The Messenger of Athens

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t know me. My name is Hermes Diaktoros. I’ve come from Athens. I’d like to speak with you, if I may.’

  ‘Well, come in anyway,’ she said, turning from him into the house. ‘Come in.’

  He followed her into a kitchen where the smell of nesting mice was unmistakable; that, and the spores of mildew from the dark growth on the ceiling caught in his throat. He gave a little cough, and put his hand up to his sternum.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’ve been troubled by a chest cold, these past few days.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea, then,’ she said, tentatively. ‘Sage tea is always very good for colds.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

  She filled a small saucepan at a single, dribbling tap and, setting the water to boil, moved slowly to a cabinet where a set of the cheapest china was displayed. The open cabinet released a breath of fustiness; black pellets of mice droppings lay amongst the tea-cups. She made his tea, not speaking, as though conversation were a skill she had forgotten, and every tiny task – the rinsing of a spoon, the wiping of the table – grew, and swelled beyond its reasonable duration, as she spun out those little occupations in the way of those with endless time, and no diversions.

  She served his tea, and offered him a plain biscuit from a torn cellophane wrapper. Smiling, he took one, and bit into it; soft with damp, it had the taste of must.

  She sat across from him, and watched him sip his tea.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m here,’ he said, though it was clear she had no curiosity at all.

  ‘Is your tea sweet enough?’ she asked. ‘I can put more sugar in, if you’d like.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Sofia, I have news for you. It’s about your husband, Stamatis.’

  The slack expression left her, and a frown of deep anxiety took its place. Agitated, her lower lip trembled as though a crumpling into tears were very close, and to hide it she placed her hand across her chin.

  ‘News,’ she said, to herself. ‘There’s news.’ She moved the hand that covered her chin and, laying it protectively over her heart, asked, ‘What news?’

  ‘Good news or bad news, I don’t know,’ said the fat man. ‘Stamatis is dead.’

  She hesitated before she asked, ‘Are you sure? There’s no mistake it’s him?’

  From his pocket, he took a battered, royal-blue box embossed in curling script with a goldsmith’s name, and pushed it to her across the table. Cautiously, she raised the lid, and, lifting a wedding ring from the white satin lining, held it up to read the inscription on its inner surface: Stamatis – Sofia 1966. She spread the fingers of her right hand on the table, and laid the ring that he had brought beside the one she wore on her third finger. Her own was a narrower band, but that the two were a pair could not be doubted.

  She closed her eyes, and allowed a smile to spread across her face.

  ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘At last, thanks be to God.’

  He said, softly, ‘You’re a free woman, Sofia.’

  And she covered her face, and began to weep.

  The fat man crouched beside her chair, and, disregarding the great impropriety he was committing in touching her, put an arm around her stooping shoulders. As she cried, he held her close, until he sensed the worst was past, and pressed his silk handkerchief into her hand.

  He returned to his seat whilst she wiped her nose, and brushed the wetness from her eyes.

  ‘God bless you, sir,’ she said. ‘God bless you as the bearer of such welcome news.’ The pinkness of embarrassment spread across her cheeks. ‘What a dreadful thing to say,’ she whispered. ‘What must you think of me? Poor Stamatis. Poor, poor Stamatis.’

  But the fat man shook his head.

  ‘No pretence is necessary here, Sofia. I can only guess how wretched your life has been, and how you’ve suffered.’

  ‘Twenty-eight years,’ she said, ‘is a long time to wait for something not to happen. To wait for someone not to come back.’

  ‘Yes, Sofia. It is.’

  She took his handkerchief by the corner, and began to fold it into smaller squares.

  ‘Never a day went by I didn’t worry he’d be back. That he’d come and make a bigger fool of me than he did when he left. One week we had together. One week with him, and I paid for it with my whole life. No children, no grandchildren, no money. Never a pretty dress, or an evening’s dancing. A widow’s life; an old woman’s life. Seventeen, I was. God strike me dead, but I hated that man. Yet I protected him. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t answer you. He was to blame, not me. He wasn’t a ladies’ man. He didn’t like women, and I repulsed him. They told me I wasn’t pretty enough, that I hadn’t pleased him. They told me that, and I believed them, because I was a village girl who knew no better. I was an innocent. But we see more, now, don’t we? On the television, they show us everything. I saw the news one evening at Maria’s, about some scandal, some politician and his boyfriends. And my brother-in-law called him a poustis. I asked him, “What’s a poustis?” and he said – he laughed at me, because I didn’t know – he said, ‘A man who doesn’t like women, a man who only gets it up for other men.” And it was like a revelation, like a light going on in my head. I said, “That’s what Stamatis was.” And they looked at me. They all looked at me, as if they were embarrassed. I said, “Mother married me to a poustis.” And they said, “Sofia, sshh. If Stamatis’s family hear you say that, they’ll take us to court.” And Maria said, “Don’t blame your shortcomings on other people.” ’

  There was silence. The handkerchief was folded small. She laid it at the centre of the table.

  He said, ‘I have something else for you.’

  From his top pocket, he handed her a business card.

  She glanced at the card; it gave a name, and an address in Athens.

  ‘You’re a lawyer.’

  ‘Not I,’ he said. ‘I am merely the messenger. The card belongs to Stamatis’s lawyer. Legally, you were still Stamatis’s wife, and so his next of kin. By law, you should inherit all his estate.’

  ‘His estate? Is it much?’

  ‘I can’t say, Sofia. There may be nothing.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose there’s much.’

  ‘There may be a fortune. You know, Sofia, your life isn’t over yet.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘My life was over the day he walked out on me. I have lived the life of an old woman, and so I have become one.’

  He leaned towards her, and laid his hand over hers.

  ‘Listen to me, Sofia. You have lost many years, I agree, but your life need not be over. By no means. Life is full of chances, twists of Fate. It’s not time for you to lie down and die. Now, take that card and phone that number, find out what’s due to you. That’s my advice. I have a feeling that your luck’s already changed. And remember this isn’t the only place in the world. Your feet are not chained to this island – to this rock. There are cities, and other islands; there are other countries, if you were brave . . .’

  ‘But I’m not brave,’ she said, sadly. ‘I’ve never been away from here. And I have no one to go travelling with.’

  ‘Now there,’ he said, ‘you might be wrong. Just bide your time, and you might find a travelling companion comes along. Just wait a while, that’s all.’ He stood and held out his hand; when she gave him, demurely, her fingertips, he raised them to his lips, and kissed them.

  ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to find me,’ she said. ‘And don’t forget your handkerchief.’

  ‘Please, keep it,’ he said. ‘And it’s been no trouble, but a pleasure.’

  Together they crossed the yard. At the gate, he turned to her.

  ‘Look to the future, Sofia,’ he said. ‘Your future might be bright, if you choose to make it so.’

  From amongst the weeds, he plucked a scarlet poppy, and held it out to her.

  ‘I’ll do my very best,’
she smiled. ‘You can rely on it.’

  As evening fell, the day’s warmth dissipated. The fat man was very early at the harbourside taverna – the tables were still unlaid, and last night’s garbage stood in reeking bags beside the crates of wine and water.

  The waiter looked up from his newspaper. The fat man asked for a table for three, on the terrace.

  ‘In this weather?’ asked the waiter. ‘You’ll be better off inside. We’ve got the fire lit.’

  But the fat man insisted.

  ‘Set it up,’ he said, ‘where I can see the ferry dock. I’m expecting an acquaintance, and I don’t want to miss him.’

  The waiter dragged a table to the terrace, and fastened down the tablecloth against the wind. He set places for three, and brought three chairs. The fat man chose the seat with the best view, and, taking a novel from his holdall, opened it at random, and laid it in front of him. Out on the dark water, the waves broke up the reflected harbour lights; the waiter lit the red glass candle-lamp, and its ruby light made demon shadows dance around the fat man. Beneath his table, a scrawny black cat rubbed at his foot and yowled for food. The rising wind riffled the pages of his book, turning them like a reader demented.

  Along the quay, the passengers for the ferry were gathering. A truck laden with empty wooden crates squeezed by, blowing hot, oily exhaust fumes across the table; a taxi carrying three robed priests blasted its horn at a scavenging dog. The fat man watched each new arrival; they came out of the shadows to pass before him, and merged with those already watching the dark horizon, where black sea met night sky and nothing could be seen. A grandmother chivvied a grizzling toddler. Three shaven-headed recruits climbed laughing from an army jeep, and slapped the driver on the back before he drove away.

  By the lamplit table, two men – one squat, one elderly and breathless – paused.

  ‘Just stop a minute,’ said the old man. ‘You walk too fast for me.’

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ the squat man said. ‘I’ll take a boat tomorrow.’

  The old man laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s for the best, Manolis,’ he said. ‘A little time away, and a fresh start.’

  The squat man shook his head, and stared down at his feet.

  ‘I never thought she was that kind of woman,’ he said. ‘I did my best to make her happy. She was a good wife to me, until he came along. But how could she say no, to him?’ He clenched a fist; his face grew hard, and angry. ‘I should have killed the bastard, when I had the chance.’

  ‘If you’d laid one finger on him, you’d be staring at a prison wall right now,’ his father said. ‘Just do as I tell you, son – a time away, until the dust has settled. Before you know it, it’ll all be forgotten, and you’ll be back home with your mother and me.’

  ‘I’ll miss you all.’

  The old man grasped him by the arm, and pulled him on.

  ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ he said, as they moved away. ‘Work hard, make yourself a bit of money. You’ll soon be back.’

  The fat man watched them go; the squat man went reluctantly, as if towards a fate he didn’t want. Beneath the fat man’s chair the black cat yowled, as from the darkness, a solitary figure emerged. Keeping close to the walls, away from the weak light of the street-lamps, a man moved silently around the harbourside, towards the dock.

  The fat man held still the pages of his book, and lowered his head as if absorbed in reading. The man in the shadows caught sight of him, and hesitated; then, face averted, he stepped into the red light cast by the candle-lamp. Discreetly, head down, the fat man watched him take another few quick paces; when the figure was almost past, and close to being absorbed by the assembly, the fat man called out to him.

  ‘Chief of Police! Chief Zafiridis!’

  The Chief of Police stopped; after a moment, he slowly turned to face the fat man.

  The fat man called again.

  ‘Good evening, Chief of Police! A word, a word if you please!’

  The Chief of Police retraced his steps, back into the ruby light which lit the fat man’s table. His hair was slick, and gelled in place; on his face there was a smile, which showed his teeth but did not reach his eyes.

  ‘The great detective,’ he said, with sarcasm. ‘You’re dining very early.’

  ‘Not dining yet,’ said the fat man, cheerfully. ‘I trust you got my message. There’s a place here laid for you. Please, sit.’

  ‘I did receive your message. But I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, this evening. Another time.’

  ‘Come, come,’ said the fat man. ‘Your friend is very keen to see you. He tells me that he’s had no news of you for quite some time. Since you took up this posting, in fact.’

  From far away, the siren of the inbound ferry boomed. The Chief of Police glanced towards the horizon.

  ‘One gets caught up in work,’ he said, ‘and social lives suffer, as I’m sure you know. But for an old friend . . .’

  ‘Sit down, then,’ said the fat man, pulling the chair beside him from beneath the table. ‘When the boat docks, we’ll go and meet him together.’

  ‘I’ll join you in a while,’ said the Chief of Police, ‘as soon as I can. I’ve some matters to take care of at the station.’

  The fat man held out his hand.

  ‘Leave your bag, then. I’ll take care of it whilst you’re gone.’

  The Chief of Police looked down at the flight bag in his hand, as if surprised to see it there.

  ‘Uniform,’ he said. ‘A change of shirts, to hang in the closet. I’ll see you shortly.’

  He took a step towards the dock.

  ‘Chief of Police,’ called the fat man, ‘you forgot to ask your friend’s name!’

  But the Chief of Police walked on, as if he hadn’t heard; slipping into the crowd, he disappeared from view.

  Out in the bay, the three-tiered deck lights of the ferry were growing bright as the vast vessel drew near. Again, the siren blasted its deep, sad note.

  The fat man closed his book, and tucked his holdall underneath his chair. Motioning to the waiter that he would be back, he followed the path the Chief of Police had taken.

  As the massive, white hull approached the quayside, the crowd moved closer to the water’s edge. There were shouts, and shouted responses; crewmen on the lower deck threw down the lines, and the first links of the anchor chains rattled through the winch.

  The fat man left the heart of the crowd, and made his way up the stone steps of the police station. Halfway, he stopped, and leaned his back against the wall, concealed by shadows; from there, he watched as the ramp was lowered, and the arriving passengers disembarked. He watched the departing passengers go aboard, and make their way up iron stairs to the saloon; he watched the boisterous young soldiers who had passed him, the three solemn priests, the grandmother hugging the now-silent toddler, the squat man, unwilling and bewildered. He watched the incoming freight unloaded, and the outgoing freight stacked in its place; he watched the waiting vehicles replace the trucks being driven off. He watched, until the boat was ready for departure.

  A whistle blew; on the car deck, an alarm bell rang.

  And from behind the clock tower, a figure moved speedily towards the ramp – the figure of a man who carried a flight bag and whose slicked hair shone under the deck lights. As the ramp lifted from the quayside, the figure jumped aboard and slipped away inside the ship.

  The fat man watched him go, and smiled.

  At the taverna, the waiter and the cook were both inside, warming their backsides at the fire.

  ‘I’m afraid I shall be dining alone,’ announced the fat man. ‘My companions are unable to join me, after all. And I find you were quite right about the weather. I think I’d much prefer to eat in here, out of the cold.’

  From the railings of the upper deck, the Chief of Police watched the island’s lights retreat, and in the distance shrink to tiny points. The night at sea was bitter cold; the railings were wet wi
th spray, the deck was slippery with seawater. Overhead, a tattered national flag flapped in the rising wind, and as it dipped and rolled, the ship strained, and groaned.

  He found himself a narrow, dead end of the deck, close to the prow, where he could be alone and avoid anyone who might know him. On the deck below, the saloon TV blared music, and men’s voices shouted in an argument over poker; but here, there was only the fiercely gusting wind, and the hiss of spray, and the eerie creaking of the ship’s fabric as it laboured through the rising sea.

  On the iron stairs, footsteps rang, slow and heavy. The Chief of Police glanced in that direction, where a man appeared, short and squat, gripping the slick, iron stair-rail to keep his footing as the ship rolled. At the stairhead, the man hesitated. Discouraged by the high wind and the cold, he turned to retreat to the saloon, but as he turned, the boat’s starboard side lifted, tipping the deck to port. As if taking a shove in the back, the squat man, off balance, made three uneven paces to the deck rail, and held himself steady there, a little way from where the Chief of Police was standing.

  Unseen, unnoticed, the Chief of Police turned away his face, and fixed his eyes on the constellations he had learned to name in childhood: Orion’s Belt, the Great Bear, the Pleiades.

  Along the deck, the squat man pulled a flat pint-bottle from his pocket, and took a long drink of spirit. Settling his forearms on the wet railing, sighing, he too raised his eyes to the stars.

  At the Chief of Police’s feet, a rope ladder was knotted to the railing uprights. Forgotten by some deckhand, its paint-spattered, wooden rungs swung out and back above the rough, black water, ringing hollow and arrhythmic as they struck the body of the ship. The Chief of Police looked beyond the prow for signs of land – for winking lights, for the soft, electric glow which hangs over towns, and villages – but there was nothing. He shivered, and, cupping his hands, blew into them to warm them, then pushed them deep into the pockets of his jacket. His hand fell on his keys, and he took them out to move them to his breast pocket, where he could zip them safely in.

  His fingers were chilled, red and stiff. The keys slipped through them, and clattered to the deck.