The Doctor of Thessaly

by Anne Zouroudi

  The fat man turned back to the postmaster.

  ‘The town looks at its best, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘You must all be very proud, and looking forward, no doubt, to the minister’s visit tomorrow.’

  The postmaster chose a cigarette from an open packet.

  ‘Oh, I’m looking forward to it, very much indeed,’ he said. ‘You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to it.’

  The fat man crossed the square, and took a seat at Evangelia’s kafenion. Opening the white envelope, he withdrew from it several photocopied sheets – copies of the documents Noula had taken from the doctor’s suitcase. To each sheet, a second sheet, typed in Greek, was stapled, and securing all together was a paper clip.

  There was, too, a postcard of a dark-haired girl dressed in a bikini, with waves breaking on a beach behind her.

  He turned the postcard over. The few words on the back were in a curling, feminine hand.

  ‘Translations enclosed. Good luck,’ they said.

  There was a signature, impossible to read; but the kiss which followed it was very clear indeed.

  Nineteen

  With no easy alternative available, the fat man ate another of Evangelia’s meals. She boiled him an octopus (the steam from the saucepan filled the kafenion all afternoon, clouding the windows like fog) and served it cut in pieces, dressed in cheap oil, sour vinegar and a sprinkling of shop-bought oregano. There was a plate of pale chips, undercooked and cold; the bread brought in a basket was stale, from yesterday.

  At his own request, he ate early.

  ‘I’m a bit of a naturalist,’ he said, dipping bread in the octopus’s juices to soften it, ‘and sometimes I like to be out very early in the morning, birdwatching and such; so if you could let me have a key, I’ll let myself out and in, and have no need to disturb your beauty sleep.’

  She showed him the workings of the latches and the key, then sat down at his table with her chin resting on her fist, and watched him eat.

  ‘Why aren’t you married, kalé?’ she asked. ‘An attractive man like you, well dressed, nice manners . . .’

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ he said. ‘A woman like you, your own business – they should be forming a queue.’

  She gave a sigh which lifted her huge breasts, and folded her arms beneath them.

  ‘I never found the right man,’ she said. ‘There were plenty who spent time with me, but when the time came, they all married someone else. They toyed with my affections, kyrie; they used me as a plaything. I was used, and tossed aside, and now I’m all washed up.’

  ‘Really?’ said the fat man. He took a chip from those left on his plate; its taste was of raw potato and burnt oil. ‘A little bird told me you have a suitor: a certain doctor, maybe?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘there’s him. But he’s old, and old men are short on vigour. I always thought I’d like a younger man.’ She leaned towards him, studying his face for lines which would give clues to his age. ‘How old are you, kyrie? I’d put you no older than fifty.’

  ‘I’m older than I look,’ said the fat man quickly. ‘Besides, you should be very sure, before you go rushing in, that you want a man at all. From where I sit, you’re well off as you are. You’ve the company of men throughout the day, and at night you send them packing to their wives. Men aren’t such a desirable species, when you look at it. They might start out so, but marriage has a strange effect on them. It makes them fat, and bald, and short-tempered. They belch and snore and eye up pretty girls. You’re better off without, believe me. Too many women trade their freedom for bad bargains. So if the doctor asks you to make it legal, take my advice, and turn him down.’

  ‘Turn down a medical man! Chance would be a fine thing!’

  ‘The choice is yours, of course,’ said the fat man, suppressing a grimace as he swallowed the last of his chips. ‘But a medical man is no better than any other. You can take my word for that.’

  At the very first lightening of the sky, the fat man rose from his hard bed. The muscles in his back and shoulders were tight, as if bruised by the unyielding bed-springs. Barefoot, he stood on the faded kilim, and, arms bent, pulled his shoulders back to stretch his chest; then, placing his hands on his hips, he twisted at the waist to right and left, and bent forwards and backwards, until he felt the tension in his muscles ease and his body felt loosened and limber. Bending forward, he touched his toes quite easily, and pleased with himself, he smiled.

  He took off the pyjamas he had slept in to reveal a body that was admirable for his age. His skin was tanned to golden, as if he had recently spent time lying in the sun; but in the hair which spread generously over his chest, grey was more prominent than black.

  From his holdall, he took out a T-shirt and athletic socks in white, and a navy blue tracksuit whose sleeves and legs were piped silver on the outside seams; as he zipped up the jacket, he smoothed out the logo of a half-risen sun on the left breast. Over the socks, he pulled on his pristine tennis shoes and laced them tightly; and making his way silently down the uncarpeted stairs, stepping over the treads that creaked, he crossed the kafenion to the doorway and opened it as Evangelia had shown him.

  He took the road at a fast pace. The sky was heavily overcast, and there was scant light, as yet, in the dawn. As he ran through the streets, his feet made little noise, his breathing was unlaboured. No lights shone in the houses and there was no traffic on the road; only the startled cats foraging in the public dumpsters saw him pass.

  He followed the road beyond the sign which marked the town’s limit, to the loop in the carriageway where the garage stood. As he drew level with the mechanic’s house, he stopped. For several minutes, he watched and listened, but there was no sign of movement from within. Across the forecourt was the workshop, all in darkness.

  Silently, he ran across the grass verge to the petrol pumps. Remembering the filthy ground between the hard standing and the workshop, he glanced down at his shoes and grimaced; but every minute, the sky was growing lighter and his time shorter.

  Moving swiftly, he crossed to the workshop door, pressing himself close against the building to hide himself from the house. The door was padlocked. In the weak light, he bent down to search for a tool around his feet, and found amongst the scattered rubbish a length of rusting hacksaw blade. With finger and thumb, he plucked it from the oily dirt and inserted its end into the padlock’s keyhole; and with a practised twist and a little manoeuvring, he snapped the padlock open.

  He gave a small smile of satisfaction and turned the hacksaw blade in his hand, admiring its efficiency for the job; then he laid it back on the ground, making sure to fit it into the depression from which he’d taken it.

  Hanging the padlock through the hasp, he lifted the latch and opened the workshop door just wide enough to slip through.

  He pulled the door closed behind him. Inside, the workshop was dark, and for a full minute the fat man peered into the gloom, waiting for his eyes to reach their optimum usefulness. As they did so, he began to see the layout of the place. The long, barn-like building stretched before him, lit faintly by cobweb-covered skylights. Above him, something moved, and startled, he prepared to hide himself; but the movement was the fluttering of sparrows, nesting in the joints of the roof supports.

  A length of cable ran by his feet. Following it to its end, he found it attached to the mechanic’s lamp – a high-wattage light bulb, encased in a metal cage to prevent breakage. Picking up the lamp, the fat man considered: using the lamp would speed up his task, but any early riser would notice it shining through the skylights.

  He decided to take the risk. Lamp in hand, he tracked the cable back to the wall and a set of electrical sockets over a workbench. He flipped the switch and the lamp was lit.

  The workbench where he stood was covered with tools, paints and spares in disarray. A radio with one knob missing was playing very low; a plate with uneaten food might have been there several days. On the floor were rags, newspapers and tyr
es; at the bench-end, a drum was overflowing with viscous, tar-black oil.

  Overhead, the sparrows fluttered from beam to beam. The fat man made his way to the back of the workshop, where the chaotic spread of rubbish grew thinner and it was easier to find clean places to put his feet. Against the back wall was a sideboard with the generous proportions of the 1930s; a utility piece rather than a craftsman’s, it had doors on either side and three drawers at the centre. Its top was in use as storage, for cans of house paint, paintbrushes left to fester in preserve jars of white spirit, and roughly folded blankets used as dust sheets.

  The fat man opened the top drawer first, tugging it hard because the wood had swollen from damp. But that tightness had sealed the contents and protected them. The drawer was filled with photographs, both black and white and colour, loose and mounted in cardboard frames. Taking out a handful, he sifted through them, finding them to be more extraordinary recordings of that life now gone. The second drawer held cutlery and kitchen implements, the third table linen, all hand-embroidered and pressed.

  Opening the right-hand sideboard door, he found supplies for framing – lengths of wood and dowelling, sheets of glass in various sizes, backing card and glue. In the left-hand cupboard were two boxes, one on the upper shelf, one on the lower. Both boxes held chemicals for developing film, in antique-looking bottles of brown and clear glass. Pulling a box towards himself, he lifted out a bottle and read the label, then chose another, and another. He tried the lid of one, but the contents had crystallised around the neck, forming a seal which had not been broken in years.

  But it was the largest bottle which most interested him. Taking it from the box, he read its label and, frowning and with great care, twisted the black lid off the brown glass. The lid moved easily, as if opened only yesterday. He glanced inside, at the powdery white crystals; the bottle was two-thirds empty. Returning it to the box, he pushed the box back into its place and closed the sideboard cupboard.

  The skylights overhead showed growing daylight. Moving quickly back to the wall switches, he turned off the lamp and put it back carefully where he had found it. He slipped out through the workshop door and snapped the padlock back in place.

  At the house, there was still no sign of life, but the fat man took no further risks. Screened by the workshop, he climbed the fence into the field on its lower side, and crossed it at a jog. At the field’s far side, he rejoined the road and ran at a leisurely pace back to the square.

  Twenty

  The fat man returned to his room, hoping for another hour of sleep, but it was the day of the minister’s expected visit, and soon after the fat man climbed back into bed, the mayor’s task force arrived in the square.

  Their first job was to rig the sound system through which the dignitaries’ speeches would be broadcast. Two of the men were designated to haul the noisy diesel generator into its position behind the post office; the others rolled out great lengths of wiring off enormous wooden reels. The workman tying the loudspeakers in the plane trees blew on his hands to warm them, and damned his own lack of competence as his cold fingers struggled to knot the string. Four surly, sleepy youths were made to put out chairs; they cursed the electrician, who, when he finally arrived to install the microphones beside the fountain, pointed out that the youths had laid out all two hundred chairs facing the wrong way.

  As the morning went on, young children ran excitedly amongst the rows of seats and knocked them out of line. When the sound system was fully operational, a member of the council – in consultation with the youths, the electrician and the street-sweeper – set up a broadcast of martial music. The music was tinny and distorted (and, in one corner of the square where the speaker had slipped off its branch, inaudible) but its mood was appropriate: upbeat and celebratory, it invoked civic and national pride, so the women laughed and chattered on their way to the bakery, and the men took seats at the kafenion and watched, critical and relaxed, as others worked.

  Hot-faced and flustered, Evangelia brought coffee after coffee from the kitchen, whilst Adonis Anapodos did his best to clear the empty cups and glasses, dodging the flats of hands and spiteful, pinching fingers of men who judged him, being not quite normal, as fair game. A souvlaki vendor parked his van outside the pharmacy; whilst his grill and deep-fat fryer were heating up, he strung bags of candyfloss around the serving hatch, so the children all ran home, clamouring for money. An outside broadcast unit arrived from the area’s TV station, with technicians who erected an aerial so high it knocked the branches of the plane trees; the people passing craned their necks to spot any famous faces, and rumours flew that the reader of the evening news was here, in Morfi.

  The square was filling with expectant, smiling people, and many of the chairs in front of the microphone were already taken. At the kafenion, however, the fat man noticed that four faces were missing from the crowd: of Dr Dinos, the pharmacist, the postmaster and the grocer, there was no sign.

  Adonis brought him Greek coffee and an ashtray, but the fat man had no cigarettes.

  ‘Adonis,’ he said, ‘would you like to earn yourself a tip?’

  Adonis smiled and nodded, but looked nervously behind him, in case Evangelia should accuse him of slacking.

  ‘Take this empty box to the periptero, and ask if they have any of my brand,’ said the fat man. ‘Tell them to look carefully. They’re bound to have a box or two in stock.’

  Adonis looked doubtfully at the cigarette box’s lid, admiring the picture of the starlet.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think they’ll have these, kyrie. I’ve never seen a box like this before, and I fetch a lot of cigarettes for a lot of men.’

  ‘Try,’ said the fat man. ‘Try, and if you persuade them that they have them, you’ll have a special tip, from me.’

  Adonis ambled away; the fat man tasted his coffee. In the rush to serve so many, Evangelia had been generous with her spooning, and made an excellent cup.

  A little breathless, Adonis returned, and placed two boxes of cigarettes by the ashtray, along with change.

  ‘They said they didn’t have them,’ he said proudly, ‘but I made them look again, and then they did.’

  ‘Bravo sou,’ said the fat man. ‘Now, here’s your tip. Have you ever played the lottery, Adonis?’

  Adonis shook his head.

  ‘I’ve wanted to,’ he said, ‘but my mother says the lottery’s for fools.’

  ‘Fools or not, it’s a game for optimists,’ said the fat man. He pulled out of his pocket the two tickets he had bought in town. ‘Either of these might be a winner, or neither might be. Take your pick.’

  Adonis chose the ticket on the left.

  ‘Do you feel that’s a winner?’ asked the fat man, and Adonis nodded. ‘Then the trick is, be optimistic. If you know that it’s a winner, then it is.’

  The fat man took one of the side streets from the square, and when he reached the promenade, followed it in the direction of the port. The promenade was decorated with blue and white bunting strung between the lamp-posts, but the task force had brought insufficient cable to wire speakers along the road, and as his distance from the square grew, the music of marching bands faded away. By the steps down to the beach, a police car waited, its blue roof lights pulsing; two policemen leaned on the car’s side, smoking and watching the fat man with suspicion as he passed.

  At the port were more police cars, their officers inside, out of the wind. Close to the dock was the minibus the mayor had borrowed for the occasion. Its windows gleamed with polishing, its paintwork was washed and waxed; the flaking rust around its wheel arches was hidden by daubs of gloss paint so recently applied, its smell was in the air. Beside his minibus, the driver stood in his borrowed suit, his hair slicked down with oil and his face pink and nicked from the hasty shaving of several days’ stubble.

  And with the driver stood four men, who, amongst all the cheerful townsfolk, smiled wider, spoke louder and laughed more heartily than any other; they
peered together in apparent anticipation towards the sea’s horizon, from where the Athens ferry carrying the minister would appear.

  At the heart of a group of his supporters – his mother, wife and children, the street-sweeper, a troop of high-school pupils smart in uniforms they never normally wore – the mayor waited with his council at the dockside. The councillors (the women, especially) were overdressed and nervous; the mayor himself betrayed some signs of agitation but looked handsome and comfortable in his suit. A reporter from the local newspaper touched his arm and drew him to one side to interview him; the mayor answered the questions put to him with confidence, becoming passionate about his plans for the town, whilst the uninterested reporter wrote down everything he said in a laborious shorthand. Behind the police cars, the band held their instruments in their laps, the cases stored beneath their summer chairs; the leader of the band (a middle-aged man, renowned for his bad temper) glanced at his watch repeatedly, stealing frequent nips from the brandy flask inside his jacket.

  Then across the water came the blast of a foghorn, and the bulk of the ferry came into sight.

  The fat man made his way towards Dr Dinos and his friends, who were sharing another joke with the minibus driver. As he approached them, a gull flew low overhead, startling the men with its sudden cry. A skinny dog sniffed at the fat man’s heels, and slunk away to cock its leg on a police car’s tyre.

  The fat man glanced up at the overcast sky, where dark, rain-laden clouds were moving in. As he joined them, the men offered no welcome or greeting. The postmaster took the end of a cigarette from his mouth, and spat on the ground.