The priest re-entered the salone carrying a tray, which he laid on the table beside the chessboard. In silence, he handed a glass of tea to Ourania, and offered her biscuits, which she declined. To the fat man, he indicated he should help himself.
The fat man bit into a biscuit – crisp on the outside, soft at its centre and tasting of marzipan – and sipped at the chilled, mint-flavoured tea. The priest resumed his seat, and took up his book; again, the fat man noticed, his eyes did not travel the lines of print, but fixed on one spot on the page as he listened.
Finishing his biscuit, the fat man watched through the window, where a sparrow pecked at the moss between Poseidon’s toes.
‘This is a beautiful house,’ he said.
Ourania laid down her glass.
‘I love this house dearly,’ she said, ‘and yet it is the root of all our troubles. And of course it is not what it was; but then, neither is its mistress. It was built in the late nineteenth century, and for many years it played its part in the best Arcadian society – parties and dinners, actors, writers, singers. There are photographs, upstairs . . . My father acquired it when his business began to do well, and I was born here. It was my dowry.
‘Aris knew this house as a boy, and dreamed of living here. When his businesses began to do well, he made enquiries as to who owned it, and so discovered me. He wooed my father before he wooed me. Many young girls, I believe, have the reverse experience, being themselves regarded as the prize. It was not so with Aris, though I didn’t know it at the time. He was charming; I thought he loved me. My father respected Aris; he admired his ambition, his lust for making money, because it matched my father’s own. Aris had a little money at that time, but nothing compared to my father. When he married me, Aris thought, I’m sure, that he was set for life. He had big plans he thought he’d execute with Father’s cash. And I had a role to play, of course; I was to bear the children who’d found his dynasty. It was an old story, but I was young, and didn’t know it.’
Her voice betrayed her self-reproach.
‘Ignorance in youth is not a sin,’ put in the priest suddenly. ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Ourania.’
She smiled at him, and touched him gently on the back of his hand, in no way repulsed, it seemed, by the ugliness of his skin.
‘You’re right,’ she said. She smiled at the fat man. ‘Father Babis and I differ somewhat on God’s role in our lives, Mr Diaktoros. It’s my belief He should be always benevolent. I see it as His job to do His best for us, in every possible way. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that those of us who keep faith with Him should reap some kind of benefit: a pleasant life, with minimal disappointments and distresses. Babis says my view of Him is childish, and with that view I’m destined always to be cross with Him because He won’t do what I want. He says God’s role is to test us to our limits, that our time here is not to be a bed of roses, that the bed of roses comes in the next life. I know the next life will be better, of course; but still a part of me hopes for happy days now. I can’t believe it was intended to be all a vale of tears. What do you think?’
The fat man scratched beneath his ear, and pursed his lips in thoughtfulness.
‘You ask an age-old question,’ he said, ‘debated by philosophers for centuries. But I agree with both of you in part, and neither of you in some things. It’s my belief this world was made to test us, but that we can create, to some extent, our own outcomes, by taking care of how we act and think. And if there is injustice, I believe that sometimes help will come. But there are other factors, too. Sometimes we are affected by the actions of others close to us, and the consequences of those actions can impact on us very deeply. In other words, some suffer undeservedly. In such circumstances, Father Babis is right; we are tested to our limits. The answer, then, is to rely not only on help from the Divine, but from your fellow humans: family, community and friends. Do you understand this, Ourania?’
‘I don’t agree with you!’ she said. ‘God should be kind! And I know Aris would disagree with you, too. He helped himself, and found himself thwarted by fate. He put his heart and soul into his scheme to marry me, and my inheritance. But two weeks after our wedding, my father died. His death was very sudden, an accident. He left a shoelace untied, and tripped over it coming down the stairs. He broke his neck. It’s a sorry little story in itself, but the sorrier for Aris; so early in our marriage, he wasn’t in Father’s will. I already had the house. The money went to my brothers, and Aris was the enemy to them. They saw him for the fortune hunter he was. So there we were: a wife he didn’t love, and a house he couldn’t afford to maintain. I was a poor bargain, in the end; not a blank cheque, but a drain on his resources.’
‘But you have children, I know. Did they not bring you closer?’
‘He didn’t like the noise they made, or their demands on his attention. They were a joy to me, of course, though in the end they make their own way. Kylis we see very little of here; he rents an apartment in the town, where he can take his girlfriends. And Pandelis, when he is home, always has work. He takes life too seriously. He should make time for lighter things. For love, and life.’
She looked out across the garden; there was sadness in her face.
‘Forgive me, Ourania,’ said the fat man quietly, ‘but a stranger like me might suggest – with respect, with the very greatest respect – that you might do well to take your own advice.’
The garden seemed to hold her attention, but in her eyes, he caught the glistening of tears.
‘Babis.’ She turned to the priest. ‘Would you be an angel, and fetch my tablets? I feel a headache coming on. It’s this heat; it affects me very badly.’
The priest laid down his book, and left them. The fat man stood, and wandered to the window. A brightly coloured butterfly flew close to the fountain but, finding no greenery there, fluttered away.
‘You know he’s in love with you,’ he said. He turned to face her. ‘Why not leave here, and start somewhere new?’
‘Who?’ Her expression was puzzled.
‘Your priest, Ourania. The deity he worships is you.’
She shook her head, and smiled.
‘No. You’re wrong. Babis is a true holy man, a celibate. His ambition is to follow the monastic life, to devote himself entirely to worship.’
‘So why, then, is he here?’
‘He feels bound by duty to me. I am a millstone round his neck. He sees me as his earthly responsibility, and I feel guilty that he won’t leave me.’
‘And what would release him from that responsibility?’
She hesitated.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘And if he left you, how would you feel?’
‘Lonely. I would be all alone.’
‘I think you are right about his calling, that he is a holy man, a true believer. But, happily, the priesthood does not demand celibacy from its recruits. Most are not suited to it, and most do better work as family men, as village priests working in communities, dealing with life there – births, marriages, and deaths. It would be no disgrace for him to take such a position.’
‘He held such a position, in our local priesthood. He found the people difficult to deal with: all hypocrites, he says, all shallowness and show.’
‘Quite right. But surely that’s the priest’s role, to bring the godless closer to God? And with a companion to support him – with a wife – perhaps he’d be more tolerant of their shortcomings.’
‘You’re suggesting me.’
‘I’m suggesting you.’
‘I’m already married, Mr Diaktoros.’
‘Your husband does not deserve you. The church permits divorce. Take advantage of it.’
‘My mother would turn in her grave.’
‘The dead do not turn, Ourania. Rather, they would strongly recommend you make the very most of all the time you have here. I must go, but please consider what I’ve said. This house is beautiful, but it will be your mausoleum if you let it. Sell it
. Move away. You may find before long, anyway, you have reasons not to want to stay here.’
He crossed the room, and stood before her. She held out her hand, as before; this time, he took it, and, lifting it to his lips, lightly kissed it.
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Truly, a pleasure. And try to remember this one thing, Ourania: if the gods sometimes seem unjustly cruel, in time they will make reparation.’
Outside, the heat was intense. Across the street, behind a wall, children shrieked and splashed in a swimming pool, their laughter happy and uplifting. But the fat man’s mood was sombre. He was considering the tangled threads of life; why was it sometimes so, he thought, that the righting of a wrong did not settle the scales, but created only crueller injustices?
Fifteen
For Gazis and Petridis half an hour of their shift remained, so instead of taking the fast road, Gazis chose the long way back to town. Petridis watched the passing scene – tourist apartments, olive groves, an open-air Chinese restaurant beneath a red pagoda – and hummed a song Gazis knew from the radio. Reaching Platea, Gazis braked for the speed limit, and ahead, Petridis pointed out another petrol station.
Gazis pulled on to the forecourt alongside the pumps and turned off the engine.
‘Fourth time lucky?’ he suggested.
Petridis looked around.
‘Doesn’t look like much of a place to me,’ he said. ‘We could be their only customers this week. This month, even.’
The petrol station sat, stubborn, scowling and grimy, on a site which had no doubt been at the heart of the coastal village until the village had metamorphosed into a spreading resort. Surrounded now by neon-lit bars, fast-food joints and shops stocked with suncream, foreign newspapers and leather sandals, the one-man business was not thriving amongst its new neighbours. The sea view from the pumps was gone; the new hotels had bought the views along with the land, and now their high walls hid the beaches from the streets.
The strip was quiet in siesta. From the poolsides at the hotel rears, the shrieks and screams of children were loud. From one of the empty bars came the persistent throb of club music; no one was there to hear it but the barman.
A large notice – black on red – announced ATTENDED SERVICE. A dirty sponge for washing windscreens floated in a bucket with no handle. Gazis looked at the glass in front of him, spattered with the sun-baked corpses of dozens of insects. The policemen waited. Of the service advertised there was no sign.
‘They’ll be sleeping,’ said Petridis, after a while. ‘Who wouldn’t be, in this heat?’
‘Go inside and talk to them,’ said Gazis. ‘I’ll see if I can get some of this mess off the windscreen.’
On the forecourt, the stink of petrol was sharp. Gazis pulled the sponge dripping from the bucket and slapped it on to the windscreen. The water was warm, above blood-heat, but the drops that fell on to his forearms felt cool. The afternoon meltemi was beginning to blow; it stirred the heads of the geraniums dying in the concrete containers which divided the carriageway from the forecourt.
Hands in pockets, Petridis sauntered over to the station’s small shop. A beverage fridge blocked the window; its stock was running low. On the ice-cream freezer lay a piece of cardboard torn from a packing case, where a child’s hand had written in black marker, Ochi pagota: No ice-cream.
Petridis took a lemonade and a Mars Bar from the fridge, calling out to Gazis and holding them up. Gazis shook his head.
Inside, the shop was dark but not cool. A rotating fan merely caused the hot air to move in waves that carried a whiff of overripe fruit, its source a box of bananas with skins more black than yellow. Beyond the half-empty shelves – canned tomatoes, tinned mackerel, Spam – a door into the living area stood ajar; the conversation Petridis heard was from the TV, characters in crisis on the familiar afternoon soaps.
‘Is anyone there?’
The volume of the TV was lowered, but no response came; all was still behind the door, as though someone waited in silence, listening. He called again, and a woman’s voice, weary and annoyed, answered.
From behind the shelves came a woman, flabby and untidy from long-term motherhood, hard-eyed from penury. Seeing Petridis’s uniform, she looked out at the police car, where Gazis was rubbing hard at the baked-on flies. The navy-blue beach shoes on her bare feet were too big, a man’s size; in these she shuffled to the cash register.
‘Oriste?’ She folded her arms across her drooping breasts, her sullenness suggesting a visit from the police was unwelcome. ‘You wanting petrol?’
‘Just these.’ Petridis held up his lemonade and chocolate.
‘One eighty.’
Petridis found the right change. Opening the till drawer, she slid in the coins without thanking him. In the back room, a child wailed – Mama, Mama, he hit me! – but she made no reaction, seeming immune to the whining. Refolding her arms, she looked defiantly at Petridis.
Petridis popped the top of his lemonade and drank from the can.
‘It gets hot,’ he said, ‘in that car all day long.’
She glanced out to where Gazis had moved on to the headlights.
‘It’s hot everywhere,’ she said, without sympathy.
The wailing came again – Mama, Mama, he’s hitting me!
Turning towards the door, she yelled, ‘Shut up, the pair of you! You’re giving me a headache!’ She turned back to Petridis. ‘Anything else?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Petridis, ‘there is. We’re making enquiries for a car involved in a traffic accident. We’re looking for a white car with damage, probably on the wing. Have you seen a car like that in the past few days?’
Without hesitation, she shook her head.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Look, kalé,’ she said, ‘many cars pass through here, all the colours of the rainbow. How do you expect me to remember one particular car?’
Petridis drew a card from his shirt pocket.
‘If you do see a car like that, I’d appreciate a call,’ he said. He laid the card on the counter. She looked at it, and at him, as if both were things distasteful.
‘Thanks for your cooperation,’ he said. He opened the forecourt door. ‘There’s a reward, by the way, for any information leading to an arrest in the case.’
The door banged shut behind him; he was at the car before she called after him.
‘Wait a minute, kalé. What reward would there be?’
Gazis straightened up from washing the headlights and dropped the sponge into the bucket.
‘Let me,’ he said to Petridis.
Approaching the woman, he smiled.
‘There’s a good reward, madam,’ he said. ‘1,000 euros.’
‘Cash?’
‘If you wanted cash, I’m sure that could be arranged.’
‘And my name wouldn’t be mentioned? I don’t want anyone coming after me.’
‘We always protect our sources. Your anonymity would be guaranteed.’
‘There was a car like that this morning. Bad damage on the passenger wing, the headlight all smashed. A white car. Mainly white, at least.’
‘What make?’
‘How do I know what make? One of those little Italian things. Or Japanese.’
‘Did you notice the registration? Was it a local car?’
‘’Course I didn’t notice the registration. When I’m at the pumps, I’m watching the gauges. But it shouldn’t be hard to find; you could go there right now. It had FM107 in great pink letters all over it.’
‘Thanks very much indeed,’ said Gazis. Climbing into the car, he was frowning.
She called after him.
‘Hey, kalé! What about my reward?’
‘If it comes to anything, we’ll be in touch. We know where to find you.’
Gazis switched on the indicator, and pulled on to the carriageway. In the rear-view mirror, the woman – hands on hips and complaining – grew small.
The fat man used the telephone at a
kiosk, inserting a phonecard bought from the proprietor and dialling the number from memory.
Ilias Mentis’s secretary answered promptly. As she spoke, fingers rattled a keyboard in the background.
‘I’m afraid he’s stepped out of the office,’ she said. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘Please tell him,’ said the fat man, ‘that Hermes Diaktoros called.’
‘Ah, Mr Diaktoros.’ The fingers on the keyboard stopped their work; instead, he heard the rustling of papers. ‘He left a message for you, in fact. It’s here, somewhere . . . He asked me to say, if you called, that the paperwork is giving him no problems, except for a little stickiness. Does that make sense to you?’
The fat man smiled.
‘Perfect sense,’ he said. ‘Please tell Ilias I’ll call for more news when I’m able.’
Paliakis’s restaurant was closed for a private party. Alongside the balcony wall, where the view across the rooftops to the harbour was unimpeded, three tables were pushed together and covered with white linen cloths; the places were laid with the gold-trimmed banqueting china, the silver-plated cutlery and the crystal glasses only normally brought out for weddings. The canvas-and-teak chairs were made comfortable with cushions; the calico awning was extended, cutting out the glare and making the balcony seem shady and welcoming. The cold, effervescent water was imported from Italy, the bread sliced in the baskets was still warm from the oven. Two bottles of dark, Cretan wine were already uncorked; two more of good Rhodian white were chilling in ice-filled buckets. There were packs of American cigarettes in the ashtrays, opened and with one cigarette peeping out in invitation, and book matches advertising the restaurant were ready to strike.
The waiters had laid seven places, but only six men sat down to eat.
Aris Paliakis took his seat at the head of the table. Pandelis and Kylis, as instructed, took the chairs opposite, leaving the seats closest to their father free for his guests. Paliakis gestured to his right, where Councillor Routsis from the Mayor’s office and Mr Horiatis from the Department of Agriculture were to sit; Mr Fitrakis, from the Department of Archaeology, took a chair to his left.
The Taint of Midas Page 15