The Doctor of Thessaly

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘By then, I knew what had happened to the doctor. His bike was there, and I took it, because – as I saw it – it belonged to Chrissa. I knew if it was left there, the local lads would have it stripped for parts within a week. They’d take everything, down to the smallest bolt. It was a valuable piece of property, and it was hers. So I took it for safe-keeping. That was all. But the time’s never been right to take it to her.’

  ‘And now?’

  He lowered his head to his knees, and hid his face. The fat man reached out, and in a fatherly gesture, clasped the shepherd’s rough hand in his own.

  ‘Is this the truth you have told me?’

  Head still down, Orfeas nodded.

  ‘I didn’t harm him; I wouldn’t harm him. That would have hurt Chrissa. Her happiness – that’s what’s important.’

  The fat man removed his hand.

  ‘So tell me, Orfeas – how will your body swinging from that tree contribute to Chrissa’s happiness?’

  ‘How did you know to come after me?’

  ‘The dog loose, amongst your fat lambs? A suicidal move, for a shepherd. You’ll have your work cut out, rounding them all up, and the dog will have enjoyed its freedom, too. The dog needs its master, and the sheep need their shepherd. And now she’s alone again, don’t you think Chrissa might need you too?’

  He raised his head.

  ‘She’s marrying the doctor; that’s what folks say. When he’s got his sight back, the wedding’s on again.’

  ‘Well, as so often with rumour, folks have got it wrong. The doctor’s gone back to his homeland on urgent business. He won’t be back for any wedding, take it from me. But the lady’s got a dress, and shoes, and a house ready to live in – all that’s missing is a bridegroom.’

  Derisively, he laughed.

  ‘You can’t be thinking of me. Look at me! Why would any woman look at me?’

  The fat man raised his eyebrows, and looked Orfeas in the eye.

  ‘So?’ he asked. ‘What will you do about it? Don’t think me unkind, but was it not – just possibly – of your making that Chrissa forgot she was to marry you? She’s a romantic, as you are; so did you put on your best clothes and offer to take her dancing? Did you take her flowers, or send her little notes, or let her know in any way at all she was the most important thing in the world to you? Or did you go there – forgive me, friend, but I told you I deal in truth, and sometimes the truth is hard to hear – dressed as you are now, stinking of sheep and with your hair needing a cut and your boots covered in mud? You must accept the part you played in this, Orfeas – you were careless with the lady’s affection. In short, you took her for granted, and made it easy for the Frenchman to step in. Now he’s stepped out, you have a second chance. Cut out the tsipouro; no woman wants the bottle for a rival. And clean yourself up, and go there, declare yourself again. You made a mistake, assuming she could read your mind. What she read in you was carelessness and indifference. Make it up to her. I suggest you make use of this.’

  He held out the violin and bow.

  ‘I told you. I don’t play.’

  ‘You do play. You can play. But your finger joints are rusty and the violin needs repair. Make amends to your instrument first, and she’ll help you win the lady you are after. And return the motorbike to her, as you had planned. The doctor doesn’t need it any more, and the money from its sale will go some way to paying for that wedding.’

  ‘But what about the doctor?’ asked Orfeas. ‘We still don’t know who attacked him. I’ve heard some people think I did it. What if Chrissa thinks so?’

  ‘Those who need to know, know,’ said the fat man, darkly. ‘There’s somewhere else I have to be in the next day or so, but I have time to pay a visit before I go. You need know nothing, except that it is dealt with, and the doctor’s no obstruction to your lady. If you don’t win her back, you can only blame yourself. Now let’s cut down this rope and restore it to its proper, useful place.’

  In the square, workmen – the dregs of the task force – were cutting down the bunting; the electrician was making heavy weather of winding up the cabling, whilst the street-sweeper, leaning on his shovel, gave his advice.

  On the fountain rim, a young man sat, watching. Approaching him, the fat man offered him his hand.

  ‘I’m very pleased to see you, Mr Mayor,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give you my thanks for an excellent day’s entertainment. You must feel the minister’s visit was a resounding success.’

  The mayor stood to take the fat man’s hand, but his handshake lacked conviction.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. As you see, this is the tail end of it all – the tidying up, and back to normal life.’

  ‘Do I sense,’ asked the fat man, shrewdly, ‘that you are missing the drama of a challenge?’

  The mayor smiled, a little sadly.

  ‘You might say that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think that is probably very true.’

  ‘Yet this town presents a challenge, in itself,’ said the fat man. ‘To me, as an outsider, it lacks any obvious prosperity – would you agree? Whilst there’s money for some in agriculture, don’t you think it would be a good idea to diversify?’

  ‘Diversify? But into what?’

  From his pocket, the fat man drew out a matchbox and slid it open to show the small object inside. He held the matchbox out to the mayor. The mayor looked in at the object and frowned.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  With finger and thumb, the fat man picked out the lead scroll he had found in the sands of the ancient ruins.

  ‘It’s a curse tablet,’ he said. ‘Your ancestors were well known for necromancy – for spell casting and ill wishing, in malicious and sometimes highly original ways. I found this example of their work – between you and me, of course – in the ruins on the Platania road. I think, if you could persuade the Department of Archaeology to investigate, there could be more to find.’

  ‘But why would they investigate?’ asked the mayor. ‘The place is no Ephesus, is it? Their schedules are backed up for years to come. And what do we have, after all? Just a few stones.’

  ‘Just a few stones above ground, maybe; but what if those stones hide something more? You’re a man with great powers of persuasion, Angelos. Get them to dig, and who knows what they might find? Perhaps something to put Morfi on the map. Here, take the scroll; use it to bolster your argument. If you have enough faith in yourself, the next time you welcome a visiting dignitary, it could be the President himself.’

  Twenty-four

  At one o’clock exactly, the fat man pulled up alongside the pumps. Across the garage forecourt, the space usually occupied by the mechanic’s truck was empty, its absence marked by a rectangle of dry cement where the remainder was damp. By the workshop door, Christos squatted amongst rags and dusters, applying polish to a moped. As the fat man switched off the Mercedes’s engine, the boy raised his eyes, but gave his full attention back to his polishing.

  Slamming the car door, the fat man called out, cheerfully.

  ‘Yassou, Christos! I see you’re hard at work. And I hate to interrupt you, but whilst I’m here, I’m needing petrol. So fill her up, will you? I’ve a long journey ahead of me, and the old girl drinks more than she should. And could you let your mother know I’m here?’

  In imitation of his father, Christos wiped his hands on an oily rag which he dropped to the ground, and passed the fat man in silence. A half-formed man still uncomfortable with what he was becoming, he strode lankily and selfconsciously up to the house, and called a single word of summons through the kitchen door. Sullen-faced, and with an air of being grossly inconvenienced, he returned to the pumps, where he was careful to invite no conversation as he removed the car’s petrol cap and slotted the pump’s nozzle into the tank.

  On the road, two girls were going by, walking quickly with their bags of bread and groceries, heads bent together in conversation, their faces covered by their long, luxuriant hair. Christos
glanced at them and coloured red, bending low to hide himself behind the Mercedes’s body.

  The fat man smiled and shook his head; as the gauge on the pumps ticked slowly round, he wandered to the verge where wild flowers grew in the spring-fresh grass, and bent to touch the mauve petals of an anemone.

  From the house, the mechanic’s wife hurried towards them, glancing back over her shoulder. The hem of her black skirt needed stitching; her slippers had holes at the toes. Under her arm, she carried a leather-bound album, and in her hand, a large and tattered envelope.

  She didn’t smile, but laid the album and the envelope on the bonnet of the car, holding them there with the palms of both hands as though to stop them from blowing away, though there was no wind.

  ‘Kali mera sas,’ she said. ‘We must be quick. Tassos is away, but he might be back at any time.’

  The car’s tank was full; as Christos lifted out the nozzle, a splash of petrol fell near the fat man’s feet. With a clatter, Christos replaced the nozzle on the pump and turned to leave them, but the fat man wanted him to stay.

  ‘You’ll be interested in what I have to say,’ he said. He glanced at the dials on the pump. ‘Let me pay you what I owe, first of all.’ He took out his wallet, and handed over notes to cover the amount shown on the dials. ‘Keep the change. Maybe you should buy new brake pads for that moped of yours.’

  The boy took the money. The tip was generous, but still he didn’t speak or smile, though he inclined his head a little as a thank you before stuffing the cash into his jeans.

  ‘I haven’t said anything to Mama about the photographs,’ said Litsa. There was regret in her voice for her deception.

  She pulled out what was in the envelope. There were ten black and white shots, all taken at the shore: the face of a young fisherman, whose old eyes looked far out to sea; a catch of dying fish, gasping in a dripping net; an upturned boat, long-abandoned and decaying on a winter beach. All captured both a moment and all time, an age already past but never passing in men’s consciousness and dreams.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said the fat man, shaking his head as he went through them. ‘Simply extraordinary.’

  ‘It would break her heart,’ said Litsa, sadly. ‘And I don’t want Tassos to know. If there’s money to be had, it’s to spend on a few comforts for Mama and some nice things for the kids, not on truck parts and his card games.’

  The fat man handed back the photographs.

  ‘If your mother would be upset at your selling the photographs, perhaps you should wait a while,’ he said.

  ‘You mean until she dies.’

  The fat man’s eyes were kind.

  ‘I do mean that, yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait until then.’

  There was silence between them. The boy looked down at his feet and kicked a stone; it rattled across the cement and came to rest close to the anemones the fat man had admired.

  ‘But the money would bring her benefit,’ said Litsa, as if thinking aloud. ‘I wanted to buy her some nice things. She’s never had much; nothing of her own.’

  At last, the boy broke his silence.

  ‘What’s the point, Mama?’ he said, fiercely. ‘She doesn’t know what day it is, what year it is, even! What’s the point in buying her things? She won’t know they’re there.’

  ‘Because she deserves them,’ said his mother, quietly.

  ‘But you said yourself,’ said the boy, with logic, ‘it’d break her heart to see Grandpa’s pictures sold. She wanted us to keep them. You know that.’

  ‘And what’s the point of pictures?’ She looked directly at the boy; her pale skin was pink with indignation. ‘We can’t eat pictures, or wear them!’

  ‘What’s the point in buying things for someone who can’t use them? You’re just trying to make it up to her. You’re trying to make yourself feel better.’ Plainly, the boy was angry, yet there seemed no reason why. Christos’s objections seemed out of character; what teenager would object to trading boring photographs for new clothes?

  Litsa looked at the boy with tears in her eyes, and with hands made clumsy by emotion, forced the photographs back into their envelope.

  ‘I’m sorry, kyrie,’ she said, ‘but our pictures aren’t for sale.’

  She and the boy turned to leave him, he heading back to the workshop, she towards the house, clasping the album and envelope to her chest.

  But the fat man didn’t let them go.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  The boy kept walking as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘You too, Christos,’ said the fat man.

  He opened the passenger door of the Mercedes. On the seat lay papers like those he had left at the hospital.

  ‘These,’ he said, holding them up, ‘are copies of letters sent to Dr Louis.’

  Hearing that name, Litsa gave a polite smile. The boy folded his arms across his chest; his expression gave no hint of his thoughts.

  ‘You know Dr Louis, don’t you?’ asked the fat man. ‘I believe you told me he treated your mother.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Litsa. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Blind,’ said the fat man. ‘Blind, and unlikely to see again.’

  Litsa gave a small tut – the kind of insignificant sound appropriate to the misfortunes of a stranger.

  ‘You’ll be interested in these.’ The fat man offered her the papers.

  ‘I?’ She touched her breastbone with her hand; her face was puzzled. ‘Why should I be interested in Dr Louis’s correspondence?’

  ‘They are translations of letters sent to him by the overseeing medical body of France. There is one from the Courts of Justice, too. Please, read them.’

  Placing the photographs back on the car bonnet, she took the papers from him with a show of reluctance. The boy moved close to her, and read over her shoulder. After a while, she looked at the fat man in confusion.

  ‘What do they mean?’ she asked.

  ‘They mean,’ said the fat man, quietly, ‘that your mother wasn’t the first.’

  She handed the papers to her son, and placed her face in her hands; yet there was no sound from her to suggest she might be crying. The fat man took her arm, and guided her to the open car door, pressing her into the passenger seat.

  The boy’s mask of indifference had slipped; he crouched down next to his mother and laid a hand on her knee.

  ‘Mama,’ he said. ‘Mama, are you all right?’

  ‘Run inside, son, and fetch your mother a glass of water.’

  ‘No,’ said the boy, firmly. ‘I’m not leaving her.’

  ‘Are you ready, then, both of you, to hear what I have to say?’

  Her face still hidden, Litsa nodded.

  ‘She wasn’t the first, Litsa,’ said the fat man. ‘But she was certainly the last. You made sure of that.’

  Now she took her hands from her face, and the boy grasped them and held them inside his own in her lap, and looked up at the fat man with defiance.

  ‘We had to do something,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say anything, Mama!’ said Christos. ‘Just say nothing!’

  ‘I’m not a policeman, son,’ said the fat man. ‘Your secrets are safe with me; your consciences are yours to live with.’

  ‘My conscience is clear, in regard to him,’ spat Litsa. ‘He had to be stopped, and I’d do it again tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t say anything, Mama,’ implored the boy again. ‘You don’t know him! You can’t trust him!’

  ‘You can trust me, Christos,’ said the fat man. ‘You can, and must, trust me. My interest is not in courts and trials, but in justice. The two are often not the same. Persuade me what you did was justified, and I will keep silence with you. You have my word.’

  The boy was silent, but the fat man saw the movement of his fingers as he squeezed his mother’s hands in assent.

  ‘Tell me,’ the fat man insisted.

  Litsa gave a sigh, deep and
releasing.

  ‘It was Christos who saw,’ she said. ‘He’s such a bright boy, my lad, bright and observant. Dr Louis came to see her regularly, twice a week. Perhaps my husband was right, in that respect; it was too often, for a patient whose condition was unchanging. I took it as his admirable commitment to his work, his interest in geriatric medicine. He pricked her fingers with pins, shone lights in her eyes, all sorts of things to generate some response. He gave her a new medicine he said might stimulate her brain, bring her out of her – what did he call it, Christos?’

  ‘Catatonia.’

  ‘Out of her catatonia. I was pleased he was prepared to spend the time: half an hour, often; more, sometimes. I left him with her. Of course I did! I left her in his care. He was a doctor, so I believed she was in caring hands.’

  A tear ran down her cheek, and, reluctant to remove her hands from her son’s to dry it, she left it there; but Christos slipped one hand from hers, and with his thumb, brushed it away.

  ‘I took advantage of the time to do the chores,’ she went on. ‘There are always chores. I made him coffee. I made him welcome, and I left him to it.

  ‘But that day, he didn’t bank on Christos being there. He could keep one eye on me, I suppose, through that back window, whatever I was doing. And who knows what I was doing? – hanging out washing, feeding the poultry, picking spinach. He could watch me with one eye and still do what he did. He thought he was safe. But Christos had been unwell, and had the day off school. He’d been asleep in his bedroom. And he got up, for whatever reason, and came looking for me in Mama’s room. Barefoot, I suppose he was, so he made no noise. And he saw. He saw what that man was doing, with one eye on me. The doctor was watching me, and Christos watched the doctor.’

  The fat man spoke to Christos.

  ‘Do you want to tell me, son, what you saw?’

  Violently, Christos shook his head.

  ‘He’s not to tell you!’ said his mother, vehemently. ‘I’ve told him never to think of it again, never to speak of it! If it were possible, I’ve told him to wipe it from his mind.’

  ‘Will you tell me, then? One of you must tell me, Litsa.’