Paliakis winced.
‘By Christ,’ he said, ‘that’s got some bite to it. What have you diluted it with, vinegar?’
As Sostis picked up the comb and scissors, Paliakis ran his fingers over his face, searching for stray whiskers. He found none. His eyes – empty as a goat’s – watched in the mirror as Sostis passed the comb through the ring of thin grey hair around Paliakis’s scalp. The cut he had administered one week ago had barely grown; the lightest trim would do the job. Lifting the first ends of short hair with the comb, he snipped them off; the bristles, no length at all, fell like dust-motes, settling silver on Paliakis’s black-caped shoulders.
Believing the cold, shrewd eyes were watching him, Sostis kept his own eyes on his work. But Paliakis had no interest in the barber. Something in the street held his attention, an image in the mirror he was watching.
‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘that is one thing I cannot bear to see. Waste. I cannot bear to see waste.’
Sostis paused in his cutting and glanced through the window at the street, where there seemed to be nothing remarkable. Outside the Hotel Sparta, the tourist bus was almost full. A street cleaner was spearing rubbish with a spike, dropping it into the sack he carried with him; as Paliakis spoke, he picked up a half-eaten, paper-wrapped doughnut, and the pigeon pecking at it fluttered away.
‘These days,’ said Sostis, thinking he had understood Paliakis’s meaning, ‘people throw away more food than they eat.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Paliakis impatiently. ‘Not food. Them.’ He pointed towards the bus, where Northern European faces stared out at the sunshine. ‘They come for a week, two weeks, and then they’re gone. The season’s short – how many months? Five at the outside, and only July and August really profitable. It’s not long enough. The investment for such a poor return isn’t justified. They come and go, and there’s the problem. To get a decent return, we need to make them stay.’
Around Paliakis’s ears, the half-circles of hair cut so perfectly last week were a little ragged. Sostis bent in close, and with the scissor tips trimmed them back into perfection.
‘Not holidays,’ went on Paliakis. ‘Holidays are crippling us. No sooner have you built some customer loyalty – and that loyalty is never guaranteed . . .’ He raised his head quite suddenly, and held Sostis’s eyes in the mirror, smiling an unkind smile that showed the glint of his gold canine. ‘We all value loyalty, barber; but in my experience, loyalty must be earned. Do you agree?’
Sostis did not reply; in his experience, Paliakis expected no answer. Indeed, he left no room for one, saying immediately, ‘I’ll tell you how it is with them.’ He nodded towards the coach, where the uniformed company representative was climbing aboard. ‘You spoil them for a night or two – a drink on the house, a dish of ice-cream for the children, and many of them are yours. But like fickle women, their loyalty doesn’t last. How can it? Seven days, and they are gone. In come the next lot, and you must start again. Always kamaki, always charming, always tempting in the new ones, getting a firm grip where we can. But only for seven days. Like Sisyphus’s, the task is never done. Do you know the myth of Sisyphus, barber?’
Sostis took a soft-bristled brush and flicked hair snippets from Paliakis’s neck.
‘He had a rock, if I remember,’ said Sostis. ‘He pushed it uphill every day. And every night, it rolled downhill, and he had to start again. A punishment from the gods. But not as bad as having your liver torn out and eaten on a daily basis. Who was the poor bastard who suffered that fate?’
‘Prometheus,’ said Paliakis. ‘His liver regrew every night. At least he had no work to do. I am a modern-day Sisyphus. And there they go . . .’ The coach pulled away from the kerb, disappearing around the corner. ‘A waste, you see, a terrible waste of potential income. There’s so much of their money they don’t spend here. How much can they spend, in just a week? I must be charitable, and acknowledge it’s not their fault. But there is a better way, a much better way, which I intend to exploit. No more wasting time on charm and niceties. It’s the waste that gets me, here.’ With his fist, he banged himself on the chest.
Sostis took a pair of surgeon’s tongs from the shelf, and used them to pull a ball of cotton wool from a wooden box.
‘You can’t stop them going home,’ he said. ‘If they kept on coming and never left, we’d have real problems. We’d be overrun within a month.’
Paliakis laughed.
‘You have no vision,’ he said. ‘You need to look at things differently. The trick would be to import the richest pickings on a full-time basis, cut down on the rest. Like Spain. The Spanish have the right idea. They’ve made good use of their resources – and remember, their resources are the same as ours: sun, sea, sand. Nothing more. They’ve still got hotels and short-timers, as we have, but they’ve got far more investment in the long-term market. Villas. That’s where the money is – villas. A whole new town of full-time, long-term imports. Then you’ve got them every which way – not only your bars and restaurants, but your supermarkets, bakers, doctors and dentists, plumbers, gardeners – not forgetting barbers, barber! Everyone gets a bite at the cherry – and not just one bite! Everybody benefits, everybody!’
From a plastic bottle, Sostis squirted blue rubbing alcohol on to the cotton wool. For a moment, the shop held the sweet, medicinal smell of a doctor’s surgery. With a plastic lighter, Sostis set the alcohol-soaked cotton wool alight. Covering the tip of Paliakis’s ear with one hand, he held the flame to the hairs that grew around the orifice, singeing and withering them to nothing. As he passed the flame over the other ear, the medicinal smell was replaced by the smell of scorching. Sostis singed the hairs in Paliakis’s nostrils, a few on the back of his neck. At every touch of the flame, Paliakis winced, but he did not complain.
‘It’s a great plan, barber,’ he said, as Sostis dropped the burnt cotton wool to the floor and laid down the tongs. ‘It’d be like keeping goats, or cattle. Milk them at regular intervals. What do you think?’
‘I think there’s a flaw in it.’
‘A flaw?’
‘Because they’re not cattle, are they? They’re people, with lives to live. Jobs, schools, houses. They have families. If they were refugees, that might be different. But people won’t just abandon everything and come and join us here in paradise. How could they afford it?’
‘But that’s the true genius of my plan,’ said Paliakis. ‘You’ve got to target a certain market. Because there are people who have time and money and no responsibilities – the old ones. They’d sell their houses in Denmark or Holland or Germany and come and live here, in my development. They all have pensions, and they’ll have spare capital too, property here being so much cheaper. All they have to do is start spending money. They’re happy, we’re happy. What could be simpler?’
The shop bell rang, and a man entered; of middle age and middle height, he had nothing remarkable about him but his hair, which seemed too uniformly black for a man of his years.
‘Kali mera sas,’ he said, smiling. ‘How are things today, barber?’
‘Welcome, Costas, welcome,’ said the barber. ‘I’m doing well, now you’re here. With any luck, I’ll be out of here and fishing before one.’
Costas picked up the right-wing Kathimerini and sat, crossing his right foot over his left knee. Reading the headline – Farmers’ subsidies increase again – he frowned.
‘Malakes!’ he said. ‘What in God’s name are the clowns up to now? Have you seen this?’ He held up the front page. Sostis read the headline, and smiled. Paliakis’s eyes remained fixed on his own in the mirror. ‘You know who’ll pay for this madness,’ said Costas, hitting the newspaper with the back of his hand. ‘The man in the street, as always. It’ll be out of our wallets, boys, put money on it.’
Sostis untied the bow at the back of Paliakis’s neck and lifted the black cape from his shoulders.
Tiny clippings floated down to the chequered floor. Paliakis stood and brushed of
f hair he imagined on his shoulders; as he did so, the chain Sostis had broken slipped down inside his shirt and to the floor, where it fell unnoticed beneath the barber’s chair.
The shop bell rang again, and another man entered; of middle age and middle height, he had nothing remarkable about him but his hair, which seemed prematurely silver for a man of his years.
‘Kali mera sas,’ he said. ‘Are you well, barber?’ Then, seeing Costas, he grinned. ‘Yassou, cousin!’ he said. ‘Hard at work, as usual?’
Costas leaned forward and offered a hearty handshake.
‘Eh, Vassilis,’ he said. ‘How are you, how’s everybody?’
‘Well,’ said Vassilis. ‘Everyone’s well.’
Vassilis sat down next to his cousin. Their physical similarity was marked; both had inherited the family nose, large, bulbous as a potato. He picked up the left-wing Eleftherotypia, and, crossing his left foot over his right knee, read the headline – Farmers win fair prices.
‘And about time too,’ he said, smacking the newspaper with the back of his hand. He showed the headline to Costas, and held it up to the barber, who smiled. ‘They should have done it years ago.’
‘And who’s going to pay for it?’ asked Costas. ‘It’ll be the man in the street, as usual. You’ll not be very keen to put your hand in your pocket, I’m sure. I’m right, barber, aren’t I? It’ll be the working man who pays.’
‘Not you, then,’ said his cousin.
‘Leave me out of it,’ said Sostis. ‘I’ve no interest in politics. And the fact is, what they decide today they’ll change their minds about tomorrow.’
At the cash register, Paliakis counted out eight euros in coins.
‘It’s nine euros now,’ said Sostis. ‘It’s gone up.’
‘Gone up?’ asked Paliakis. ‘Why?’
‘It’s the air conditioning,’ said Sostis. ‘It’s expensive.’
Paliakis pocketed his coins, and offered a ten-euro note in their place. From the till, Sostis counted out one euro in five- and ten-cent coins, and placed them in Paliakis’s hand. Ignoring both the tip jar and the slight insult implied by such small change, Paliakis pocketed these coins, too.
‘It’ll be going down again then, will it, in September, when you turn the air conditioning off?’ he asked.
Offering no reply, Sostis slid the till drawer shut. Paliakis dipped his fingers into the bowl of Turkish cachous, and took a fistful. Popping three into his mouth, he chewed; Sostis heard the delicate sweets crack between his teeth. The rest of the cachous Paliakis slipped into his pocket with his money. As he closed the door behind him, he offered neither thank you nor goodbye.
Sostis took a long-handled broom to sweep around the chair, brushing the clippings from Paliakis’s hair into a yellow dustpan. The broom’s bristles caught the links of the broken chain, pulling it into view, and, picking it up, Sostis held both key and chain to the light. Much older than the chain, the key seemed delicate, antique, and so small it must belong not to a door, but to a casket, box or drawer; the silver chain glinted in the light, but the dangling key was dull and worn, dark like old iron. Sostis placed both key and chain on the counter before the mirror, and leaned the broom against the wall.
Costas folded his newspaper, and moved to the barber’s chair. As Sostis threw a gown around his neck, Costas watched Paliakis turn the corner at the end of the street.
‘His wall collapse made the front page of the local paper,’ he said, ‘though I don’t see anything in the nationals. It’s a bad business. One man with his legs crushed who’ll never walk again, another in a coma. And here he is, cool as you like, getting his hair cut.’
‘Not just crushed, amputated,’ said Vassilis. ‘That lawyer son of Paliakis’s was on the radio. An unfortunate accident, is what he’s saying.’
Sostis tied the cape at the back of Costas’s neck.
‘Just a trim?’ he asked.
‘Never mind the trim, barber. Cut it short. I want my money’s worth.’
His cousin laughed.
‘Always the same,’ he said, ‘from a little boy. Always must have his money’s worth. You’ll be turning into a Paliakis yourself if you’re not careful.’
‘God help me if that day ever comes,’ said Costas. ‘You know the truth, of course.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Old Paliakis is short of money. He’s overstretched. He owes the bank a fortune, and they’re ready to foreclose for lack of payment.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Vassilis. ‘The man’s rich as Onassis.’
‘Business has been no better for him than for the rest of us,’ said Costas. ‘The all-inclusives are hitting him hard, in the hotel and in the restaurant. Now they’ve got cheap fares to places you’ve never heard of. Forget Greece, they’re off to Timbuktu and Bangkok.’
‘So why’s he building more, if the hotel he’s got is losing money?’
‘He doesn’t see it that way. In his eyes, the maths are simple: more rooms, more money. Except he’s doing it on the cheap. The scaffolding was put up by Albanians. Unlicensed, and no overheads, no tax or National Insurance. There’ll be all hell to pay now, wait and see. The families’ll sue him, if they’ve sense.’
‘If they’ve sense, they won’t go anywhere near Aris Paliakis with a lawsuit. That son of his is sharp as any razor. He’ll eat them for breakfast, chew them up and spit them out.’
‘Maybe he’ll offer to settle out of court.’
‘More likely he’ll choose to forget the whole business. If he’s allowed to.’
With his comb, Sostis lifted the shaggy layers of Costas’s hair; the underside was silver as his cousin’s.
‘He’s got a new plan,’ said Sostis, making the first cuts. Black and silver hair fell to the floor. ‘No more hotels and restaurants. He’s going into villas, a whole town of them. He says that’s where the money is, these days.’
‘And where’s he going to build villas, along this coast?’
‘He didn’t say. No doubt he’s got somewhere in mind.’
‘There’s nowhere they’ll let him do it. Not round here.’
‘They might, if he has friends in the right places.’
Costas laughed.
‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is very unlikely. You know the man as well as I do, cousin. There might be men in his pocket, but there’re no friends involved. Aris Paliakis has never had a true friend in his life.’
Eleven
Petridis lay below an open window. The sky was bright with morning; the coolness of the air told him he must be near the sea. His head ached, his mouth was dry, his stomach heaved with nausea. Somewhere beyond the window, an outboard engine fired, and an unseen boat buzzed out across the water.
Beside him in the bed, Haroula muttered in her sleep.
She lay covered with a sheet, the line of her back and buttocks outlined in white cotton, her hair matted and wild. There were smears of lipstick on the pillows, and an empty wine bottle lay on the floor; a dark stain on the carpet showed where its dregs had spilt. On the bedside table were two glasses, one still full of wine, and an ashtray filled with half-smoked, ground-out butts.
Slowly, Petridis sat up. He had no memory of arriving in this place, and he didn’t know this room (a hotel room, for sure: the TV mounted on the wall, the map of fire exits on the door gave it away). In the bathroom, as he emptied his bladder, he noticed the bloody marks of swatted mosquitoes on the tiles. The towels were small and thin; the porcelain basin was cracked, and the cold tap dribbled constantly.
He glanced at his watch: 9:05. Thank God it was his day off.
On the back of the door, he read the room rates, glad to find it was the cheapest of hotels; it would be down to him, he knew, to pay the bill.
But he had no cash.
His shirt was thrown on a chair, his trousers were crumpled on the floor; as he picked them up, the jangling of his belt buckle made Haroula stir. His wallet was in his pocket; as he pulled it out, something fell fr
om there to the floor.
The banknotes were rolled tight, secured with a rubber band. Head throbbing, hands shaking, Petridis removed the band, and counted the notes. There was more than enough to pay for the room; there was more than he’d get paid in a month. He had a memory of some bar, of four of them laughing, of Haroula kissing him, her tongue pushed in his mouth, and of Dinos saying, You’re a policeman, look after this for me. The money, then, was Dinos’s. So problem solved: he’d borrow what he needed, and stop off at the bank on his way home. Dinos need never know he’d taken a short-term loan.
He’d made promises to his family for today, and the hour was still early. He should go home, shower, and change; he could catch the mid-morning ferry to see his mother.
But he needed sleep. The hour was early, and there was plenty of time. There might be a later boat, if he was lucky.
On the bed, Haroula opened her eyes. With eye make-up smeared and her lipstick kissed away, she wasn’t pretty. Without the cosmetic tricks, she had aged, and she looked, through sober eyes, a whore. She was someone he’d deny knowing, if he were asked.
He thought of Yorgia, fresh-skinned and innocent.
Haroula looked up at him, and smiled a smile of welcome.
He peeled a twenty from Dinos’s money, and dropped it on the bed.
‘Get yourself a taxi,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
‘So soon?’ she said. She peeled back the sheet, showing her naked breasts. ‘They’ll let us stay till noon. Come back to bed, kukle.’
Petridis hesitated.
‘I have to go,’ he said, after a moment. ‘See you around, maybe.’
Her smile faded.
‘That’s all you’ve got?’ she asked. ‘Twenty?’
He left her another ten; she turned her back on him, and pulled the sheet over her head. At the lobby desk, in his hurry to be gone, Petridis let the cashier keep the change. As he stepped into the street, he kept his face turned from the traffic, and prayed no one who knew him would see him there.
The Taint of Midas Page 10