The fat man’s expression showed concern.
‘Gentlemen, kali mera,’ he said. ‘You’ll no doubt be sharing my anxiety that all the mayor’s hard work and preparations for today will be marred by bad weather.’
The muscles in the men’s faces grew tight as they repressed smiles; the postmaster’s moustache twitched. The grocer was standing close to the pharmacist; with a subtle movement of his elbow, he gave the pharmacist the lightest touch of a nudge.
It seemed none of them was inclined to reply; but then Dr Dinos straightened his shoulders, and said, ‘I don’t think, kyrie, that anything could spoil the satisfaction this day will bring us, not even if it rained from now till doomsday.’
‘I have just come from the square,’ said the fat man, ‘and the air of pride and celebration is quite extraordinary. It would be a huge disappointment to so many if anything were to spoil it. No, not a disappointment, but a crime. Do you not agree, it would be a crime?’
The minibus driver was a lanky youth, whose borrowed trousers were too short to cover his white-socked feet. He stuck his forefinger into his mouth to wet it and held it up to the breeze.
‘South-westerly,’ he said. ‘We’ll be all right. The sea’ll take the rain and we’ll stay dry.’
Dr Dinos smiled, and laid a hand on the young man’s back. ‘Well said, Socratis,’ he said, turning to the fat man. ‘This lad is better than any forecaster you’ll see on television. He’s never wrong, are you, Socratis? But my own forecast is, that we shall have a very interesting day, regardless of the weather.’
The ferry was drawing closer. On the quayside, men stepped forward to be ready with the mooring ropes; the port police officers – splendid in full-dress, white uniforms – stood officious and unhelpful beside them, whilst the senior officer removed his cap and smoothed his perfect, close-cut hair one last time. The mayor shook hands with the reporter and moved with his party closer to the dock, where the council formed an official line of welcome.
‘He’s a splendid young man, isn’t he?’ said the fat man, looking across at the mayor. ‘I have a feeling he’ll go far in political life. He’s a man of vision, a man who gets things done. It’s quite a coup he’s pulled off here, to get such a senior man from Athens to this small place. One wonders how he managed to persuade the minister.’
‘The gift of oratory, no doubt,’ said Dr Dinos, turning his face away. ‘He talks a good story.’
The grocer allowed a smile to cross his face; the postmaster ground out his cigarette under his shoe, and reached into his pocket for another. At the quayside, the newsmen were moving in close to get good pictures.
‘Often too little is done to nurture talent, don’t you agree?’ went on the fat man. ‘And often, people put obstacles in talent’s way. It is one of humanity’s most common failings, that men cannot bear to see other men succeed. In my work, I see examples of it almost daily.’
But Dr Dinos and his friends did not hear him; their attention was on the huge ferry which, gracefully and improbably, was executing a mid-harbour turn to approach the quayside stern-on.
The mayor’s party and the port police pulled down their jackets and set their feet apart like the military; the newsmen had their cameras at the ready. With the minister’s arrival now so imminent, even the policemen climbed from their cars and looked expectantly towards the dock.
‘This minister, Mr Semertzakis,’ said the fat man. ‘I’m not certain I shall recognise him when I see him. He’s not one of those who’s often in the media, is he? Perhaps he will appreciate this opportunity to get his face known. Do you know, postmaster, what he looks like? Fat, thin, short, tall, what?’
The postmaster’s expression was of innocence.
‘I’ve really no idea,’ he said. ‘As you say, a man who works away in the background. We shall no doubt find out, in a few moments.’
‘Indeed,’ said the fat man. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall move a little closer. I want to be sure I have the best possible view, when the show begins.’
Dr Dinos smiled.
‘Do you know, I think we’ll join you,’ he said.
On board the ferry, the crewmen secured the ropes and hauled the boat’s stern up to the quay. The ramp descended, and in curiosity the small crowd on the harbourside strained forward. At the moment it touched the ground, the port police officers jumped on to the ramp, and took up the ‘at ease’ position down each side, as their senior officer had instructed them.
The ferry’s interior was smoky, dark and dirty, sulphurous with exhaust fumes from disembarking vehicles, and echoing with the throbbing of their engines. Behind the shouting crewmen, nothing could be seen. The foot passengers waiting to board stepped up to the ramp, but were held back by the outstretched arms of the port police, who ordered them imperiously to wait.
No disembarking passengers were visible. The first of the arriving vehicles – a truck laden with German beer – edged forward.
The mayor looked anxiously at his fellow councillors. The newsmen turned whispering to each other.
The beer truck moved cautiously towards the ramp; a crewman stepped in front of it and waved the driver on; and Dr Dinos, the pharmacist, the postmaster and the grocer all smiled.
Then, from the rear of the deck, a shout went up. A second crewman ran in front of the beer lorry, and raised both hands.
‘Wait a minute, vre!’ he shouted. ‘Wait a minute!’
The truck driver pulled up short, banging his fists on the steering wheel and tapping on the face of his watch; the bottles in their wooden crates rattled like a shiver of fury.
From amongst the smoking vehicles, a man stepped out of the shadows. Slender and elegantly suited, grey-haired and distinguished, with an air of lifelong privilege, he was as handsome as the maturer stars of Hollywood. Walking into the deck space between truck and ramp with the assurance of an actor used to an audience, he ran his eyes with interest and a little amusement over the people gathered on the quayside, then raised his well-defined chin and ran the knot of his silk tie more perfectly into the collar of his shirt.
For a moment, no one moved. Behind him, a young girl in a navy-blue suit appeared, hair pulled back in a pleat and glasses concealing real beauty, high heels on tiny feet, and beneath one arm, a very full leather briefcase; she was followed by a short man, whose suit fitted him so well it hid a well-fed belly, and whose nervous eyes seemed to look everywhere for trouble.
The girl stood at the handsome man’s right shoulder, the short man at his left. The handsome man’s eyes came to rest on the mayor, who hesitantly took a step forward, and the man strode towards him, hand outstretched and smiling to reveal enviable teeth.
Cameras flashed. They met at the foot of the ramp, and joined hands in a handshake.
‘Mayor Petridis?’ asked the man. His accent was beautifully clear, his words carefully enunciated in the perfect Greek of TV newscasters.
‘Minister,’ said the mayor. His colour was high, but he was broadly smiling. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
The newsmen were calling for pictures, and with practised ease, the minister turned the mayor to face them, holding his hand in a faux-handshake until the newsmen were done. Then the mayor, pink with delight, led him to the blushing councillors, where he introduced them at some length, one by one.
And the fat man, himself smiling, turned to Dr Dinos and his friends. They stood apart and silent, watching the mayor escort his minister and his party to the waiting minibus.
The minibus sped away, towards the speechmaking in the square. The fat man took his time on his way there, diverting by way of the beach, walking at the water’s edge, stopping from time to time to pick up an object of interest – a pebble with unusual markings, a piece of driftwood, a foreign bottle cap.
By the time he reached the square, the speeches were coming to an end. He bought a souvlaki from the vendor, and found himself a seat on a low wall with a view of a merry-go-round, where little chi
ldren sat, bewildered or delighted, in spinning cars and motorbikes. The souvlaki was first class: the pork was tasty from the smoking charcoal, crisp outside but succulent; the onions were sweet but with a pleasing heat; the tzatziki was boldly flavoured with garlic; the pitta bread was warm and satisfyingly doughy to chew. He finished the souvlaki and sipped the tumbler of cold retsina the vendor had given him as a gift; then he was hungry for something sweet, and bought a plate of loukoumades – doughnut balls hot from the frying oil, sticky with honey syrup and generously sprinkled with cinnamon.
The mayoral party finished their speeches, and turning off the microphone, made their way towards the town hall, followed by a small group of invited citizens, whilst those uninvited made their way to the amusements. For a while, the fat man browsed the offerings of the gypsy hawkers, who spread blankets on the ground to display their tat: transistor radios with no reception; sharp-edged, windup toys the children begged for; tools – pliers, mallets, wrenches – picked up in job lots; cheap paintings of views these people would never see – the Alps, the rivers of China, the boulevards of Paris.
The band took up their instruments and began a familiar song, whose notes of yearning and longing spoke to all their souls, and immediately the women – matrons, young wives, grandmothers – got to their feet to join the dance, whilst the men passed the bottles round. The TV crew and newspaper men had their equipment packed away and were ready to leave; but the music called to them, too, and, talking amongst themselves, they decided they might stay just a while – what was the point in rushing back? – and helped themselves to wine.
At Evangelia’s kafenion, all the tables were taken by men out-buying each other whisky, and the only seat available was with two fishermen still bloodstained, fresh from the sea; but as the fat man was about to ask if he might join them, someone touched his elbow.
The fat man turned, and found the short man who had arrived with the minister at his side. The short man looked suspiciously about them, as if his whole life was troubled by eavesdroppers and spies.
‘A word, kyrie, if I may,’ he said. He drew the fat man away from the crowd, so no one would overhear. ‘A message from the minister. He asks me to pass on his regrets that he is not able to invite you to lunch, but the room, he says, is small, and the dignitaries many. But I am to tell you that the food looks excellent: in his words – which he asks me to repeat to you . . .’ a smile came to his lips ‘. . . a veritable country banquet.’
The fat man laughed, and clapped the short man on the back.
‘Thank you, Arsenios, for playing messenger,’ he said. ‘I suspected there’d be a good meal in it. And tell my cousin he’s filled the minister’s shoes extremely well. Perhaps he should consider a career in politics, some day. But then, perhaps not: he’s bored too easily, and would never sit through all those dull debates. Tell him to enjoy his banquet and his moment of celebrity; I’ve eaten well already. And tell him his precious car’s been temperamental, but I’ve managed to get it fixed. The repair bills are on me, since he’s doing me this favour. Now go, and enjoy your lunch.’
Giving a small bow of the head, Arsenios left him. At the kafenion, the odiferous fishermen had ordered brandy, and made the fat man welcome. The fat man asked for coffee and an ouzo, and waiting for his drinks, looked out across the crowd filling the square. For some time, he searched amongst the faces; but of the four men who had conspired against the mayor, there was no sign.
Twenty-one
The hour was late, far past the acceptable hours for visitors. At the hospital’s upper windows, the lights were dimmed, and blended with the warm glow of night lights lit as comfort for the sleepless through their worry or their pain. In the lobby, the reception desk was deserted. Along the corridor, the TV in the nurses’ room was turned up loud (on a game show, an unlucky contestant was being bid goodnight), and from there came the rustle of food wrapping – biscuits, or chocolate – and a female voice pressing treats on another – Take two, kalé – here, have another. The woman who answered had her mouth full – She was unlucky, there, she said, in a voice which held a sad shake of the head, as if she identified closely with the game show contestant’s lack of fortune.
The fat man knew where he was going, and moving silently in his newly whitened shoes, crossed the lobby’s polished lino and went up the stairs. At the ward entrance, he pushed the swing door open just wide enough to slip through, but the door squeaked on its hinges. He guided the door shut carefully, so it made no further noise.
The ward was quiet. At the far end, at the nurse’s station, an anglepoise lamp burned, lighting folders of patient records, some thick with papers from long treatment, some holding just a sheet or two of notes. Inside the doorway was a tall cabinet, and the fat man slipped around its side, hiding himself. The doors to all the patients’ rooms were closed, though not all their occupants slept: in one, a radio played Beethoven, in another, someone was running water into a glass.
The hands of the clock on the wall moved on, two minutes, then three, until the fat man was certain all was safe; only then did he move silently down the corridor, to the door marked 112, where he quietly turned the handle and let himself in without knocking, closing the door behind him with a click.
He stood with his back to the door, and placed his holdall between his feet. Soft light revealed the doctor in his bed, but he did not have the relaxed limbs of a sleeper; he lay on his back, his arms at his sides, his eyes still covered in bandages. The room smelled antiseptic, of sterile lint and iodine; the jug of water and the glass on his bedside table were empty. Through the open slats of the window blinds, a full moon shone silver in a black sky; below the window, amongst the dumpsters, fighting cats yowled.
‘Who’s there?’
The doctor’s voice was anxious. The fat man didn’t answer him immediately, but stood quite still before the door.
The doctor asked again, ‘Is someone there?’
Still the fat man didn’t answer, and slowly the doctor relaxed. The fat man crossed silently to the window, where he separated two slats of the Venetian blind with his fingers, and looked down on the fighting cats below.
At the sound of the slats bending, the doctor started.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded; the anxiety in his voice was pronounced. ‘Answer me, for God’s sake – I know someone’s there!’
The fat man turned from the window and moved close to the bed. Smiling as he bent down to the doctor’s ear, he whispered, ‘It’s me.’
The doctor gave a small scream.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, in real fear.
Straightening up, the fat man laughed.
‘You remember me, Louis,’ he said. ‘We met before. We had a chat about investigations, or lack of them.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said the doctor, angrily. ‘What the hell are you playing at? You frightened me half to death. I’m a sick man. And what are you doing here, at this time, so late? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Is it?’ asked the fat man, teasingly. ‘How do you know? On what do you base your assumption? Is it the middle of the night, or is dawn breaking – how can you tell? Am I late, or am I early? Or am I, in fact, just about on time? Do you mind if I sit?’ Without waiting for a reply, he picked up a chair and placed it by the head of the bed, and leaning back in it, examined his nails as he spoke. ‘I do hate to be late, but from time to time it’s unavoidable. In your case, I managed to be slightly early. But, late or early, I’m here, and that’s what counts.’
Below the bandages, the doctor’s mouth was set in a frown.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked badtemperedly. ‘Are you demented? Be good enough to leave me in peace – and as you go, you might call the nurse for me. These sleeping tablets aren’t working, and the pain is getting worse. Go now, or I’ll call the nurse myself.’
‘You may call the nurse if you wish to,’ said the fat man, ‘and I’m sure you’re capable of shouting the place d
own, if you put your mind to it. But I must say, I find your attitude to me a little bewildering. I remember telling you I was making it my business to find out who assaulted you, so your having no wish to speak to me is somewhat baffling. I expected to find you all eager curiosity.’
‘I was sleeping,’ said the doctor, ‘and you frightened me out of my wits. I suppose that tempers a welcome, somewhat.’
‘Then I expect your welcome will grow warmer when you find out I have news.’
‘News? What news?’
‘I have brought something with me,’ he said, ‘which I think goes a long, long way towards solving this mystery. Just excuse me, one moment.’
He rose, and went to his holdall at the door. Unzipping it, he withdrew the white envelope he had collected from the post office. Re-taking his seat, he opened the envelope and took out the stapled sheets it contained.
‘You can’t see these, of course,’ he said, ‘but I know you’ve seen them before. I had them translated from your native language.’ The papers rustled as the fat man scanned the sheets; at the sound, the doctor tensed. ‘The heading is – the coat of arms is very smart indeed, by the way, most distinguished and attractive – the heading is “The National Medical Council of France”, and it’s addressed, I believe – yes, here it is – to your good self.’
‘You’ve been through my personal belongings!’ objected the doctor. ‘It’s an outrage! How dare you, without a warrant!’
‘I, go through your things?’ laughed the fat man. ‘Indeed I have not. I came by your papers almost honestly, without having to resort to anything as sordid as riffling through your belongings. And warrants are a tool used by the constabulary, never by me. What I have in my hands are not your originals anyway, but Greek translations. Has your fiancée seen these papers, by the way? With them in the original French, I suppose you were quite safe. But it would certainly be unfortunate, would it not, if she set her eyes on these translations?’
The doctor was silent, so the fat man went on.
The Doctor of Thessaly Page 17