‘You know,’ went on the fat man, ‘if you had said to me, “I loved Irini, fatso, with all my heart and soul. She was my joy, and my world, and everything in life to me” – if you had said that to me, you wouldn’t be here now. But you didn’t say that, did you? You said you didn’t know her. I wonder how poor Irini would have felt about that?’
From behind the handkerchief, Theo tried to shout, but the gag held in his words.
‘How do you think she died, Theo? Shall I tell you? You think you know. You think she killed herself, don’t you? You think she killed herself, out of love for you.’
Theo shook his head, violently, and his eyes spread wide.
‘I’m still not getting through to you, am I, Theo?’ The fat man drew out a cigarette, and leaned against the bench to light it. As he exhaled smoke, he said, ‘I have not the slightest interest in your pathetic attempts to preserve your status quo. It is time now for the truth. Truth, Theo. Not a concept which has figured largely in your world. Until now. Let me tell you how it is. I know she haunts your sleep; I can see your dreams. I know how you hold her in your arms, and how you cry when you wake, and find that it’s not real. I know you see her round every street corner, just disappearing from view. I know you look in every woman’s face, looking for her, her mouth, her eyes. Her smile, Theo. The one you threw away. And I think you would give your right hand to have one hour with her, wouldn’t you? If I could show her to you, manifest her, what would you give me? What would be a fair price? One finger? Your right hand, perhaps . . .’ The fat man ran his fingertips tickling over the back of Theo’s bound hand; the red handkerchief muted Theo’s protesting shout, and he strained at the binding rope, raising blue veins amongst the stretching bones.
The fat man laughed, and patted Theo’s hand.
‘No, no. You misunderstand me. Nothing so violent. Not quite so violent.’
He leaned in close to Theo’s ear, and his face took on a look of anger.
‘Because it’s too late now, isn’t it?’ he hissed. ‘What’s done is done. I can’t bring her back, any more than you can find her. No regrets though, eh? No regrets? Theo?’
To hide the bright tears in his eyes, Theo stared down at his knees, but the fat man put his fist beneath his chin, and roughly raised his head.
‘Tears, Theo? Dear me! Who are they for, son – her, or you?’
He let his head drop, and beckoned to the crewmen.
‘Shave him.’
Ilias peeled back the pages of newsprint, and laid out the contents of his parcel. Scissors. A can of shaving cream. A cutthroat razor.
‘I understand your difficulty,’ went on the fat man. ‘You have the heart of a great lover, but the soul of a coward. The two together create dilemmas. You’re a closet Romeo, Theo, a lover who dares nothing. So I’m going to take pity on you; look at it like that. I’m going to solve your dilemma for you. I’m going to shove you out of the closet. Now, keep very still.’
Ilias took the scissors and cut at Theo’s hair. He cut close to the scalp, letting the soft, black curls fall amongst the sawdust and the wood-shavings, cutting until there was only stubble, rough and tufted.
On Theo’s knee, a tear fell. The fat man dropped the butt of his cigarette, and ground it out beneath his tennis shoe.
‘I am doubly ashamed of you,’ he said, leaning back against the workbench. ‘You cry for your hair, but where are your tears for Irini?’
Ilias uncapped the shaving cream and, filling his palm with white foam, began to spread it over Theo’s scalp.
‘If you had shown one moment of decency,’ said the fat man, ‘if you had gone to Irini, told her you loved her, admitted you were too cowardly to face the fray and be with her, well, you wouldn’t be here now.’
Ilias opened the razor, and drew the blade across his fingertip. The blade’s thin track appeared in blood. He cut the first smooth swathe across Theo’s scalp.
‘Or, if you had gone to her husband, and told him you loved his wife, that you wanted to take her away, if you had taken the beating he would likely have given you like a man, you wouldn’t be here now.’
Ilias scraped the foam and stubble from the razor’s blade on to the workbench edge. Where he had cut, Theo’s scalp showed grey. Ilias cut again.
‘If you had stood up to your father’s bullying, said you were sticking by the woman you loved, you wouldn’t be here now. If you had run away with her secretly and started a new life elsewhere. If you had stood by her, spoken up for her when your friends were calling her a whore. If you had risked everything and gone to make love to her, just once. If you had confessed all to your wife, and tried to build a better marriage. If you had done any one of these things, if you had behaved in only one small detail as a man of integrity instead of a man looking out for himself – and only himself – you would not be here now.
‘You told yourself you were a Man of Honour, deserting your lover so precipitately, without a word. You have a wife and child. But your “honourable” behaviour was only cowardice. Your overriding concern was sparing yourself embarrassment, and trouble at home. There was no honour there. It was pure self-interest. Admit it, Theo.’
Theo closed his eyes, and slowly nodded.
‘Good.’
The shaving was complete. Cautiously, the fat man pulled the handkerchief from Theo’s mouth. The red silk had become purple, dyed with saliva, and tears.
‘And you underestimated, didn’t you, the power of passion? Passion is a great gift, a gift not given to everyone. For you, it was too much. You were not man enough for its demands. Now it is time for you to redeem yourself, to stand up and face the music. You’ve acted the part you chose well, very well. But good acting was not what was required. Good acting is the refuge of those who wish to deceive, not only others but themselves. Especially themselves. What was required from you, Theo, was honesty. Perhaps a little kindness.’
Theo was silent. Then he said, ‘Perhaps if I had been kinder, at the end, she wouldn’t have killed herself. That was my fault. I killed her.’
‘No, Theo. You flatter yourself, I fear. She did not kill herself. Not for you, or for any other reason.’
‘It was an accident, then?’
The fat man considered.
‘Let’s say that. Yes.’
‘So it wasn’t my fault?’
‘Be careful. You cannot absolve yourself of responsibility simply because she did not die by her own hand. If it weren’t for you, she would be alive now.’
He signalled to the crewmen, who slid back the bolt on the door, and slipped out.
‘It’s time for you to do your penance. The time for hiding, and acting, and lying, is past. I want you to take your punishment like the Man of Honour you have told yourself you are. Irini suffered the loss of her good name and reputation for you, and bore it. Today starts a new chapter in your life. Everything you have feared losing, what you held most precious – your reputation, your good name, your quiet life, maybe even your family – you are about to lose. Because you valued them too highly, I am going to take them from you. All things in life are transient. The trick is, to value what is most important. There are diamonds beyond price, and baubles which are worthless. Both shine, and sparkle. In the past, you have been fooled. There may be no other chances for you now, but if there are, in future, choose more wisely. Now, be brave.’
Enrico, in a pair of leather gauntlets, carried in an aluminium bucket half-full of hot, black pitch; it filled the workshop with its clean, antiseptic fumes. Ilias brought in a paintbrush, and a bag he concealed behind his back.
They moved behind Theo, and began to paint his naked head with the hot tar. Wherever it touched, it burned – his scalp, his neck where it dribbled in hardening rivulets – and the fumes stung his eyes, and made them feel as if they were bleeding.
They painted until his head was glossy black. Then Ilias handed his bag to the fat man, and the fat man, holding it high, tipped over Theo a shower of chicken feathers, re
d-brown and white, and soft as snowflakes.
At the jetty, the fat man gave Enrico the keys to Theo’s truck.
‘Put him on the back,’ he said, ‘where all the good folks can see him, and take him home the longest way you can find. Don’t be more than an hour. We have Nikos Velianidis to take care of, and his time is very precious. Then we’ll be gone. I don’t believe there’s anything else here that requires my attention, just at the moment.’
Anxious to deliver news of the scandal, George the bus driver pulled a chair up to the table at Jakos’s kafenion.
Agog, Lukas listened with the rest: Thassis Four-Fingers, Stavros Pleased-to-Meet-You, the bone-fused Adonis twisting in his seat so his ears could catch every detail. Only Jakos showed no interest; he placed George’s order amongst the half-filled wineglasses and the empty cups, and, stepping back inside the kitchen, turned up the volume on a cassette of sad duets.
George tasted his coffee and took a knife to a slice of sticky baklava.
‘His wife’ll be leaving him, of course,’ he concluded. ‘She was coming out of the baker’s when they drove him by, dripping with tar and head to foot in a pillow’s worth of feathers. She dropped her shopping where she stood and went hysterical. They had to fetch the doctor for a sedative.’
‘But who did it?’ asked Lukas. ‘And why?’
For a moment, all were silent.
‘It’s that Krisaxos business all over again,’ said Thassis, shielding his mouth to cover a belch. ‘Same family. Bad blood.’
‘The shame of it,’ said Adonis. ‘It’s perverted. Disgusting. No man should put his family through that.’
They all shook their heads in agreement – all except Lukas, who stared thoughtfully at the scuffed toe of his boot.
‘And there’ll be no coffee to be had in St Savas’s now,’ complained George, ‘with Nikos gone, and in no state to hurry back. They’ve put him aboard the Athenian’s boat, the fat guy’s. And I’ll tell you what . . .’ He put another piece of honeyed pastry in his mouth; his words were blurred with the cloying paste of nuts. ‘That’s some vessel he’s got there, an absolute beauty. He must have got some cash to have a boat like that. Where’s he get his money from?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said Thassis. He looked round sagely at his companions; his eyes were tired, and red. ‘He’s family. Know what I mean?’
He tapped a finger to the side of his nose, and gave Stavros a wink.
‘What family?’ asked Stavros.
‘He’s no idea what family,’ said Adonis. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘Where’s he headed?’ asked Lukas.
‘I didn’t ask him, and he didn’t say,’ said George. ‘This coffee’s not as good as Nikos’s.’ Around the harbour, the clock chimed the first stroke of the hour. ‘Christ, is that the time? They’ll be building a gibbet to string me up if I’m a minute late.’
Lukas drained his coffee to its thick dregs.
‘I’ll take a ride with you,’ he said. ‘If Nikos is leaving Thiminos, I want to say goodbye before he goes.’
The bus had few passengers. Lukas took the seat the fat man had favoured, at George’s back. The bus drove slowly round the harbour road, climbed the mountainside and descended beyond the village. When they passed the Half-way House, Lukas signed a triple cross over his heart.
But the jetty, when they reached it, was deserted. Along the beach, the shutters at Nikos’s windows were closed and barred. George parked the bus carelessly and, pulling yesterday’s newspaper from beneath his seat, slumped in his seat to read.
Lukas climbed down from the bus, and walked a few paces towards the jetty. The sea was dark, opaque with the reflection of heavy clouds; around the shore, the fishing boats were bobbing in the swell.
Ahead, magnificent Aphrodite was sailing from St Savas’s bay, moving at speed towards the open sea. At the tip of her high mast, the blue-and-white flag of Greece fluttered below a flag of navy and gold that Lukas couldn’t identify; on the deck, diminished by distance, stood the fat man.
Lukas ran to the jetty’s end, and waved his arms towards the yacht.
‘Yassou, my friend!’ he shouted. ‘Yassou, Nikos! God speed!’
For a moment, he thought he was unheard, but then the fat man touched his forehead in flamboyant salute, and raised his hand to wave goodbye.
Approaching the headland at the bay’s end, the yacht began a turn to starboard. The clouds were shifting in the blustery wind, and between their cracks a few rays of weak sunshine fell in spotlights on to Aphrodite’s decks. The fat man moved up to the prow, and stood, legs braced, hands at his back, like a commander of the fleet judging the sea.
As Lukas watched, the clouds moved back together, the spotlights were extinguished. Aphrodite slipped away around the headland, and she – and the fat man – were lost from view.
Epilogue
I remember that day. Who could ever forget it, the shame of it? But the truth was, I felt a strange relief. Through the jeering and laughing, the screaming and the crying, I felt free. I thought, I don’t have to hide now. The hiding’s over.
Elpida threw me out, of course. Was I sorry to go? I was sorry for myself, and I was sorry for her, for the awful embarrassment we both believed she’d never live down. When my mother saw me, she wept; my father was so angry, he took a swing at me, swore he’d never allow me back in the house. But my mother stood up to him, in a way I never have. She made him let me stay. Because she loves me.
She called the doctor, and asked him what to do; then she bathed my head with oil, and wrapped it up in bandages. Every day she tended to me, bathing and rewrapping. Gradually, the feathers worked loose, and after a week or two, most of the tar came away. My hair began to grow. I began to look the way I had before.
But I was not the same.
I fished, and thought. I spent many, many days, out there on the water, letting the sea calm me. Often, in the early mornings, when the sun’s rays first strike, instead of twisting off the surface they pierce it like slender arrows, white shafts pointing the way to the depths. Sometimes, I was tempted to follow those arrows and dive into that lovely blueness. The idea held no fear for me. It offered the caress of sleep rather than a choking death; it was an offer I thought I would, one day, accept.
Time passed, and my mother wanted me to see Elpida. She wanted us to talk, she said; what she wanted in her heart was the way things used to be. But I had changed too much to fit back inside that empty marriage – what could I say to Elpida that wasn’t lies? – so I refused to go. Besides, there’s Eleni. Eleni took to praying in the churches – night and day, fasting and not sleeping, on her knees until they bled and she stank from lack of washing. All through Lent, she prayed, and was admired for her piety. But at Easter, she still refused to stop, so they locked her in the house, and called the specialists. The doctor diagnosed dementia, a swelling of the brain, whilst Pappa Philippas proclaimed it a true calling, and the grace of God. Months later, there’s no change; they say the house is like a cathedral, all incense and candles, and every inch of wall covered in icons. Dementia or true piety, it’s all the same; my mother-in-law’s made a prisoner of herself, striving for the halo of a saint. As for Elpida, she’s happy enough; the burden of her crazy mother’s care has granted her the status of a martyr.
And I remain alone.
You know, our language overflows with wise little placebos to comfort the distraught and the desperate – and the plain embarrassed, the mortified, like me. One hundred years from now it will all be forgotten, the old folks say. But it isn’t so, not on this island; it just isn’t so.
The truth is this: that we who have been infamous are destined to remain so, news for ever in a land of nothing newsworthy.
On an island not far from home, Andreas’s small catch sold well. In the town square, he sat down at a café table shaded by the branches of a plane tree and, pulling the money – a few notes, a great deal of silver – from his pockets, began to co
unt.
‘You’ll be a rich man, soon.’
She stood before him, holding a tray beneath her arm. Her short-cropped hair was streaked with grey, and when she smiled, the lines of her face grew deeper.
He looked up at her, and returned her smile.
‘I’ll never be rich,’ he said, ‘and if I were, it wouldn’t make me happy.’
‘Are you unhappy, then?’ she asked. The question wasn’t flippant; the woman seemed to care.
‘I lost my wife last year,’ he said. ‘Life’s not the same, alone.’
‘You’ll miss her, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s been four years for me, and I still wait for my man to walk in through the door. What can I get you?’
Her eyes, he thought, were like Irini’s.
‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘And if I’m not being too forward, can I buy a drink for you? Don’t think you’d have to sit with me, if folk would talk.’
Her smile grew broad.
‘It’s not as if we’re children,’ he said, ‘or me some blushing virgin.’
They sat together companionably; the talk flowed easily, until it was time for him to prepare the boat, and leave.
‘I’ll be here again next week,’ he said, ‘if the weather holds.’
‘You’ll always find me here,’ she said. ‘Just ask for Zoë.’
Walking away towards the quay, he raised a hand goodbye.
By the café door, her aged father watched her watch him go.
‘Do you believe in Providence?’ she asked, clearing their table.
‘You’d be a damn fool not to,’ he replied. ‘No matter what life throws at you, my girl, sometimes the gods are kind.’
From the cast-iron gate, Theo surveyed the garden he remembered so differently – infested by chest-high weeds, overrun with thistles. Now the weeds lay mown and rotting by the wall, and shoots of new grass showed amongst their sharp, scythed stalks. The path to the house was swept, and marked with pots of flourishing cyclamen.
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