The Doctor of Thessaly

by Anne Zouroudi

  He held out his hand, and the shepherd reluctantly took it with his own. The fat man’s height matched the shepherd’s; like a close friend, the fat man draped an arm around Orfeas’s shoulder.

  ‘Walk with me a moment,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to ask you which might help me with my investigation.’

  He led the shepherd back towards the cabin; the dog fell back and followed them, nose down. ‘You know Dr Chabrol, of course. It was he who recently failed to attend his own wedding.’ Beneath the fat man’s arm, the shepherd tensed. ‘Were you a guest at that wedding?’

  ‘No.’ Needlessly, the shepherd turned and called to the dog, which still followed close behind them.

  ‘You surprise me,’ said the fat man. ‘In a small town like Morfi, I thought the community was close.’ They had reached the back of the cabin; the fat man pointed to the tin bath filled with herbs. ‘You have a wonderful crop of spearmint there,’ he said. ‘I am particularly partial to mint in courgette fritters. I have a housekeeper who makes the best you’ll ever taste, and she is always generous with the mint. But what I wanted to show you, was this.’

  Stepping away from the shepherd, he lifted the freed corner of the tarpaulin, revealing the handlebars and front wheel of a silver motorbike.

  ‘This is a very fine bike,’ he said. ‘Yamaha, 500cc. A powerful machine, and dangerous in the wrong hands, as I think you discovered last night. It seems unusual, to me, to keep such a bike so far from any road. It must be difficult, I would think, to get it up here at all. One might be forgiven, in fact, for suspecting that this bike has been brought up here only to hide it.’ The fat man laid a hand on the bike’s front lamp. ‘There’s something else, my friend,’ he said. ‘I pride myself on reading people; it is a little vanity of mine. And I would never put you with this bike, if only because – forgive me – to buy a bike like this, a man would have to spend a good sum of money.’ He glanced down at the shepherd’s well-worn boots, at the muddied hems of his trousers, at the rough jerkin and holed sweater beneath it. ‘And it would be unusual for a man to spend that kind of money on such a machine, just to hide it away. And you know, Orfeas, I’d put money on your being a man who prefers to walk. So I don’t think this is your bike at all.’

  ‘It’s none of your business, anyway,’ said Orfeas. ‘The bike belongs to a friend.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the fat man, ‘that would explain a great deal. Your friend isn’t a doctor, by any chance?’

  The shepherd strode forward, and, snatching the corner of the tarpaulin from the fat man’s hand, re-covered the motorbike.

  ‘I’ve work to do,’ he said, ‘so I’ll wish you kali mera.’

  He whistled to the dog, which stayed close by his heels as he set off towards the mountains.

  The fat man watched him go, noticing the route of the path he followed. Glancing at his watch, he found that it wasn’t as late as he had thought; so, returning to the table under the fig tree, he took his seat and settled down to enjoy a leisurely lunch, and the view.

  Seventeen

  Noula walked, head bowed, along the street, uncomfortable with notoriety. As the women in the houses saw her pass, they turned their attention from their chores, and made the sisters the subject of their prattling. A neighbour’s husband was loading a mattock, hoe and fork into his van, preparing to head up to his smallholding; as she reached him, he bent inside the cab, sparing both of them the embarrassment of speaking. Only old Pandelis seemed as normal. He sat in his usual place inside his doorway, fiddling with the worry beads in his fingers, and raised a hand to say hello; half deaf, half blind, half simple, he was still grateful for anyone who’d speak.

  She had hurried to reach the house, but at the door, Noula hesitated. Behind the garden wall, one neighbour called out to another, and afraid of being seen, Noula quickly went inside.

  The house seemed deserted; the stillness of their mother’s absence lay as tangible as settling dust. She passed through the cramped salone to the kitchen, where the old TV Mama had loved so much was silent in its place. They had put it on the dresser so Mama could see it from the bed – the bed she and Chrissa had carried in together from the bedroom; the bed Mama had refused, one day, to leave; the bed she had died in. The chair placed at the bedside for her visitors

  – relatives and neighbours, the priest and the doctor – stood vacant with its back against the wall.

  It had been a grave error, to fall in with Mama’s planned idleness; as her body grew fat and her muscles softened, her brain had seemed to lose its sharpness, too. The bed had taken Mama prisoner, and Mama had made Noula and Chrissa slaves to new routines, of bedpans and TV shows and her medicines.

  The lamp before the icon of St Martha was out; yet, with oil in the glass, and the lamp standing in no draught, it seemed that Chrissa must have blown it out on purpose.

  On Chrissa’s wedding day, these rooms had smelled of polish, and baking, and flowers. And on workdays, Noula came home to the smells of cooking – fried fish or a soup of pulses, a stew or baking pasta – but today, there was nothing. Her breakfast dishes were on the drainer where she had left them, the crusts of her bread and honey still on the plate. Noula’s stomach growled with hunger. It was annoying that Chrissa hadn’t bothered to cook; if Noula had known, she could have bought something in Platania.

  ‘Chrissa!’

  She listened for the noises Chrissa would make – the clatter of a mop and bucket, the calling to the chickens in the yard, a brush’s bristles scrubbing the steps.

  There was silence.

  ‘Chrissa!’

  There was no response; but now she noticed the back door to the garden was ajar.

  She crossed to the window, and Chrissa was there, kneeling in the worn grass beneath the lemon trees, in the place where they put the chairs in summer. She knelt with her head low, and spread around her knees was a cloud of white, something soft like drifts of snow.

  What the devil was Chrissa playing at, whilst there was no lunch? Marching to the door, Noula flung it open, and called again.

  ‘Chrissa!’

  With a start, her sister turned, showing Noula a face creased with pain and wet with tears. In her hand she held an object: small, bright yellow.

  Noula didn’t shout again, but hissed at her sister. She didn’t know what Chrissa was doing, but whatever it was, instinct suggested it was something that the neighbours shouldn’t see.

  Noula hurried out to Chrissa, and looked down. The billowing clouds of white were Chrissa’s wedding dress, the yellow object in her hand a lighter. Noula kept her voice low; behind the wall, the neighbours might be listening.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I’m burning it. I’m burning my dress.’

  She flicked the lighter, and a tall flame appeared. Noula blew it out.

  ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

  ‘He doesn’t want me. No one wants me.’

  Noula felt a stab of pain, a portion of the hurt felt by her sister; and yet the words she said were platitudes, wholly inadequate.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he wants you. He asked you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He won’t even see me. I was supposed to be his wife, and he won’t even see me.’

  ‘Give me the lighter.’ Like a child caught in misdemeanour, Chrissa gave it to her. ‘Now come inside, for pity’s sake. He’s sick, Chrissa. When he gets better, he’ll send for you.’

  ‘That isn’t true. You don’t believe that, do you?’

  She was calling on Noula to give her reassurance, and Noula’s hesitation could only undermine any confidence which, hour by hour, was seeping away. Yet Noula couldn’t bring herself to say the right words: her dislike of the man, the dread of her own loneliness, the stigma of being the one left titled ‘spinster’, all prevented her.

  The dress would be spoiled; already there was dirt around the hem, from Chrissa’s melodramatic flouncing down to the beach. But the sequins on the bodice sti
ll sparkled, the flowers in the lace were still fresh, and the urge came over Noula to help her sister do the job, to snatch the lighter from Chrissa’s hand and be the one to set the frippery on fire; in fact, she almost said, let’s fetch that can of paraffin from the outhouse, and make sure the damn dress really burns: burn it, and be finished with this business once and for all, and let them go on together, as they were, sharing their shame into old age.

  ‘Look, Chrissa,’ she said. She kept her voice low, always anxious they were being overheard, and reached out to touch her sister with a gesture that was uncertain; but Chrissa knocked her hand away. ‘I don’t know what he’s thinking. You know him better than I do. But if it comes to it that things don’t turn out the way you planned – it’s all up in the air now, isn’t it? I can’t help that, and I’m not sure you can either – it wouldn’t be so bad, would it? We’ve got each other, haven’t we? We’ve always had each other.’

  She knew the words were wrong, inviting Chrissa back into that place where they would be together, but alone, dividing between them the stigma of their spinsterhood. Chrissa’s face was angry, as much as if Noula had just slapped her.

  ‘I don’t want you!’ she said. ‘I want him!’

  The words were hard, and stung.

  Noula went inside.

  Minutes went by, before her sister followed her. She carried the dress before her, bundled up over her belly like a pregnancy. Her knees were deeply indented from dirt and stones, so Noula knew she must have been in physical pain, like a penitent. Noula was peeling potatoes; a pan of oil was heating on the stove.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Chrissa.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve brought that dress in; it cost too much to spoil.’ Noula didn’t look at her, afraid Chrissa would notice the tears in her eyes. ‘You’ll have to get it cleaned. Is there any bread? I don’t suppose you’ve been to the bakery. How long have you been out there?’

  ‘A while.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Chrissa! What will people say? Here, peel these. Give me the dress.’

  She gathered up her sister’s gown – the nets and lace, the sequined flowers – and hugged it to her; it held Chrissa’s perfume, the special scent she’d bought just for her wedding. The dress was soft and magical, fit for a princess, a dress of transformation. But the nets had picked up debris from the garden, dead leaves of geraniums and small twigs. As best she could, Noula brushed it clean, and took the dress away. When she came back, Chrissa was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing the potatoes. The hair colour which had suited her on her wedding day seemed too bright now, and there was no make-up in her bag of tricks which could put life in her complexion. Noula could see clearly what she was: a miserable, middle-aged woman, suffering life’s defeat.

  On impulse, Noula placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ she asked. ‘I think he’s protecting you. He doesn’t want to burden you with hospitals and caring. You had all that with Mother; he knows that. And he’s in shock, Chrissa; the man has lost his sight, perhaps – I’m sorry – for good. Maybe he wants to be alone to come to terms with that. Or he’s giving you the chance to walk away. That would be noble of him, wouldn’t it?’ The words were plausible, the ideas behind them possible. Beneath her hands, she felt Chrissa’s shoulders lose some of their tension. ‘You know what Mama would have said. Patience. Courage and patience. If you like, I’ll go and see him, find out what I can. I could go over to the hospital before work.’

  Chrissa lifted her head, and smiled up at Noula.

  ‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Will you go tomorrow?’

  ‘Maybe not tomorrow,’ said Noula carefully. ‘I’ve a lot to do, tomorrow. But I’ll go as soon as I can.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. As soon as I have time, I’ll go.’

  Eighteen

  Behind the woman mailing the parcel to Australia, a queue was forming. As she searched through every compartment of her purse for cash to pay the postmaster, a man covered in plaster dust tapped the toe of a paint-spattered work boot, and scowled with impatience; an elderly man laid down his shopping – a few fresh young squid tied tight in a carrier bag, half a dozen lemons, a bottle of hair oil from the pharmacy – to mark his place in the queue, and shuffled to the chair beneath the window.

  The fat man stood behind the old man’s shopping. The workman turned and looked him up and down, then turned away, still scowling. The postmaster lit a fresh cigarette from the one alight in his mouth, and grinding out its short stub in his ashtray, inhaled on the fresh cigarette with obvious pleasure, like a man taking a cold drink of water after days lost in the desert. The air was blue with smoke; seated on his chair, the old man coughed.

  ‘It wasn’t that much last time,’ complained the woman. ‘Has it gone up?’

  The postmaster sighed.

  ‘The rate’s the same, but your parcel’s weight’s gone up,’ he said. ‘The more it weighs, the more you pay.’

  ‘It’ll be those newspapers I slipped in at the last minute, to stop the biscuits breaking,’ she said. ‘My sister likes to read the local news.’

  ‘It’ll be the biscuits,’ said the postmaster. ‘You’re sending half the bakery’s stock, I’ll bet. Don’t they have biscuits in Australia?’

  ‘Not like these. She says they don’t taste the same, over there. I told her last time, it’d be cheaper for her to come and eat them here. It’s no good. I haven’t got enough.’ She zipped her purse, and pushed her parcel a little way along the counter. ‘I’ll leave this here until I’ve been to the bank.’

  The fat man waited patiently for his turn. The builder concluded his business quickly; the old man bought a few stamps and chewed the fat with the postmaster. But as the fat man at last stepped up to the counter, the woman returned, holding up a 5,000-drachma note. Standing beside the fat man at the counter, she leaned across him to reach her parcel, and pulling it towards her, addressed the postmaster as if the fat man wasn’t there.

  ‘Here you are, Apostolis,’ she said, offering the banknote to the postmaster. ‘This will cover it.’

  The fat man turned to face her.

  ‘Excuse me, kyria,’ he said, ‘but I think you’ll find it’s my turn to be served.’

  As if he had appeared out of thin air, she looked at him.

  ‘I was here before,’ she said. She turned away from him, back to the postmaster. ‘Can you change this, Apostolis?’

  The postmaster put out his hand to take the note, but the fat man spoke again.

  ‘My business will take only a moment,’ he said, ‘so you won’t have long to wait. Postmaster, would you please check if there is any mail for me?’

  A half-burned cigarette hung from the corner of the postmaster’s mouth. He gave the fat man a slow, malicious smile.

  ‘I’ll be with you very shortly,’ he said, ‘when I’m finished with this lady.’

  For a few moments, the fat man’s expression was impassive; but it changed then to one of curiosity, and he leaned forward, peering at a corner of the woman’s parcel, where the paper wrapping was changing from buff to coffee-brown as liquid spread across the parcel’s base. As the postmaster took the woman’s money, the fat man bent closer to the parcel and sniffed.

  ‘Forgive me, kyria,’ he said, ‘but can you smell vinegar?’

  As he spoke, the sharp smell reached her nose, and she, too, sniffed.

  ‘Vinegar.’ She said the word as confirmation; but then she noticed the condition of her parcel, where the stain was increasing in size.

  ‘My parcel!’ She span the parcel round; on its far side, the damage was worse. A wet patch was developing on the counter, and the smell of vinegar overwhelmed even the smoke of cigarettes. ‘It’s the capers! Everything will be ruined! And I took such care, packing it!’

  The postmaster handed back her banknote.

  ‘Perhaps the jar lid came loose,’ said the fat man, helpfully.
‘Or maybe the jar is cracked. You’ll find out, no doubt, when you re-pack it. So, if your business is concluded for the time being . . . Postmaster, perhaps you have time now to deal with me. I’m expecting some correspondence, addressed to me here, poste restante. I think you’ll find it there.’

  The postmaster turned to the pigeonholes, where, amongst the old and dusty letters that would never now find their addressees, a large white envelope had appeared. With deliberate slowness, the postmaster checked the address.

  ‘Hermes Diaktoros, poste restante,’ he said. ‘Postmark Athens.’ This last he said without reference to the envelope, and the fat man knew he’d studied it already.

  Holding the dripping parcel away from her clothes, the woman reached the door and stood waiting for assistance in opening it. The fat man took no notice; turning his envelope over, he inspected the seal closely, testing the strength of the glue on the flap to see if it had been opened.

  ‘Must be important, if they’ve sent it on here,’ said the postmaster, eyes alight with curiosity.

  ‘It relates to Dr Chabrol,’ said the fat man. He tucked the envelope beneath his arm; the postmaster stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘So are you getting to the bottom of our mystery?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the fat man. ‘I reached that point some time ago.’

  ‘So aren’t you going to tell us? Surely you’re not going to keep us in the dark?’

  ‘It would be easy to shed light on the mystery for yourself,’ said the fat man, ‘if you knew which stones to look under. Kali mera sas.’

  At the door he seemed to relent and held it open for the woman, whose face was now as sour as her vinegared parcel. But on the threshold, he paused to watch the preparations for the minister’s visit: men up ladders were hanging bunting, more were tipping barrows of tarmac on to filled-in holes, others were collecting rubbish in plastic sacks.