From the Devil's Farm

by Leta Serafim

  “I know they are unwelcome here now,” she said. “It’s understandable, given the economic situation. But we can’t permit people to use violence to drive them away.” Leaning toward him, she recited a passage he was unfamiliar with:

  First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Socialist.

  Then they came for the Trade Unionists, but I did not speak out—because I was not a Trade Unionist.

  Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

  “It’s from Auschwitz, I think,” she told him. “The point is you have to defend people who are defenseless. To put out the fires threatening to engulf them. Literally, in this case.”

  “Do you think it will come to that in Europe?”

  “Judging by what happened here, I’d say it already has.”

  Continuing to talk, they slowly moved on to more personal topics: her struggle to make a place for herself in academia, his ongoing battle with Stathis and diminishing salary, how he planned to survive financially when he retired.

  “I worked security at an archeological dig in Chios …. I suppose I could go back to it. I’ll miss police work, though, catching villains and putting them in jail.”

  “Don’t you find it depressing?”

  “Sometimes. A priest I work with says, ‘Murder disturbs the harmony of the world and we need to restore it, to reset the balance between good and evil.’ I’m not a religious man, but I do believe in what I do, in obtaining justice for the victims, no matter who they are.”

  She nodded. “Especially when that victim’s a child.”

  “Yes. He never had a chance, little Sami. His father took off and left him, and he never knew his mother. He didn’t have much of anything, just a few toys and a beaten up old dog collar.”

  Feeling himself tear up, Patronas wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, humiliated to be crying in front of her. “The lack of sleep must be getting to me.”

  Lydia Pappas touched his face with her good hand. “It’s rare to meet a man who cares as deeply as you do, who’d fight for a young refugee he never knew.” She continued in this vein for a good five minutes, commending him for his decency. “I saw you rescuing those people from the fire, braving the flames and pulling that old woman out.” She smiled. “At one point, I could swear your hair was smoking.”

  “That wasn’t me,” Patronas said, embarrassed. “That was my friend, Giorgos Tembelos.”

  Lydia Pappas continued to extol his virtues, singing his praises like he was Jesus and it was Easter.

  Could be American hyperbole, Patronas thought. They did that, Americans. Used superlatives to describe the most mundane items—in this case, him.

  Another possibility was that she found him attractive and she was flirting. Taking a deep breath, Patronas decided to go with flirting.

  Having been with only one woman—his wife, Dimitra, who as a rule did all the talking—he had no idea how to flirt back. He supposed courtship was like chess: you made a move and she made a move, and hopefully, instead of shouting ‘checkmate,’ you ended up in bed. Still, he might be misreading the signals she was sending. In his opinion, the female sex was one of the great puzzles of the universe, right up there with the big bang, string theory, and the dark side of the moon. God knows he wasn’t Stephen Hawking.

  Upstairs, the light went out in Svenson’s apartment. The students, however, were still at it. Rowdier than ever, they sounded like they were jumping up and down on the bed.

  Svenson shouted, “Quiet!” and after that, someone closed the door and the noise died down.

  At one point, Lydia Pappas asked Patronas to point out the constellations to her and he did, taking her by the hand and leading her out onto the sand. She lost her balance on the way there and fell against him, perhaps by design. She seemed disappointed when he righted her and stepped away.

  “There’s Orion, and to the west there, that’s the Pleiades,” he said. “See it? People have been aware of it for a very long time. Archeologists say the ancient Greeks oriented the Parthenon, based on the constellation’s rising.”

  Returning to the terrace, she produced a bottle of wine and they drank it out of coffee mugs, the only dishware she could find in the rental apartment. She was surprised to learn Patronas liked poetry and could recite the works of Seferis and Cavavy by heart. They also discussed Greek music, agreeing that the composer, Manos Hadjidakis, was superior to all others.

  “You like Kazantzakis?” he asked.

  “Yes. Especially ‘Report to Greco.’ ”

  Patronas nodded, remembering how Kazantzakis had described his mother as a neraida, a mermaid, in “Report to Greco.” Supposedly Katzanzakis’ father had caught a glimpse of her dancing in the moonlight, caught hold of her magic kerchief, and made her his wife.

  No one would ever have written those words about his mother, much as he loved her. She was not even remotely magical. Neither was his wife. They’d been rooted to the ground, those two. A tree, in his mother’s case. Nettles and thorns in Dimitra’s.

  But Lydia Pappas? She was better than a mermaid. She was a goddess. Patronas wondered what would happen if he grabbed her kerchief tonight. If, like Kazantzakis had written, magic would ensue.

  “You want to see the stars? You should go swimming at night,” he said, sounding bolder than he felt. “That’s the way to do it. I know a place not far from here. After I wrap up the case, you want to go with me?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs and a door banged open. “Hey, look who’s here,” Bowdoin shouted, peering over the balcony. “That cop’s down there talking to Lydia.”

  Nielsen and Gilbert quickly joined Bowdoin; all three stood there whistling and catcalling. They eventually returned to their room, but by then it was too late. The mood was broken.

  “Don’t pay any attention to them,” Lydia Pappas said. “Every time I turn around, they’re there, leaning over the railing of the balcony, looking down at me. It’s like living in a fishbowl. I wish Svenson would rein them in, but he can’t be bothered. ‘Boys will be boys,’ he said when I complained about it. ‘Boys will be boys.’ ”

  “They make a pass at you?” Patronas asked, remembering what Bowdoin had said—that one of his roommates had a crush on her.

  “No. No one’s made a pass at me all summer.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Patronas said, drawing himself up and pretending to be offended.

  Laughing, she poured the rest of the wine and they drank it, Lydia Pappas resting her head on his shoulder. When he tried to kiss her, she whispered, “Not here,” and pointed to the balcony.

  Her tone was apologetic, as if seeking to justify her rejection to him.

  Patronas felt the beginnings of hope.

  Around three a.m., she departed, saying she had a class to teach in the morning and needed to get some sleep. “Good night, Chief Officer. I look forward to our swim.”

  Returning to the chaise lounge, Patronas stretched out, thinking he’d only close his eyes for a few minutes. His sleep was restless and filled with demons, people screaming and burning, tarantulas that transformed themselves into men.

  Lydia Pappas must have returned at some point during the night, for when he awoke at dawn he was covered with a blanket and his thermos was once again full of coffee.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pity the brave man who is caught between two weaklings.

  —Greek Proverb

  Before heading off to interrogate Costas and Achilles Kourelas, Patronas held a brief meeting with his men. “I don’t care what Stathis says; we have no proof they’re guilty of anything, save bigotry, which means we proceed cautiously. We politely announce we are taking them in for questioning and put them in the car. No handcuffs, no fasaria”—uproar.

  The five of them were sitting around a table at Narli’s, drinking coffee and eating, yet again, tyropitas, big square ones made of f
ilo and feta cheese. The sun was bright against the water, and people were already sunbathing on the beach, a few taking shelter under the tamarisk trees at the water’s edge. Patronas wished he could join them and linger there in the shade. He wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead.

  He paid the bill and stood up to go, brushing crumbs off his uniform. Filthy, it was like a collage of dust and debris from every place he’d been on Sifnos. He hoped Lydia Pappas hadn’t noticed, the night before.

  He had been speaking to her in front of Leandros that morning, thanking her for the coffee, when his team showed up. Save for the priest, they had all expressed their appreciation for her, rolling down the windows of the Toyota and sticking out their heads in order to catch an eyeful as she walked away.

  “Po, po,” Tembelos said admiringly.

  “For God’s sake, Giorgos,” Patronas said, “what would your wife say?”

  An interesting question, considering that Tembelos’ wife, Eleni, was a legend on Chios for her passionate and jealous temperament. She’d once caught her husband ogling a Swedish tourist on the beach—hardly Giorgos’ fault as the woman had been topless—and threatened to unman him then and there, shouting and working her fingers like scissors. Tembelos had confided to Patronas that while he loved Eleni dearly, he was more than a little afraid of her.

  And well he should be, Patronas thought. He could still see those long, manicured nails going up and down. They’d been painted red, he remembered—bright, arterial red.

  It was easy to see where the ancients had gotten the idea of Medusa … they’d just looked across the table at their wives.

  “Eleni? Na massas koukia kai na tin ftyneis,” Tembelos said with a laugh. Eat beans and spit at her.

  Patronas reflected on the situation. Maybe going swimming with Lydia Pappas wasn’t such a good idea. A Greek woman who’d spent years in America might well embody the worst of both cultures, a potentially lethal combination. Medusa crossed with Hillary Clinton.

  “You seem distracted. What happened with you and the potter last night?” Tembelos asked.

  “Nothing happened between me and Lydia Pappas. I was on the job the whole night, working surveillance.”

  “So, no hanky-panky?”

  “No, just old-fashioned police work.”

  “You keep saying ‘work,’ Yiannis. What you need is a little more ‘play.’ ” He leered at him. “Take her and go off and make mud pies together. Make something.”

  “Love?” Patronas offered.

  “As in ‘to make’ …. Sure, absolutely. It would do you a world of good.”

  They took two cars to the house of Costas and Achilles Kourelas, Patronas riding shotgun next to Petros Nikolaidis in his Ford Fiesta, the other three following close behind them in the Rav. Far below, Patronas could see the Chapel of Chryssopigi—Virgin of the Golden Spring. With a sculpted bell tower, it occupied its own narrow peninsula and was the scene of numerous destination weddings. Picturesque and beautiful, it was the symbol of Sifnos and the most photographed site on the island.

  They passed through the outskirts of Apollonia and Artemonas then followed the road to Herronissos, a distant fishing village. The landscape grew more and more forbidding as they journeyed north, the land falling away in a series of deep ravines that led straight down to the sea, olive trees gradually giving way to patches of dry brush and finally to nothing. Patronas spotted a sign to a ceramic workshop, another written in Byzantine script indicating there was a church nearby. There was little else of note, just one bare hill after another. Absolutely empty, they were like bruised shadows against the horizon.

  “This is where they mined gold in ancient times,” Nikolaidis said, nodding to the expanse of rock.

  Patronas studied the area, “Any mines still working?” he asked.

  “No. The gold gave out before the birth of Christ.”

  High on a distant mountain, Patronas caught a glimpse of Profitis Elias, the rectangular building crowning the highest peak, as was the custom in Greece. Although it was still early, the air was stifling.

  Nikolaidis looked over at him. “You look worried. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Stathis didn’t give me much choice. He told me to load them up in the cars, take them back to Apollonia, and interview them, see what dusts out. Maybe take a look around while we’re here, see if we find a jug like the one that was used for the Molotov cocktail.”

  “My money’s on them for the firebombing.”

  “It would certainly be consistent with their politics. Maybe they killed the little boy, too. But we have no evidence in either case, and without evidence, we can’t go forward.”

  “Dangerous game to be playing, cornering those two. They won’t like our coming here today.”

  “We’ll just have to brave it.”

  Lighting a cigarette, Patronas stared out at the landscape. It would be a lengthy process, the arrest—if it came to that. Most likely an all-day affair. After questioning Achilles Kourelas and his father in turn, reading them their rights and securing a confession, they’d have to drive them to Kamares and board a ferry to Milos where there was a proper jail—father and son undoubtedly protesting the whole way.

  As before, they parked along the road and headed down the hill toward the house. Taking their cue from Patronas, no one spoke, all of them affected by his dark mood.

  Their targets were sitting outside in the two car seats, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. As before, they’d been working on a motor and their clothes were stained with grease.

  Costas Kourelas got to his feet when he saw them. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We want you and your son Achilles to come with us,” Patronas said.

  The older man narrowed his eyes. “Why? Are we under arrest?”

  “No. We just need to talk to you, nothing more.”

  Reluctantly, Costas Kourelas agreed. Achilles Kourelas said he wanted to use the bathroom first and started back toward the house. Patronas moved to accompany him, but Achilles waved him off, saying he’d only be a minute.

  Letting Achilles Kourelas go, Patronas wandered around the yard while he waited. He saw no evidence that would indicate the two had been involved in the firebombing. The same discarded cans of motor oil still littered the yard, but there were no glass bottles to be seen. These men weren’t stupid. Chances are if they were guilty, they already disposed of the evidence.

  Patronas decided that after he’d settled Costas Kourelas and his son in the interview room in the municipal building, he’d call Stathis and have him secure a warrant, then send Tembelos and Nikolaidis back to search the place again, break open the door if they had to and inspect the rooms inside.

  No matter how heinous their political beliefs, they were guaranteed a lawful search under the Greek constitution; they had the same rights as everyone else. Patronas believed in the rule of law and had dedicated his entire adult life to upholding it; he wasn’t about to abandon it now.

  As soon as Achilles Kourelas emerged from the house, the whole party started up the hill to the road—each suspect flanked by two policemen. They were doing fine until they got to the car and Evangelos Demos tried to push Achilles’ head down in an effort to get him in the backseat, apparently the way he’d seen cops do it on American television shows. It was a stupid maneuver, for Achilles Kourelas wasn’t handcuffed and could have gotten there fine on his own. Evangelos also went about it clumsily, shoving him down and knocking his head against the doorframe.

  Letting out a mighty roar, Kourelas reared back and clobbered Evangelos Demos with his fist, then threw him to the ground, grabbed him by the hair, and began dragging him back and forth—wiping the earth with him, or so it seemed. He continued to pound him, cursing and calling him names, spittle flying.

  Petros Nikolaidis tried pulling him off, but Kourelas head-butted him and from the sound of it, broke his nose. Within seconds, they were both covered with blood.

  “Stop him bef
ore he kills somebody!” Patronas yelled.

  Lurching and swinging his arms like a bear in a cloud of gnats, Achilles Kourelas continued to do battle. Tembelos was the next to fall, shrieking and clutching his knee where Kourelas had kicked him.

  Patronas had drawn his gun by this point and was waving it at Kourelas, screaming at him to cease and desist or be shot. Laughing, Kourelas crouched down and began circling Patronas like a wrestler, stepping closer and retreating, jeering and baiting him. A moment later, he lunged, knife in hand, and stabbed him in the stomach.

  Clutching his gut, Patronas collapsed on the ground, seeking to hold on to the knife as he fell, not wanting his weight to push it in deeper. He could feel blood spilling over his fingers, smell its metallic tang.

  Achilles Kourelas took a step back and stood there, looking down at him, his expression hard to read. Rage was there, but also bewilderment, as if he hadn’t expected this to happen, to have a cop lying at his feet, bleeding. Stooping down, he pulled the knife out of Patronas, and drawing back, moved to stab him again. It was a big knife, nearly identical to the one Patronas had found at Thanatos, and Patronas closed his eyes, wondering if his mother would really be there to welcome him on the other side.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out and Achilles Kourelas looked up in surprise, blood gushing from his shoulder and darkening the front of his shirt. He dropped to his knees with arms outstretched, then fell face forward into the dirt. He scratched the ground feebly with his fingers once or twice as he tried to raise himself up, a bubble of blood forming on his lips, then collapsed and was still.

  His father ran to his side. “Achilles! Oh, my God … Achilles!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Praise the good.

  —The Delphic Oracle

  Patronas had no memory of the trip to the clinic or the first twenty-four hours he spent there. When he finally awoke, he was lying in bed, hooked up to a variety of machines and desperately thirsty. Evangelos Demos was sitting on a plastic chair next to the bed, staring off into space. His forehead and chin were scraped raw where Achilles had dragged him across the gravelly earth, and he looked like he’d been crying.