The Taint of Midas

by Anne Zouroudi

  As they travelled back to the police station, Petridis was quiet; Gazis suspected the memories of a difficult day were troubling him. According to the ambulance crews, one of the builder’s labourers was likely to lose his legs.

  Locking the patrol car, he tossed Petridis the keys.

  ‘Take these back to dispatch,’ he said. ‘Tell them the car needs cleaning up. Then meet me upstairs. I’ve a job for you before you go.’

  In the office, he dropped the Yellow Pages on Petridis’s desk. Petridis frowned; his thoughts were on a cold beer, and a plate of his aunt’s pastitsio.

  ‘A little task to take your mind off things,’ he said. ‘Call the local radio stations, and ask them to put a bulletin out on the Kaloyeros case. Tell them what we’re looking for: a white vehicle with damage on it. It was your idea, and it was a good one. Now follow through on it.’

  Petridis’s last call was to FM107. He didn’t use the directory, but dialled the mobile number on the card Dinos had given him.

  ‘Sergeant Petridis, kali spera!’ Dinos’s voice was bright. ‘How are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Constable,’ said Petridis. ‘It’s Constable Petridis.’

  ‘What can I do for you? It’s George, right? May I call you George? Do you have something for me?’

  Knowing Gazis would never permit such a liberty, Petridis was uncomfortable with Dinos’s use of his first name. But Dinos was a media man; compared to his old company in the islands, Dinos seemed cool, urbane. Petridis allowed the liberty to pass.

  ‘We’d like you to put out a request for information on your news bulletins.’

  ‘Absolutely, no problem at all. Always glad to help the constabulary; Mr Gazis will tell you that. Space permitting, obviously. We’ve a big story running. A wall collapsed on a building site.’

  ‘I was there,’ said Petridis.

  ‘I heard some of those guys aren’t too good. Great story. We don’t get many big stories round here, believe me. Those we do, we capitalise on, keep them running as long as we can. I wired some of our pictures through to Athens, and I’m doing an illegal-immigrant follow-up tomorrow. What are they, Albanians, Russians? You work for nothing, cut corners, you’ve got to expect consequences.’

  ‘I’ve heard it was the site owner who cut the corners.’

  ‘Maybe so. But bad news for Albanians is good news for us. That’s the way it is in this business.’

  ‘I’m calling about another matter, actually – the old man’s death. The hit-and-run on the airport road. You were there.’

  ‘I was there? I don’t think so, George.’

  ‘You were there,’ insisted Petridis. ‘You gave me your card.’

  There was silence on the line, then a shuffling of papers, the snap of the glovebox.

  ‘Hello?’ said Petridis. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dinos. ‘This car makes a lousy office. I can’t find a pen that writes. OK. Fire away.’

  ‘The airport road,’ repeated Petridis. ‘The hit-and-run.’

  ‘I’m with you now,’ said Dinos. ‘You know how it is – I’m here, there and everywhere. I lose track. It goes with the territory, occupational hazard. I can’t remember where I was an hour ago, never mind yesterday. What have you got on it?’

  ‘We want to issue an appeal to all garages. Anyone who’s worked on a damaged vehicle brought in within the last forty-eight hours, anything that comes in, in the next week or so.’

  ‘You’re looking for a car with new damage on it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Make, model, colour?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘That’s it, white?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Manufacturer?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. But we don’t want you to say that, obviously.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, then, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re exploring every avenue.’

  ‘But if the guilty party hasn’t taken the car in for repair yet, won’t knowing you’re looking for it stop them from doing so?’

  ‘Probably. That leaves the evidence for us to find.’

  ‘And if they have taken it in, you’ll get the call.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Clever. OK, I’ll see what I can do. Can’t promise, though. With this building site thing, the bulletins are full. What’s the old guy’s name?’

  ‘Kaloyeros. Gabrilis Kaloyeros.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘We appreciate it.’

  Petridis was about to hang up, but Dinos stopped him.

  ‘Listen, George,’ he said, ‘are you a fan of the Songbird?’

  The Songbird – Telma Lalagi. Petridis had her poster on his bedroom wall at home. She was beautiful, sexy; her voice was like caramel, smooth and warm.

  ‘No man alive who isn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Did you know she’s in town tonight?’

  ‘My brother tried to get tickets. All sold out.’

  ‘I got tickets. Freebies. Press box. You want to go, be my guest? There’ll be some hospitality thrown in. It’d give you a chance to meet some people, hang out. What do you say?’

  Petridis hesitated. He was expected home for his day off, had promised to catch the boat at the end of his shift. His mother missed him; it had been a while since he’d seen Yorgia.

  He could go early the next morning. His mother wouldn’t mind, and Yorgia could be persuaded to understand.

  ‘I’ll have to clear it with Gazis,’ he said.

  ‘Gazis? What’s it got to do with Gazis? This is your private life we’re talking about. Even policemen are off duty sometimes, George.’

  ‘It’s the hospitality thing. We’re not supposed to accept hospitality.’

  ‘So don’t. Bring yourself a cup of coffee, if that’s what you want to do.’

  Petridis remembered the lecture Gazis had given him on his very first day on the job, his number one rule of policing, as he had called it. You’re never off duty, Gazis had said. From now until the day you resign, retire or get shot in the street, you’re a policeman. People expect a lot from policemen. They’ve a right to. Remember that, and you won’t go far wrong.

  Gazis had a lot of rules; every day there was a new number one. And this was Telma Lalagi. His brother would be mad with jealousy. It was a concert, nothing more.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’

  Dinos pressed the button on his phone to end the call. On the piece of paper in his hand, he’d written only two words. Gabrilis Kaloyeros.

  His phone rang again. As he put the handset to his ear, he dropped the paper on to the passenger seat.

  ‘Yassou, koukla mou. How’s the prettiest girl I know?’ With the phone still to his ear, he moved the car forward, pulling out into the narrow side-street. Parked vehicles lining its kerbs left passage for only one car, one way. The draught from the open window wafted the paper he had written in to the footwell, where it lay amongst the rubbish: cigarette packets, last Friday’s newspaper, three empty water bottles.

  In the tourist restaurants, the waiters were laying the tables for dinner. Outside the bars, the touts were in position, hands full of First drink free vouchers. Dinos drove slowly past Bolero’s, where Marie (a Scottish girl, a redhead with good legs) worked. But she wasn’t there; a brunette in heavy make-up and whore’s clothing had taken her place.

  ‘I’m on my way back now,’ he said into the phone. ‘There’s nothing new out here.’

  As he braked at the T-junction, traffic on the main road was light. He checked the rear-view mirror. No one was behind him.

  ‘Not tonight, koukla,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately. I promised to go to my mother’s. It’s been days since I was there.’

  He glanced to left and right. A moped ran by on the main road, then a small Fiat.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘She’ll want me to stay the night. My aunt’s visiting this week. You know how it will be.’

  A red
Namco Pony passed along the main road, travelling from east to west. A silver Toyota followed a tiny Smartcar and, a little distance behind, a streamlined black German saloon.

  ‘Gotta go,’ said Dinos. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Be good. Ciao.’

  He ended the call, tossed the phone aside and fastened his seat belt.

  The black saloon was close, approaching from his left.

  Dinos looked right, and pulled out into the main road.

  There was a horn blast, and a screeching of tyres; his car was jolted by the impact as the black car hit his wing. Then came a short silence as Dinos shook his head to stop the dizziness; and then the silence was broken as the driver of the saloon began to yell.

  By the black car’s front end, the two men considered the damage. The glass from a broken headlamp glittered in the road; the car’s bonnet rose to an angle at its centre, and the silvered radiator grille was bent.

  ‘I’m sorry, friend,’ said Dinos, ‘truly sorry. I just wasn’t thinking straight. And such a beautiful car. I always wanted one of these. Is it drivable?’

  The man looked at him with weary eyes.

  ‘Does it look drivable, to you?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’ve got good insurance, because I’m coming to you for every cent. In the meantime, I’ll take your name and address.’

  Behind Dinos’s car, a motorcyclist revved his engine with impatience; behind the damaged BMW, a young woman in a small Opel peeped her horn.

  ‘I’ll get you a card,’ said Dinos.

  ‘You do that,’ said the BMW’s driver. ‘And make a note of my name, too, for your insurers; they’ll be needing to know where to send the cheque. They call me Vrettos, Manos Vrettos. I can lend you a pen, if you want to write it down.’

  Nine

  Beneath the spotlights, Telma Lalagi’s face shone with sweat and melting greasepaint. On the giant video screen, her face was magnified in close-up, and Petridis was surprised to see the lines of middle age running from her upper lip to her nostrils, and crow’s feet around her heavily made-up eyes. But she was still lovely, and still adored, and as she raised her naked arms to the night sky, the shouts and whistles of the crowd broadened her carmine-painted smile over those tiny, perfect, pearly teeth.

  The lights dimmed suddenly, blacking out the band and the backing singers like a magician’s trick, so the Songbird seemed to stand alone at the centre of the vast stage, a single spotlight reflecting off the sequins of her sculpted dress. In a pose of abject grief, she closed her eyes and dropped her head, allowing her dark, glossy curls to fall over her face. The crowd grew quiet.

  With a pure and soulful beauty, a single bouzouki rang out in a trembling melody. Recognising the first notes of Telma’s greatest hit, the crowd roared its appreciation, and the Songbird threw back her head as if in an ecstasy of pain, and the whole band took up the dramatic theme of a thousand heartaches.

  In the press box, Petridis was bewitched. Under Telma Lalagi’s influence, his guilt over the girl he’d left behind turned to nostalgia. He remembered how Yorgia had cried when he had left her; he recalled all the promises he’d made – to call, to visit – that he had failed to keep. He’d told himself there was no formal arrangement between them; she and her family had mistaken his intentions. He’d thought his ties to her were fading, that she mattered less; but now this powerful anthem of tragedy and abandonment made him doubt himself. The mainland girls all seemed so sophisticated, and quite beyond him. He found he missed Yorgia’s innocent smile, and the comfort of her fingers wrapped around his.

  The stage lights took on the colours of heartbreak – indigo, violet, red – as the Songbird slowly turned, slender hips writhing in a sensual Turkish dance. She held her hands out to the crowd as if she would embrace them all.

  ‘Come on, my children!’ she cried. ‘Help me!’

  Together, the Songbird and the crowd took up the song:

  The blame, my faithless love, lies all with you,

  I gave you everything a woman can,

  Heart, body, soul, the very best of me,

  We lay together, you were my only man,

  But now you’ve gone, the season’s changed, grown cold,

  Our star which glittered bright no longer shines,

  My faithful, aching heart was always true,

  The blame, my faithless love, lies all with you.

  Below the press box, the flames of hundreds of lighters flickered like candles in the dark, and the Songbird’s plaintive voice soared above the tuneless singing of the crowd. On the video screen, the despair on her face seemed agony. With the edge of a long, red-lacquered nail, she wiped away a tear that left no mark.

  He could call Yorgia now. It wasn’t too late. Though she’d be cool at first over his prolonged neglect, he knew, once the recriminations were past, she’d welcome him back. Petridis had learned that the grass here wasn’t greener; far worse than that, he had found no grass at all.

  But as the audience moved haltingly into the second verse, the neck of a bottle chinked against the rim of his glass. Splashing in more Scotch, Dinos clapped a hand on Petridis’s shoulder, and shouted into his ear.

  ‘She’s something, isn’t she?’

  Petridis smiled his agreement.

  ‘There’s some people I want you to meet.’

  The press box was small, and the dozen people gathered there made it crowded. When Dinos had introduced him – to producers and announcers, to advertising salesmen, to a nightclub owner, to a couple of hangers-on – he hadn’t mentioned Petridis’s occupation, nor given any reason for his being there. Now there were two women he hadn’t met, leaning on the broadcast console. The stage lights dimmed again, pulling shadows across their faces.

  Dinos grasped one of the women around the waist. Petridis smelled the floral sweetness of her perfume.

  ‘Meet the girls,’ said Dinos. He pulled the woman close, nuzzling her ear until she smiled. She gave his cheek a pouty kiss, leaving a mark of burgundy lipstick.

  ‘The lovely Katina,’ he said. ‘And this is Haroula. Haroula, say hello to George.’ His hand slid to a skinny buttock barely covered by her miniskirt.

  Haroula drew unsmilingly on a half-smoked cigarette. Her eyes held Petridis’s; as she exhaled smoke, they narrowed as if to bring him into clearer focus.

  ‘Yassou, George,’ she said.

  Leaning back on the broadcast console, she crossed one naked, oil-sheened leg over the other, giving Petridis a glimpse of the intriguing darkness beneath her skirt. Her blouse was tight, the neck unbuttoned and showing a chain of white gold which fell into her rounded cleavage. The chain held a scarab beetle worked in the same white gold, its back a glittering stone too large to be a genuine ruby.

  Dinos held up the half-empty bottle.

  ‘Another drink, girls?’

  The women held out their glasses to be filled, then drank. Haroula’s lips were wet with whisky, and now she smiled widely at Petridis.

  Beyond the press box, the tempo of the music became upbeat. Haroula leaned forward; her breasts touched Petridis’s shoulder. Before she spoke into his ear, he felt the tickling of her breath.

  ‘I love this song,’ she said. ‘It’s good to make love to.’

  Her breath smelled of whisky and smoke; Yorgia had breathed nothing on him but lemons, and fish. Haroula leaned away from him, smiling expectantly, waiting for his response.

  For a moment, he hesitated, unsure of what to say, or do. The scarab’s fake ruby caught the light, putting sparks in her wide and welcoming eyes.

  ‘I like your necklace,’ he said, and putting out his hand, gently lifting the beetle from her neck, he leaned in close to study it, brushing her soft, exposed skin with the tips of his fingers.

  Pandelis Paliakis was careful in his undressing, folding his trousers along the leg-pleats and slipping them on to a wooden hanger, folding the shirt, too, and placing it in the calico sack provided by the laundry service. Stripped to his socks and underwear, he turned from the dresser
mirror, disheartened by his soft, boy’s belly plump with an overindulged taste for ice-cream. He pinched a roll of fat, and shook his head; what other grown man, he asked himself, had vanilla ice-cream as a vice?

  He lay down on the bed where only he had ever slept. The night was hot, and still. Through the open window, the music from the concert in the stadium came to him with the whistles and cheering of the crowd. Kylis was there, on cheap tickets from some tout. He’d gone with friends. Pandelis was not invited.

  He might have offered his mother a game of draughts, but her room along the hall was dark, and silent; the tablets she took for migraine were potent, and made her sleep for hours. There was work to do, of course (he hadn’t even opened up his briefcase, and the papers his father was screaming for were still unchecked), but the pricking of his conscience was overridden by a feeling unfamiliar to him: restlessness, or boredom, or ennui.

  His mobile phone began to ring. Taking it from the bedside table, he knew before he looked who would be calling and, sure enough, his father’s office number was on the screen. Pandelis let the call go to the messaging service. In the stadium, the crowd was applauding as a woman’s voice boomed through the speakers, too distorted by echo to understand.

  His phone rang again. He dropped it on the sheet beside him, ignoring it until it was silent.

  He placed his hands behind his head, and thought: of sleep, of his brother, of a cooling shower. He thought of Sonya in the restaurant – her smile, her eyes, the shape of her breasts beneath her T-shirt – and the restless feeling grew. She’d be there now; in the next hour or so, she’d be getting off work. He could call and ask if she’d like coffee, or a cocktail, if he could walk her home . . .