The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  “Dramatic distance, the better to do the big brother bit,” Pray said to himself, and laughed. It would be interesting to see if that had changed.

  Dark had settled onto the water. Pray rose and stretched, and started walking toward Lydia’s house. As he stepped away from the glow of the single street light on the quay, and into the shadows of the houses that lined the street, he knew all at once that he was not alone. He continued to walk, but softly, trying to make no sound, so that he could hear any sound the other made. He had no idea who the other was, but his spine told him that he was in danger. He slowed his breathing, as well, tried to make everything as quiet as possible; and he let his vision go a little out of focus, to force his eyes to depend on their peripheral vision, where any motion, no matter how shadowy, would be more evident. But his stalker was good, and Pray never heard or saw anything when the other man attacked. Only a last-minute feeling, perhaps a change of the pressure in the air around him, alerted him. He ducked away from that sense of presence, and so when the heavy, hard body slammed into him, he staggered but did not fall, and was able to bounce away from two huge, grasping hands. The momentum sent him toward the pavement, but he managed to tuck and roll, which gave him another three or four feet of distance from the other man. He was on his feet immediately, facing the direction the attack had come from, and still he could not see anything.

  Then a slab of the darkness in front of him moved and separated from the rest, blocking out the glow from the street light on the quay. Pray readied himself for another rushing charge, but his attacker was not prepared to make the same mistake twice. The shadowy form moved almost tentatively toward him, shifting from side to side as it approached, getting closer and closer, and then, as Pray waited and it seemed they must almost touch each other, the other man lunged at him. Pray saw a glint of metal, and realized that the man had a knife. As the blade arced toward him, Pray crossed his arms at the wrists and stepped into the arm that swung the weapon, trying to trap it. The man reacted instantaneously, slipping Pray’s grab and reversing the path of the knife. The blade raked Pray’s chest, and he felt a sting, and then the wetness of his own blood. Ignoring the pain, Pray stepped in again, behind the knife arm this time, and slammed the edge of his hand down on the back of the man’s elbow. Then with another step, he slammed his foot against the rear of the man’s knee and stepped through and down, so that his own momentum and weight forced the man’s leg to bend forward.

  The man went down hard, but without a sound. He still held the knife. Pray cocked his right arm and slammed his knuckles into the man’s temple. The man went rigid for an instant, and Pray managed to trap the wrist of his knife hand. Then he stepped across the arm and locked the wrist out, so that the arm was hyper-extended, and twisted around with the elbow rotated up. Pray held the wrist tight with his right hand, and slammed a left hammer fist into the elbow, settling his body as he did, to gain a little extra help from gravity. He heard a pop, and felt the elbow give, and the man screamed and then began to curse in French. Pray sent the ball of his foot into the man’s jaw. The head snapped back, and the cursing abruptly stopped. Pray let go of the wrist, and the man sagged to the pavement. Pray stepped back, fighting for breath, and trying to ignore the shakes that were beginning to race through his whole body. He had an impulse to search his attacker, to try to find out who the hell he was. He rolled the other man over, and recognized the face in the dim glow of the distant street light. It was the man who had been drinking beer in The Fat Fisherman, and who had stared at him with such interest.

  Before Pray could decide whether to search his pockets, the man groaned and rolled toward Pray, his eyes wide open and filled with anger. Pray leaped away and then kicked his attacker in the head again and, for good measure, as the man fell forward again, stamped his head into the pavement. As Pray started to reach again for the man’s pockets, pain lanced through his chest, reminding him that he was not all in one piece himself. He took another deep breath and, pressing his arms against his chest, walked back to Lydia’s. Once there, he removed his shirt and examined the wound. It was long, but not particularly deep. He found a cloth, wet it, and wiped the blood off, then searched for an antiseptic. He found a bottle over the sink in the kitchen. He could not read the Greek on the label, but it looked and smelled like iodine; and when he soaked a paper towel in the stuff and patted it onto the wound, he discovered that it also felt very much like iodine. He told himself it was a good pain, and forced himself to finish the job. Then he rinsed out the cloth and rummaged through the kitchen again, looking for something that could serve as a bandage. He did not find one, but discovered that one cupboard was well stocked with beer. Further inspection led to the refrigerator, which also had beer. Pray gave up on the bandage, and opened a beer instead. He sat down at the kitchen table and surveyed his body again. The cut had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed; and he could tell from other signals his body was sending him that he would be bruised and sore in more than one place then next morning. But the beer was cold, and wonderfully analgesic, and the second one was even better. By the time Lydia returned from her movie, Pray was sound asleep.

  Chapter 17

  Emile Gotard surveyed the three men who lounged around the kitchen table, and wondered if he was making a mistake. Taki Skevis, the father, whose kitchen this was, appeared capable enough. But his son Minas was drunk, as he seemed frequently to be. The other son, Antoni, giggled constantly as he carved at an edge of the table with a large knife. Gotard did not trust men who giggled. He rubbed at the cast that held his left elbow immobile, and wished there were some way to get at the itch inside.

  “A thousand drachmas is not enough,” Taki Skevis said. “You cannot ask a man to commit a dangerous crime for such a tiny amount of money. You insult our intelligence.”

  Antoni snickered, and Gotard clasped the cast tightly until the impulse to hit him with it died. “Your pardon,” he said. “I am an ignorant foreigner. How much would be fair?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “You must think I am a rich man.” Gotard pretended to ponder the counter-offer. “I could, perhaps, increase the amount to three thousand,” he said. He knew that in the end he would offer ten thousand, and the father would accept.

  “You insult my father again, fucking Frenchman,” Antoni Skevis said, and waved the knife at Gotard, who sat on his impulses once more, then grunted in satisfaction when Taki Skevis did the job for him.

  “Shut up!” the father said, and rapped Antoni across the forehead with his knuckles. “We could accept fifteen thousand, perhaps,” he added to Gotard. “After all, that is only five apiece.”

  “I will offer ten,” Gotard said. “And that strictly because I can see you will be able to keep these young palikars under control.” He slapped his palm with his knuckles, nodded toward Antoni, and grinned.

  The father grinned back. He rose, went to a cabinet, and returned with a bottle of tsikudi and two glasses. Gotard hated the stuff, but understood that it was a ritual he must bear, to close the deal.

  “Hey, what about me?” Minas Skevis said.

  “You have had too much already,” his father replied. He filled the glasses, pushed one across the table to Gotard.

  “And me?” Antoni said. “I am as sober as God.”

  “If your brother has none, you may have none.” Taki Skevis lifted his glass toward Gotard as Antoni slouched back into his chair with a scowl. “Ten thousand,” he said.

  Gotard saluted the other man with his glass, then forced himself to swallow some of its contents.

  “One thing,” he said. “The American must be unharmed. I have plans, and I want him fresh and ready for me.”

  “He’ll be as fresh as this morning’s fish,” Taki Skevis said.

  “Good. And to help you remember how important that is, I will deduct five hundred drachmas from your fee for every cut or bruise I find on him.”

  “Come on,” Minas Skevis said. “A few bruises may be unavoidabl
e.”

  “Don’t worry,” his father said. “We’ll treat him like an egg.”

  Gotard rose from the table. “Don’t rush the job,” he said. “I am in no hurry, and I want it done correctly.” The cast banged against a chair, and he winced. Minas Skevis grinned at him and nodded toward the broken arm.

  “Then maybe we can handle whoever did that to you, also,” he said. “It looks as if you didn’t come off too well.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful,” his father said. He stood up and bowed slightly toward Gotard. “We will let you know when it is done,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Three good things in a week. Lydia paused at the top of the steps that descended to the main floor of The Fat Fisherman. First, the American under her roof, to practice English on, and maybe at least daydream about other things, because he was tall and very good looking. Next, the wonderful belt her sister Irene had given her. And last, Irene herself feeling better, well enough to go for a walk, and with the baby moving strongly enough that Lydia could feel it for the first time.

  And one bad thing, she reminded herself, as Andreas’ voice drifted up the stairs. He was talking with his father, and the mere sound of him made her angry all over again. The name he had called her rankled. He had brought it up once—I was angry when I called you that, he had told her, the closest he had come to an apology—and now seemed to think everything was back to normal, not that she had been that crazy about normal to begin with. She fingered the belt, taking pleasure in its cool, smooth surfaces, and the heavy way it pressed against her hips. She passed down the stairs and into the main shop. Andreas turned at the sound of her step. She averted her head and marched toward the front entrance.

  “Can’t say goodbye?” Andreas called. He swaggered toward her, his hands tucked into his hip pockets. Milos sighed noisily and busied himself arranging a collection of little statues, replicas of Minoan tomb pieces.

  Lydia arched her back and did her best to look down her nose at Andreas, which was not easy because he was taller, although not so tall as the American. Not as clean, either. He had not shaved, and he had worn his shirt at least one day too long. He poked at Lydia’s belt.

  “Where did you get this piece of fancy trash?”

  Lydia slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch what’s too good for you,” she said.

  “I touch what I want,” he said. “Especially when it belongs to me.” He cupped a hand over her breast and twisted it. Lydia yelped in pain and struck unthinkingly, raking her nails across his nose, drawing blood. Then suddenly she was sitting on the floor, her head ringing, while Andreas stood over her, his hand still clenched in the fist he had knocked her down with.

  As she struggled to her feet, Milos rushed across the room and grabbed his son’s arm. “You should be ashamed,” he said. “I apologize for him, Lydia. He is young and stupid, but he will grow wiser. I promise.”

  Andreas jerked away from his father. “She is the stupid one. She needs to be educated.”

  Lydia froze, staring at Andreas. She remembered the times she had seen her mother, bruised and cut, while her father stomped about the house, kicking furniture over and screaming that he would educate her or kill her. A black rage exploded deep inside. She allowed it to fill her. Then carefully, taking advantage of the fact that Andreas would never expect her to do such a thing, she kicked him with every bit of strength she had, right in the testicles. He shrieked and doubled over, then dropped to his knees, grabbing his groin and moaning. Lydia rushed from the shop, Milos staring after her like a man in a trance.

  * * *

  Greek beer wasn’t bad, Pray decided. Not great, but not bad. Certainly good enough for a second, especially when you were sitting alone in a young woman’s house, and even more so when your body ached. Pray had waked up to an empty house and a bad headache. A glance at the mirror in his room told him he would survive, but the wound left by his attacker’s knife had begun to ooze blood again, and he had a nasty-looking contusion on his forehead, and another on his left elbow.

  The front door opened and slammed shut as he was opening another bottle, and footsteps approached the kitchen.

  “I will have one of those, also.” Lydia walked past him to the refrigerator. “But don’t tell my father. He doesn’t like me to drink.” She opened the beer and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “But I also think right now I don’t care what he likes. I don’t care what any goddamn son of a bitch man likes.” She took a big swallow of beer, slammed the bottle down on the table. One of her eyes was bloodshot and half closed, surrounded by a puffy bruise.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I just broke my engagement.”

  “It looks like somebody broke your head.”

  Lydia touched her eye and winced. “That hurts. My foot, too.” She smiled. “But Andreas hurts more. I kicked him right in his manhood, hard as I could. He screamed like a girl.” She lifted the bottle to her lips. “Son of a bitch will never hit me again.” She looked at Pray defiantly. “You think I am not very nice.” Then she looked at him more closely. “What have you done to yourself? Is that a cut?” She jumped up and ran a finger lightly across the wound.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Such a tough man. Why can’t men ever tell the truth?”

  “Then what would women have to complain about?”

  “We would find something,” Lydia said with a laugh, then frowned again. “Who did that? Was it the Skevis men?”

  Pray shook his head. “When we went to The Fat Fisherman yesterday, there was one customer there, a big man, drinking a beer. Who was he?”

  “He did this? His name is Gotard. He is a Frenchman who works for the same person your brother does, I think. Your brother leaves papers with Milos, and Milos gives them to the Frenchman for money. Then he turns the money over to Julian. What did you do to make him try to hurt you?”

  Pray shook his head again. “I don’t know.” What the hell was the connection, he wondered. Why would someone who worked for Dieter Fugger try to kill me? There was no doubt in Pray’s mind that the big Frenchman had intended just that. For an instant of paranoia, he wondered if Julian had set him up for some reason, but then he brushed the thought away and turned his attention to Lydia.

  “Does your eye hurt?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course it hurts. I am not a man, so I don’t have to pretend about that. And Andreas may not be a real man anymore, either.” She smiled. “That would make this hurt less.”

  “He isn’t a man to begin with. Just a boy who can’t handle his anger. Real men don’t hit women.”

  Lydia laced her fingers behind her head and stretched backwards, so that her strong, brown arms framed her face, and her breasts jutted against her sleeveless blouse.

  “Are you a real man, Adam Pray? I would like to know a real man.”

  “What would you do with him?”

  She grinned. “I can’t say it out loud. Come here, and I will whisper it in your ear.”

  Careful, Pray thought. Remember Julian. But he stepped to her side and bent his head down to hers, then felt his penis jump to attention as her lips and teeth closed lightly on his earlobe, and her hands wrapped around the back of his neck. He pulled away gently and looked at her.

  “Do American men like to make love, Adam Pray, or only money?” she asked.

  He kissed her. “Both,” he said. “But we like to concentrate on one thing at a time.”

  “If you wanted to make love to a woman, would it bother you that she was not parthena, a virgin?”

  “It would bother me if she were.”

  She kissed him back. “I am not a virgin, Adam Pray. But I am afraid I will not be skilled enough. I have only done it with Andreas, and he knows nothing except to poke, poke, poke, and then fall asleep.”

  Pray buried his face against her neck and breathed in the smell of her. “I never sleep,” he said, and she giggled and pushed him softly away.

  “In my room,�
�� she said, and lead him by the hand from the kitchen.

  The afternoon sun poured in the window of her bedroom. She stood in the light as she undressed, and her skin glowed with a bronze sheen that left Pray standing dumb, staring at her, until she asked, “Don’t Americans take their clothes off to do it?”

  He shook himself out of his daze and disrobed. They walked hand in hand to the bed, and she sat down and looked up at him, her gaze starting at his eyes, and descending slowly until they reached his groin.

  “Big,” she said. Then she laughed. “But it is pink. I did not know they could be pink.”

  Chapter 19

  Andreas Argyros let the rubber soles of his shoes brush the water that rippled against the half submerged pier. He gazed, without really seeing it, at the ruined tanker hulk that dominated Sitia’s small harbor.

  “The way I see it is this,” Minas Skevis said. “We forget the fucking Frenchman. Instead we grab this Adam Pray and hold him for ransom until his brother coughs up. From him we can get twenty times what Gotard has offered.”

  “And then we set him free to run to the police, I suppose,” Andreas said.

  “No, vlaka, stupid. We bump him off. Or even better, we turn him over to the Frenchman, let him kill him, and we collect twice.”

  “It’s a stupid idea. Too dangerous.”

  Skevis bristled. “My father and brother think it is a very good idea.”

  “What makes you think the American will pay anything?”

  “For his brother? Even Americans love their brothers.”

  “Maybe. But what it he doesn’t have a lot of money after all?”

  “A lot of money, maybe not; but a lot of gold, I bet. Treasure.”

  “Then why is he still floating around in that little boat? Why doesn’t he go back to America and live in a penthouse?”