The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7)

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘I’m sure he did. Did you notice which way he went?’

  ‘He went through the gates, same as everyone else. He went with my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin?’

  ‘In his cab. Your relative asked him to take him to Dendra.’

  As he approached the Hotel Byron, the fat man was surprised to hear laughter from inside. In the dining room, he found Lefteris, his father-in-law Tomas and Dino sitting at a table, each with a glass of wine poured from a bottle carrying the Lachesis label and all in stitches at some joke. Tomas was laughing so hard, he was wiping away tears.

  Seeing the fat man, Lefteris got to his feet.

  ‘Kyrie Diaktoros,’ he said, ‘come and join us.’

  ‘Yes, come and join us, Hermes,’ said Dino. ‘The wine and the company are good.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ asked Lefteris.

  ‘I should say so,’ answered Dino. ‘He’s my brother.’

  Tomas pulled a fourth chair up to the table.

  ‘Come, sit, sit,’ he said. ‘You enjoyed this wine, and we’re just going to open another bottle. Lefteris, open another.’

  ‘I did enjoy that wine,’ said the fat man, ‘enough to go to the trouble of visiting the vineyard and buying some, so I know that the vintage is far from limitless, and that it would be a crime to drink it without savouring it, and giving it due respect. I mean you no offence, brother, but you’ll admit you’re not always particular about what you drink, so might I suggest, Lefteris, that if you’re going to open a second bottle, you open something more in the factory-bottled line.’

  Dino gave a bark of laughter.

  ‘Hermes,’ he said, ‘you’re the life and soul, as ever! Don’t be so pompous! Why is it for you to tell these gentlemen what wine they may or may not drink? And if you’ve bought some anyway, why not open a bottle of yours? Come on, live a little!’

  Lefteris placed a fourth glass on the table, and the fat man sat down.

  ‘It seems you at least have been living, in your usual style,’ said the fat man. ‘I saw you at the hospital. What did you do to your arm?’

  Dino grinned, and took a drink which emptied his glass. Lefteris was removing the foil from another bottle.

  ‘The details are sketchy, as I was just saying,’ said Dino. ‘I remember I was getting on well with a lady, who wasn’t perhaps quite as young as I’d like, though she wasn’t the worst you’ve seen, by any means. I bought her a drink or two . . .’

  ‘Did you buy her a drink or two, or merely lodge the debt on some unpaid bill?’ interrupted the fat man.

  Dino went on as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘We had a couple of drinks,’ he said. ‘We were in one of those places that sells wine from the barrel, and they keep a barrel out in the street as advertising.’

  ‘I know the place,’ said Tomas. ‘I’ve had a glass or two there myself, in my time.’

  ‘I liked it there,’ said Dino, ‘and the wine wasn’t bad of its type. Anyway, we had a drink or two, and then she made me a bet.’ The fat man looked up to the ceiling, and sighed. Lefteris filled his glass with ruby wine. ‘She bet me I couldn’t roll that barrel to the end of the street.’

  ‘That’s not so difficult, surely,’ said the fat man.

  ‘It is when you’re standing on it,’ said Dino, and he jumped up from his chair, and mimicked his precarious balance on a rolling barrel. ‘Like this I was! But I didn’t get far. Down I came, right on this wrist, and I knew from the pain it was broken. But that old barrel just kept rolling and going, and the street was more downhill than I thought. It stopped in the end, all right! Right through a shop window! You should have heard the noise, and the commotion! I was in agony, but I didn’t hang about. I took myself off sharpish, and found a taxi to the hospital, where I ended up like this.’ He held up his plaster-cast inside its sling. ‘I need another drink for the pain. Medicinal purposes only!’

  ‘And what happened to the young lady?’ asked Tomas.

  ‘When I left her, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t stand. It’s a sad day for a man when all he can do is make a woman laugh.’ He sat back down. ‘Hey, Hermes, if you saw me at the hospital, why didn’t you give me a lift?’

  ‘You were out cold, or so it seemed. By the time I left, you’d got yourself a taxi. Did you pay him, by the way?’

  ‘I had no cash on me. I told him to call in here when he was passing. I’ll be staying here tonight. Lefteris has given me a room.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said the fat man. ‘Maybe before you have another drink, you could go and make use of the shower.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Dino. ‘And by the way, I think “out cold” is a bit strong, when I merely closed my eyes for a while. The place was warm, and I was tired from the painkillers they gave me. Anyone would have dozed off. Though it wasn’t easy to sleep there, with all the noise. Still, I was pleased to be awake to see the cat-fight. That at least was entertaining. Lefteris, my friend, I wonder if you’d mind pouring me another drop?’

  ‘What cat-fight?’ asked the fat man.

  ‘Two women at each other’s throats. One had brought in flowers for some patient, and they ended up all over the floor.’

  ‘Tell us,’ encouraged Tomas. ‘This sounds a good story.’

  Lefteris refilled Dino’s glass, and Dino took a drink.

  ‘I was still waiting to be seen,’ he said. ‘Even with my broken wrist, they kept me waiting. But I was taking an interest in my surroundings and my fellow patients. A woman came in – not bad-looking, actually, in a mature kind of a way – and she’d brought gifts for someone. She’d got a huge bouquet of flowers, expensive-looking, all out-of-season irises and roses, and a box of chocolates or biscuits, something foreign. So she goes up to the little receptionist and gives the patient’s name she’s come to see. And as she’s standing there, another woman comes in behind her – a harridan of a woman, a bottle-blonde in high heels – and she marches up to this woman at reception, and taps her on the shoulder, and says, Yassou, whatever her name was. Well, the woman with the flowers nearly jumps out of her skin. Red as a beetroot, she goes. And the blonde asks her what the hell she’s doing there, and she holds out the flowers and says, These are an apology and a peace-offering, for poor someone-or-other. And without further ado, the blonde snatches the flowers out of her hands, and drops them on the floor, and stamps on them two or three times, and mad as Medusa, spits on them! She spat on the flowers!’

  Tomas and Lefteris were spellbound; the fat man was listening closely.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Tomas.

  ‘The blonde said, We don’t want you here, or any of your tribe. And she spat on the flowers again, and said, Now I’ve returned your compliment. An eye for an eye, and went marching off into the hospital. So the other woman – quite calmly, it seemed to me – handed the box of chocolates or whatever they were to the receptionist, gathered up the flowers, dumped them on her desk and walked out.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Lefteris. ‘You’d think they’d behave better, in a hospital. Can I get any of you gentlemen something to eat? There’s chicken pie from lunch. My wife makes it Cretan style, with feta and pine-nuts. You’ll find it tasty.’

  ‘I could manage a little something,’ said Dino.

  ‘Kyrie Diaktoros?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said the fat man. ‘I have an errand to run. Brother, think back if you can. What name did your Medusa use to the woman with the flowers?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Dino. ‘You know I’m not good with names.’

  ‘Try,’ said the fat man. ‘What did it begin with?’

  Dino considered.

  ‘It was a name like someone else’s,’ he said. ‘A name like someone else I’ve met recently. A-something. Ariana. Amanda.’

  ‘Amara?’

  ‘That’s it, Amara! You’re a genius, Hermes! How did you know that? Were you there?’

  ‘Not at the time, no,’ said the fat
man. He stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must leave you. But before I go, I wonder if I might borrow your typewriter?’

  ‘Typewriter?’ Lefteris looked across at the antique machine on the window sill. ‘You mean that one? I doubt whether it works. It’s many years since anyone last used it.’

  ‘I’ll give it a try, if I may. And I’d appreciate a sheet of paper, if you have one.’

  Dark had fallen quickly, and as premises reopened for the evening’s business, Dendra’s mood moved upbeat from the torpor of autumn siesta.

  But the fat man seemed in no hurry to find the sign of the cockerel the newspaper editor had mentioned. He wandered at a leisurely pace through the lanes, gazing in the shop windows at whatever took his eye – a vase hand-painted with flying birds and lines of poetry, the imaginative arrangements of flowers in a florist’s window. He spent a little while at a coffee merchant’s, breathing in the smell of the hot beans as they turned in the drum of a roaster, discussing the optimum blend for his taste as the owner ground him a quarter kilo of Colombian. Along the street, he found a shop tiled floor to ceiling in white, where white cheeses – blocks of sharp feta, aged and salty anthotyros, sweet and nutty graviera – were displayed on marble slabs. He asked for a portion of touloumotyri – made the old way inside a cured goatskin – and the shop keeper scooped it from the hide with a wooden spoon, giving him a fork to eat it from the pot. As he enjoyed the cheese, he caught a whiff of smoke and grilling pork, and tempted, followed his nose down a side street, where he found the Kokoras kebab shop – the sign of the cockerel.

  The fat man paused to read the poster publicising the candlelit vigil on behalf of the tobacco farmers, and went inside. At the sink behind the counter, worn and weary in rubber gloves, Dora was scrubbing a pan. Xavier sat amongst the few customers, a notepad and pen and a letter on official government stationery close to hand.

  As the fat man approached the counter, Dora mustered a smile, dropped the pan into the greasy dishwater and pulled off her gloves.

  ‘Kali spera,’ she said. ‘What can I get you?’

  The menu on the wall had been there some years, and the prices had been altered several times.

  ‘Kali spera,’ said the fat man, as he read. ‘I think a chicken gyros, with tzatziki, chips and tomatoes. A few onions, maybe, but no mustard. And I’ll have a lemonade to drink.’

  ‘Help yourself to lemonade.’ Dora placed a glass on the counter, and pointed to the drinks cooler. Opening the kitchen fridge, she took out a plate of skewered chicken-breast pieces, and frowned a little as she sniffed them for freshness. With a scraper, she swept the burnt debris of souvlakia from the griddle and sprayed olive oil on to the cooking surface. Taking the topmost chicken skewer from the stack, she sniffed it again before laying it on the heat, where it sizzled and began to smoke. She dropped a pita beside it, and pressed the bread down with a spatula so it would colour from the oil.

  The background music changed, from a rock ballad to a love song. Dora turned the chicken, and looked troubled.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ said the fat man, ‘aren’t you a relative of Esmerelda Dimas, the newspaper editor?’

  ‘She’s my niece.’ Dora lifted the edge of the pita to see if it was browned.

  ‘I met her the other day. She seems a bright young woman.’

  ‘I suppose so.

  ‘Was it your brother who founded the paper?’

  ‘My brother?’ Dora seemed confused. ‘Oh, you mean the News. No, not my brother, my husband’s. No one on my side of the family can string two words together.’

  ‘Really?’ He glanced at Xavier, but the contradiction of her statement was lost on her. She turned the chicken again, and flipped the pita. ‘I believe Esmerelda reported on the food-poisoning outbreak here in Dendra. When was that, a year, two years ago?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘She and I were talking about the damage something like that might do to a business’s reputation.’

  She looked at him, and something like a shudder ran through her.

  ‘Trouble like that could ruin you for good,’ she said. ‘I live in dread of the health inspectorate. If they’d said the outbreak came from this shop, I don’t know what I’d have done.’

  She lifted the pita off the griddle, and laid it on a plate.

  ‘They came here, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, they came here more than once. They took samples of everything – swabs from the fridge, from the sinks, from the toilets. I do my best to keep things clean, and it was a great relief when they didn’t find anything.’

  ‘But they did at the gelateria.’

  She looked at him closely.

  ‘Are you from the papers yourself?’

  ‘I? No, I’m not from the press. But I had some excellent ice cream at Signor Rapetti’s shop and was sorry to hear his story. As you say, a positive result might ruin a man, as it has almost ruined him.’

  ‘I don’t know that they ever did have a positive result,’ she said.

  The shop door opened; Miltiadis, the tailor, came in, and the troubled expression left Dora’s face, and was replaced by brightness. The fat man turned, and recognised him.

  ‘Yassas,’ said Miltiadis, approaching the counter. ‘Xavier, how are you?’

  ‘Yassou, Theié,’ said Xavier. ‘I’m very well, thanks. I had a reply from the Ministry of the Interior.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  Xavier held up both pages of the crest-headed letter.

  ‘A great deal, and nothing,’ he said. ‘A lot of words to say damn all. I’m writing to the minister now to challenge his so-called facts.’

  Miltiadis nodded.

  ‘You keep it up, son,’ he said. ‘You keep it up.’

  ‘How are you, tailor?’ asked the fat man as Miltiadis joined him at the counter.

  Miltiadis placed a ribbon-tied box beside the bottles of ketchup and mustard.

  ‘Just a few lemon biscuits,’ he said to Dora. ‘I made them myself.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be delicious,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to a beer. I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight.’

  ‘Oh, you know me,’ he said, choosing a Fix. ‘I’m a creature of habit.’

  ‘I must collect my trousers from you, if they’re ready,’ said the fat man. ‘Though I’m afraid if I don’t cut down, they may need to be let out again.’

  Dora popped the cap off Miltiadis’s beer.

  ‘The gentleman was asking about Renzo,’ she said. A look passed between them.

  ‘I was enquiring how he coped when the bacterial tests proved positive at his shop,’ said the fat man. ‘But the lady suggests there were no positive tests. Which makes me wonder, how come the finger was pointed there?’

  Dora began to assemble the fat man’s gyros.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think I know.’

  ‘But you knew enough to tell your niece with certainty that the fatal outbreak came from there. False certainty, as it seems.’

  ‘Yes.’ Thoughtfully, she put his plate on the counter. ‘But I was told with certainty myself. An arrest was imminent, that’s what I heard. But who told me? Miltiadis, I think it was you.’

  ‘Maybe. It might have been.’ Miltiadis sipped his beer. ‘I knew it for fact, at the time. That’s why he and I fell out. He stopped taking my eggs, so who was going to look like the source? I might have been arrested myself! And I was only doing him a favour, letting him have the eggs cheap. Someone told me it was him for certain. But who was it? I can’t remember.’

  The fat man left him to think, and ignoring the empty tables in between, took his gyros to a seat very close to Xavier. The young man was absorbed in scenes of scuffles on a picket line, and seemed indifferent. The fat man began to eat, and as he did so, the smell of his food caught Xavier’s attention, so his eyes moved surreptitiously between the TV screen and the fat man’s plate.

  ‘This is
very good,’ said the fat man between mouthfuls. ‘I recommend it. You should try one.’

  Xavier tucked a strand of his long hair behind his ear. A crumb of pita had caught at the foot of his beard. He squeezed a roll of belly fat through his T-shirt.

  ‘I know they’re good,’ he said. ‘I grew up on them. I grew up in here, and I eat too many of them, as you can see. That’s my mother, behind the counter.’

  ‘Really?’ The fat man was about to take another bite, but he hesitated, and with a puzzled expression, looked across to where Dora was peeling onions, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. ‘It’s not my business, of course, but she looks like she could do with some help.’

  The young man sighed.

  ‘I agree. I keep telling her she should hire someone, but she insists she can cope.’

  The fat man laid down what was left of his gyros, and smiled as he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘You miss my point,’ he said. ‘I was referring to you.’

  ‘Me? If I had the time, I would. But I have my work here.’ He indicated the spread on the table beside him: his notebook, the letter from the ministry, a newspaper with paragraphs ringed in red ink. ‘My mother understands the work. My father was an activist. He was Dendra’s top official in the Socialist party.’

  ‘And that was his only job?’

  Xavier didn’t answer.

  ‘Maybe he ran this shop too?’

  The fat man pointed to the poster on the door.

  ‘Is it you who’s organising the vigil?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And are you expecting a good turn-out?’

  Xavier shook his head.

  ‘Last month, I was involved in action for the electricians’ union, and no one came, not a single soul. There’s no one here with any kind of political conscience.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should be somewhere where there is.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Athens. Thessaloniki. Your enthusiasm does you credit, and your lion-like zeal for your causes is to be applauded, but a souvlaki shop in Dendra is no place to start a revolution. Activists are effective in groups, and those groups gather in the cities, to challenge power where it resides. You may support those men on the picket line’ – he pointed up at the television – ‘but actions speak louder than words, Xavier. Your letters may needle a few politicians, but from this distance you’re easily dismissed. You’ll win no battles with letters. I’m afraid it’s all too rare that the pen’s mightier than the sword. If you really want to support those men, go and stand by them, shoulder to shoulder. And if you want to change the world, you’ll need to get out there and find your tribe.’