The Whispers of Nemesis

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘I wonder,’ said the fat man, ‘if you might be able to give me breakfast?’

  ‘There’re eggs,’ said the patron. ‘You’d have to wait a little while for bread. My daughter’s not gone yet to the baker’s.’

  ‘I don’t mind a short wait,’ said the fat man, ‘but the weather is deteriorating, and if I don’t leave the village soon, I may be here much longer than I intended.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ said the patron. ‘I’ll send her now.’

  The fat man returned to the table he and Attis had left. Laying his holdall on a chair, he stood at the payphone and scanned the numbers pencilled on the wall. Finding the one he needed, he pressed a coin into the slot, and dialled the number.

  ‘Taxi?’ asked the fat man, when the call was answered. ‘I need your services. There is a document which needs collecting from the Volakis property. Then I would be obliged if you could pick me up at the kafenion, on the hour.’

  With the pick-up arranged, he replaced the receiver and wrote the taxi’s number in his notebook. He drank another coffee with his breakfast: an omelette of duck eggs, bright yellow and well seasoned, filled with buttery and melting kasseri cheese and a handful of wilted spinach; on the side were curling slices of air-dried ham, burgundy-dark and lined with soft, white fat. The fat man ate with relish, mopping up the olive oil the eggs had been cooked in with bread fresh from a wood-oven, and for dessert, he enjoyed a piece of galaktobouriko – milk pie – cut from the baker’s tray: crisp filo filled with milky semolina custard, which oozed pleasingly between the pastry sheets when he cut it with his fork.

  With a fingertip, he picked up the last crumb of syrupy filo from his plate, and finished the water in his glass. Glancing at his watch, he approached the counter to pay his bill.

  ‘You’d better go, if you’re going,’ said the patron as he handed the fat man his change. ‘There’s lively weather coming. There’ll be snow by afternoon.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t left it too late,’ said the fat man. ‘I felt I must do justice to your excellent food, and to the skills of the baker who made the galaktobouriko.’

  The patron smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I like to cook, and the baker is my eldest brother; he took the business on after my father. Simple food, well cooked; in our family, it’s a code we live by.’

  ‘You are to be congratulated,’ said the fat man. ‘I shall be back here, before long; be assured you shall have my custom again then.’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ The patron offered his hand, and the fat man took it. ‘I’m always happy to cook for someone who appreciates it. Maybe I’ll see if we can find something a bit special, when you’re back. You have business here, then, do you?’

  ‘My business takes me to many places, and this is only one port of call. I shall have covered a lot more ground, more than likely, before we meet again.’

  ‘Greek coffee, no sugar,’ said the patron, with a wink. ‘I’ll remember how you take it.’

  Outside, a silver car drew up, a ‘For Hire’ sign unlit on its roof. The driver gave two short blasts on the horn.

  ‘Kalo taxidi!’ called the patron, wishing the fat man a good journey as he left. His other customers lapsed into silence, until the fat man closed the kafenion door behind him; then their earnest discussion of his business in Vrisi began.

  The taxi’s paintwork was clean, but there was rust on the sills and wheel arches, and one of the hub caps was tied on with string. The fat man opened the rear door, but as he was about to climb in, the driver stopped him.

  ‘Sit here, my friend, sit up front with me,’ he said, and so the fat man closed the rear door and climbed into the passenger seat, placing his holdall between his feet on a piece of well-swept Persian carpet.

  The taxi’s interior was warmed to an exceptional degree, the fan blasting out hot air as the diesel engine ran on. The red vinyl of the rear seats was covered with hand-woven blankets, and on the parcel shelf was a bouquet of peach-coloured plastic roses; the over-heated air was potently sweetened with freshener sprayed from a can. A clean-bladed shovel lay length-wise across the seats, along with a flask, a package of food and a fur hat.

  The driver held out his hand. He was a once handsome man with a long, grey ponytail and a carefully trimmed goatee; he wore blue jeans and a quilted jacket in burnt orange, and on his hands were a rally driver’s gloves, with circles cut in patterns from the tan leather.

  ‘Hassan,’ he said, as the fat man shook his hand. ‘We’re travelling companions, and so we should be friends. Where’re we going together?’

  The fat man asked to be driven to a town with a station, and Hassan for a moment looked doubtful.

  ‘With the weather coming, that might be tricky,’ he said. ‘Still. I enjoy a little adventure. Let’s go.’

  He put the car in gear, and revved the engine hard so the wheels span on the road, until the car leaped forward with the back end snaking as they moved off.

  ‘I am Hermes Diaktoros,’ said the fat man, gripping the arm-rest of the door as they took a corner too fast. ‘From Athens. But you, from your name and accent, are not from here, I think.’

  ‘Not I,’ said Hassan, as the car passed the last houses in the village. Rounding a blind bend, Hassan swerved to avoid a black-clad woman, and the fat man briefly closed his eyes as a collision with a wrought-iron fence seemed inescapable. Hassan laughed, and gave the fat man a nudge. ‘Nervous passenger, eh? You’re safe with me, friend, perfectly safe. Ask anyone who knows me, they’ll all tell you the same: I’ve never had an accident, in all my years of driving. And this weather threatening doesn’t trouble me. I was raised in Turkish mountains, real mountains, with real winters. You Greeks know nothing about winter! To see a real winter, you have to go to Turkey.’

  They began to climb, and the car approached the first of the hairpin bends which took the road out of the village and up the mountainside. Under the overhanging pine trees, the morning seemed dark as evening.

  ‘Is there no danger of ice?’ asked the fat man, as they approached a bend which overlooked a precipitous drop.

  ‘Not cold enough for ice,’ said Hassan. ‘It wants a few degrees colder yet, before we need to trouble ourselves about ice.’ He changed down a gear, and took the bend at speed; there was a slight twitch on the back end as the rear wheels lost traction. ‘I wanted to drive professionally, in my youth, but that’s an expensive hobby. My wife wouldn’t put up with the expense.’

  ‘Is your wife a Turk also?’

  ‘My wife is a Greek. We aren’t together, now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. She fell for the sweet words of another man, and put the cuckold’s horns on me. My fault; there’s no woman on this earth who can be trusted. I didn’t watch her close enough, and I paid the price.’

  Hassan fell silent. They passed the shrine at the chapel of St Fanourios, though too fast to make out the skulls; neither Hassan nor the fat man made crosses as they went by. Then Hassan found a smile, and turned to the fat man; the fat man would have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.

  ‘So what was your business, in the village?’ asked Hassan. ‘We don’t get many visitors, this time of year.’

  ‘I was in the area, and wanted to see the birthplace of your poet,’ said the fat man. ‘His work is wonderful, inspiring. Have you read him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I knew him, yes,’ said Hassan, shortly. ‘Why do you waste your time on him? Poet, and poustis, the two are one and the same. He was all posing and sensitivity, never knew a day’s work in his life. But you remind me, speaking of him . . .’ He lowered the sun-visor over his windscreen and took down an envelope, which he handed to the fat man. ‘They gave me that for you, at his house. Anyway, I’m not one for literature, though if I were, I’d stick to the Turkish poets. The world’s best poets are Turks. Fuzuli, for example: you must have read Fuzuli, if you’re a poetry-lovi
ng man.’

  The fat man tucked the envelope into his holdall.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I have travelled a little in Turkey, but I know shamefully little of its culture. You yourself seem such a patriotic man – what persuaded you to come from Turkey to a little spot like Vrisi?’

  ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘I came for love. I was in the merchant navy for a while; we met when the ship I was with put into Nafplio. She was working in a kafenion there, helping out some relative. One thing led to another, as things do. I stay now to see my kids. But I shall go back home, where I belong, some day.’

  ‘There’s no hope of a reconciliation?’

  ‘That’s something you must ask her.’

  The taxi driver became melancholy, and thoughtful. They drove on in silence for a while, the fat man always gripping the arm-rest of his door.

  ‘I had an excellent meal this morning, in the kafenion,’ he said, at last. ‘The patron there is a good cook, and his brother the baker likewise.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Hassan. ‘You should try his mezedes. Of course the Greeks can’t compete with Turkish cooking – all Greek cooking is adapted from Turkish anyway – but his mezedes are good, by Greek standards. Especially tasty with a glass of ouzo, I’m told, though I myself don’t drink. If you come back to Vrisi, we’ll go there together and eat mezedes.’

  ‘I would like that,’ said the fat man.

  ‘And then I’ll make you some Turkish specialities, give you some real food. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.’

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘That would be excellent, too,’ he said.

  The road had reached its apex, and they began their descent on the mountain’s far side. With the downhill gradient, Hassan’s speed increased.

  ‘We’ll stay ahead of this weather easily now,’ he said; and changing up to the highest gear, he took his foot off the brake, and allowed the taxi to pick up more speed still.

  Not wishing to give offence, the fat man forced his eyes to remain open; and to take his mind off the danger he saw in the roadside chasms, he hummed himself a tune: the melody was Hatzidakis’s famous Swans.

  Ten

  There was trouble with the engines, and the island’s ferry was severely delayed; she docked in Seftos harbour three hours after her scheduled time, as night was closing in and the lights along the quay were coming on.

  The passengers were few. Strong winds had been forecast for the crossing, and the journey had been rough; the women had made dramas of their seasickness, groaning and puking into waxed-paper bowls, whilst the indifferent men smoked and played cards, drinking coffee from cups which slid across the table tops as the boat rolled.

  The hermit was amongst the first to disembark. The evening was damp, with lamplight reflected in broad pools of rain­water. Against the harbour wall the sea was choppy, rocking the moored boats which tugged at their anchor-lines. Fragments of old tunes squeezed from an accordion drifted from the kafenion; behind its condensation-fogged windows, inebriated men laughed loud.

  The hound tied to the trestle-table outside the general store sniffed the air, raised his head and whined. As the hermit approached, the dog leaped to his feet and strained in a frenzy towards him, springing from the ground in his excitement.

  The hermit smiled, and rubbed the dog’s head vigorously. He let himself be pawed and licked, until the dog was calm. Leaving both his haversack and the dog at the shop door (where the dog whimpered his distress in fear of losing him again), he made his way inside, between the sacks of rice and lentils.

  The shopkeeper sat on his stool behind the counter, a bottle of tsipouro at his elbow, a measure in a glass close to hand. A dim bulb cast shadows on shelves of chocolate bars and tinned squid, on shaving cream and boxes of incense. The cheese fridge hummed; the despondent linnet hid its head under its wing. On the radio, a young man sang of homesickness, of missing his dear mother and the island of his birth.

  ‘Kali spera,’ said the hermit to the shopkeeper.

  The shopkeeper was eating roasted peanuts. He looked up from the shell he was cracking and at his customer, struggling to put a name to the face.

  ‘Mori!’ he said, at last, dropping the peanuts back on to their plate. ‘It’s you, our hermit! Kalos tou, kalos tou! Well, you’ve certainly smartened yourself up on your travels! Have you been at the barber’s all this time? No offence, friend, no offence. And new clothes too: kalo risiko, kalo risiko. Did you come in on the ferry?’

  ‘I did, and it was hours late,’ said the hermit. ‘Why do they publish a timetable at all?’

  ‘It’d be the engines, was it?’ asked the shopkeeper. ‘She’s an old vessel. It’s a miracle they keep her afloat, especially in such weather.’

  ‘I believe it was the engines, yes, but that’s irrelevant. It’s late, and it’ll be dark, now, before I get across, so I’ll take what I need, and be gone. The dog’s in good health, by the way. Thank you for taking care of him. I’m obliged to you.’

  The grocer waved his hand.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘My kids got quite fond of him. They’ve given him a few treats, so he hasn’t gone short, though he eats the same as two grown men. It’s a mystery to me how you afford to feed him.’

  ‘He feeds himself, where he can hunt,’ said the hermit, finding his wallet. ‘He catches rabbits. He’s fast, and they’re stupid. I remember I promised you something for his good care.’

  He handed over two banknotes; the shopkeeper pocketed them, and held up the bottle of tsipouro, but the hermit shook his head.

  ‘Will you cut me some cheese?’ he asked. ‘And I’ll take some ham.’

  The shopkeeper moved to the fridge, and loaded a block of smoked cheese on to the slicer. As he cut, he glanced covertly at the hermit, who was selecting ground coffee and canned milk from the shelves.

  ‘You been far, then?’ asked the shopkeeper, with apparent disinterest, as he wrapped the sliced cheese in waxed paper.

  ‘A fair way,’ answered the hermit. ‘I’ll take a kilo of sugar, whilst I’m here.’

  ‘Family, was it?’ asked the shopkeeper, fastening the parcel with an elastic band.

  The hermit turned from the shelves.

  ‘Business,’ he said. ‘Have you heard the forecast?’

  The shopkeeper sucked in his breath, and as he replaced the cheese with a leg of ham, he shook his head.

  ‘Not good, not good at all,’ he said. ‘They say there’s been more snow, to the north. No danger to us, this far south, thanks be to God. But they say there’ll be storms blowing through, the next couple of days. You’ll have to wait it out, hermit; you’ll have to stay here with us, until it passes.’

  ‘I’ll do all right,’ said the hermit, placing a tin of pears by the cash register. ‘I need batteries – big ones, for a torch – and I’ll take a can of butane for the stove.’

  The shopkeeper stopped the slicer, and looked with incredulity at the hermit.

  ‘Are you mad, friend?’ he asked. ‘You can’t be thinking of going over there, tonight? Take a bed at the taverna, relax, have a drink or two, and go tomorrow, in daylight at least.’

  ‘I know my way well enough,’ said the hermit, ‘and you say it’ll be worse tomorrow. So. What do I owe you?’

  ‘Well, don’t expect me to come after you when you’re sinking,’ said the shopkeeper. He took a pencil from behind his ear, and on the back of a supplier’s invoice began to list the hermit’s purchases, adding a price he thought appropriate after each item. ‘A night crossing in this weather wants a lot of care, and – no offence, friend, no offence – your experience is not what it might be. Better sailors than you have come to grief on a sea like this. She’s like a woman – respect her moods, or take the consequences. Stay here tonight, I tell you. You’d be a fool to go.’

  ‘The risk is my own,’ said the hermit. ‘If you don’t see me for a while, assume the trip didn’t go well, and look for me on the seabed.’<
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  The shopkeeper shrugged.

  ‘Two thousand nine, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Call it two eight, for cash.’

  The hermit handed over three thousand-drachma notes.

  ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a tin of something, for the dog.’

  ‘There’s corned beef,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Or Spam. That animal likes Spam.’ He gave the hermit a tin from the shelf behind him. ‘I didn’t keep your newspapers, by the way. I thought you’d have no trouble finding newspapers, wherever you were. I’ll keep one back for you again, from tomorrow.’

  The hermit gathered up his purchases.

  ‘I mean it, about taking care,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘It’s a bad night to be out there, in your small boat. What’s your hurry, that you must get back tonight? I’ll tell you what, I’ll get the wife to mind the store, and I’ll keep you company. We’ll go and have a drink together, you and I. What do you say?’

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ said the hermit. ‘But I’ve been away much longer than I intended, and I feel the need to return to my own quiet corner. I get tired of the world’s ways, and its people.’

  ‘Don’t we all, my friend?’ said the shopkeeper, taking a drink of his tsipouro. ‘Don’t we all?’

  Outside, the hermit whistled his dog to heel, and heaved his haversack on to his back. At a berth along the quayside, he crouched to pull his boat in close; the dog jumped aboard, and padded, tail wagging, to the stern. The boisterous water rose and fell, its wave peaks splashing the roadway as they hit the harbour wall. Beyond the beacon at the harbour’s end, the sea was dark.

  By the light of a streetlamp, the hermit stepped into the boat, and stashed his small cargo under the seats, covering it with an oil-stained tarpaulin. He lifted the bench cover, and changed from his new shoes into a worn pair of boots.

  In the deserted harbour, his engine sounded loud. With the navigation lights glowing red and green, he hauled in the anchor, cast off the mooring rope and headed out to sea.

  Beyond the headland, where no land provided shelter and the wind could build its strength, the roughness of the sea was intimidating. He should, he knew, go back; yet the prospect of capsizing and going down seemed preferable to the shopkeeper’s smug self-righteousness if he should return.