The squat man turned.
‘Kali spera,’ he said.
The Chief of Police did not reply, but bent to pick up the keys. He heard approaching footsteps ring out along the deck; as he raised his head, the man was there beside him.
In obvious search of company, the squat man smiled, and held out to him the uncapped bottle of spirits.
‘Drink?’ he said.
The Chief of Police regarded him: flabby at the belly, flaccid in the jowls. He had a boxer’s nose, crooked at the tip, and sad, booze-reddened eyes, whose lids were lined, and drowsy.
The Chief of Police knew him instantly; he remembered him very well. Mandrakis, Manolis Mandrakis. There had been some unpleasantness in a butcher’s shop: the woman crying behind a freezer door with her underwear betraying her on the floor; himself helpless and ridiculous with his trousers round his knees. There had been a rack of knives to hand, and a chopper to split bones; only rank and his uniform had stopped Mandrakis cutting him. Mandrakis’s rage had frightened him; he knew he had been lucky to walk away unscathed. The woman, though not pretty, had been in awe of him, and did as she was asked. Just for the moment, her name escaped him.
Mandrakis looked at him; the smile left his face, and the drowsy lids lifted over eyes suddenly focused, and alert.
‘You,’ he said. He looked behind him, and behind the Chief of Police; seeing they were alone, the smile spread back across his lips.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned all the way to hell and back.’
‘How are you, Manolis?’ asked the Chief of Police, quietly.
‘How am I?’ asked Mandrakis, incredulously. He took a step towards Zafiridis, and shook a finger at his chest without quite touching him. ‘I’ll tell you how the fuck I am, you prick. You’ve ruined my fucking life, that’s how I am! I’m leaving home because I can’t stand it any longer, the ribbing and the snide remarks. Home! It’s no home to speak of, now I’ve got no wife. And we both know why I’ve got no wife, don’t we?’ He jabbed again at the Chief of Police’s chest; this time, the fingertip made contact, poking the hard bone of his sternum. The Chief of Police stepped backwards, out of range.
‘I’ve got no wife,’ ranted Mandrakis, ‘because some prick thought she’d be a good lay! Some prick who thought she was his for the taking. The same prick who thought he’d get away with it, because of who he is. Because he wears a uniform.’
He leaned towards Zafiridis, and tugged at his lapel, exposing the buttons of a plain, civilian shirt and the slender, gold chain of a small crucifix. His smile broadened into a grin.
‘Where’s your uniform tonight, officer?’
He drank deeply from his bottle, and looked into the Chief of Police’s eyes.
‘I hope she was worth it, you piece of shit,’ he said. ‘You fucking piece of shit.’
Mandrakis upended the bottle in his hand; spirit splattered on his shoes and on the deck, filling the air with its sweet and potent scent, warm and golden-brown. He grasped the bottle by its short neck, and cracked it sharply on the deck rail. As the bottle smashed, half stayed whole in his hand, jagged-edged and ready.
Zafiridis held up his hands.
‘Come on, Manolis,’ he said. ‘We can talk about this.’
Mandrakis took up a fighter’s stance, the half-bottle held out before his face. A trail of mucus ran from his nose. Agitated, he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
‘Go ahead, officer,’ he said. ‘Talk.’
‘It wasn’t how you think,’ began Zafiridis. ‘She . . .’
Mandrakis lunged, and hit him in the face. The pain was like a punch, and, dazed, Zafiridis thought he had been struck only with a fist; but in one eye, the sight was gone, and warm, wet liquid was trickling down his face. He touched his fingers to the injured eye; his touch, though gentle, added stinging to the pain, and lowering his hand, he saw dark liquid spread across his fingertips. The warm, wet blood ran down his neck, inside his shirt and to his chest, and from his chin, it fell in slow drops to the deck.
‘So was she worth it, policeman?’ yelled Mandrakis. ‘There’s more coming to you! Here!’
He lunged again, and caught Zafiridis in the shoulder, causing him to stagger. Lowering his head, he crossed his forearms over his skull to shield himself.
Mandrakis laughed.
‘You yellow-bellied prick,’ he shouted. ‘Fight! Come on, hit me!’ He pointed to his jaw, inviting the blow. ‘Wherever you like! Come on, you bastard – take me on!’
At the Chief of Police’s feet, the paint-spattered rope ladder swung out, and back, ringing hollow as it struck the hull. To the deck below – to the saloon bar, to help, and safety – was a dozen rungs, no more.
He ducked between the railings, and, clinging tight, grappled himself on to the ladder’s topmost rungs. The sole of his right shoe slid sideways on the spray-drenched wood, then wedged itself against the wet side-rope. With the tip of his left shoe, he felt out the next plank; moving too fast, and recklessly, hands gripped hard on the rungs, he made his way towards the lower deck.
The ladder was unstable, and twisted with his weight; a wave rose up the hull, and spattered him with fine, cold spray. Mandrakis, looking down on him, was shouting threats; close below, the lights of the saloon bar were bright, and above the rushing of the sea and the steady beat of engines, men were laughing.
On the starboard side, the boat lifted.
The ladder, like a pendulum, swung out; given momentum by his weight, it swung Zafiridis two full arm’s lengths from the hull.
As the boat fell back, the ladder slammed into the side; between ladder-rung and hull, his knuckle joints were crushed. In agony, he cried out, watching his broken fingers slipping from the rung.
For a moment he was flying; the water, when he hit it, was a shocking, icy cold. As he went down, a rushing filled his ears, but as he came back to the surface, the rushing was replaced by a mighty pounding as the blades of the propeller churned thundering towards him.
Mandrakis watched him fall. Close by, at the stairhead, a lifebelt with its coil of rope was hanging. He looked down at the water, and considered. The boat was moving fast; already, the Chief of Police was far behind.
He lifted the lifebelt from its hook, and held it for a moment. The night was dark; between boat and the man overboard, the distance grew.
Mandrakis replaced the lifebelt on its hook, and made his way below to the saloon.
Twenty-One
On Monday morning, the fat man took the earliest bus to St Savas’s bay. The wind which had blown up in the night had dropped, but the sea was still high, and the waves gathered up white foam as they rolled on to the beach.
The fat man followed the path to Nikos’s house, combing the pebbled sand for shells as he went. At Nikos’s, the terrace was deserted. The chairs were folded, and stacked against the wall; by the closed door, the thin, ginger cat yowled to be let in.
The fat man knocked at the door, and waited. The cat wound in and out of his ankles, and, purring, rubbed its face on his shins. The fat man knocked again, and waited until he was sure there would be no answer; tentatively he turned the handle, and quietly opened the door.
‘Nikos!’
His voice echoed back to him, as though from empty rooms, but as silence settled, he caught a rustling, and the sound of stealthy movement, in the room beyond.
He stepped inside.
‘Nikos! It’s me, Diaktoros!’
The cat ran past him, to a saucer crusted with dried meat scraps, and an empty bowl ringed with sour milk. The fat man sniffed; there was a smell about the place, the beginnings of a stench, like a latrine.
‘Nikos!’
‘Here.’
The fat man pushed open the bedroom door. On the bed, Nikos lay, propped up on pillows without cases, covered with rough blankets. He wore his outdoor jacket, and his sheepskin cap, but hugged himself to slow the shivering which made his dry lips tremble. Beside the bed, a bucket wa
s filled almost to the rim with dark-stained urine; on the nightstand, the water carafe was empty.
The fat man sat down gently on the bed.
‘How goes it with you, friend?’ he asked.
Nikos forced a smile, but it stayed only a moment, before it changed into a grimace.
‘Not good,’ he said, ‘as you can see. You have me at a disadvantage.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the fat man. ‘I’m ashamed of myself. I should have come earlier; I knew it, and I didn’t come soon enough. Are you in pain?’
‘The pain’s a bastard,’ said Nikos, trying to laugh, ‘but not as bad as what comes after.’
The fat man was silent for a moment.
‘Do you think you need the doctor?’ he asked. ‘I will fetch him, if you want me to.’
Nikos lowered his head, and hid his eyes beneath the peak of his cap.
‘There’s no need for doctors, now,’ he said. ‘I’m pissing blood, and the swelling’s growing bigger by the day. Just to be warm – that’s all I want, is to be warm.’
‘Then it’s time for you to come with me,’ said the fat man.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Nikos. ‘Fishing? I’d like to catch another fish, before . . .’
‘Not fishing, no,’ said the fat man. ‘I’ll take you to your sister’s. It’s where you need to be.’
‘She’ll not want me,’ he said, derisively. ‘Who’d want anyone, in this state? She’ll not want me.’
Through the bedclothes, the fat man patted the old man’s legs.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘She’ll take you in with open arms. There’ll be clean sheets, a warm house, and something for the pain.’
‘And how do you plan to get me there?’ he asked. ‘Since I can’t even get myself to the privy to take a leak?’
‘Transport is not a problem,’ said the fat man. ‘You’ll go with me, in style. Give me your sister’s number, and I’ll tell her to expect us.’
Nikos lay back on his pillows with a sigh.
‘She’ll not want me,’ he said. ‘It’s too much of a burden. Come back tomorrow, and tell them to bring a box to carry me out.’
‘Nikos,’ said the fat man, gently. ‘Listen to me. There’s no need for you to go through this alone. Whatever differences you’ve had, your sister loves you. She’s lost Irini. Don’t let her lose you too, without a chance to make things right.’
The old man pushed the cap up off his eyes.
‘It’s always been my greatest fear,’ he said, ‘dying alone. And now it’s here, I find it’s not the being alone, but the dying itself that’s hard. I keep thinking, just one more fish; just one more drink. One more of everything, so it’ll take another lifetime.’
‘There’s still time,’ said the fat man, ‘for one more of many things. The drink and the fish are possible. The care of someone who loves you is possible, too. You choose: die alone, in your own piss, or come with me.’
‘You’re leaving us, then,’ said Nikos.
‘I have another assignment I must begin soon,’ said the fat man. ‘And a few more hours will see things tidy here. So if you’ll be patient for a little while – not long – I’ll send the boys to make you ready for the journey.’
At the jetty, a sleek, ocean-going cruiser was tying up. Along her slender, white hull, narrow bands of gold and navy blue picked out her subtle curves, and on her prow, her name – Aphrodite – was painted in plain gold. Two crewmen in white uniforms were securing her with ropes, fore and aft. They worked together, like a well-practised team, with one – short, dark and balding, with the lascivious mouth and eyebrows of a satyr – giving quiet orders to the second – a stately, blue-eyed youth, with an air of unspoiled innocence.
‘Enrico, Ilias, kali mera sas!’ Familiarly, the fat man slapped the crewmen on the backs. ‘You’re late, though. I’d given you up for lost.’
Short, dark Enrico pulled the rope he held tight, and tied it off.
‘We made poor time this morning,’ he said. ‘We were running into wind, most of the way. Ilias, make some coffee, son.’
Along the road, the church clock chimed the first stroke of ten.
‘No time for coffee now,’ said the fat man. ‘Our man should be here, any moment.’
For a while, they waited. The fat man wandered to the jetty’s end, and, peering down into the deep, clear water, watched the minute, glittering fry trawl the water’s under-surface for edibles.
The hands of the church clock moved on, and the bay remained quiet. The fat man lit a cigarette, and frowned. Ilias took out a short, steel file and hooked a little engine oil from behind a white-tipped fingernail.
Around the bend, a vehicle was approaching – a red truck. It drove fast to the jetty, and pulled up sharply, sliding on the surface sand and gravel.
Theo jumped out, and slammed the door. His face was tight with anger.
‘You!’ He was pointing at the fat man.
‘You’re late, Theo,’ said the fat man, calmly. ‘I don’t like to be kept waiting. As these gentlemen will tell you.’
‘You go to hell!’ said Theo. ‘I’m only here at all to tell you to lay off!’
He faced up to the fat man, jabbing a finger towards his chest. The fat man took a small step away from him, and, with an expression of distaste, brushed at his shirt-front, as if peppered by spittle.
But Theo ranted on.
‘I’ve told you before, just stay away from my family! What do you mean by leaving little notes at my house? How am I supposed to explain that to my wife? Just get out of my life, and stay out!’
As if his own outburst had surprised him, Theo stood for a moment, breathing hard.
‘Walk with me, Theo,’ said the fat man.
He laughed. ‘Walk with you! You go to hell!’
Theo turned to his truck. Enrico leaned, nonchalant, against the door; Ilias, arms folded, rested his buttocks on the wing.
Theo marched back to the fat man.
‘What’s this, the heavy mob? Mafia? What? Call off your dogs, fatso. Get them out of my way.’
‘Theo, walk with me.’ There was an edge to the fat man’s voice – annoyance, a little impatience. ‘You can talk to me now, or I shall come and talk to your wife. It’s entirely up to you.’
Theo hesitated only briefly.
‘All right, fatso. I’ll walk with you. But I won’t talk.’
‘A coward to the last,’ said the fat man. ‘The merest threat of a domestic squall, and the big man caves in. Come. I know a place we won’t be disturbed, or overheard.’
He took him by the elbow, and steered him towards the beach path, but Theo snatched his arm away.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he said.
‘As you wish.’
The fat man led the way, along the sea-front path towards the boatyard. Theo walked slowly, growing the distance between him and the fat man, but the crewmen were following behind, and the further he slipped back from the fat man, the closer the crewmen came to him.
Theo called out to the fat man.
‘What do the Mafia want?’
‘They are my little helpers, in case you prove difficult. But I don’t think you will.’
Passing the upturned hulls of the winter-beached boats, they reached the boatyard workshop. The workshop doors were closed, and the boat-builders’ houses seemed deserted. In the yard, six skinny chickens pecked for scraps; a brazier stood before the workshop doors, alight with pine-wood offcuts, burning low.
The fat man lifted the latch, and opened the workshop doors.
‘In here,’ he said.
‘What for?’ asked Theo.
‘We won’t be disturbed here. You do want privacy, don’t you, Theo?’
Inside, the workshop was dark, lit only by a window hung with sacking; it smelled of fresh-planed wood, and tar.
‘I suggest you sit,’ said the fat man. ‘You’ll be more comfortable.’
There was one chair only, an old-fashioned carver whose leathe
r-upholstered seat was cracked, and split.
‘Now,’ said the fat man, ‘tell me about you and Irini.’
Theo stood up from the chair.
‘I’ve told you until I’m sick of telling you, and I’m not telling you again: I didn’t know the woman.’
From the roof, a perching rooster crowed. The fat man’s eyebrows lifted into Mephistophelean arches, and he smiled.
‘A little cosmic symmetry, would you say, Theo?’ he asked. ‘A cock-crow for your third denial.’
The crewmen, entering, pulled the doors to and slipped the inside bolts. Enrico stood a storm lantern on the workbench; its weak, yellow light cast deeper shadows on the fat man’s face. Ilias held a parcel wrapped in newsprint, and a coil of nylon rope.
‘Sit down, Theo,’ said the fat man. Theo hesitated. Enrico stepped up to him.
‘Please sit down, sir,’ said Enrico, ‘or I shall be forced to make you.’
Theo spat into the sawdust, and sat.
‘Tie him down,’ said the fat man.
From behind, Enrico pinned Theo in the chair, whilst Ilias efficiently wrapped Theo’s forearms with the rope, binding them to the chair arms.
‘You bastards!’ shouted Theo, wildly. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Untie me, you pricks, or I’ll call the fucking police!’
He kicked out at them, but they were out of range.
‘Theo, Theo,’ said the fat man, soothingly. He laid a hand on Theo’s head, and slowly stroked his hair. ‘Sshh, Theo, sshh. There’s no need to call the police. At this moment in time, I am the police.’
Madly, Theo shook his head to shake off the caress, but the fat man stroked, and stroked, until Theo became still. And when he was still, the fat man pulled a red silk handkerchief from his pocket, and pushed it into his mouth.
The fat man and the crewmen stood silently together, watching Theo.
Theo was very still.
‘Red, Theo,’ said the fat man, at last. ‘The colour of passion. The colour of beating hearts. The colour of blood.’
At the bench, Ilias began to unwrap the newsprint from his parcel.
‘You and I have a bone to pick, friend. Because you have not been telling the truth, have you?’ Theo rattled the legs of the chair, and tried to get to his feet; Enrico moved behind him and, pressing on his shoulders, held him down.
The Messenger of Athens Page 24