‘Bad news?’ asked the fat man.
‘If you’ll excuse me now,’ said Paliakis, ‘I have work to do.’
‘Your grandfather says nothing of interest in his letter?’
‘My grandfather, it seems, was a bigger fool than any I’ve yet met.’
‘Why so?’
‘Not a sound businessman at all, but a sentimentalist. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘I believe your grandfather, in his later years, was a very generous man. I heard of several who benefited from his generosity in time of need, though he was careful, I understand, to keep his generosity to himself. I expect he feared the unworthy beating a path to his door – the idle and the lazy. Was your father lazy, Aris?’
‘My father was a drunk.’
‘But what made him a drunk? A lust for easy money your grandfather saw fit to frustrate?’
‘You seem to know a lot of my family’s history, for a stranger.’ As he said the last word, he remembered the same word at the end of the letter. He looked at the fat man with curiosity. ‘What is your business here, specifically?’
‘Specifically, since you ask,’ said the fat man, ‘your well-being.’
Paliakis laughed, the dry laugh of a man who has been unamused for years.
‘My well-being is my concern, and mine alone,’ he said. ‘Don’t patronise me, sir. I need no concern from you, nor from my sainted ancestor. Kali nichta sas.’
‘Your disappointment is keen,’ said the fat man. ‘To have the grail you have been seeking all your life laid before you and find it is not gold, but dust, is hard. But my advice to you is this: seek diamonds in the dust. Because they are there, in your grandfather’s words. Listen to him, and change your path.’
‘Change my path? What can you mean? I’m a highly successful man. Why ever should I change my path?’
Now the fat man laughed.
‘Is this success, then: to be alone in this office, whilst the rest of the world is out there, with friends and family, relaxing on this wonderful summer night? Is this success, the threats of legal action from the immigrants your penny-pinching has left injured? The scheming and the bribery, the looking over your shoulder to see who might be catching up with you? The enslavement of your children in this shabby enterprise? For what? There is no time to enjoy your money; your sickness compels you to make more, and more, and more. I remind you, Aris, of ancient Midas, the king of all fools – a man who wished for all he touched to turn to gold, as you do. His wish was granted: and before the week was out, he was a desperate man, dying of hunger and of thirst, weeping for the children whose living bodies he had turned to golden statues. You have the Midas touch, perhaps – you think you do, for certain – but be careful your fate isn’t his, because there will be no Apollo to reinstate your children if you damage them with your greed.’
‘My children, sir, are none of your business.’
‘No. You have made them tools in your business, though, have you not? Like you, they have no time for love, or family; they are too busy on their missions serving your golden empire. Listen to me, Aris. You are about, I think, to step across a line you should not cross, from corruption to more serious crime.’ Paliakis opened his mouth to object, but the fat man raised both his hand and his voice. ‘Do not interrupt me. I know more than you would like me to know of your activities, and I am here to warn you that if you proceed, the consequences will be dire. My strong advice to you is this. Go home now, and sleep; tomorrow, take a boat and go fishing. Spend a few hours alone, away from all this, and consider what you have become, what road you’re walking. Take your grandfather’s letter, those photographs, and consider very carefully which way to go. Whether you know it or not, you’re at a crossroads. I caution you to make the right decision.’
Without offering them to the fat man, Paliakis took a cigarette from a near-empty packet of Marlboros. Striking a lighter, he put the flame to the tip, inhaled, and, with a noise like a sigh, blew the smoke from his nostrils.
‘With your interest in my well-being, you’ll tell me, no doubt, I smoke too much,’ he said. ‘But I don’t care. You seem to know plenty about my business, but you know little enough about me. So let me tell you. I used to have a sister, Chrissoula. Pretty as a picture, with a smile that could light up a room. And she adored me. I was her big brother, her protector. One year after my grandfather was taken, when I was nine and she was four, she died. There was no money for the medical care that would have saved her. My father was a lush, a drunk, who spent his life waiting for the contents of this box’ – he swiped at it with the back of his hand – ‘this stinking box to save him. It didn’t save my father, and it didn’t save my sister. And I never believed – not for one minute – that it would save me. I expected nothing from it, if it was ever found. Now here it is, and I wasn’t disappointed. What my father, God rot him, didn’t understand, was this.’ He leaned across the desk to stress his point. ‘It’s every man for himself. My father hadn’t the wit to realise you grab what you can before someone else grabs it. I had to make my own start in life, because no start was given to me. My legacy was being a laughing stock, a treasure hunter’s son; my legacy was castles in the air, and empty dreams, and a dead sister. My first challenge was to work out how a young man with ambition can make a start, when – as I learn tonight – my grandfather gave my legacy to strangers. How was I to get a foot in the door, to get on to that ladder? Where could I find the seed money I needed to get me started? I know what they say here, that the money I used to get a foothold, I stole. But that’s not true. I got my capital honestly, if such a bargain can ever be an honest one. I sold the only commodity I had: I sold myself. I took myself to a city far from here, and I found the places to go, and before the week was out, I had a patron. Patron! That was his word. He was a queer, a poustis, a married man, respected in public office by day, a rampant sodomite by night. I close my eyes, sir, and I feel his hands all over me still. You may imagine how it was, if you’ve the stomach for it. We made a devil’s bargain, he and I; he bought a year from me, a year of my life, a year of my body. The bargain was a poor one: still, after all this time, he haunts me. The day I left, I left him bleeding on the floor; how he explained the bruises to his wife, I’ll never know.
‘But I had my seed money. It bought me a start and a marriage contract. Another poor bargain, that; she’s like a tap with money, a tap that won’t turn off. In spite of her, I succeeded, the boys were educated, my empire – as you put it – grew. But complacency – there is no room for that. You counsel rest, and fishing, and so I know immediately you are no businessman. A tight hand on the reins at all times – a tight hand, and a programme of diversity. A business interest is always vulnerable; disaster looms round every corner. A wall collapses, and the vultures clamour for compensation; a new restaurant opens on the same street as mine, and my own may close tomorrow. The game, sir, is constantly in play. Fishing is for fools, and bankrupts.’ He slammed shut the lid of the box. ‘Take the goddamned box, and bury it with my grandfather’s bones. He did me no kindnesses! He left his own son an empty dream and his granddaughter a pauper’s death. With wise investment, we might have had a life of comfort, all of us. His fickle charity condemned us to misery and degradation.’
‘His gesture was to an old friend – a relative – in great need, and with no means to help himself. His message was to embrace the simple life.’
‘My father’s life was simple: the next bottle, the next drink. Mine is more complex, as you seem to know.’
‘If you had no interest in the box, why did you wear its key around your neck?’
‘I took it from my father’s neck, before we buried him. I wore it to remind me of his stupidity, and of my grandfather’s malice in leaving him to dream. I wore it as I’ll wear it still – to remind me dreams are futile. Hard cash buys you all you need.’
‘You are bitter from your degradation, of course. But do not blame the world for choices you made. There was no compul
sion to sell yourself. Your own lust drove you – lust, and greed for money. You could have taken a steady job, grown savings over the years, but you were impatient. And there was no compulsion to marry a woman you neither loved nor respected to get at her father’s money. You lied to her, and him, about your affection for her; you made her deeply unhappy. Your greed has brought unhappiness at every turn. Now you are writing the same prescription for your sons. You will not set them free to learn what in life has true value, and they dare not cross you. You’re teaching them to fear the same things you do – the loss of wealth. But it’s a poor father who loves his sons so little his greed comes before their happiness.’
‘How dare you say I do not love my boys!’
‘I don’t say that. What I do say is, you love your money more. You have enough now, Aris. To keep amassing more is to take a path as erroneous as your father’s. Your mistakes are from the same root, just different flowers.’
‘When they call me Onassis, then I’ll have enough. Maybe then.’
‘Consider again,’ said the fat man. ‘Reread your grandfather’s words. Listen to what he says. His nature and yours are remarkably similar, and he was persuaded of a better course. As the proverb goes, painless poverty is better than embittered wealth.’
‘Believe me, there is nothing painless about poverty! You do not strike me as a man who has ever suffered hardship, and I have made sure my boys have escaped it, too. Poverty is the bitterest fruit you’ll ever eat, and I’ll not put it in my sons’ mouths! What could ever be better for them than a solid foundation for their future? Answer me that!’
‘A happy present. A present where you value them, truly value them over your own morbid fears. That’s what’s at the base of your obsession, Aris; not their well-being, or their future, but your own terror of a return to poverty. Of being a laughing stock.’
Paliakis shook his head.
‘Please, go.’
As Paliakis drew again on his cigarette, the fat man stood. A moth flickered around the light bulb, casting small, moving shadows on the lid of the olive-wood box.
‘Consider what I’ve said, Aris,’ said the fat man. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again.’
He turned to leave, but in the doorway he stopped.
‘There is another matter I wanted to mention,’ he said, ‘regarding the legal heir of the land near Loutro, at the Temple of Apollo. Have you traced him yet?’
Palikais blew smoke towards the fat man.
‘Land?’ he asked. ‘What land?’
‘Have it your way,’ said the fat man. ‘But I give you notice, there is a legal heir. I strongly advise you to beware of him. Do not attempt to steal from him, or he will steal from you in return. And when he steals, he always takes the same thing; he will deprive you of whatever in life it is that you most value.’
Not yet dawn, but the sky was growing light, fading the stars like a mirage and vanishing the moon. Somewhere near by, a car engine was running. Disturbed from his uneasy doze, Petridis opened his eyes. The engine stopped. With silence restored, Petridis closed his eyes, rubbing his temples to sooth the violent pain in his head. His mouth, dry as pillow feathers, had the foul taste of rubbish. And he was still here. The memory of his difficulties was immediately restored to his consciousness; but the solution which had seemed so obvious only hours before seemed madness now.
Another sound: a car door slammed. Someone was here: some warden, he thought, come to light the oil lamps in the church. Too weary to rise, he stretched out on the stone bench to ease the stiffness in his muscles, listening to slow footsteps on the church steps; but, as he waited to hear a key turn in the lock, the footsteps continued, alongside the church, towards the rear courtyard. As a figure rounded the corner, the silhouette was both distinctive and familiar, and Petridis, embarrassed, rose quickly to his feet. Now close to him, the figure spoke, seeming to recognise Petridis with some surprise.
‘Constable Petridis!’ said the fat man. ‘This is most unexpected! What brings you here?’
Confounded, Petridis gave no answer, and so the fat man went on.
‘I expect your reasons are the same as mine. I come here often to watch the sunrise. My house is just a kilometre away, through the village. If I wasn’t lazy, I would walk here, but as I see it the wheel was invented for good reason. Before they built this fine church of St Philipas, this place was sacred to Helios, god of the sun – did you know that? A worthy spot indeed to watch him ride his chariot into the sky.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve a few minutes to wait – but look, the show’s already begun.’
Beyond the courtyard wall, across the ravine, the sky had faded from black to deepest mauve, and below that, a military grey. And there, splitting those sombre colours, a line of fire appeared, flaming so fiercely it burned the eyes.
‘See, he’s waking up. Always on time. We could take him as an excellent role model, couldn’t we?’ The fat man laid his holdall on the stone bench and, unzipping it, withdrew a large Thermos flask and a short stack of paper cups. ‘I’ve brought coffee. You’ll join me, I hope.’
‘I must go,’ said Petridis.
‘Go? But the show has barely started!’
The fat man filled a paper cup and offered it to Petridis, who, thirsty and tempted by the coffee’s aroma, accepted it. Strong but smooth, the warm drink took the ache from his muscles and seemed to clear the fatigue from his brain.
The fat man poured coffee for himself and, sitting down on the stone bench, stretched his arm along the wall, looking east to where the sun would rise. In the growing light, he had the bright-eyed look of a man with a clear conscience and a good night’s sleep behind him. It was a look Petridis recognised; before last night, he had seen it many times in his own mirror. He rubbed at the light stubble on his chin; his bloodshot eyes were stinging.
‘Cigarette?’ The fat man held out a box to him; on the lid, a platinum-blonde starlet pouted.
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Good for you.’ The fat man lit himself a cigarette. ‘I’m cutting down myself.’ He popped his lips, and exhaled a perfect smoke-ring, which hung for a moment in the air, then, shifting and expanding, drifted slowly skywards. ‘My party trick. You know, there’s a funny story about this place I think you’d enjoy. There was a man a few years ago – not from the village, an out-of-towner – who got himself into some difficulties, I believe of a financial nature. Or with some woman. The nature of the problem is not important. Whatever was troubling him, he decided there was only one honourable solution – suicide.’
Petridis’s cup was at his lips. At the fat man’s words, his hand gave a small jerk, tipping hot coffee into his mouth and down his windpipe. He stifled a choking cough, but the fat man appeared not to notice; his attention seemed on the horizon, where the fiery line was growing in breadth and spectrum – tangerine-orange, grenadine-red.
‘He came here by night, thinking to pray,’ went on the fat man, ‘but as is usual in so many Christian places, he found the door locked against him, the church being keener to protect its physical assets – its silver and its brass – than to provide a place of comfort for pilgrims with aching hearts. So, drawn by the sound of running water, he found his way to this spot, and thought it the perfect place to do the deed – a chasm with a river at its bottom to wash away his broken body, so he would never be found. So over he went.’ The fat man laughed. ‘What a fool!’
He drew on his cigarette, and gazed again at the breaking dawn.
Petridis waited for him to continue, but the fat man said no more.
‘So what made him a fool?’ asked Petridis.
The fat man laughed again.
‘Look and see!’
In the weak light, Petridis peered over the wall. Just three metres down ran a terracotta drainage pipe, the water trickling through it echoing like a distant river.
‘There’s your great river and its chasm,’ laughed the fat man. ‘Fortunately, he chose a Saturday night. When the congregation asse
mbled for Mass on Sunday morning, they heard him calling from where he’d fallen. A broken ankle, a bruised ego and a sore head from the whisky he’d drunk to give him courage. No lasting damage; and he survived to work out his problems like a man. More coffee?’
Petridis held out his cup.
‘But some problems can’t be fixed,’ he said, miserably. ‘Some mires are too deep, and can’t be crawled out of.’
‘Spoken like a young man unused to facing difficulties.’ The fat man poured him coffee. ‘When you reach my advanced age, son, you’ll realise there are very few problems a thinking man can’t get the better of. Forgive me for asking, but are you perhaps having trouble with a young lady?’
‘In a manner of speaking. But she wasn’t so young, and she wasn’t worth the trouble.’
‘A broken heart?’
‘A broken life. I can’t say more.’
At the horizon, the sunrise was entering its full glory.
‘A splendid show,’ said the fat man, then, more quietly, ‘I assure you of my absolute discretion. You may trust me implicitly. What enters these ears as a confidence will never leave through this mouth.’ Petridis fixed his bloodshot eyes on the fat man’s which, behind his glasses, seemed large and owlish. There was compassion there, understanding, and the possibility of sympathy. ‘I may be able to help you, George, but only if you first – how can I put this? – admit your sins. In the – predictable – absence of a Christian priest, consider me a substitute. We are, after all, on Orthodox soil.’
‘I told Sergeant Gazis. He couldn’t help.’
‘On the contrary, I suspect Sergeant Gazis is, at this very moment, working on plans to bail you out of trouble. But with respect to him, he doesn’t have my arsenal of weapons at his disposal. In very many areas, my influence is considerable.’
Petridis sighed, and told his story again. The fat man listened without interruption, watching the blooming dawn.
‘The worry of exposure gnaws my gut,’ finished Petridis. ‘Already I’m changed. My life changed for ever in one hour.’
The Taint of Midas Page 19