive my little trick, but I wanted to make a point with you. What I sell from this warehouse is only the purest olive oil. What happens to it when it leaves here, I have no control over. But if you buy direct from me, I guarantee you oil you would be proud to serve to your family and to your guests.’ At the edge of the desk was a bowl of green apples. Spiros picked one out, and opening a blade of the penknife, cut off a slice of the tart fruit and passed it to the fat man. ‘Here, eat this and clean your palate.’ The fat man did so, and Spiros wiped the plastic spoon, and opened the second bottle. ‘Now try this.’
He filled the spoon, and held it out to the fat man, who hesitated to take it.
‘I’ve made you nervous,’ said Spiros. ‘But I promise you, no more tricks. As you taste it, suck the air over it, as if you were tasting a fine wine.’
The fat man took the spoonful of oil into his mouth, and drew in air through puckered lips. He held the oil on his tongue for a moment, then quickly swallowed it as he began to cough, and tears came to his eyes.
‘There you have it!’ said Spiros, excitedly. ‘There you have the best oil I could sell you! It’s peppery, and it burns! But tell me, what flavours are you getting now?’
The fat man wiped his eyes, and licked his lips.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s green, and grassy . . .’
‘Exactly! Fresh-cut grass and green tomatoes, maybe a little artichoke? It’s bitter, and it’s hot, yes? This is a wonderful oil. Unfortunately I can sell you none of this. I sold all of it I had, early in the year. It’s a connoisseur’s oil, and I have my special buyers who take it every season. Do you find that pepperiness unexpected? It’s not to the general public’s taste, so the big companies blend the heat from decent oils, mixing them with milder olive oils, canola oil, anything to disguise what the public isn’t used to. But this is the real thing – this is extra-virgin olive oil as it should be, not the abomination you buy off the supermarket shelves. Imagine it, my friend, on your table. Now, another.’
He cut the fat man another piece of apple; the fat man ate it, and took the spoonful of the third oil Spiros offered him.
‘What do you think to that?’
The fat man took the oil in his mouth, sucked air in over it, and savoured it on his tongue before swallowing it.
‘It’s good,’ said the fat man. ‘It’s very good. It has a burn to it, and the same grassiness as the last.’
‘You’re right, it is a good oil,’ said Spiros. ‘It’s a little past its best now, but it’s still good.’ He tried a little himself, as an indulgence. ‘Does it seem familiar to you?’
The fat man was doubtful.
‘You’re not sure, and I don’t blame you,’ said Spiros. ‘When you taste several oils, it becomes difficult for the novice to tell them apart. But I think you have tasted this oil before. This is Kapsis oil, from Dendra.’
‘How do you tell them all apart?’
‘It’s a craft I’ve learned, from being a boy. I understand the oils’ nuances. But even I have days when it’s difficult. The first sign of a cold, and my palate is useless. So just to be sure, I code them in my ledger.’
‘And which one of these is from the Papayiannis mill?’ asked the fat man, pointing to the bottles on the shelf.
‘None of them. I had no Papayiannis oil last year. All their oil went for export. I couldn’t blame them, really. They were offered an unbeatable price. Though it might have annoyed me, if I hadn’t done all right out of the deal myself. This company has dealt with the Papayiannis family for decades, and there has to be a place in business for loyalty.’
‘What happened?’
‘They brought me a lot of oil. Their new machinery has upped their yields. We agreed a price, I bought the oil into the warehouse. But a few days later, here came Sakis, wanting to buy it all back. All of it, and more on top, as similar as I could give them, he said. He’d got a contract from someone in London or New York, someone passing who’d loved the oil and wanted to buy the lot for a chain of restaurants. Well, it was no skin off my nose. I took my cut, and sold them back their own oil, plus the extra they were wanting.’
‘Where did the extra come from?’
‘It was from their neighbours in Dendra. They wanted a close match, and that was the closest I could get.’
‘How did they feel about that?’
Spiros smiled and shook his head.
‘I didn’t tell them. I know how things stand between those families. I told them it was from elsewhere, and they were happy. From the barrels alone, there’s no way of telling which producer an oil’s from. The only way is through my coding system, in my ledger.’
Outside, another vehicle pulled on to the yard, blasting its horn for attention. Spiros glanced at his watch.
‘If you know the family, have you heard of Donatos Papayiannis’s death?’ asked the fat man.
‘I have,’ said Spiros. ‘The oil community’s tight knit, and bad news travels fast. I’d have gone to the funeral, but I couldn’t spare the time. As you’ve seen, the place is bedlam, and I must excuse myself, and get on.’
‘Of course,’ said the fat man. ‘My thanks to you. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘I mean what I say,’ said Spiros. ‘Come back after harvest, and I’ll introduce you to a few more of our oils.’
He replaced the receiver on the phone. Immediately, it rang.
‘Before I go,’ said the fat man, as Spiros reached out to answer it, ‘the barrel you just bought from those two gentlemen – is it a good oil?’
‘It’s a different oil to these last two you’ve tasted, but excellent in its way. Ladolia olives are harvested black, not green, and the oil is milder, paler in colour. With the best ones, like the barrel out there, you get a distinct flavour of almonds. Yes, it’s an oil I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend.’
‘Then I’ll buy it from you. I’ll give you four-ten for the whole barrel.’
‘Four-ten? That’s far too much. I’ve overpaid on it myself. Give me three-twenty, and I’ve turned a profit on it.’
‘Four-ten,’ said the fat man. ‘I insist. I’ll send someone to pick it up in the next few days, and he’ll bring cash. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Spiros.’
>
Spiros offered his hand.
‘Likewise,’ he said, and answered the ringing phone.
It was close to the traditional hour for lunch, and traffic in Neochori was thinning out. The fat man parked near the Church of the Apostles, and wandered for a while along the main street, reading every name carved on the war memorial, looking over the titles in a bookshop window where a new guide to the island of Thiminos took pride of place. Coming to a restaurant where the food smelled appetising, he glanced only briefly at the menu, preferring to judge by the number of diners the likely quality of the food; and seeing through the condensation-misted window that the place was nearly full, he went inside.
He was shown to a table by a young girl whose hair was bleached almost white, and cropped short to show off the earrings dangling from her lobes – three in each ear, all silver drops, spirals and hoops. Her tight-fitting jeans were tucked into ankle boots, and her black T-shirt had a clenched, red fist on the chest, over the slogan, Eat the Rich.
She left him to take his seat, and returning with a basket of warm bread and a jug of water, handed him a menu.
‘I hope,’ he said, as he opened it, ‘that your T-shirt is not an advertisement for what I shall find in here?’
She looked down her front, reminding herself of what she was wearing, and smiled.
‘We’re short of volunteers for the pot,’ she said. ‘We don’t get many of the rich coming in here. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘An ouzo,’ he said. ‘And before I spend time on the menu, can you tell me what I should order?’
‘That depends,’ she said. ‘Are you hungry, or not so hungry? If you’re hungry, there’s braised veal with pasta – that’s good – or there’s slow-roast lamb, or rabbit with onions. If you’re not so hungry, there are octopus keftedes, or there’s squid stuffed with spinach and feta. Papa does them on the barbecue. The squid is fresh today.’
The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7) Page 16