‘You might easily have seen me, had I travelled on the same vessels as you; and if I am being pedantic, I should say I did, in fact, travel on those same vessels, but not at the same time. It is a sad fact, kori mou, that many things can be bought for money. It was a simple matter to buy the route of your journey from one of the sailors who crewed the boats.’
‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why on earth would you follow me?’
‘For your own sake. But the wind is cold out here, and you are not dressed for it. Is there a fire lit inside? Perhaps we should talk in there.’
The hermit held up his hand.
‘Forgive me, kyrie,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know you, and I’m not in the habit of welcoming strangers into my home. So state your business, and let’s be done. Our grocer has a shop to run, and no matter how well you’ve paid him to be your taxi, I’m sure he’s anxious to get home.’
‘You do not speak like an islander, my friend,’ said the fat man. ‘Are you not a local man?’
‘I’m as local as the next man, these days. Now, what do you want?’
‘He’s the investigator Attis Danas asked to look into my father’s death,’ said Leda, touching the sleeve of the hermit’s dirty jacket. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed,’ said the fat man. ‘Though as it turns out, that is not the mystery to hand. When we first met, Leda, I think we were both looking for something we had lost. What you had lost was never clear, but I had lost a ring, a gold ring. I asked you to look out for it on the road. Do you remember?’
Leda was silent.
‘I’m hoping that you do,’ he went on, ‘because I have come, in part, to ask if you might have been lucky, and if you were, if you might return my property to me.’
From neck to brow, Leda blushed.
‘Speak up,’ said the fat man, not unkindly. ‘Did you find it, or not? The ring is very precious to me, and I would like to have it back.’
‘I gave it away,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’
‘Did you not?’ asked the fat man, in apparent surprise. ‘But you knew how to find me; through Attis, it would have been a simple matter to return it. To whom, may I ask, did you give my property?’
The hermit glanced at Leda.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘she gave it to me.’ He held out his left hand. On the third finger was an antique ring, a band of old gold set with an unusual coin, stamped with a rising sun on one side, and a young man in profile on the other. ‘Is this it?’
The fat man smiled, broadly.
‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘If you would be so good as to return it, I would be grateful.’
The hermit grasped the ring and tugged at it; but it seemed tight on his finger, and wouldn’t move over his knuckle.
‘It’s stuck,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why; it was loose when I put it on.’
‘That is a puzzle,’ said the fat man. ‘Your fingers, I am sure, are thinner than mine. Please, try again.’
The hermit tugged at the ring, until his finger reddened and began to swell.
‘Oil,’ said Leda. ‘I’ll get some oil, to grease it.’
She went inside the shack. The hermit continued to tug at the ring, but the fat man’s interest had moved elsewhere.
‘You two seem an unlikely couple,’ he said. ‘Princess and peasant, almost. What is your relationship, exactly?’ Intent on his swelling finger, the hermit didn’t answer. ‘I’m sure you weren’t expecting that question in this remote location, but, as you’re about to discover, your island isn’t remote enough. No matter how far you go, it’s hard to cover your tracks when those tracks lead to a man’s death.’
Leda reappeared, holding a bottle of olive oil.
‘Death?’ she asked. ‘What death?’
‘An untimely death by another’s hand,’ said the fat man, ‘more simply called, in the common tongue, murder. I’m talking of that recent death in Vrisi. The death you have perhaps been persuaded was no more than a convenience.’
‘How dare you call my father’s death convenient!’ She handed the oil to the hermit. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take off the damned ring, and let him go!’
‘You shouldn’t need more than a drop,’ said the fat man to the hermit. ‘I can see by its colour it is good oil, and it would be a shame to waste it. Leda, your commitment to your role is most impressive; that act of indignation would easily fool a more gullible man. As for your father’s death, rarely have I heard of one more convenient than your father’s first demise. And I’m sure you played your part in that very well, too: the grieving daughter, a figure of tragedy. A difficult role, for certain, even for an actress as talented as you; sustaining the part through a period of years must have been a terrible strain. You got through it all right, though you made one or two small errors. The neglected grave, and the uncared for statue in Vrisi, raised questions in my mind; they seemed at odds with the character of a devoted daughter. Of course you had no interest in either, because you knew your father was not in that grave, nor did he need any stone memorial. Even so, the role was beautifully played; but how did it feel to be asked for an encore? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk inside? You’re shivering, out here.’
The hermit poured a dribble of oil on his finger, and placed the oil bottle at his feet. He twisted the ring; it left his finger easily.
‘Here,’ he said, wiping the ring on his jacket and holding it out to the fat man. ‘Take this, and go.’
With a bow of his head, the fat man accepted the ring, and slipped it on to his own, fatter, finger.
‘How strange,’ he said, admiring it. ‘It fits me better than you. I shall leave you, soon enough. But it is your father’s second death that interests me, Leda. That death was trickier, wasn’t it, involving as it did an actual body. You must have found that difficult, to look upon a very unpleasant corpse, with the eyes of the police watching your reaction. That’s a great deal for a man to ask of his own child; to face a stranger’s corpse, and lie to the authorities.’
‘I lied to no one!’ objected Leda.
‘Oh, but you did,’ smiled the fat man. ‘You lied as you’d been told to by this man here. You misidentified the body as that of your father, Santos Volakis, but it wasn’t him, was it? How could it be, when Santos Volakis stands here with us, as large as life? I know you, Santos; hide though you may, you cannot ever be far enough away from me. I shall show you the proof of it. Look.’ He picked up the paperback book from the holdall, and held up the author photograph on its back cover: a dark-haired man, clean shaven, with intense, grey eyes.
‘You’re mad,’ said Leda.
The hermit laughed.
‘You think that’s me?’ he asked, stabbing a finger at the book. ‘She’s right, you’re mad! Santos Volakis was a world-renowned poet, and a handsome man. Perhaps I should be flattered that you see his face in mine.’
‘But I do,’ said the fat man. ‘You are he; I know it. But if you continue to deny it, I shall leave you and contact the police instead.’
‘To what end? What do you have to say to the police that could possibly concern me?’
The fat man took a step closer to the hermit.
‘Don’t take me for a fool,’ he said. ‘I tracked your daughter here with no difficulty at all, and you’ll find me very skilled at tracking down whatever I want to find. I might want to find the place you killed your victim, and the vehicle you used to carry him to Vrisi. You’d be surprised what people remember, when their memories are prodded: a car on an empty road, a late-night traveller who thinks himself unseen. Without a doubt, you’ve left a trail, which I shall find, if necessary. But if you put me to that work, it’ll go the worse for you. Tell me the truth now, and perhaps some unpleasantness can be avoided. You might yet avoid seeing Leda punished for her part in this ugly business. You chose a good hiding place, but by letting her in, you have let the world in, too. I am the world; I represent it. Tell me the truth of what you’ve done, and give me reas
ons; tell me who he was, and let me assess the damage that you’ve done.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the hermit. ‘On whose authority do you question me?’
‘On the highest possible authority,’ said the fat man. ‘On behalf of those who will not tolerate crimes unpunished. For you have committed a crime, have you not? Tell me – and tell your daughter, if you have not already done so – exactly what you did.’
A smile spread to the hermit’s lips, and he spread his arms wide in the air, and threw back his head.
‘Behold!’ he shouted, so loud the shopkeeper in his boat looked up from the lead weight he was tying on his line. ‘Behold before you Santos Volakis, the twice-dead poet, this century’s greatest talent of Greek literature!’
Abruptly, his features became earnest, almost desperate.
‘Have you told my secret, stranger?’ he asked, grabbing the fat man’s arm. ‘Is the cat out of the bag?’
‘The bag is still knotted at the neck,’ said the fat man, looking steadily at the poet, ‘but do not be getting ideas about silencing me. I am a difficult man to silence, even more so when offered force. But persuade me of the merits of your case, and we might yet come to some arrangement.’
The poet looked down towards the jetty, where the shopkeeper was now showing some interest in what was being said.
‘Walk with me,’ he said, ‘a short way to the island’s end and back, and we’ll talk. I suppose I must talk to you, since you have found me; I suppose you are determined to extort money from me for silence, or sell my story to the gutter press.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the fat man. ‘I am a man of independent means. I have no use for your money.’
‘What, then? Leda, wait inside.’
Leda left them, and the poet and the fat man set off along the beach, where ragged fragments of fishing nets lay bleached amongst the stones, and the incoming waves brought lustre to the shingle and the many-coloured pebbles. They came across a woman’s slipper, waterlogged and sandy, washed up by the sea, and the poet picked it up, and tossed it further up the beach, away from the water’s reach.
‘I’ve been here some time now, and yet the detritus that washes up here still surprises me,’ he said. ‘Every day, I clean the beach, and every day, some new object brings its story to my door. Where might that slipper’s pair be, do you think? Did it slip off some woman’s foot, or was it thrown by a naughty child, or an angry husband? Is it from someone drowned? Is its mate still on a rotting foot, on the seabed?’
‘You have a vivid imagination, and a somewhat morbid one.’
‘Ah, but my imagination is what makes me remarkable,’ said the poet, with some arrogance. ‘That, and my mastery of language.’
‘And has your imagination become more morbid recently, Santos?’
The poet looked away from the fat man, across the sea.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because in my experience,’ said the fat man, ‘those who have stepped across certain lines become prey to their imaginings. Are you seeing shadows at your shoulder? Are you hearing noises in the night? Such things may be the products of a guilty conscience. If you want your conscience cleared, unburden yourself to me. Believe me, it will help.’
The poet veered away from the fat man, and took a few paces towards the water. He bent to pick up a flat stone, and threw it with some skill on to the water, so it skipped several times across the surface before it sank and disappeared. As he bent to choose another stone, the fat man came and stood close to his shoulder.
‘Why have you come to disturb me?’ asked the poet, as he set another stone skimming on the waves. ‘Are you not a lover of the arts?’
‘On the contrary. I both practise and patronise the arts.’
‘Have you read anything of mine?’
‘I have.’ The fat man said no more. The poet glanced in his direction, and seeing him patting his pockets as though hunting for something mislaid, frowned.
The fat man smiled.
‘You are waiting for my compliments and my praise, the stroking of your ego,’ he said. ‘That is what you have come to expect. Your work is good, Santos. There, I have said it. Does it make you happy?’
The poet gave a shrug of apparent indifference; but in his face there was a hint of his displeasure.
‘Now you are annoyed at my lack of respect,’ said the fat man. ‘How dare I not fall at your feet! Have you missed that adulation, Santos – your celebrity, your disciples hanging on your every word? You must have missed it, because you fished for it so early in our acquaintance. But this is not a place for your adorers. It’s the kind of place a man might go quietly mad. Did they not say as much to you, when you first came here?’
‘I’m not mad,’ objected the poet; but the expression on his face showed a lack of certainty.
‘I think we should go back,’ said the fat man. ‘I think you should tell me your story, and then I can decide what happens next.’
The fat man sat on the only chair, at the cabin’s table; Leda sat beside her father on the poet’s single bed, stroking the dog’s head as it rested on her knee. The fat man reached into his pocket, and took out his cigarettes and a matchbox; he shook the matchbox, but hearing no answering rattle from within, placed it in front of him on the table, and took out his gold lighter.
‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’ he asked, and the poet shook his head.
Leda stood, and handed the fat man a saucer from the shelf to use as an ashtray. The fat man took a cigarette from the box, and lit it, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke towards the fireplace, where a fire of rough logs gave off little heat.
‘Where shall we begin?’ he asked, and looked expectantly at the poet; but the poet offered no suggestion, and so the fat man reached again into his pocket, and brought out the little diary Attis had given him.
‘Let us then start with this,’ he said, and laying his cigarette on the saucer, opened the diary at the page where the word ‘Nafplio’ was written and struck through. ‘The date, here, of your first death; an engagement to read poetry that you apparently knew was cancelled. But you went there, anyway. Why?’
The poet smiled.
‘Obviously, I went to die,’ he said. ‘The idea came to me after I had the letter from the university, telling me not to go. It was another disappointment, I suppose; and I had been toying with the idea of dying for some time. It seemed an ideal opportunity; a distant town, where no one knew me. I talked it over with Leda, and she agreed.’
‘Did you agree, Leda?’
Leda looked at the fat man; her tear-swollen eyes made her seem both young and vulnerable.
‘I saw no reason not to,’ she said. ‘I thought the plan was clever. At the time.’
‘And Frona? What about your aunt?’
‘My daughter’s an intelligent girl,’ put in the poet. ‘She could see we would all benefit, in the end. As for Frona, what could we do?’ He spread his hands. ‘I knew she wouldn’t play along; and she lacked the imagination to play a part, and pull it off. I thought it better if she knew as little as possible.’
‘Did you not think it cruel, Leda, to let her think your father dead?’ asked the fat man.
‘We both knew it was cruel,’ said Leda. ‘But I was younger and more foolish when I made the commitment. I didn’t understand that grief doesn’t last days or weeks, but months and years. I hadn’t thought how she would struggle to support me. I put my father’s talent above everything. And when I began to understand the wrong we’d done, I couldn’t find the courage to tell the truth.’ In despair, she shook her head. ‘How will she ever forgive us?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said the poet to Leda. ‘There’s no reason for her ever to know.’
Leda looked away from him, to the wall, her jaw tight from the effort of suppressing more tears.
‘So why did you do it, Santos?’ asked the fat man, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘What has been behind all this theatre? I hope you’re goin
g to tell me it wasn’t just for money.’
‘In part it was for money,’ he said. ‘But there was more to it than that. I wanted to prove a point, about how little art is valued. Every day, I saw no-talent artistes – actors, singers, novelists – make millions from their work, whereas I – a true artist, a unique talent, the best in a generation, the critics say – earned nothing but a golden reputation. Poets make no money till they’re dead; so I decided I would die, and improve my lot.’
‘And then, like Lazarus, you’d rise up from the dead, collect your royalties – which you had prevented, through your will, from being distributed to your heirs – and once again claim the crown as prince of the literary establishment. Have I understood correctly?’
‘It was a simple plan.’
‘Simple to imagine, but very hard to execute, surely. How, exactly, did you do it?’
‘In Nafplio, I bribed an undertaker. He was a clever man, though without soul. He’d never read a poem in his life, and my name meant nothing to him. I told him that the tax man was after me, and a wife who wanted to keep me from a pretty mistress; I told him I was heading for Australia on forged papers. I paid him, more than I could afford, but he provided the necessary forms, and packed a pig in a casket to pass as me. Of course there had been no death, so he took on the role of policeman and made the “official” calls. The plan was simple and, actually, full of flaws. If Frona had asked questions – about post-mortems or locations, or anything at all – the truth might easily have come out. But she asked no questions, and nor, of course, did Leda. No one asked questions – why should they have done, when they had been officially informed and all the paperwork was supplied? – and so I was, officially, dead. And I became another man, with another life. Only Leda knew where to find me. I told her to expect me at my exhumation, and to look surprised.’
He spread his arms, as if to invite applause.
‘But she was surprised,’ said the fat man, taking a final draw on his cigarette and stubbing it out in the saucer. ‘You didn’t appear.’
‘I never planned to stay dead,’ said the poet. ‘But something happened here, in my isolation, something only an artist could understand. Of course I could have hidden more easily in a city, but my work led me to choose this place. I chose this place for the purity of my art, and I struggled, at first, as does a monk when he takes his vows. But when I was free from the need for anyone’s approval, or critical acclaim – in short, when I had no readers, and could let my work run in whatever direction it chose, and develop in a natural, untainted way – it was a revelation to me! I have written poetry which soars, which stretches boundaries and reaches depths of my own soul I could not have dreamed of, outside this place!’
The Whispers of Nemesis Page 23