The Taint of Midas

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘I said we were friends, didn’t I?’ asked Dinos. ‘You can trust me, one hundred per cent. If you’ve got to go, too bad. Just tell me what’s happening tomorrow, and you have my word Gazis won’t hear about any of this. Promise.’

  Petridis didn’t speak.

  Dinos held up the phone and, smiling, waggled it in the air.

  ‘It’s about the Kaloyeros death, the hit-and-run,’ said Petridis. ‘We’re coming to talk to you about it. That’s all.’

  ‘Me? Why on earth do you want to talk to me about that?’

  ‘Because you were there. You were in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Dinos pressed keys on the phone.

  ‘Have a look at this one, George,’ he said. ‘This is one your granny’d really enjoy!’

  In despair, Petridis shook his head.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘OK. We got some information, an FM107 car, with damage on it. We’ve got a witness.’ He paused, and seemed to think, and slowly his expression changed. ‘You know, I bet your car’s downstairs, isn’t it? No need to wait until tomorrow – we could go and check it now, couldn’t we? Because I’ll tell you what I think, friend. I think it was your car our witness saw. I think you were involved. I think you know a lot more about the old man than you’ve said.’

  But Dinos smiled, holding up both hands to stop Petridis.

  ‘Sorry, George, but I think you just put two and two together and came up with five. Or even six. I’ve nothing to hide. Just ask me, and I’ll tell you. Yes, there’s damage to my car, and yes, it was my fault. Like a fool, I pulled out in front of some guy. So if you’re going to arrest me, arrest me for bad driving. I was at the Kaloyeros scene because I’m an ambulance-chaser. Gazis knows that; I do it all the time. Wherever there’s a blue light flashing, old Dinos isn’t far behind. It’s my job.’ A shadow of doubt passed over Petridis’s face. ‘For the record, you’ll be pleased to hear the station manager wants my balls for it. And the guy I hit isn’t very happy either. And yes, I do have his contact details, so you can go and talk to him, if you’ve nothing better to do, and ask to have a look at his car – a very nice car, unfortunately – and you’ll find I’m telling the truth. Which means I’ve just saved you and Gazis from making fools of yourselves, doesn’t it?’

  For a long moment, Petridis regarded him.

  ‘I’ll take those details from you,’ he said.

  Dinos smiled.

  ‘I can tell you’re going to be a first-class policeman,’ he said. ‘You trust no one.’

  ‘I’m learning to trust only the trustworthy,’ said Petridis. ‘As Mr Gazis says, the trick to this job is not getting eaten by sharks.’

  The night was warm and still, and the scent of the white-flowered jasmine had yielded to the woodsmoke rising up into the branches of the almond tree. Watching his father-in-law from a comfortable chair, Gazis sipped at his beer. Seated on the low, three-legged stool from which he used to milk his goats, the old man laid the sardines on the grill, brushed them liberally with oil and dropped a few small twigs of mountain oregano on to the glowing charcoal, so the woodsmoke conceded in its turn to smells of seared fish and burned oil, and to the sweeter smoke of herbs. The juices from the fish hissed on the coals; by the old man’s feet, a cautious cat crouched, waiting.

  Through the open window, Gazis heard the rattle of cutlery as his wife found knives, forks and plates none of them would use. She liked things to look right, but all of them would eat the fish with their fingers, and spit out the bones. A late supper on a summer’s evening was meant to be that way, and his father-in-law would grumble at her for trying to flaunt the old tradition: that fish (and chicken, and women) should be taken with the hands. And his wife would say, We may be peasants still in our hearts, but there’s no need to let the neighbours know it, if they should call.

  She came out into the garden now, kissing her father lightly on the top of his head as she passed, and he smiled up at her, grateful for her affection. At the table where Gazis sat, she began to set three places, smiling at Gazis to stop him saying, Don’t bother; and so he gently shook his head, and sipped again at his beer.

  And then, the doorbell rang.

  In quiet triumph, she patted Gazis’s shoulder.

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘We have company. Make sure the table’s properly set.’

  Together, Gazis and the old man watched her go back inside the house.

  ‘Who the devil’s that, at this hour?’ asked his father-in-law. ‘I don’t think it can be anyone for me.’

  Gazis had already recognised the figure following his wife into the garden.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ he said. ‘It’s no one for you.’

  Gazis was frowning. Unless he took care, this visit might end a pleasant evening, spoil it with some emergency, with something left undone, with information sought by colleagues or superiors.

  And by the look of Petridis, the matter was serious. His usual smile was absent, his shoulders were stooped and, as he stood before Gazis, though the light of the lamps was distorting, it seemed possible that the boy had been crying.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, sir,’ said Petridis.

  ‘You won’t interrupt my evening,’ said Gazis, lightly. ‘Whatever your errand, I shall make it a matter of personal pride to refer you, in under a minute, to someone far better qualified to handle the matter than I am. All my years of service have not been for nothing. I can pass a buck faster than a government minister. State your business, and I’ll name you a suitable person to handle it.’

  Petridis sighed, and his sigh had depths worthy of long despair, or hopeless failure; it seemed the more melancholy to Gazis, who usually enjoyed Petridis’s smiling optimism.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s personal, sir,’ said Petridis.

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘About me. There’s something I have to do, and I want you to be the first to know.’

  ‘You’re not getting married, are you? There isn’t some outraged father somewhere with a gun to your head?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Well, come on, then. Sit down and let’s have it. What’ll you drink? The beer’s cold. Or my father-in-law makes excellent lemonade.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, taking a seat across from Gazis. ‘Truly, nothing.’

  Turning the fish on the coals, the old man watched Petridis with the same interest the cat showed in the fish. Gazis gave him a slight shake of the head, and the old man feigned indifference, poking the ashy charcoal with a stick.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then. What’s on your mind?’

  Now, there could be no doubt: Petridis’s eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought,’ he said. ‘I’ve been riding round for hours, thinking about what’s best. And I’ve decided there’s only one possible course of action. I’m going to resign.’

  ‘Resign!’ Gazis repeated the word so loudly that the old man, startled, dropped his stick to the ground. In the kitchen, Gazis’s wife paused in cutting up a lemon. ‘Why on earth would you want to resign? You have the makings of an excellent officer! The force needs you! I thought you loved the job!’

  ‘I do, sir. But I’ve screwed it all up. I’ve screwed it all up so badly, there’s no other way out.’

  Gazis frowned.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  A tear fell on Petridis’s cheek, and he shook his head.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Tell me, George,’ said Gazis. ‘Tell me, and we can fix it.’

  ‘It’s too bad to be fixed. And shame prevents me from telling. You must take my word that my only honourable option is to resign.’

  ‘Shame is a good thing,’ said Gazis. ‘It persuades me more strongly still that you will make an excellent policeman one day. Shame tells me you understand the difference between right and wrong. Now listen to me. There’s nothing you can tell me that will sho
ck me. Nothing. Whatever you’ve done, I’ve seen it before. Every kind of vice known to man – and a few you’d never think of – has passed before my eyes over the years. If you’ve committed a sin I’ve not run across before, I’ll slap you on the back and call you a genius of invention. So tell me, and let’s see what’s to be done.’

  By the fire, the old man was lifting fish on to a plate.

  ‘You want some sardines, friend?’ he called out to Petridis. ‘They’re fresh this morning.’

  ‘Not now, Father,’ snapped Gazis.

  But Petridis answered the old man politely.

  ‘In a while,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I caught them myself,’ said the old man, proudly.

  ‘Just give us five minutes,’ said Gazis. ‘There’s some police business we have to take care of.’ He turned back to Petridis. ‘For God’s sake, George, tell me and let’s get this sorted out. The department can’t afford to lose you.’

  With great reluctance, Petridis told his tale: the concert and the whores, the money and the photographs, the night in the cheap hotel. When he finished, Gazis stared for a moment into Petridis’s face, then leaned across and cuffed him on the ear.

  Petridis flinched, and rubbed at the side of his head.

  ‘I do that in your father’s absence,’ said Gazis. ‘It’s what he’d do if he were here. But he isn’t here, so for now I’ll be a father to you. You’re right, it isn’t good; in fact it’s a sorry, bloody mess. May I assume, too, that it was you who leaked the details of the Kaloyeros death to the press – to that radio station, at least – before official notification was given?’

  Sadly, Petridis nodded.

  ‘He told me he would hold it until it was official.’

  ‘And you believed him.’

  ‘At the time, I had no reason not to.’

  ‘But you have good reason now. You gave him a way in, and because of the kind of man Dinos is, he has followed up his advantage. Now he thinks he holds all aces. He’s wrong. But before I go any further in extricating you, I need to know you’re committed to my rules of policing. My rules are not the same as the scum that join the force to line their pockets. Dinos is right – there are a few of them. My rules are these: no gifts – not even fish, not even a cup of coffee – no favours, no activities you wouldn’t tell your grandma about. No blind eyes, no unproven prejudices. And no indifference. We treat every case, every victim of every crime as if they were our first, or our last, which is the one we’ll be remembered for. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then have a drink whilst I do some thinking. Father, bring some of that fish, kalé! You’d better stick to lemonade, George; you’ll be riding home later. The first step, at least, is clear: we’ll haul friend Dinos in and find out if he was driving that damaged car that has the radio station’s logo on it.’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Petridis, dejectedly. ‘He’s off the hook. He admitted the damage was down to him; he had an accident downtown. I’ve got the details of the guy he hit.’

  Gazis smiled.

  ‘So what did I tell you? A policeman through and through. Even in adversity, you come up with the goods.’

  ‘But that leaves us with no leads, and me still in a mess, with no leverage. If he publishes my pictures . . . Oh, Christ – what will my mother say?’

  ‘With luck, your mother need never know. Things may look black now, George, but remember, the darkest hour is always before dawn.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bring you this trouble, sir – more sorry than I can say.’

  ‘As my mother used to say, youth and a cough cannot be hidden. You’re proof of that, at least. Now make the old man happy, and eat his fish. I have some thinking to do. We need to plan our way, before Dinos decides to make use of his advantage.’

  The fat man left glass and bottle on the verandah table and, slipping his Turkish espadrilles back on to his bare feet, made his way along the marble-tiled passageway to his bedroom. The book he had forgotten lay on the bed, but before he picked it up he seemed to have another thought, and left it there.

  Kokkona had lit the lamps and, taking one from the dressing table, he knelt down on the rug, and shone the lamp beneath the bed, where its weak light threw deep shadows amongst the items stored there. He reached out for the little ring box and, rubbing away any dust with his thumb, opened its lid. Its white satin lining bore the name of a jeweller in Naxos, but the ring it held was of little obvious value: a narrow gold band set with a single diamond chip. For a moment, the fat man studied it, then closed the ring box and returned it to its place.

  Stretching out his arm, he moved the boxes and packets, until he uncovered a parcel hidden by the rest, and pulled it forward into better light. The parcel had the look of being too long in transit: the brown paper that wrapped it had lost its crispness and showed damage at the corners; the twine that bound it was fraying and discoloured. There were several addresses, in various inks and handwriting, all but one struck through; the last address was the fat man’s own, at this villa. For a moment, he studied the fastenings on the parcel, the knots in the twine and the adhesive tape. All was intact.

  The fat man smiled. Leaving the parcel to the front of the others, he stood and replaced the lamp; then, picking up his book, he made his way back down the passageway, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  Seventeen

  When Petridis left Gazis the hour was late; evening had already become night. Gazis had said little, and in Petridis’s ears his reassurances lacked confidence. Gazis spoke of ‘having words’, of ‘applying gentle pressure’, but these solutions seemed weak weapons against such serious threats: blackmail and exposure for Petridis, and disgrace, potentially, for the entire police force. Already, worry gnawed at him. It was an unwelcome experience to carry secrets known by another – an antagonistic other, with every motive to use the knowledge against him. For the first time in his life, Petridis had an enemy.

  The seal on the half-bottle of Scotch in his saddlebag was unbroken; swiftly developing maturity told him there was no room tonight for dull thinking, or for more of the irresponsibility and immorality alcohol had induced. He rode slowly through Gazis’s quiet suburb, where families sat late in gardens and on balconies, talking away the night’s heat, or slept in closed-up rooms cooled by air conditioning.

  Reaching the mountain road, he opened up the throttle and let the motorbike move fast, speeding along dark roads he had rarely travelled. At first, the climb was steady, a slow incline rising above the coast’s resorts; there, the hotels blazed with light, their English names in neon and quite legible in the distance. Behind them, the sea was empty blackness. Petridis took a right turn, and faced instead the darkness of the mountains. The unknown road was unpredictable in his headlight, and he took the twists and bends with care. As he passed an isolated taverna, a waiter stacking the plates of the last diners squinted out at him; seeing nothing but the headlight, the waiter raised a hand anyway, in case Petridis was a local boy. Petridis didn’t notice; his eyes were on the road as he rode on, heading for the particular nowhere he was travelling to.

  And then, at the brow of a hill, he found it: a small, domed church set in a high-walled courtyard lit by ornate wrought-iron lamps. Outside the walls, the dark branches of a great oak spread black shadows over dusty ground. Petridis parked the bike beneath the tree and, turning off the engine, listened for a moment to the quiet of the night. Set into the courtyard wall, a spring trickled water into a moss-covered trough, where three tin cups were chained to a carved-stone shelf. Petridis filled a cup and drank the clear water, which held the cold of rock and the green taste of the moss.

  The courtyard gates were heavy with bars fit for a prison, so the small, white-painted cross at the heart of each seemed insignificant. Unlatching the right-hand gate, Petridis passed through it to a flight of wide stone steps, whose freshly whitewashed edges fluoresced in the light of the lamps. Climbing the steps to the ch
urch’s high arched doors, he turned the cast-iron ring that should have opened them, but the doors were locked. He sat down on the topmost step, on stone still warm from that day’s sun, and, placing his face in his hands, he wept.

  The night moved on. In the highest branches of the cypress trees, a light breeze stirred; a scrawny, feral cat crouched at a rat-hole. The moon reached its zenith and began its decline, and the patterns of the infinite galaxies shifted, though imperceptibly to the human eye. Petridis’s mind drifted away and returned, via long meanderings into his past and his intended future, to his present dire difficulties; and as he wandered, his thoughts grew darker, and that darkness deepened, until it seemed a single choice was open to him. To end it all was the only honourable exit – yet even that solution had its difficulties. It must seem like an accident, or it would bring its own, worse, shame, and for those he left behind the certainty of his damnation. A mountain climb and his footing missed, or an overbold risk on a busy road: either of these methods would do. As he considered methods and practicalities, his fear grew, but his determination to find the courage to save his family’s honour matched that growth. There was nobility in early death. Dishonour and disgrace could only be a lifelong stigma.

  The night remained quiet, but against the barely heard whispering of trees and the trickle of the spring water, somewhere, at a distance, more water ran, a stream or summer-depleted river. Aching from long sitting on hard stone, he got stiffly to his feet, and followed the sound of water. At the back of the church, a larger courtyard lit by similar lamps spread to a surrounding wall, where a stone bench ran all around its base. Kneeling on the bench, he peered down over the wall into what seemed, in the darkness, a bottomless ravine. The water, he judged, was down there, at some unthinkable distance: a river which had, through eons, cut the gorge sides, but now ran slow, and impotent.

  The place seemed perfect, the opportunity a gift; and yet he lacked the courage to make the jump. His fear, though, was not of death: he worried for his physical body. What if his remains were never found, or couldn’t be retrieved? He couldn’t bear the thought of lying down there, unsanctified and unburied, chewed at by animals, rotten with maggots and worms. He wanted a Christian burial; he wanted his place with his relatives, in the cemetery he knew, where his mother would visit and talk to him and candles would be lit for his soul. He slumped on the stone bench, his back against the wall; he lacked more tears to weep, and so, exhausted by misery, soon lay down to sleep.