by Stav Sherez
A deputy had searched the room. He found nothing unusual and nothing missing from the priest’s belongings; his wallet and ID card were still in his desk. Neighbouring monasteries and churches were contacted, but no one had seen the old man. And that was it. There was no follow-up. No one had even questioned Vondas on his former colleague’s disappearance.
The archives are housed in a converted bank. The metal doors and barred windows give the place an aura of impregnability that Nikos is sure must have appealed to the Synod. It has all the solemnity of church but with the added reassurance of capital.
This morning, however, Nikos is not able to appreciate the delicate refinement of the marble work, the painted saints who stand rigid and true along the main corridor. It feels like there’s a claw reaching up his back, under his skin, its fingers spreading across his neck and skull, each sharp and hot like a needle pressed into his brain. He stands, his hands placed firmly on the counter to steady himself, as the young priest in front of him telephones to announce his presence.
‘You can take a seat,’ the young priest whispers, pointing to a line of solid, straight-backed wooden chairs. They look more like torture instruments, but it’s better than standing up.
It’s been so long since he’s been in a church, since his mother’s death really, that he’s forgotten how quiet it can be. The young priest receptionist is a study in silence. He moves through the air like a man in a film with the sound turned off. Nikos wishes, at that moment, for some piped music, something soothing and banal to take his mind off everything he’s left behind on Palassos and everything which still waits for him there.
But there’s only the silence of the empty halls, the long corridors and dark rooms, once the resting place of money and bonds and soft bricks of gold now housing no less mysterious treasures, the papers and files of the Archpatriach of Athens, the only centralised database of clergy in Greece.
‘Detective Yannopoulis? A pleasure to meet you.’
Nikos takes the hand of the bearded priest standing resplendent above him.
‘What is it we can do for you?’
The priest has one of those Old Testament beards, flowing down to his midriff, uncombed and greying, but he’s only a young man – in his thirties, which at least seems young to Nikos. His gold-framed glasses sit at odds with his beard, giving him the impression of a slightly vain academic rather than an ecclesiastical archivist. His hands are small and move rapidly through the air as he points towards the main corridor, beckoning Nikos to follow him with a slight nod of his chin.
The room spins and twists out from under Nikos. He grabs the chair, takes a deep breath of air and sees the archivist nodding to himself, his lips pursed in silent commentary.
‘Something I ate,’ Nikos says but the archivist has already turned his back, his billowing black robes fanning out from under him like a raven’s wing.
Nikos follows him through a long corridor studded with saints in agony. There are tortured saints with daggers in their sides, saints sitting serenely in cauldrons of molten lead while their tormentors gloat, saints strapped to wooden pulleys and racks, saints hung like meat, the flesh stripped off their body in ribbons, saints forced to copulate with animals, saints whirling in flaming caresses, saints with their skulls cracked and worms wriggling out, saints awash in blood and faeces dangling from gallows in town squares.
It all makes Nikos’s head pound harder, the floor unsteady beneath him. He remembers why he stopped going to church. Those long Sunday mornings steeped in pain and guilt. His mother crying and praying to Jesus and receiving nothing but a life full of hardship and the most drawn-out and painful of deaths.
The archivist comes to a stop outside a large, barred door. He takes a key from a brass ring hanging on the belt of his robe and slowly unlocks the door.
Nikos follows him in and takes a seat behind a glossy wooden table. There’s a green lamp and computer monitor, several phone lines and stacks of dusty books all with the same cover.
‘I thought we were going to the archive?’ Nikos says gently.
‘No one outside the church is allowed into the archives, I’m afraid.’
‘But it was agreed on the phone.’
‘Not by me.’ The archivist shakes his head slowly. His hands are intertwined in front of him, but he looks less like he’s praying than rubbing his hands. The man Nikos had talked to had said there would be no problem, not for a policeman, not for a case this important.
‘Well, if I ask you some questions could you go in and find the answers for me?’
The archivist stares at Nikos bemusedly. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘This is from the Archbishop?’
‘I spoke with him personally on the matter. This being part of a police investigation. We understand the seriousness of your predicament, but I’m afraid the archives are sealed.’
The priest leans forward. He places his hands flat on the table, a stark wooden crucifix dangling from his neck. ‘You understand it would be the same as if a priest came to you and asked to look into police files. There is a matter of protocol. Also, we do not believe you will solve your case in our files; therefore, it is not a matter of life or death on which perhaps the Archbishop can intervene. You do understand our position?’
‘Perfectly,’ Nikos replies. ‘Is there anything at all you can tell me about the two priest-monks?’
The archivist leans back. ‘It’s not procedure, you understand, but after you phoned in your request, I did go and check what we had on them.’
The priest stares silently at Nikos. ‘What I can tell you, detective, is that Theo Karelis and Laszlo Vondas both studied at the School of Theology in the University of Athens. Vondas was twenty-two when he began his course, Karelis was already in his forties. He’d been a schoolteacher before taking his vows. They were both ordained the same year. When Karelis was made Abbot of the Palassos Monastery in 1970, he requested that his old colleague Vondas join him. The church authorities could see no problem in that, and so Vondas was sent to Palassos. Remember, the monastery was well past its heyday at the time. We were thinking of shutting it for good. Not many monks wanted to go there. Even a monk wants to live within a community. So, when Karelis made his request, it was a relief to the hierarchy. The monastery could stay open. That, detective, is all I can tell you. The Archbishop doesn’t know, so please do not mention this talk in future correspondence.’
The archivist leans forward, his hands stretched out in front of him.
‘You’re wondering perhaps why I told you this, and I asked myself this very question before you came in. I thought back to being a child and reading detective novels under the covers with this insatiable hunger which later became a hunger for God. I believe mysteries are allegories for God. That it is in mystery and darkness wherein we find the light and not, as supposed, the other way around.’
The archivist sits back and stares at Nikos. ‘I wish you the best of luck in solving this mystery, detective, but I must leave you now.’
He gets up, moving in that same silent way as the receptionist, virtually floating around the table. His palm feels cold and hard like it was made of paper not skin when Nikos shakes it. ‘Follow the main corridor out,’ he says, ‘otherwise you can get lost. This building is like a labyrinth with no solution.’
TWENTY-SIX
He’s thinking about her when there’s a knock at the door. He does a quick check in the mirror, making sure his hair’s OK and that he looks presentable. In the time it takes to cross the floor, Jason thinks of her standing outside, arms reaching for him across the empty space. The press of lips and sway of hair.
But it’s not Kitty at the door, it’s Wynn. He’s uncharacteristically grim-faced, the charming smile all but erased.
‘I need to come in,’ he says and does so before Jason can even reply, brushing past him and taking a seat on the bed. He smells of cigarettes and impatience.
‘We need to talk,’ Wynn says, and it’s almost like tha
t moment in a relationship when you realise you’ve been kidding yourself it’s been going fine and then she says those words. Four words which only signify bad things.
‘What about?’ Jason asks, taking the only chair, sipping lukewarm Coke.
Wynn looks tired. His clothes are crumpled and hanging out all over the place. He’s tapping one foot on the floor.
‘The future,’ he replies.
And though Jason has a good idea of what he’s insinuating, he says, ‘What are you talking about, Wynn? What’s that got to do with you?’
He smiles for the first time since entering the room, and some of the old Wynn flames back. Which is preferable, Jason can’t say.
‘It’s got a lot to do with me and a lot to do with Kitty.’
Like he knows he will, Jason clams up. The room’s cold, but he can feel it burn across his skin. He tries to sit as still as he can. Fold down all emotion inside himself. This is the moment he’s been dreading for so long. There’s a certain relief as well as trepidation in his eyes as Wynn continues.
‘Remember that first night you asked me to do you a favour?’
How can he forget? His loose tongue. His willingness to enter into deception. His fear of approaching Kitty directly.
‘I need a favour back,’ he says, waiting for Jason to nod, which he doesn’t do, just stares at him.
Wynn shuffles on the spot, his shoes making strange creaking sounds on the tiles. ‘Things are changing on the island,’ he says.
‘Things are changing everywhere.’
His eyes blink twice. The smile turns into something else. ‘That’s as may be.’
‘I don’t owe you anything, Wynn.’
‘I could have said the same thing that night you asked me to stalk Kitty.’
It’s like a punch to the stomach you know is coming but can’t prepare yourself for.
‘I didn’t ask you to stalk her.’
Wynn shrugs. ‘I’m not sure she’d see it quite that way.’
‘What do you want?’
His shoulders slump, he reaches for a cigarette. The curl of his lips, and the way he’s trying to hide it, tells Jason he thinks he’s got him on the hook.
‘I’m not sure what’s going on, and I wouldn’t tell you anyway, but let’s say I no longer trust the people I work for. I think they have plans for me.’
‘Who? The man with the huge jaw? The one you sent to harass Kitty?’
His reaction is worth whatever may come next. For the first time, Wynn looks stunned, speechless. It’s almost like you can see his brain trying to formulate a way out of this.
‘Well done for working that out.’ Wynn’s laughter takes Jason by surprise. He’s reminded of the garrulous charmer of the first night. ‘What I need is for you to help me get off the island.’
Jason isn’t sure what to say. It’s what he wants and what he doesn’t want. Wynn off the island is good. But getting caught helping him leave …
‘You trust me?’
‘No. But I trust you want to keep certain things secret. Certain parties in the dark.’ His teeth flash white, ‘I’ve learned that you can always trust someone who’s got something to lose.’
Jason thinks about Kitty. Murdered boys and girls. The sinkhole years swirling behind him. ‘Find someone else.’
The words come hissing out like air from a punctured tyre. He can’t quite believe he’s said it, and it doesn’t look like Wynn can either.
Jason stares at him. Wishing he was better at reading faces. He knows if he agrees now, it’ll only be the start. These things only spiral down. It’s a risk, but helping Wynn is a bigger one, letting him know he’d do anything to keep a secret.
‘That your final answer?’ Wynn doesn’t seem perturbed, and it makes Jason feel as if he’s made a huge mistake.
Jason nods, walks across the room and opens the door. ‘Get out.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
He kneels by his mother’s grave. He takes the handkerchief out of his pocket, dabs it with some bottled water and slowly, methodically, cleans the stone. The dirt and dust and bird shit are stubborn, and he scrubs until he’s sweating, until every piece of dirt is gone from the stone and only the lettering remains. He tells her how much he misses her and how he wishes he could have made her life better as he stares out at the barren hill directly opposite him, the mountain rising like an angry giant from behind it, the Black Monastery a spot of white like a dab of icing at its summit.
The cemetery at Palassos has seen better days. The young people have left the island, in search of better wages and a better life on the mainland. There’s no one left to tend these graves any more, and every week there’s another piece of ploughed ground, another stone succinctly marking the arc of a life.
Grass grows wild across the graves, weeds and roots stick up out of the ground, the only things growing in this place. Most of the stones are broken, cracked and split like fingernails, whether by time or teenage antics, Nikos cannot tell.
He pulls the roots and weeds away from his mother’s plot. He tramps down the earth beside it. When he’s satisfied it’s perfect and shipshape, he lights a cigarette and walks through the occluded path towards the big yellow earth-mover, abandoned now like a dinosaur stranded in a museum.
He checks the fresh mound of unearthed dirt, the long dark hole in the ground, because he’s certain he’s got the wrong place or the wrong time. It’s supposed to be Vondas’s funeral today, but there’s no one here.
* * *
Nikos sits in the empty cab of the bulldozer and smokes until he sees the priest coming, first a black dot in the distance, gradually taking on the shape of a man as he nears, his face clearly perplexed, checking his watch and looking around.
‘Seems it’s just you and me.’
The young priest jumps at the sound of Nikos’s voice. Nikos climbs down out of the cab and introduces himself.
‘Then this is the right place?’ The priest looks confused, like a child whose father hasn’t come home for a few days. He’s young, his beard still hugging his chin, his body rake-thin and wiry. He’s suffused with nervous energy, his hands constantly jittering inside his robe, his foot absentmindedly tapping the floor, his eyes surveying the scene as if it had all been a mistake and somewhere over the next rise there was a group of figures, sheathed in grief and wailing, awaiting his entrance.
‘I thought there would be a lot of mourners.’
Nikos nods. ‘Me too. Guess people forget quickly enough.’ He takes out a cigarette, offers the priest one. ‘When’s the body arriving?’
The priest cups his hand over his cigarette as he lights it. ‘Any time now. I spoke to the funeral director this morning. I expected … I don’t know what’s happening here. You’d think the death of a village priest, an ex-monk, would bring everyone out. That’s how it used to be. People just don’t seem to believe any more. Every day there are fewer and fewer people in church. I used to think it was me, but now I think it is them. Something has changed in this world. I feel like the last cowboy or something, you know?’
They sit and smoke and wait for the coffin. The sun snarls above them. Nikos stares out at the blue ripples of sea, at the dark and dry hills surrounding them. He remembers the day of his mother’s funeral. His last day on Palassos before taking the post in Athens. The wind and rain that morning, the congregation of locals all tears and hooded eyes.
The funeral director sets up the coffin. He wheezes, splutters and coughs as he explains to the priest how to work the machine. He tells them he’ll be back later.
‘Suppose we should get on with it,’ Nikos suggests.
‘It feels wrong, you know, it being like this.’ The priest looks genuinely disconsolate, still a stranger to the disappointments which constitute life.
‘You knew him?’
The priest nods then shakes his head. ‘Not really.’
He takes another cigarette and lights it off the old one, ‘You’d think we’d have known each other better,
but Vondas kept very much to himself. I always said I’d go and visit him but you know, there’s so many things to do, you forget.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Nikos waits a beat, lets his voice drop, ‘you would know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’
The priest looks stricken, like Nikos had just questioned the blueness of the sky. ‘Why would anyone want to do that to any man, let alone a priest? I don’t think this is something any of us can know, detective, maybe even God himself doesn’t.’
‘I was thinking more in the line of threats, things like that. You never came across anything that may have fit that description?’
‘I think I would be the last to know. There are always people who hate us. People who hate God because they fear Him so much. They know He can see into the labyrinth of their souls, and this makes them scared. But, no, I do not recall anything specific.’
They stand across the coffin, two men in a barren field of broken stones. Nikos thinks back to the archivist’s words, how God was the greatest mystery of all, and he wonders how much they have in common, this thin young man and him, both circling around the unknown chambers of men’s hearts in search of a thunder strike that would rip all the pain and suffering away.
‘Do you know why Vondas would have been up at the monastery the night he was killed?’
The priest turns and examines Nikos’s face. ‘I heard he went back there often. You know how it must be, no? He spent his formative years there, it was a place of purity and silence. He was horrified that it had been turned into a tourist attraction.’
‘Really?’ Nikos lets the priest find his own rhythm, no point pressing him yet.
‘Yes. There was quite a lot of controversy in the hierarchy about it. As you know, the monastery was closed down in the mid-seventies due to lack of personnel. That was when Vondas and Karelis both moved to town. They stopped being monks and became priests. Neither really adjusted to that loss, I think. In the late eighties a lot of these long-shut monasteries were being reopened by the tourist commission. There was money to be made. Vondas launched a petition with his higher-ups, said the monastery had to remain closed. He went to Athens. Sat in conference with the bishops. They dismissed his petition. The monastery was reopened as a tourist attraction. There were reports that he would haunt the monastery grounds trying to scare tourists off. Maybe that’s why he was there that night.’