The driver reached his lorry, and slapped its side as if the lorry itself were culpable, before he, too, disappeared, still shouting, in pursuit of the taxi driver.
The watchers waited, until, to their surprise, the taxi driver appeared at the far side of the kafenion’s terrace, emerging from between two buildings at a very brisk walk. Of the lorry driver there was no visible sign, though his abuse still echoed loud between the alley walls. As the taxi driver hurried panting across the terrace, the laughing waiters offered their applause.
But, with a single shout from where the taxi driver had appeared, the lorry driver emerged from the alley. Not looking back, the taxi driver broke into a shambling run, and soon reached his taxi, whose engine, like the lorry’s, was still running. Sliding into his seat, he let in the clutch and was quickly away, grinning at the impotent lorry driver, gesturing with the side of his hand at his genitals in a valediction which said, triumphantly, Eat my balls.
The waiters returned smiling to their sweeping. The cook lit the burners on the gas stove, calling out to the waiters he was ready to start; and one of the waiters put away his broom, picked up a wooden tray, and approached the first of the businessmen for his order. The moustached man turned back to his newspaper; but before he could begin to read, the fat man interrupted him.
‘A bold plan, but effective,’ he said genially. ‘It’s gratifying to see Greek ingenuity at work, don’t you think?’
Over the top of his paper, the man regarded him, his annoyance at the fat man’s interruption clear in his face.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘The taxi driver. It’s good to see such a fine example of Greek ingenuity.’
‘Ingenuity?’ The man lowered his paper and gave a cold smile. ‘What you call ingenuity, I’d call theft.’
The waiter stood between them.
The moustached man addressed him without offering any greeting.
‘Greek coffee, medium-sweet, a double,’ he said.
The fat man smiled at the waiter.
‘Kali mera,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the same, no sugar, if you would be so kind.’
As the waiter crossed whistling to the kitchen, the moustached man again made as if to resume his reading; but again, the fat man interrupted him.
‘I have to correct you on that point,’ he said. ‘The taxi driver had no intention of permanently depriving the lorry driver of his vehicle. Intent is crucial in these matters. No theft was committed.’
Across the street, the lorry driver was haranguing the blameless shop proprietor, who stared miserably down at the pavement. As the moustached man regarded the fat man, his lip lifted in an unmistakable sneer.
‘You’re a lawyer, then,’ he said.
The fat man laughed.
‘A lawyer? No,’ he said. ‘I have some knowledge of the law, picked up over the years. But a lawyer, no. Though I have often thought I would thrive on the drama of the courtroom. A little drama is something I enjoy; and happily I find that, wherever I travel, there’s something of a drama going on. Sometimes it plays like theatre, as here, this morning; sometimes you have to watch more closely. But I’m never disappointed. There are as many dramas as the human race has members. Sometimes, a little digging’s necessary. But what I find when I dig would take a lifetime to tell.’
The moustached man grimaced, as if concerned the fat man might begin that lifetime’s stories now, and that he, an unwilling listener, would be condemned to listen. Once more, he bent to his newspaper, but once more, the fat man interrupted him.
Flipping open the lid of his cigarettes, he held out the box.
‘Cigarette?’
The moustached man shook his head, and held up the remainder of his cheroot.
‘Forgive me,’ said the fat man. ‘I hadn’t noticed you were smoking.’
He chose a cigarette, picked up the matchbox and then seemed to change his mind. Laying the box back down on the table, he drew his gold lighter from his pocket and put the delicate flame to the cigarette tip.
The waiter brought them coffee and iced water; beneath their ashtrays, he slipped a till receipt. The fat man smiled and thanked him, whilst the moustached man sipped immediately at his cup, showing slight annoyance, as if the coffee wasn’t perfect but only adequate.
The fat man tasted his coffee, and replaced the cup in its saucer.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing quite like the first coffee of the day. Don’t you agree?’
The moustached man fixed his eyes on his newspaper, and made no reply.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the fat man, ‘you must think me very rude. I haven’t introduced myself. Hermes Diaktoros, from Athens. The name is my father’s idea of humour. He was a classical scholar.’
He held out his hand, and reluctantly the moustached man took it, though the contact he made was brief.
‘Manolis Alfieris.’
The fat man assumed an expression of thoughtfulness.
‘Alfieris,’ he said. ‘Alfieris. The name’s familiar to me. Have we met before?’
‘I don’t believe so, no,’ said Alfieris.
‘No, I don’t think so either,’ said the fat man. ‘And yet . . . Perhaps I’ve heard your name in connection with business. Tell me, what line are you in?’
Alfieris straightened himself in his chair as if about to make an announcement, leaned forward and stubbed out his cheroot.
‘I’m with the Planning Office,’ he said. ‘Area Director, as a matter of fact.’
The fat man slapped his leg.
‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘A government man! I had you down for it as soon as I saw you. You know, in my experience, smart men always get themselves into government jobs, and the smartest of all go for local government.’
Alfieris’s face filled with mistrust as if anticipating being the butt of some joke. But the fat man leaned towards him, his index finger to his nose, encouraging discretion.
‘I work for the authorities myself, as a matter of fact. Look around you, and anyone can see your choice was the smart one.’ He indicated the businessmen alongside them. One had covered his table with invoices, turning it into a makeshift office; another frowned as he studied a dispatch slip, drawing heavy lines through items not received; the third spoke urgently into his phone, demanding to be put through immediately, his foot tapping with the stress of being made to wait. ‘That life’s not for you. You’ve made a much better choice, wouldn’t you say? No unpaid overtime, no worries about bankruptcy, or profits, or competitors. As long as you turn up and do the job, you can go home at the end of the day and forget all about it. A well-paid, secure job for life, and a big, fat pension at the end of it. Quite a gift, wouldn’t you say?’
Alfieris said nothing, but watched as the man on the phone swore and cancelled the call, slamming the phone down so hard his coffee slopped into its saucer.
‘An absolute gift,’ repeated the fat man. ‘And yet, would you believe there are those who aren’t happy with such a gift? It’s interesting that we were just now talking of theft, because there are people – and I’m sure you’re aware of this, if you have a few years’ service under your belt – who abuse their positions of trust, who take advantage of their positions to line their own pockets further. Yet amongst office workers, we’re reluctant to call it theft. We call it corruption. And corruption is my line, Manolis. In certain government departments, it’s rife.’
Perhaps startled to be addressed by his first name, Alfieris blinked, and leaned forward to drink from his coffee cup. Then he looked at the fat man as if what he had heard had warmed his interest.
‘Are you here on official business?’ he asked.
The fat man turned his head to left and right, glancing over his shoulders as if ensuring no one stood within earshot.
‘Strictly between us,’ he said, ‘we’ve had a tip-off. Regarding your offices, as a matter of fact. It’s a happy coincidence, meeting you; I have your department in my diary for la
ter this week. We have no names yet, obviously, or we’d have cleared out the offenders already, but we have no doubt we’ll root them out. My powers are considerable: I can go anywhere, view any file, ask any question of any employee. I can access your staff’s personal bank details; that’s where we usually find our evidence. And I’m supported by an impressive network: I have spies everywhere. The powers that be are determined to crack down; but that’s between you and me. If word gets out I’m in town, the pigeons’ll fly the coop. As Director, obviously you have a right to know, but I’m sure you understand it’s crucial you say nothing to your subordinates at this stage. Can I rely on you, Manolis?’
Alfieris gave no immediate answer. Taking the till receipt from beneath the ashtray, he glanced at the amount he owed, as if about to leave; but after a moment, he slipped the receipt back into its place, and faced the fat man.
‘If I am available,’ he said, ‘you will, of course, have my full cooperation.’
‘You have my word I will not add to your workload,’ said the fat man. ‘All the resources I need, I bring with me. I have my spies, and they are always invaluable in identifying offenders. And I have these!’ He pointed to his right eye. ‘My own eyes are my most precious tools, and it is on them that I rely. Of course, I cannot promise there will be no unpleasantness. The police are always involved, and there will be prosecutions. But the disruption brings huge benefits – a department entirely free of those who bring government offices into disrepute.’
Behind the kafenion, the town hall clock struck the quarter-hour. The fat man looked at his watch.
‘You must forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am due to meet the District Auditor in a few minutes, and she’s not a woman who likes to be kept waiting.’ He held out his hand; with reluctance, Alfieris took it. ‘We’ll be meeting again very soon, Manolis. Please be reassured, you may rely on me absolutely to remove whatever rot your offices conceal.’
Leaving coins to pay for his coffee beneath his saucer, the fat man pocketed his cigarettes and lighter. Taking his bag of fish from the back of his chair, he picked up his holdall and made his way between the tables, thanking the waiters as he left.
Alfieris watched until the fat man was out of sight. His newspaper lay folded on the table, his coffee was half-drunk and cold in its cup. The fat man, he noticed, had left his matches behind.
For a while, Alfieris sat. The tables around him filled with customers and the waiters moved amongst them with loaded trays, until the air lost the smell of the sea and took on instead the smell of breakfast.
Absently, Alfieris took a cheroot from his shirt pocket, then reached across for the fat man’s matchbox. Exotic in design, it was painted with a scene from some mythology: a woman in a sari and a turbaned man embraced beneath a palm tree, where an unlikely, slavering tiger hid amongst the leaves. The manufacturer’s name was in a script he couldn’t read. It was a pretty object, an ideal gift, he thought, for his new mistress, who had a taste for foreign tat, matryoshka dolls and Chinese porcelain.
The matchbox gave no rattle, but inside it something moved.
Alfieris slid open the lid.
Six bright fish eyes stared up at him, their irises fiery orange, the pupils black, and blind.
In Alfieris’s mind, the eyes saw everything.
As he left the kafenion, he seemed preoccupied. He left no money to pay for his coffee, and when the waiter wished him kali mera, Alfieris made no reply.
Fourteen
Gazis sat at the canteen window looking down towards the town hall, where the mayoral car stood in the No Parking zone, the driver at its wheel reading a morning paper, biting from time to time into a warm apple pie.
The coast road was busy, and traffic moved slowly. A youth on an overpowered motorbike zoomed recklessly around a tour bus, dodging an oncoming delivery van. The youth, casual in sunglasses and sandals, wore no helmet. Gazis considered noting down his number, but no pen was to hand, and he admired, just a little, the youth’s boldness in passing the police station at speed and helmetless. Perhaps, though, it was not boldness that made him brave, but knowledge; perhaps he knew the habits of local policemen. Most of the morning’s shift were here in the canteen, enlivening themselves with strong coffee and sugared doughnuts, indulging in a little gossip before the day’s work began.
Gazis drank the last of his bitter coffee. Overhead, an electric drill screamed as electricians worked on the air conditioning. Petridis was silent, chewing on a ham-and-cheese roll.
On the far side of the street, a pedestrian waiting to cross from the promenade to the town caught Gazis’s eye: Hermes Diaktoros. Gazis watched him, judging him to be unwilling to take risks; rather than choosing his moment to run between oncoming cars, the fat man had troubled to walk to the zebra crossing, where he stood on the first faded white stripe, looking from left to right for a gap in the traffic. There was, Gazis believed, no question of the traffic stopping; but as he watched, the fat man placed a white-shoed foot on the second black stripe, and held up his hand in a command. Immediately, the traffic slowed for him to cross. The fat man was surprisingly nimble on his feet, and in a moment he reached the town-side pavement. There, he hesitated, seeming to think, until quite suddenly he looked directly up at the window where Gazis sat and, meeting his eyes, raised a hand in greeting.
Startled, Gazis raised a hand in return, and the fat man gestured to him, pointing first at Gazis, then at his own lips, with a curling of the fingers as if to pull Gazis towards him: Ela na sou po – Let’s talk. The most commonplace of signs in the Greeks’ silent language, from one as refined as the fat man it was unexpected; and the gesture so surprised Gazis that, without hesitation, he rose from his seat to comply.
As Gazis pulled on his beret, Petridis’s breakfast was still unfinished.
‘Meet me downstairs in five minutes,’ said Gazis, leaving the table. ‘And pick up the car keys on your way.’
‘Sergeant Gazis,’ said the fat man. ‘I was passing, and I thought I’d enquire if there’s any progress on my friend Gabrilis.’
‘You were passing very early,’ said Gazis. ‘Did the heat keep you awake?’
‘On the contrary, I slept extremely well. My house is always cool, regardless of the temperature outside. I had some early business to attend to, so I was up and out with the sunrise. In fact I was out so early I caught the fishermen before they left for market and I bought some fish. Perhaps you would accept it, as a gift.’
He held out his knotted bag of fish, but Gazis held up his hand in refusal.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not appropriate.’
‘Oh, surely you can. It’s nothing special, I’m afraid: only scorpion fish, but enough to make a soup. In my opinion, soup is the only way to eat skorpios. I paid for it before I remembered my housekeeper won’t touch it; she fears the spines, not because of the pain of their sting, but because of the bad omen of being spiked. She is too superstitious, in my opinion, but you don’t strike me as a superstitious man. Come, take them. It’s not as if I’m still a suspect – or am I?’
‘It may be only skorpios,’ said Gazis, ‘but anyone watching me take the bag won’t know that. They’ll be thinking lobsters, oysters – in short, a bribe. And anyway, whatever my own opinion, I can’t confirm you’re not a suspect until we’ve someone else to charge. Which, at the moment, unfortunately, is not the case.’
‘Has there been any progress?’
‘Progress, in truth, is slow.’
‘No news at all?’
‘Not good news, no.’
‘Are you prepared at least to tell me what the bad news is?’
The policeman considered for a moment.
‘You’ll be discreet, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘because any indiscretion will get me a reprimand. The fact is, you’ll be unsurprised to hear we’ve no support from CID. Their view is that the case is hopeless. I see their point of view: only an idiot would take the offending car in for repair at this stage. They’ll find an
other form of transport for a few weeks – a moped, or take the bus even – and claim engine trouble, or waiting for parts, if anyone asks. Waiting for parts is a national pastime, as you’re aware. It could easily account for a vehicle being six months off the road. And when enough time has gone by for people to forget that we were interested, they’ll get the bodywork fixed. Or scrap the vehicle. Or simply do nothing, and drive it with the damage still on it. If it were me, that’s what I would do.’
Petridis appeared in the doorway. Seeing Gazis with the fat man, he approached, adjusting his holster on his hip as if its weight were uncomfortable.
‘Happily,’ went on Gazis, ‘my partner and I are more optimistic. Aren’t we, Petridis?’
‘Sir?’ He nodded towards the fat man. ‘Kali mera sas.’
‘I’m telling Mr Diaktoros that you and I are making the Kaloyeros case our personal crusade. I was about to tell him of your excellent idea, which CID didn’t have the brains – or inclination – to come up with. Now you’re here, why don’t you explain it yourself?’
‘Petrol stations,’ said Petridis. ‘If the vehicle involved is still on the road – if – it will need petrol. So I suggested we visit every petrol station in the area, asking them to look out for a white vehicle with recent damage on it.’
The fat man regarded Petridis with admiration.
‘An excellent plan!’ he said. ‘And let me make it even more effective. Tell the proprietors there is a reward at stake. I will personally – anonymously, mind – pay 1,000 euros to anyone who comes forward with information. A little incentive to do the right thing never hurt. Well done, Constable.’
Gazis placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
‘He has a policeman’s mind, this one,’ said Gazis. ‘With the right guidance, there’s a great future ahead of him.’
‘With the right guidance,’ echoed the fat man. ‘But yours is a profession with many traps.’ He held out the bag of fish to Petridis. ‘I’ve been shopping already this morning, Constable, and I’ve foolishly purchased fish I’m unable to use. Will you take it off my hands? It’s only skorpios, but there’s a good soup there. A light fish soup is perfect for this overheated weather.’
The Taint of Midas Page 13