Quizzically, she looked at him.
‘I took advice from an eminent doctor, who confirmed that my suspicions over Donatos might easily be correct. But how would we prove it? Cyanide leaves the body very quickly, and is undetectable forty-eight hours after death. An exhumation at this stage would be pointless. When I spoke to Sakis, I didn’t tell him that. I forced his hand – his confession – with an empty threat, namely the exhumation of Donatos’s body. Naturally, Sakis was anxious to spare his family such distress, and so he has gone voluntarily to the police. I am asking you to do the same. Go and admit what you have done – that you took Donatos’s life – and take your punishment through the courts, as he is doing.’
‘Are you saying there’s no proof against me?’
‘I am saying that, yes. But I am also saying, it was never up to you to punish Donatos for what he did.’
She drank more wine.
‘Don’t you think so, Kyrie Diaktoros? I disagree. I think his punishment was most fitting for his crime. Bitter almonds, to reflect the bitterness he left here, in my heart.’ She lay her palm to her chest, and left it there for a moment, as if making a pledge. ‘He poisoned little Meni and those others, so it seemed fitting to me he should poison himself too. He was a greedy man with a very sweet tooth, and the praline was his downfall. The more he ate, the sicker he got. I wanted the same for Sakis, though I never found a medium that worked. But I was careful. I didn’t want Donatos to die. If he died, he would be out of pain, and his suffering would be over. It was a balancing act. If I saw him looking too ill, I used more sweet almonds in the mix, until he improved. My aim was to leave him no pleasure in life, to give him a life with no joy in it, a life of ashes like the life he had left me. I wanted him to burn with the same pain I felt, that pain that never abates. That’s what’s kept me alive, being the instrument of his torture.’
‘But you did kill him, Meni.’
‘Perhaps. Who knows? He was an old man, and might have gone at any time. You tell me nothing can be proven. And I’m sorry he’s gone, but only because I can’t reach him now. Though he’ll suffer in hell, I’ve no doubts about that.’
‘You made his life a misery, and murdered him. You must see that was wrong. Terribly wrong.’
‘I’ve told you I regret his death. What more should I say? He’s been punished on this earth, as Sakis will now be too. When the day comes that I stand before my maker, I shall hold my head high. I’m proud to have made him suffer as I have suffered, as my daughter has suffered!’
‘The loss of a little one is always hard. I know that. But with respect, your daughter is coping with her grief in a way you are not. No doubt she thinks of her lost child constantly, yet I have seen her with her son, and she seems happy.’
‘The child is not her son. She could have no more children after Meni. The child is adopted.’
‘Then all the better for her. She’s found a way to give her love to a child who is not her flesh and blood, but who unquestionably needed a home, and a mother. She has not sunk into bitterness and hatred, as you have done. And there’s something else we must consider – that once you knew what the poison’s source was, you told no one. You allowed contaminated oil to remain on family tables, without regard for who might yet become ill. And people did become ill, for some weeks. How do you know you didn’t contribute towards the deaths of other people’s loved ones? How do you know what damage your silence did?’
‘I had my priorities.’
‘You had your priorities, and no empathy or regard for others who might find themselves in your situation. Your intent was on revenge, rather than on sparing others your pain. Do you feel no remorse for that?’
‘You didn’t know the child. That child was special.’
‘All children are special, Meni. But the choice is yours. Either go of your own free will, and admit what you’ve done to the police, or you may find yourself harshly dealt with.’
She laughed.
‘Dealt with by whom? Donatos deserved everything I gave him, and I hope Sakis is as miserable as it’s possible to be, wherever they send him. And I shan’t hand myself in. If you give them my name, so be it. Let them come. Let them exhume the old man, and find nothing. Besides, it’s out of the question for me to leave here. I have my work, my vines and my orchard. Who would take care of them if I were gone?’
‘I could find you a caretaker. You have worked hard here, with commendable aims. If you will take your just punishment, let me reassure you that when you return, it will be as flourishing as you would wish. Prepare the house for going away, lock it up, and I’ll find you a tenant for the vineyard, who’ll care for the vines and the trees.’
‘I won’t leave them,’ she said. ‘I shall stay here and take care of them. As I’ve said to you, they are my legacy now. My legacy and my granddaughter’s, since she will have no one to carry her name, either. To leave here would be to abandon both my own memorial and hers. Do we deserve to be forgotten?’
‘Forgetting may be a kindness, a blessing and a balm to a troubled mind. Maybe you would be better to forget. Though if you forget those you love and those who love you, the world becomes a cold and unfriendly place. To forget the ones we love is to forget we are ourselves loved, and then forgetting’s blessing becomes a curse. But if you refuse to hand yourself in, if that is your final word, our conversation is at an end.’
He rose to go.
‘Don’t forget your wine.’ She held out the two bottles.
‘Please, return it to the cellar,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll have more need of it than I.’
Lefteris was updating his guests’ accounts, working from a pile of restaurant bills and receipts. The fat man placed three bottles of Lachesis wine on the reception desk.
‘This, I’m afraid, is the best offering I can make in recompense for my brother’s excesses,’ he said. ‘It’s the last available from the vineyard for a while. Regretfully, I shall be leaving you tomorrow, so maybe you and Tomas would do me the honour of sharing a bottle with me this evening.’
‘Gladly,’ said Lefteris. ‘It’ll go well with dinner. No wild boar, I’m afraid, but we got something I think you’ll enjoy.’
‘I shall look forward to it. Is there any sign of my brother?’
‘He’s in his room, sleeping it off. He came back around lunchtime, a little the worse for wear. He’d lost his sling somewhere along the way, so the wife made him another. I asked him where he’d been and who with, but he couldn’t seem to remember. And speaking of your brother, kyrie – I don’t wish to disrespect him by talking to you about it, but there’s the matter of his bill.’
The fat man sighed.
‘You’re right to be concerned about it,’ he said. ‘Dino is never careful with what he calls life’s “details”, and paying his bills falls within that category. I think it would be best if you prepared one account for both of us, and I’ll settle it before I leave tomorrow. Then I’ll have the task of persuading him to pay me. And though I told him I wouldn’t do it, I shall leave you something for his bills outstanding. No doubt his creditors will be looking for him here, over the next few days.’
‘Have you heard the news, by the way?’ asked Lefteris.
‘I’ve heard nothing,’ said the fat man. ‘I’ve had business to attend to.’
‘Sakis Papayiannis has been arrested, charged with manslaughter. The whole town’s talking about it. Turns out the source of our outbreak was contaminated oil. And would you believe it, someone’s taken advantage of his absence and the family’s trouble. All the olives they had ready for processing at the mill have been stolen. Someone’s taken the lot. And I know where I’d put my money.’
‘So do I,’ said the fat man. ‘And in this instance, you just might be right.’
On his way across Democracy Square, the fat man met the lottery seller, still hawking tickets in the kafenions and bars.
‘Lottery, kyrie?’ he asked. ‘Thirty million top prize, this week.’
>
‘Did you have any luck with that ticket I gave you?’ asked the fat man.
The lottery seller studied him.
‘You,’ he said. ‘I remember you. No, no luck, kyrie, no luck. My wife took my shirt, and washed it with the ticket in the pocket. Didn’t I tell you I’m the unluckiest man alive?’
‘You did tell me that,’ said the fat man, ‘and it’s hard to argue with a man with such convictions.’
The seller held up his staff.
‘Do you want a ticket today, kyrie?’
The fat man shook his head.
‘No, not today, thank you,’ he said, and went on his way.
Looking in the window of the delicatessen next door to the tailor’s, the fat man was tempted by the imported delicacies and the attractive display of pâtisserie. Inside, a man in a white apron was serving a customer, slicing a German salami very thin.
The fat man went into the shop, and browsed the shelves whilst the shopkeeper served his customer, who paid and left with several wax paper-wrapped parcels.
The shopkeeper wished the fat man kali spera. The fat man returned his greeting, and reviewed the chiller cabinets below the counter, where the cheeses and cold meats, hors d’oeuvres, olives and salads were on display.
‘I was here the other day, and you had a sign outside advertising taramasalata,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see the sign now.’
‘I’ve just finished making it fresh,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘so the sign’s going back outside any moment. You won’t find better.’
‘I’ll take a quarter,’ said the fat man.
He closed the door of the tailor’s shop noisily, but the tailor was running his sewing machine, guiding the fast-moving needle along a chalk line marking the seam in a jacket sleeve. When he stopped to turn the cloth, the fat man gave a light cough. Miltiadis jumped round in his chair, and looked at the fat man over his half-moon glasses.
‘Kalos tou,’ said the tailor. ‘Your trousers are ready. Would you like to try them on? I managed to get you another three centimetres – I hope that was enough.’
The fat man was doubtful.
‘I shall have to hope so, too. More would have been better, but I realise a pair of trousers can only be stretched so far.’
The tailor left his chair, and searched through the clothes hanging on a wheeled rack at the back of the shop.
‘You’re still with us, then,’ he said.
‘I’m leaving Dendra tomorrow.’
‘If you go now, you’ll miss all the excitement. By tomorrow, we’ll be full of cameras and newshounds.’
The tailor lifted a hanger from the rack. The fat man’s trousers were carefully pressed, and looked like new. He carried them to the bench, and laid them out.
‘Such beautiful cloth. It was a pleasure to work with.’ He bent down to examine his own workmanship on the waistband seams. ‘I let you out a bit in the seat, and in the thighs, too. See, I unpicked all these seams here, and restitched them. I haven’t left you much room to manoeuvre, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be careful sitting down, if you don’t want them to split.’
‘No, indeed,’ said the fat man, examining the seams for himself. ‘That looks an excellent job, thank you. What do you mean about the cameras?’
‘The press. They’ll be gathering like vultures. They’ll be here to make the most of the drama. Haven’t you heard? After all this time, they’ve arrested someone over our poisonings.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was intending to visit the gelateria, before I left.’
‘The gelateria?’
‘Isn’t that where you told me the break-out was?’
‘I’ll wrap your trousers for you, shall I? As it turns out, it was nothing to do with the gelateria after all.’
He reached for string and brown paper, and began to cut a piece of paper of suitable size.
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said the fat man, ‘considering poor Renzo’s business is already almost ruined.’
‘Seems it was something in the olive oil.’ The tailor folded the trousers. ‘Who would ever have thought that?’
‘Renzo must be very relieved, don’t you think?’
The tailor tied string around the parcel, creating a loop as a carrying handle.
‘I’m sure he is,’ he said. ‘He’s a decent enough fellow, for an Italian.’
Towards dusk, the wind was rising, rattling the shutters and the roof tiles, driving dead leaves in flurries from the branches of the orchard trees. A fall of soot pattered in the empty fire grate. The light Meni was working by flickered, and then failed.
Meni left her knitting on the table and went out into the yard. By the last daylight, she rooted in the outhouse, moving aside the mattocks and hoes and the baskets used at the grape harvest to find diesel for the generator, and carried the container back inside.
The fat man had left his matchbox on the table. She took it to the dresser, and opened it to light the oil lamp. Inside, along with the matches, was a folded strip of paper cut from the top of a sheet, with a single typewritten line: An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind. Meni put the paper to one side.
She struck a match, lit the lamp and slipped the box of matches in her pocket, then picked up the container of diesel, and opened the cellar door. The lamp lit her way down the cellar stairs; the doorway behind her was dark in the remnants of dusk. The lamp’s flame caught the curves of the only bottles left on the racks: six of the bitter burgundy, and little else. The stair where the lamp had dribbled was greasy, and when she slipped, there was nothing to break her fall.
Outside, the wind was growing fierce. A gust caught the kitchen casement which Meni had pulled to but not fastened, and flung the window open. The wind streamed in, blowing over the photographs on the sill, scattering the brown skins of blanched almonds, intruding behind the cellar door and slamming it shut, snapping the Yale lock into its keep.
Eighteen
When the fat man came down for dinner, Lefteris was laying tables in the dining room. Tomas sat near the bar, sipping a glass of cloudy ouzo.
‘I brought a little meze for us to share,’ said the fat man, handing over the pot of taramasalata from the delicatessen. ‘Do you know if my brother intends to eat with us?’
‘I haven’t seen him since he came in,’ said Lefteris. ‘I’ll lay a place for him with us, but I passed his door about half an hour ago, and he was quiet as a mouse.’
They ate the salty taramasalata with fresh bread; then Stavroula brought in a tureen of sautéed red cabbage, and a dish of roast potatoes roasted with lemon.
‘You should pour the wine,’ said Lefteris, handing the uncorked bottle to the fat man, ‘since you’ve donated it to the feast.’
‘It will be my pleasure.’ The fat man stood to fill the glasses – Tomas’s, Lefteris’s and his own. ‘We should savour this last bottle, and be quietly grateful my brother is still asleep, so we might all get a second glass. Yammas.’
‘Yammas.’
They drank the toast, and the fat man sat down.
‘I’ve been intrigued by the name of the vineyard,’ he said, studying the bottle’s label. ‘Lachesis is an interesting one to choose. In mythology, Lachesis was one of the three Fates, whose role was to determine the length of life to be given to each person. She was said to appear with her sisters within three days of a baby’s birth to decide its destiny.’
‘I wonder how long she’s given me,’ said Tomas. He held up his glass to the light, and peered into the liquid as if it might provide him with an answer. ‘And if we drink her wine, will it give us shorter lives, or longer? They say red wine is good for the heart, so I should say, the more we drink, the longer Lachesis will give us.’
‘Here we are,’ said Lefteris, as Stavroula carried in a platter from the kitchen. ‘See what you make of these.’
At the centre of the platter were seven woodcock, each served on a slice of fried bread made tasty with a spread of the bird’s intestines. The leg
s had been fried separately in garlic butter, and arranged around the woodcock were a number of tiny quail, oil-basted and baked to a crisp brown.
‘I see you did very well,’ said the fat man.
‘Well enough,’ said Lefteris, ‘doxa to Theo. Please, help yourself.’
They ate the birds with their fingers, and nibbled the gamey meat from the thighs and wings, and they talked, as they ate, of the scandal surrounding Sakis Papayiannis, and of the mercy of his father not being alive to share the disgrace. As they were discussing the wildness of the weather, and the chances of the wind blowing itself out, the bell at reception rang. Lefteris went to answer it, and when he returned, his face was serious.
‘There’s trouble,’ he said to the fat man. ‘The police are here, looking for your brother.’
The fat man wiped his hands on a napkin.
‘Stall them,’ he said, and hurried upstairs.
On the second floor, he knocked at Dino’s door. There was no reply. He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. He knocked again, more loudly.
‘Who is it?’ Dino’s voice was blurred by sleep.
‘It’s me, Hermes. Open up.’
There was a silence, then sounds of movement inside: a key in the lock, and the sound of bed-springs creaking as Dino returned to his bed. The fat man turned the porcelain door handle and entered the room. Dino lay with his back to the door, blankets pulled up to his nose.
‘How are you, brother?’
Disregarding Dino’s obvious desire to be left alone, the fat man crossed to the window and looked out across the red-tiled rooftops and down to the lane outside. Dino’s dirty clothes lay on a chair. There was no sign of any woman, but the air held a lingering perfume.
The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7) Page 23