‘A moment more, please,’ said the reporter, turning to a clean page to complete his record of Yorgas’s remarks. Attis loosened the knot of his black tie. At the graveside, a gathering of women remained. Frona, Leda and Maria, the housekeeper, were weeping; others entreated them to leave.
‘Local people say he never recovered from losing his wife,’ said the reporter, his attention still, apparently, on the page. ‘She left him, didn’t she? Is it true she ran off with another man? Is she here, today?’
He looked back towards the grave, searching amongst the women for one who might be the poet’s wife. A trickle of water ran down his forehead from his wet hair, and he brushed it away with his cuff.
‘She’s not here, no,’ said Attis. ‘Kyria Volakis lives abroad now, in the United States. She couldn’t possibly have got to Vrisi in time for the funeral.’
‘But there’s a daughter, isn’t there? What’s her name?’ He scanned the earlier pages of his notes. ‘Leda. I had the pleasure, the other night; a pretty girl, and unmarried, I believe. Who’ll be taking care of her, now she’s an orphan? Deserted by her mother, and now her father dead in his prime – her future’ll be uncertain, I suppose.’
‘She’ll be well cared for by the family, as she’s always been,’ said Attis. ‘And what do you mean, you had the pleasure?’
The reporter looked at him.
‘May I ask your name, kyrie?’ he asked, his pencil ready at the start of a new line.
‘My name is on the press release I’m sure you’ve already received,’ said Attis. ‘I knew Santos for many years. They call me Attis Danas, and I am – I was – his literary agent. I built Santos’s career; I nurtured him and guided him in his work. Above all else, I like to think that he and I were friends.’
The reporter looked from Attis to Yorgas, and again at Attis.
‘That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘So we have here two men who have lost both a dear friend and a valuable source of income. Truly, it’s a sad day for you both.’
On the path behind them, a babble of women’s voices was growing closer, as Frona, Leda and Maria were guided from the grave under an assembly of umbrellas. The reporter’s eyes brightened.
‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘May I offer you my card? I’d welcome a call, if you’ve anything that might be of interest.’
‘Scum,’ said Attis, when he was certain the reporter was out of earshot. He reached into his raincoat, and producing two small cigars, gave one to Yorgas, and lit both with a petrol lighter. ‘Time for a drink, I think.’
They moved on, keeping ahead of the women, whom the reporter was delaying. Rain drummed on the umbrella, and dripped from its spokes.
‘Poor Santos,’ said Yorgas, as they reached the cemetery gates. ‘It’s a sobering thought that any one of us might be gone, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.
‘And yet,’ said Attis, thoughtfully, ‘as I was saying to you the other night, even what seems black may bring opportunity. We must look for the good in this disaster.’ He pointed to his temple. ‘We have to use our brains, and take care of our own interests. And of Frona’s and Leda’s, of course.’
‘The truth is, we’ve had more orders for Santos’s books in the last two days than we’ve had in his whole career,’ said Yorgas. ‘I’ve been thinking we might do another print run. Another five thousand maybe, see how they go.’
‘Poor Santos,’ said Attis. He glanced at the tip of his cigar, which had gone out. ‘Man has many projects, and God cuts them short. To hear that he was selling well would have been balm to his very soul. You might let me have the figures, when you get back to the office. In the meantime, let me buy you that drink.’
Maria found no comfort in her tea; there was no soothing in the floweriness of the camomile, nor any sweetening for her bitterness in the melting honey. She untwisted her damp handkerchief, and dabbed again at her eyes.
‘Such a loss I never thought to feel,’ she said. ‘And the casket closed and sealed, so I never even kissed his face goodbye! Kamari mou, kamari mou! Like a son he was to me; he was the son I never had!’
‘He was, kalé, he was,’ said the next-door neighbour, squeezing Maria’s hand before taking another biscuit from the plate. ‘You were a mother to him, all those years.’
Roula, Maria’s own mother, was preparing vegetables for pickling. On newspaper spread over the good table, she pared the earth-darkened skins of carrots pulled from the garden; the acid smell of vinegar hung in the air.
‘It must have made him ugly, for it to be closed casket,’ she said, making a triple cross over her heart. ‘They say with a choking, the face is blue. It makes them goggle-eyed, and swells the tongue. And you doted on him too much, kori mou. You spoiled him, you and that sister of his. Writing poetry was never honest work, for a man.’
Maria was about to object, but the neighbour spoke first.
‘What about the will, kalé?’ she asked; the pap of chewed biscuits stuck in the gums of the new teeth she was so proud of. ‘Tell us what you know about the will.’
‘He left a little to me,’ said Maria, tearfully. ‘He left me a little token, as I expected.’
‘I hope it isn’t books,’ said Roula, dropping carrot slices into a preserving jar. ‘It’s cash you want. Is it cash?’
‘He left me a few drachmas,’ said Maria. ‘It’s not a great deal, but it’s something.’
‘Not a great deal, for all your years of service?’ asked her mother. ‘Don’t let them insult you. If it’s not enough, you give it back.’
‘I don’t think he was wealthy,’ said the neighbour. ‘If he was wealthy, he hid it very well. And they say no one left the will-reading with a smile.’
‘Why should anyone be smiling at a will-reading?’ asked Maria. ‘They were doling out a dead man’s effects. Who would be smiling at that?’
‘They might be smiling more in four years’ time,’ said the neighbour darkly, as she chose another biscuit.
‘Four years? What do you mean?’ Roula brushed carrot parings from her apron lap. ‘Pass me those biscuits, Maria; let me have one whilst there’s still one to have, and tell me what she means.’
Maria pushed the plate towards her mother.
‘That’s what he said in the will. It’s how he wanted it. There’s nothing for anyone for four years.’
‘Four years!’ said her mother, a biscuit only halfway to her mouth. ‘What was he thinking of? Had he lost his mind? Does he want his family to starve?’
‘He didn’t say four years, exactly,’ said Maria. ‘The lawyer read out his words, so we could hear them for ourselves. Santos put it very poetically. When my bones finally see daylight. Something like that.’
‘I suppose he meant, then,’ said the neighbour, chewing thoughtfully, ‘until his exhumation.’
‘Yes,’ said Maria, nodding slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose he did.’
Roula gave a hard, barking laugh.
‘I’d have paid money to see their faces, when that was read out!’ she said. ‘How did they take it, kori mou? All credit to the poet, after all! He had a sense of humour I never saw.’
‘He was never a humorous man, in truth,’ said Maria. ‘He was always very earnest, from being a boy.’
‘Sounds to me as if he earnestly doesn’t want them to have his money,’ laughed her mother. ‘Well, they won’t be liking that, I shouldn’t think. And I don’t suppose you like it either, kori mou. Four years till you get your little legacy! Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of his book, and keep you waiting the same way!’
‘There’s no point in that when you’ve nothing to leave,’ said Maria, sourly. ‘What legacy are you going to will to me?’
‘Only wisdom and memories,’ said Roula. ‘Wisdom and memories, kori mou. For which you should be grateful. Mine’s a legacy you won’t wait years for; and what better gifts could a mother possibly leave?’
Pre-exhumation
Six
The island
of Seftos was no siren, no draw for crowds of visitors. Long, flat and featureless, its unremarkable landscape had an undistinguished history, with no mention in the myths of ancient times nor any references in the guidebooks of today. Set on a wide and sweeping bay which gave no shelter, its town was ranged like a battalion, with tradesmen’s premises and stores all at the centre, and commonplace houses on either flank. Behind the town grew acres of medlar orchards, whose old trees blossomed, at the appropriate season, into an attractive pink; but the market for medlars was never better than slow, and despite the growers’ co-operative’s ardent efforts at promotion, the fame of the Isle of Medlars had never spread beyond the boundaries of its own prefecture.
A few days before the poet’s exhumation, the weekly boat to Athens – a vast vessel, whose long-serving captain was always apprehensive of Seftos’s shallow waters – docked hours late alongside the island’s own small ferry, which had no sailing scheduled for that day. Anxious to make up time and press on to the next port on their route, the crew handled the offloading with efficiency, lowering the ramp as the ship-to-shore lines were being secured, ushering off the disembarking foot passengers as they beckoned forward those waiting to board.
The arriving passengers were hurried away by relatives complaining of the delay, or disappeared down alleyways to back-street homes. But a figure watching from the ramp-head – an overweight man in an overcoat, with white tennis shoes on his feet – seemed undecided whether to leave the boat or not: he stepped on to the ramp, then back on to the deck; he checked his watch, and bit his lip, and stepped forward and back again.
The freight was light, and soon claimed and carted off, in trucks, on motorbikes, by hand. The ferry’s hefty ropes were already cast off, and a crewman’s hand was on the lever to raise the ramp, when the watching man called out to him to wait and stepped forward a third time.
The engines were powering up, and the crewman shouted over the water’s churning.
‘Run, friend!’
The fat man ran down the ramp, a hand raised in thanks to the crewman. The ferry moved away from the quay, whilst on the harbour-side, the fat man seemed to be doubting his decision. But as the foghorn gave a short blast of farewell, and the boat disappeared round the northern headland, he shrugged, picked up his bag and walked away from the dock towards the town’s heart.
Along the quayside, boats hauled from the sea in autumn were still waiting for spring painting. Pigeons sheltered beside a chimney stack on the bakery roof; the tattered flag at the war memorial fluttered on its pole. An old man limped slowly by, a seaman’s cap pulled down over his ears; as he passed the fat man, he gave a nod of greeting, and muttered, Krio – cold.
Over the doorway of the general store, the stems of last year’s May Day flowers hung, long dead, as good luck, with a carbon cross from an Easter candle’s smoke marked on the lintel. Tied with old rope to a trestle table lay a long-legged black hound, too dejected to raise his head as the fat man passed. With rain threatening, one of the narrow double doors remained bolted shut, so the fat man was forced to enter the store sideways. Hessian sacks of dried goods – lentils and chickpeas, rice and chicken-feed – obstructed his passage, and he edged between them to reach the counter.
The shop was lit only by a single bulb, and the daylight was blocked by boxes of stock – biscuits and pasta, canned fruit and shampoo – stacked up in front of the window. There were smells of garlic and onions, of salt anchovies, soap powder and oranges, and of cheese from the humming fridge, above which a caged linnet chirped once, and was silent.
The shopkeeper had tried to make himself comfortable: an empty coffee cup was at his elbow, a tumbler of spirit was on the till-top, the remains of a ham sandwich lay on a plate. He was past his prime, and had let himself go; his cheeks had four days’ worth of stubble, and his fingers were stained ochre with nicotine. On the shelf behind him, a radio was tuned to a talk show, where two men argued about a basketball team’s performance.
‘They played like spastics, as usual,’ said the shopkeeper to the radio, and switched it off. Rubbing his hands to restore their warmth, he turned to the fat man.
‘Yassas,’ he said. ‘Kalos tou, kalos tou! A winter visitor! You’re a very rare bird, if I may say.’ He looked the fat man up and down, admiring his cashmere overcoat in midnight blue, his grey suit with its subtle stripe, his waistcoat buttoned over a pale shirt. The fat man’s owlish glasses gave him an air of academia, and his greying hair, though in need of cutting, was thick with curls; he placed his bag – a holdall of the type favoured by athletes, not new, but of some vintage, in well cared for navy leather – between his feet, drawing the shopkeeper’s attention, as he did so, to his white shoes. ‘But visitors are a rarity at any time, in this backwater, and I don’t ever recall one turned out like you. No offence, friend, but are you sure you’re in the right place?’
The fat man smiled, and held out his hand.
‘Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens,’ he said. ‘And I must admit, Seftos wasn’t my intended destination. I disembarked on something of a whim. Many years have gone by since I was on the Isle of Medlars.’
The shopkeeper laughed as he shook the fat man’s hand.
‘It’s a strange thing to be known for, wouldn’t you say? A fruit too sour to eat until it’s rotten? But if you want medlars, you must come back in the autumn. We’re buried in the damn things, then.’
‘It’s medlars I’ve come for now, if I can get some,’ said the fat man. ‘I know it’s not the season, but I’m hoping to find some spoon sweets, or other preserves. I’m intending to pay a visit to an old friend, and when I heard Seftos announced on the ferry tannoy, I was reminded of her partiality to the fruit. I shall be late, now, where I was going, but that business must wait. Medlars are such a rarity, these days, I thought I should take the opportunity when it presented itself. Did you know medlars were regarded, centuries ago, as an aid to chastity? Men made their women eat them, to stop them straying.’
‘I can shoot holes in that remedy, in a second,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘The women here are medlar-eaters from birth, so by that logic, you’d expect them all to be virtuous as St Agnes, and that, they most certainly are not. I’ve got medlar jam, if you think it would suit.’
‘Since it’s not in my power to change the season, it will,’ said the fat man. He looked around the shop, and his eyes fell on the fridge’s display of cold meats and cheeses. ‘I wonder if you would cut me a few slices of salami? And is the cheese I see there by any chance kopanisti?’
‘It is,’ said the shopkeeper, climbing off his stool, blowing on his hands as he went behind his fridge. Reaching into the display, he placed a fat sausage of salami in the crook of the steel blades of the electric slicer, and cut the first slices on to a piece of waxed paper.
‘So you’ve been in Seftos before? Forgive me, friend, but I don’t remember your face.’
‘I was a younger man, then,’ said the fat man. ‘My family and I used to visit a little islet, just around the coast. My memories of those times are very happy. Maybe I should make the journey over there, for old times’ sake.’
‘You might not be very welcome, if you did,’ said the shopkeeper, as more salami dropped on to the paper. ‘The islet’s occupied, these days, by a man not always keen on company. Our hermit, as we call him. Though he’s not there, now. You’ve no doubt come in on the big boat, so maybe you saw him at the dock. He’s just taken that boat himself, and gone away. He’s left me to care for his dog, that beast outside. I don’t like dogs, and I mistrust that one especially, but his master’s a good customer, so I said I’d do him the favour.’
‘The dog seems placid enough, at the moment,’ said the fat man. ‘When you say his owner’s a hermit, do you mean he’s religious?’
The shopkeeper smiled a wry smile at some private knowledge. He wrapped the paper around the salami, and secured the packet with an elastic band.
‘He’s a man who likes the ladies too much to be
religious,’ he said, reaching into the fridge for the kopanisti. ‘Though they’re not over-fond of him. Women like a man to smell sweet, and there’s more of goats than roses about our hermit. Which isn’t his fault; the man lives pretty rough. Folks used to say he was a fugitive from the law, but folks here’ll say anything to shine up a dull story. Witless and slow as the law may be, if they were after him, even they’d have tracked him down by now. If you ask me, he’s just a fellow who prefers his own company, and there’s no married man alive who doesn’t have some sympathy with that.’
He cut a wedge of the soft cheese.
‘But what does your hermit live on?’ asked the fat man. ‘I remember that place as barren, just olive trees and scrub.’
‘He does all right for himself,’ said the shopkeeper, wrapping the cheese. ‘He has his goats, and a few chickens. He grows a few vegetables, and catches a fish or two. And he’s been enterprising.’ Moving back behind the counter, he reached down to a shelf and held up an unlabelled bottle of tsipouro, a potent spirit distilled from grape skins and stalks. ‘He makes this stuff. There’s a glass here, if you’d like to try it.’
The fat man nodded agreement; the shopkeeper poured a measure into a fingermarked glass, and handed it to the fat man, taking his own glass from the till-top.
‘Yammas.’
The men drank, and the fat man smiled.
‘Quite a kick,’ he said. ‘Where does a man learn to distil tsipouro like this?’
The Whispers of Nemesis Page 4