‘When I first interested myself in this crime, I thought it rather crude. It seemed most likely, on the face of it, to be a crime of passion. I was thinking of jealousy, in fact. But this was not a crime of jealousy; in fact I am not persuaded that it is, in any sense of justice, a crime at all. What we are looking at here – metaphorically, of course, in your case – is revenge. And I think you knew that all along, didn’t you – you suspected it, or at least you knew of the possibility. As I suspected it when you so vehemently objected to any police involvement. Someone came after you for what you had done. And the punishment they chose for you is, to me, a perfect fit, a punishment that truly fits your crime.’ He held up the papers and wafted them to make a noise the doctor could hear. ‘It’s all here, isn’t it? The court papers, the medical council’s decision. Here’s the reason you didn’t take the doctor’s job officially, didn’t draw the salary – because you were struck off. You were never to practise medicine again. And I’m sure your face was known in your home country. Better to come here, and re-establish yourself in a practice where no one knew your name. Get yourself married and establish your legal right to be here. And then, of course, you did what you had done again.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘I know that you do. But you won’t be doing it again now, will you? Striking you blind was an act of pure genius. I might even have thought of it myself. Even so, I accept this kind of judicial anarchy is not ideal. I shall speak to your attacker, of course, but I shall offer my protection from official prosecution.’
‘You know who did this.’
‘Yes, I do. And I think you do, too. When you told me you didn’t know who brought you the note that morning, I think you lied, because I think you understand, now, the connection between them and this attack. But I shan’t be spelling it out for you or anyone else, because I think the attacker’s motive – their desire for revenge on you – was entirely justified. And you have years ahead of you to decide whether or not you agree.’
Outside in the corridor, the nurse’s station was still unoccupied. Leafing quickly through the patient files, the fat man found the one labelled ‘Chabrol, Louis’, and slipped the documents he had brought with him inside, taking care they were on top of the other paperwork and would be seen immediately the file was opened.
There was a spring in his step as he descended the stairs and made his way past the reception desk and into the street. The night was filled with moonlight and still young enough for the town’s entertainments to be explored; and as he set off to find a restaurant where the cook knew how to cook, the fat man was cheerfully humming.
Twenty-two
Noula set off in good time the next morning, and reaching Platania, parked her car in its usual place on a quiet street at the back of the library. Then, breaking the habit of many years, she passed the kafenion where she bought the director’s morning coffee, and passed the library’s front entrance without climbing the grand steps. Instead, she made her way through a district she rarely visited, heading in the direction of the general hospital.
The businesses in this part of town were late opening. At the cobbler’s on Ptolemon Street, a woman still in housecoat and slippers unbolted the shop door, and called with a saucer of tinned pilchards to an absent cat. There was a stationer’s Noula knew on Angelaki, where the window hadn’t been changed in several years and dead bluebottles lay on the displayed merchandise. At the florist’s at the bottom of Angelaki, flowers were being prepared for a wedding, and the florist’s girls chattered away excitedly as they tied ribbons around frothy blossoms of baby’s breath and white roses.
Opposite the hospital was a French-style café well known for excellent coffee and first-class croissants. Noula walked past the café, and crossed the street to the hospital entrance; and at his café table, from behind his newspaper the fat man watched her go.
The nurse at the hospital’s reception was occupied, thumbing through a cabinet of files whilst a young couple waited impatiently in front of the desk. Glad to be unnoticed, Noula followed the ‘All wards’ sign up the stairs and then along the corridor to the door she wanted.
The ward was quiet. She made her way down the central aisle, noticing the numbers of the rooms she passed, until she reached the open door of 111. The old man in the bed there was sleeping, his face to the wall; a woman sat at the bedside, knitting a baby’s jacket in soft blue wool. The moment she saw Noula, she laid the knitting on her husband’s bed and came to the open door.
‘Are you lost, kalé?’ The woman’s voice was loud, almost a shout; her husband, suddenly woken, raised his head from the pillow, then, muttering, lowered it back. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘I’m just a visitor,’ said Noula shortly. ‘Please, don’t disturb yourself.’
As if Noula hadn’t spoken, the woman went on.
‘Who are you visiting? This place is like a maze, and they don’t put up enough signs. But I know the place like my own home.’ She gripped Noula’s upper arm and pulled her close. ‘I know them all in here, kalé, I know them all by name and they know me. They know I’ll look after them. Any little thing they need, they know they can ask me. Is it a relative you’re visiting?’
Noula was unsure how to answer.
‘More of a friend,’ she said. Her vagueness sounded like subterfuge.
‘I understand, kalé, I understand.’ The woman touched a finger to her nose to confirm compliance in Noula’s conspiracy. ‘Tell me his name and I’ll point you in the right direction.’
‘Chabrol. Dr Louis Chabrol.’
In her delight, the woman’s face lit up.
‘You’re the fiancée!’ she said, looking Noula up and down; a slight reduction in the width of her smile told Noula she was not what was expected. ‘I told him every day that he should call you. He needs careful nursing, kori mou. In the absence of family, I’ve done what I can, of course, and I don’t ask for any repayment, even though I’m out of pocket. I told my husband, it’s our Christian duty to do what we can for a man whose family aren’t caring for him, regardless of cost. We’ll get our reward in heaven, I said. The money from my own purse isn’t important. This way, kalé, this way. Right next door to us.’
‘I’m not his fiancée,’ said Noula, but the woman wasn’t listening.
‘It’s time he had a visitor or two. He’s had almost no one, except for me. I’ve done my best by him. In here, here you are; in here. And I’ll be here, if you need me. I’ve made him as comfortable as I can.’
With a hand on Noula’s back, she threw open the door of the doctor’s room.
‘You’ve a visitor, yiatre,’ she announced, ‘a friend of yours. I’ve been telling her you needed brightening up. You’ve been a bit down these past days, haven’t you?’
The doctor’s room was cold; the open window let in the morning’s chill and the noise of passing traffic from the street. The doctor sat in a wheelchair by his bed, his knees covered with a hospital blanket; beneath the blanket, he was dressed as Noula had often seen him, in shirt, sweater and trousers.
But it was only by his clothes she knew him. His eyes were bound in bandages; the skin of his lower face was the raw red of newborns, and greased with ointment. On his chin, the peeling skin formed curls; around his mouth, deep burns were healing as black scabs. Undoubtedly, he had lost weight; his double chin was almost gone and his belly was less plump.
‘Didn’t I say that we should get you dressed this morning?’ the woman shouted at the doctor, as if it was his hearing that was damaged. ‘You’re ready for your visitor, you see.’ She turned to Noula. ‘I got him dressed, though he didn’t really want to. If you let them lie in bed all day, they get depressed. Though anyone’d be depressed, in his condition. I don’t know how you’ll cope, the two of you.’
As she left them, the doctor wasn’t smiling. He tilted his head back, as if by doing so he could see under his blindfold and identify the visitor in his room.
‘Who’
s there?’ he asked.
She hesitated, feeling it wrong to be there.
‘It’s me,’ she said at last. ‘It’s me, Noula.’
Still he didn’t smile.
‘Well, come in, Noula, and close the door,’ he said. ‘And close this window, too, before I die of pneumonia. That woman’s mad; she makes my life a misery.’
Noula pushed the door to, and crossed to the window. Close to the doctor, she caught the smells of iodine and sweat.
As she fastened the catch, he said, ‘I wasn’t expecting you, when she said it was a friend. That’s something I’d never have called you: friend.’
She found it disconcerting that, as he spoke to her, his face was turned away, towards the wall.
‘I don’t know why not,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been courteous to you.’
‘Courteous, yes. Friendly, no. I suppose you’re here on Chrissa’s business.’
‘Chrissa doesn’t know I’m here,’ she lied. ‘If she knew I’d come, she’d never speak to me again.’
‘Would that be a bad thing?’
‘What, not speaking to my own sister?’
‘You’ve avoided the question.’
‘The question was ridiculous.’
‘Why have you come, Noula?’ He sighed as he spoke, as though already wearied by her presence.
‘Why won’t you see her? She has a right to know.’
He gave a bark of humourless laughter, and held out his arms to display himself.
‘Look at me! Transformed in a moment, from doctor to lifetime patient! I’m an invalid, Noula!’
‘Then let her nurse you.’
‘I want no nursing! Nurses are like that damned woman next door! She gets on my nerves so badly, I’d wring her neck if I could get to her.’
‘She means well.’
‘She means cash. You women can be so naive.’
‘You wouldn’t feel that way about Chrissa, surely? You were going to marry her.’
‘Things have changed. As you can plainly see.’
‘But you’ll be better in time, surely. Chrissa said there are things they can do.’
‘In my case, nothing.’
‘But won’t you just talk to her?’
‘Why are you here, Noula, pleading her case? I’m not such a fool that I don’t know you’d be glad to see the back of me. Yet here you are, on your sister’s business, confirming my place in the family bosom.’
The silence between them grew long.
‘Noula? Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’m here, for her sake. Because whether I like you or loathe you, she wants to be your wife. And I want her – I don’t want her to be unhappy. So I’ll tell her she can come and see you, shall I? That’s what she wants. And don’t trouble yourself about whether she’ll leave you high and dry. She wants to be married; and when all’s said and done, you’re still a doctor, aren’t you?’
She was going to say more; but loud in the corridor they heard the fast, heavy footsteps of several men.
Outside the doctor’s door, a voice asked, ‘Is this it?’
The door was thrown open and a policeman stepped into the room. In the corridor were more people: another policeman, a white-uniformed nurse, three men in suits. Behind them all, the woman from the room next door stood on tiptoe, straining to see what was happening.
With cold eyes, the policeman looked at Noula, then at the doctor in his wheelchair.
‘Are you Chabrol?’ he asked. ‘Louis Chabrol?’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The policeman didn’t answer, but rejoined the men in the corridor.
‘It’s him,’ he said to the three men in suits. ‘He’s all yours.’
‘Just a moment!’ objected the nurse, placing herself in the doorway. ‘This absolutely is not allowed! Mr Chabrol has been very unwell, and the consultant . . .’
‘Step aside, please, madame.’ One of the three men moved forward as he spoke. His accent was heavy, and his last word was in French. The nurse hesitated; then she moved out of his way. The man motioned to his colleagues to join him, and all three entered the doctor’s room. Their clothes were civilian but similar; on their lapels, they all wore the same badge. Their hair was cut as short as the military’s; the tallest of them was scarred under his eye. The first man into the room carried an envelope in his hand; he stood in front of the doctor. The scar-faced man moved behind the wheelchair and put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder.
‘You can’t do this!’ said the nurse from the doorway. ‘I need to speak to . . .’
‘Please,’ said the man with the envelope, in his slow, accented Greek – an accent the same as the doctor’s. ‘Let us do our business.’
Hearing the men’s voices, the doctor’s grip on the wheelchair grew tight; below his bandages, his unsmiling mouth was grim.
Now the man holding the envelope spoke to the doctor, in a language Noula didn’t know. He spoke at length, and as he spoke, the doctor lowered his head; when he had finished speaking, the man dropped the envelope on to the doctor’s lap, on the hospital blanket. Feeling for the envelope, the doctor found it and waved it at the man. The doctor spoke with anger and pointed to his eyes, the wheelchair, the room; but the man just smiled, and turning to his companion, stepped out of the way as handcuffs were snapped on to the doctor’s wrists.
The doctor offered no resistance. The scar-faced man grasped the wheelchair’s handles.
‘This is an outrage!’ objected the nurse. ‘We cannot allow this treatment of our patient! Please do not move until I fetch . . .’
But the scar-faced man and the wheelchair had already reached the door.
‘Mr Chabrol is a fugitive from French law,’ said the scar-faced man, in halting Greek. ‘He will stand trial in Marseille, and until that time he will have the best treatment possible, in a prison hospital. Excuse me; I don’t wish to run over your foot.’
One of the Greek policemen held the door wide open; with the doctor in his wheelchair at their head, the men marched away, down the ward.
‘What’s going on, kalé?’ asked the woman from the room next door. ‘Why do those men want your fiancé?’
Ignoring her, Noula turned to the nurse.
‘Who were they?’ she asked. ‘What has he done?’
‘They’re the French police,’ said the nurse, ‘with extradition papers.’ She looked at Noula and the woman. ‘Are you family?’
Noula considered, and shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t discuss the matter,’ said the nurse.
Outside the hospital, Noula sat down on the wall, considering. Already, she was late for the office, but there was no question of her going there just yet; her thoughts were all on what she had witnessed and how she would explain it all to Chrissa.
She glanced across to the French café, and as she looked, a man stood up at his table, laid down his newspaper and beckoned to her. She knew him; it was the Athenian who had asked about the doctor. She raised her hand and shook her head, declining, but he beckoned to her again, as if he had some urgent need to speak to her; and so she crossed the street and went into the café.
The fat man offered her the best seat at his table, where the view was of the hospital frontage and the park on its far side. With a gesture, he summoned the waiter; after she requested orange juice, the fat man added pastries to the order.
‘Breakfast is important,’ he said, ‘and sugar is good for you when you’ve had a shock.’
‘Have you had a shock?’ she asked.
‘I was referring to you,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I have just seen Dr Chabrol taken away in handcuffs, and I assume, from the timing of your leaving the hospital, that you have seen the same.’
‘I went to see him, for Chrissa. They came for him whilst I was there.’
‘That was unfortunate,’ he said. He held out his ciga
rettes. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Have they arrested him?’ he asked, putting the cigarettes away.
‘It certainly seemed that way. They were foreigners; I couldn’t tell what it was they said to him.’
‘They were French, I’m sure.’
‘What has he done?’
The waiter brought Danish pastries and Noula’s orange juice, and the fat man thanked the waiter as he left. She sipped at the cold juice; the fat man offered her the plate of pastries.
‘You must have first pick,’ he said. ‘Please, take one. The sugar, as I say, will do you good. I cannot make the same excuse for myself, but I shall indulge nonetheless, simply because they are so good here.’
She chose, and so did he; and as she tasted the apricots and sweet vanilla custard, she found he was quite right about the sugar.
The fat man sipped at what was left of his coffee.
‘Of course this will be a huge blow to your sister. But he was not the man for her.’
‘He was so good to Mama; he used to sit with her to give Chrissa a break. But I couldn’t like him, and he seemed to know it. What has he done that is so serious?’
The fat man hesitated.
‘I really couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, it’s better not to know.’
‘But Chrissa will want to know. She might want to follow him where he’s gone. Maybe I should make enquiries at the police station.’
The fat man took another bite of his pastry.
‘These really are excellent, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘You’ll find the cherry ones are very good, too.’
But her mind was troubled at the thought of Chrissa leaving, and the fat man knew she wasn’t listening. Her hand was on the table, by her plate; gently, he laid his own hand on her forearm.
‘He’s gone from your lives, Noula. Now take my advice, and ask no questions. You might find your sister was more in love with the idea of marriage than with the man. And circumstances can always change again – and often for the better, if the Fates are kind.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked at him sceptically. ‘Sometimes they are kind,’ he insisted. ‘Trust me.’
The Doctor of Thessaly Page 18