The Whispers of Nemesis

by Anne Zouroudi

  He hung up the phone, and remained for a moment leaning against the wall. As he sat down opposite the fat man, he composed his face to disguise a self-satisfied smile.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘now we can get down to business.’ He looked around at their company, aware that, in spite of seeming absorbed in their own banter, the village men would eavesdrop if they could. ‘Where should we start?’

  ‘You were going to tell me . . .’ began the fat man; but the patron was approaching with a tray. The fat man stopped speaking, and he and Attis sat silent as the patron placed coffee and glasses of water before them. When the patron moved away, the fat man, too, seemed conscious of others’ interest in their talk. When he spoke again, he kept his voice low.

  ‘You were going to explain to me the nature of your relationship with Santos Volakis,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand what is involved in being his literary agent.’

  Attis sipped at his coffee, and replaced the cup on its saucer.

  ‘In principle, it’s simple,’ he said. ‘I’m a businessman; Santos was an artist, a creative. I handled his business affairs – dealing with publishers, in the main, often his publicity too, requests for public appearances, commissions, interviews. My job was to sell his work, and get it out to the widest possible audience. Which was not always easy, I have to say; the market for poetry has always been quite limited. My fee was 15 per cent of his earnings, which was not, believe me, a great amount for the effort I put in.’

  ‘And had you worked together a long time?’

  ‘I was the only agent he ever had; his first, and his last. I’m one of the best in the business, Kyrie Diaktoros, though I say it myself; the solidity of my reputation gives the stamp of quality to my clients. Santos never had reason to go anywhere else.’

  ‘And was that the extent of your relationship – a professional one?’

  Attis did not answer immediately, but took another sip of his coffee. Allowing him time to consider his response, the fat man reached into the pocket of his overcoat, and took out matches and a pack of cigarettes – an old-fashioned box, whose lift-up lid bore the head of a 1940s starlet. He slid the cover from the matchbox; but instead of taking out a match, he looked inside, then tipped from it into the palm of his hand an object of yellowing ivory.

  ‘I don’t wish to interrupt your thoughts,’ he said, ‘but I had quite forgotten I had brought this with me. It’s a novelty which is, in my experience, unique. I acquired it very recently in Crete, as a gift from an elderly gentleman who wanted it protected from his daughter’s zealous house clearance once he is gone.’ He held up the object between his thumb and fingertip. Small, and discoloured with age, it was plainly the tooth of some creature, serrated on its edge and pointed like a fang.

  Attis looked at the object with little interest at first; but recognising the uniqueness of its features, he leaned forward to inspect it more closely.

  ‘What in heaven and earth is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ said the fat man, offering the object to Attis, ‘I couldn’t vouch for its authenticity; but I am told it is that great rarity, a hen’s tooth.’

  Attis was about to take the object, but withdrew his hand.

  ‘A hen’s tooth?’ he asked. ‘How could it possibly be a hen’s tooth?’

  The fat man smiled, and dropped the ivory back into the matchbox. He held out his cigarettes to Attis, who shook his head to decline; choosing one for himself, he produced a slim, gold lighter, knocked the tip of his cigarette on the table, and lit it.

  ‘I must assume some prank or practical joke played on the old man,’ he said. ‘But even so, it’s an intriguing object, and a clever forgery, if forgery it is. I shall treasure it regardless, as its previous owner did, because it reminds me of the greatest rarity in my profession: willingness to part with the truth. Here.’ He closed the matchbox, and placed it before him on the table. ‘Let us leave it here between us, as a reminder that hens’ teeth – and truthfulness – may both be found, if one searches long enough.’ He drew again on his cigarette. ‘So. We have wandered off the track. You were telling me, I think, about your relationship with Santos.’

  ‘It was, at first, very formal and businesslike,’ said Attis. ‘He came to me as a young man, an innocent, naive.’ He gave a small smile, as if the memory amused him. ‘He had already had his first volume of poetry published, without the benefit of an agent to help him through the minefield of contracts. He felt – quite rightly – he hadn’t got himself a very good deal, and so he came to me and asked me to sell his second collection. Which I agreed to, of course; the quality of his work was unmistakable. I sold it to the same publisher who had his first poems, but on much better terms. We started small, a few hundred copies; but sales have grown, from there.’

  ‘A few hundred? It seems a very modest quantity.’

  ‘A common enough beginning, especially for a poet. And his work was well received; the critics liked it, and a few academics. I used my contacts, and word got round in the right circles; the book went to reprint very quickly. Santos was impressed, and we stuck together, after that.’ The patron was carrying tumblers of spirits to a nearby table; Attis raised a finger and caught his eye. ‘Will you have another coffee?’ he asked the fat man. ‘Or will you join me in something stronger, to take off the morning’s chill?’

  ‘A Metaxa, then, if you’re having one. Was Santos happy with his modest success?’

  Attis gave their order to the patron, and waited whilst the empty cups were cleared and the fat man’s ashtray was replaced with a clean one. When the patron left them, Attis shook his head.

  ‘No, he wasn’t happy,’ he said. ‘Not in the end. He became more and more dissatisfied.’

  ‘And what about his family? Did he not have a wife? Was she content to live a life of poverty whilst her husband served his muse?’

  ‘He was no longer married. His wife left him, some years ago. I imagine Santos was a hard man to live with. He could be arrogant, at times, and temperamental, often. And if you’re going to be investigating any part of his life, I must tell you – I would say in confidence, but the facts are common knowledge, in certain quarters – he had something of a reputation as a womaniser. They say, don’t they, that the quiet ones are the worst? Well, women were drawn to Santos – they loved that romantic image of the brow-furrowed, brooding artist – and he saw no reason to resist. He’d look into their eyes, and whisper a few well-chosen lines of poetry – his own or someone else’s, they didn’t know, or care – and make another easy conquest. And yet he loved his wife. I believe he thought she would tolerate a few short-lived infidelities for the privilege of being married to the nation’s greatest living poet, but she didn’t see it that way. She put up with him wandering for a while, then ran off with one of his fellow poets – a man with half Santos’s talent, but less inclination to reap the more dubious benefits of literary success. I believe she’s in America with him now. She and Santos had a daughter, Leda, who has been raised to a large degree by his sister, Frona. Frona’s done a marvellous job with Leda. Frona, too, is divorced.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said the fat man, knocking the ash from his cigarette. ‘A family of partings. Did his divorce not affect his work?’

  The patron brought their tumblers of Metaxa. Attis raised his glass to the fat man.

  ‘Yammas,’ he said, and drank. ‘His divorce did affect his work, yes, but perhaps not in the way you’d think. You’ll think me cynical – probably I am – but the loss of her was the making of him as a poet. His work after she left him has a poignancy, an ethereal quality not found in his earlier poems. The best work comes from a suffering pen; that is the nature of art.’

  Over the rim of his glass, the fat man regarded him.

  ‘That seems very cold,’ he said, ‘to wish suffering on your clients to improve their poetry, or prose.’

  ‘I don’t wish anyone suffering. All I’m saying is, in my experience, pain makes a good artist great. And is it not the
function of art to express the human condition?’

  ‘So you may barter the human condition for cash?’

  Attis gave a tight smile.

  ‘You’re hard on me, kyrie. As I said, I didn’t bring Santos’s misfortune on him; he needed no help from me there. I merely made the point that, having suffered the misfortune, his work was immeasurably improved. He had in any case a great talent; but he was a gifted man who even to early middle age – he was forty when we lost him – had never known financial success. He struggled for money, always, because he was dedicated to his art. He wasn’t modest about his talent; he knew he had it; he was proud of it, and carried himself accordingly. That didn’t always make him popular. These are country folk, as you can see; they’re not ones for poetry when there’s work to be done. They value hard labour, and Santos put himself above that. They mocked him for it, pulled his leg, and that hurt him. His art made him poor; he would have done better, he used to say, as a farmer, and he was right. I told him time and time again that such is the way of the world, and he knew what I said was true – that the great poets are only great when they are dead.’

  The fat man raised his eyebrows, and stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘So how did he die?’ he asked.

  Attis shook his head.

  ‘Such a stupid thing. He choked on an olive. His death was mundane and unglamorous; but, let me tell you, as a plan to advance his career, it was a masterstroke. With that sorry death, voilà – he was famous. His work began to sell, and sell, and sell, reprint after reprint. He would have been a wealthy man, if he were with us now.’

  ‘But he’s made you wealthy?’

  ‘I’ve done well enough. His family is still waiting, though, to see the benefit.’

  He drank again; the fat man looked quizzical.

  ‘Such a boost in sales hasn’t made them money? How could it not?’

  ‘There was a clause in Santos’s will. No money was to be paid from his estate until his bones – as he so poetically put it – had seen the light of day. We assumed that to mean following his exhumation, and we expected his bones to see daylight yesterday. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Let me be honest again – if you’re worth your fee, you’d find out for yourself, anyway – that clause affects me, too. As far as ongoing earnings are concerned, I have no financial interest in the first book, as he agreed that contract before he and I met. The royalties on his other work are paid direct to me. I take my cut, and Frona and Leda’s share – by far the greater share, I have to say – goes into the estate’s account, which remains frozen. But, though my share of the royalties is unaffected by the will, he did leave me a legacy, a one-off payment, which I’ve not yet received.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m pressed for time. I have an appointment back in the city, and they’re forecasting more snow. You should think about leaving yourself, unless you want to spend the week in Vrisi.’

  ‘Well,’ said the fat man, ‘if our time is short, perhaps you should use it to explain to me what exactly you want me to do, if you wish to use my services. If you’re wondering if I am capable of doing the job, I can provide references, of course. But I feel you are someone who prefers to make up his own mind, rather than relying on the opinions of others. If you feel you can trust me, set me your task. If not, we’ll shake hands, and I shall leave you.’

  He reached out, picked up the matchbox containing the strange piece of ivory, and slipped it in his pocket with his cigarettes and lighter as if preparing to leave.

  ‘I’ll give you the job,’ said Attis, draining the last of his brandy. ‘But if I hire you, I must tell you things I don’t want anyone to overhear. Would you mind – though I know it’s cold – stepping outside?’

  ‘Gladly,’ said the fat man, draining his own glass.

  Attis signalled to the patron and laid money on the table to cover the bill. As he put away his wallet, the brown envelope showed in his pocket.

  ‘As far as my fee goes, by the way,’ said the fat man, as he stood up, ‘I use an unconventional scale of charges. The more interesting the mystery, the less I charge, so if it really taxes me, I’ll solve it for no payment. A more mundane problem would be poor use of my time and talents, and so the fee might be substantial. Do you agree to my terms?’

  ‘I’ll agree to anything,’ said Attis, ‘as long as it clears up this affair.’

  Outside, the sky had lost any shade of blue, and was darkening, minute by minute, to stormy grey.

  ‘I’ll make it quick,’ said Attis. ‘Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of Santos’s interment, and so his exhumation. The event was happily not well attended – in this cold weather, even the most interfering and ghoulish prefer their firesides to the cemetery. Still, there were more than enough witnesses to provide an embarrassment. It’ll be difficult to contain such sensational gossip, but I’ve enlisted the church’s help in that direction.’

  ‘Were the bones not clean, then?’ asked the fat man. ‘I know how superstition persists, in these rural communities, on the correlation between the whiteness of a man’s bones and the purity of his soul.’

  ‘Worse,’ said Attis, rubbing his chin as he considered whether to go on. ‘Far worse. Listen. Before I speak, I must have your absolute assurance of discretion.’

  ‘It is my nature to be discreet. You may rely on that.’

  Attis shrugged.

  ‘I have anyway no choice but to tell you, because you have to know. Whether the bones were white or not is of no relevance. They were not Santos’s bones.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Attis looked anxiously around, concerned even in the open at the possibility of being overheard. ‘They were clearly the bones of a pig.’

  The fat man’s face showed his apparent surprise.

  ‘A pig? How should a pig’s bones be in a poet’s coffin?’

  ‘That, my friend, is for you to tell me. But my guess is, they were put there by someone who wishes to keep Santos’s heirs from his money. Yesterday should have been a pay day they’ve looked forward to for years. So Frona and I have come to a decision – rightly or wrongly – to cover up the swap, and let the family claim what’s theirs regardless. But it’s essential we find out who’s played this cruel and despicable trick. If word gets out, Santos’s reputation will be damaged, and that will affect sales.’

  ‘And if the lawyers who drew up the will find out its terms have not been met, what will happen then?’

  ‘No doubt they will contact the bank, and the accounts will remain frozen.’

  ‘And the family will be short of a good deal of cash.’

  ‘Yes. I’m ready to help them, because it’s so unfair.’

  ‘Not because you look forward to your own cut?’

  ‘That too, of course. But I’m very fond of Frona. I don’t like to see her struggle when there’s money in the bank.’

  ‘Nonetheless, the terms of the poet’s will have legal standing. I should like to see this document.’

  ‘I have a copy at the house. You’re welcome to it, if you’d like.’

  ‘Thank you. The problem is altogether intriguing, yet it is difficult to know where to start. If I stay here in Vrisi, I shall be conspicuous; yet the solution to the problem must be here, in part at least. Someone, as you say, has swapped Santos’s bones; are you thinking that to make the swap, they must have come to Vrisi?’

  ‘I assume so, yes.’

  ‘Assumptions are always dangerous,’ said the fat man. ‘I have no dealings with them. Here is my suggestion. I shall take on your mystery, but I think it would be better to delay a while, until the incident is forgotten and no connection made between it, and me. In the meantime, if there are developments, you may summon me through the newspapers; put a notice in the personal column of the Ethnos, and I shall see it. I may not be free to come immediately, but rest assured, I shall get here as soon as I’m able.’

  ‘Here, take my card,’ said Attis. ‘If you have questions, pl
ease ring me.’

  The men shook hands; but as Attis was walking away, the fat man called him back.

  ‘One more question, an important one,’ he said. ‘If Santos’s bones weren’t in his grave, where might they be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Attis. ‘That’s the question that troubles Frona most of all.’

  ‘It troubles her, but it doesn’t trouble you?’

  ‘You’re putting words in my mouth,’ said Attis. ‘I didn’t say it didn’t trouble me. And rather than asking me where they are, perhaps, with respect, you should earn your fee, and find them.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I’m reluctant to part with, but which may be of help to you. I must confess, I’ve no business having it in my possession at all. I found it at the house. If I give it to you, will you give me your word you’ll return it to me as soon as possible, so I can replace it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Attis reached into a pocket, and handed over the small diary from Santos’s desk; as he did so, the fat man glimpsed again the brown envelope produced during Attis’s phone call.

  The fat man produced the diary, and glanced through the pages.

  ‘There’s very little to go on,’ he said. ‘What do you make of these initials, and these phone numbers?’

  ‘I’m afraid they may relate to Santos’s – liaisons.’

  ‘And there’s almost nothing at all after the date of his death.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’d expect?’ asked Attis.

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, I would expect no different.’

  The fat man went back inside the kafenion. At the counter, the patron was polishing glasses.