Sounds behind him—an old drunk fell down a flight of stairs.
The inebriate stopped moving. He had come down hard with several meaty slaps along the concrete. His face swelled and colored instantly. His bottle had shattered on the upper steps. There were thin gouges in his cheeks and forehead. Varia could smell it on him, from even the distance. The gouges took a moment to fill and begin to run. Everyone watched Varia watching him, as if expecting the closest one to the accident to be the first to respond. The inebriate’s face was a mosaic of blood and bruises. Just as the confidence had seemed to return, it deserted Varia now. He found himself frozen in time, watching the old man stir. Like he couldn’t speak, like he didn’t know the words, all knowledge inert. Two men approached and tried to help the inebriate to his feet. They checked him out, asked if he was alright. Varia walked away, before the man managed to reply with anything that wasn’t mumbling, deciding to make do without any money for now. Bravery is erratic when you’re out of practice.
Back topside, he remembered a night he’d come home after finding the mutilated body of a woman in a field. When he found he couldn’t sleep, his wife asked him why he thought about work when he was home. I can’t get the images out of my head sometimes. Popescu confessed that she had once found a woman in an apartment building when she’d worked as a cleaner. The fluids had left the body and the smell was unbearable. Glad she’d been wearing a mask. You have to put these things behind you, it’s no use being haunted. He moved over her. Later, they smoked and watched each other through the dark, burning holes in it, until the sun began to rise again.
He passed some children digging through a garbage can, putting what few dirty scraps they could find in their mouths. He watched, fascinated, almost envious that they’d found whatever it was first.
An older woman crossing the street saw him watching them, stopped to talk. “Those poor children, they’re eating trash.” Seemed to him like something was wrong with her, inside, the way she looked at him, her eyes not quite focusing anywhere.
“Yeah, they are.” Varia didn’t know what else to add, there. They watched it happen together for a moment, then he went on and she walked toward the kids. No use being haunted, he thought, hearing an echo that was now more his own voice than anyone else’s.
The first day he tried, the ferries in Rafina did not come because the weather had stalled them. On the second day he caught the first boat out.
He found a pension to ride out the week and picked up a package at the post office that was waiting for an alias. He leased a scooter, and though he felt ridiculous on one, it was inconspicuous enough. The last time he came to Andros, he was in his early twenties and had gotten leave to visit a friend’s family home up in the mountains. That trip had been something of a release, just what he needed then. He and his friend Kyriakos (since dead) drank themselves stupid and met women at the clubs and raced ATVs over the sand. He knew this trip would sour those memories; he had lost much of the country this way.
Maniotis sat at a café overlooking the port. He lit a cigarette, but didn’t smoke it—left it lit on the metal table next to his mobile. He opened the package and found a burner phone inside. The default language was English and he spent a while figuring out how to change it. Soon the info came in via SMS, a scramble of symbols and numbers over several messages. He ordered a tonic water and asked the server for a sheet of paper and a pen. The girl, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, brought it all out together on a tray. He quickly broke down the message and the code revealed the address of a Croatian diplomat’s residence (by his guess the diplomat had a family home here, but the message didn’t say that) as well as other relevance.
He memorized everything on the paper and burned it in the ashtray, under the cigarette.
The pension was a small room of white stucco and cinderblock with a fan in the upper north corner. The bed was wall to wall and almost as wide, and he had to sleep diagonally to fit. He had slept in worse places. He shut the door and walked down the hall to the shared lavatory and took a hot shower, but he couldn’t feel the temperature, like the water was coming out cold. Maniotis turned up the heat and sat. Steam rose and he meditated until the shiver went. Later, he had a nap, not because he was tired, but because he was bored. While he slept, smoke rolled off his skin, as if from out of his pores, filling the room.
Over a few days he scoped the house and routine, parked far and surveyed the surrounding hills on foot with a pair of binoculars. Details he noticed: the diplomat smoked Gauloises, had a hot blonde wife and a pale kid with dark hair, hired the same taxi every day. Dusty plastic covering was draped over the exposed parts of the house, which indicated to him a process of endless restoration. On two of the evenings, the diplomat read paperbacks outside beneath a mosquito trap. The days following those, Maniotis paid a local teenager he eyed for a burnout to follow the family into town. In the evenings the family dined well, but cheap and close to the home, the kind of people who knew the local restaurant owners by name, shook hands and showed off the kid and got the best table each time. Maniotis nor the youth ever saw the couple fight. He wondered why, if the diplomat had it this good, was his number up? Most probable: the diplomat was a fucking idiot.
The sixth day was spent at the beach most of the hours and Maniotis let them have that as a courtesy because he liked their life. Maniotis began to arrange action in his head. He would do it that night and catch the early morning ferry back to the mainland. The kid took the money, and the same evening on his way through town, Maniotis saw him drinking it away at a tavern.
He parked in the bushes and stepped off the bike. His phone rang and he answered, having forgotten he’d brought it. His mother’s voice calm and hoarse. Immediately he knew she’d been crying. He said very little and let the call bring its weight and he soon hung up and sat there a while, contemplating, leaned against the scooter.
Once the will returned, he approached the house on foot, prepared to deliver the family to their god. But he wouldn’t have to. The front door opened and the diplomat went for a walk along the concrete road out front of the property, puffing through several cigarettes like they were all the same one. He seemed stressed about something, throwing his arms around in frustration and cursing at the night. Hard island wind moved dry brush, masking most other sounds. He shadowed the diplomat and waited for him finish the moment. Maniotis came up behind him and there was barely enough time for any meeting of eyes, his hand over the diplomat’s mouth, the knife cracking a rib on its way to his heart. Above them the stars looked like the sun’s glare across waves of a darker ocean.
He let the diplomat down and held his hand and patiently prayed for him and his family.
The next morning he got on a different ferry, to Mykonos. He pitched the knife and the burner phone over the side and stayed on deck. He watched the dolphins.
He spent the night on the sand and the next day too. Maniotis left the beach only to get water. He walked and had dreams. In one of them, he was with his friend Kyriakos and they were fishing. They caught a baby shark from the water and dragged it to shore and killed it with stones. In another, the diplomat and his own father were playing at a roulette wheel and the ball spun and spun but never quite stopped on anything, and his father and the diplomat found themselves betting at first on where it would end and then, after some time, on when. The only dream he remembered clearly was one in which he had found an honest job at a factory, living with a woman, far from any water, maybe even in a different country. They had a son who was very young and whose face he couldn’t see.
Halfway through the following week he returned to the port and waited for the winds to die down, and for the next boat to arrive.
Pallas took a long shower, sat under it trying to clear her head. After she dried off, she traced “FUCK IT” into the steam-fogged mirror. Dried her hair and got changed, smelling shirts on the floor to make sure they were clean, or at least clean enough. Pallas texted her dealer and arranged to meet; she needed bud. She
walked to plateia Exarcheia and waited on the curb, the side that faced away from downtown. Her dealer ran late, but when he got there, he arrived on a nice motorcycle, a mismatch because he himself was shoddily dressed. Pallas stood and waved. He looked around suspiciously, even though there wasn’t anyone around that likely would have cared if they’d lit up right there in the middle of traffic. He motioned her to come closer.
“Thanos.”
“Elena.”
He asked if she wanted to go back to his place and smoke some.
“Been a while.”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s do that.”
“Hey, when’s that magazine-thing you keep telling me about coming? I want a copy.”
“Soon.”
“Cool. I’m having a party this weekend. You should come, you can bring your lady.”
“I don’t know if she’s ‘my lady’ anymore.”
“That sucks. Hop on.”
Pallas climbed onto the bike and leaned into him. He smelled good, that distinct patchouli kind of soothing, and it did feel good to hold someone, even if that’s not what this was.
His apartment was a few blocks up. They passed graffiti on the way, images of pigs with sharp teeth, cats, an Eye of Providence, circle-As, etc. and what looked like a rather poignant mural depicting a cartoonish Angela Merkel (it was the mouth and hair that made it obvious) as the meat of a rotisserie between Hitler and Stalin. . . . Thanos parked the bike and locked it. He led her up the steps, where he unlocked two deadbolts and opened the door—stale, breezeless air hit her face, though it was an oddly pleasant air, fragranced by incense and marijuana. They smoked a bowl together and her anxiety subsided some. I wonder if messaging her was the right thing to do. Pallas felt like she needed to be around someone now, but not out there, not in the world, with people, so she was glad when he offered to smoke with her, even if he seemed a little like a creep. The apartment was different than she remembered. He’d barred the interior of the windows so the fortification didn’t show to anyone passing on the street. Then again she’d only been there a handful of times. Just as likely, she hadn’t noticed because she’d never stayed long enough to look around.
“I know where I’m coming for the apocalypse.” Pallas unsure why she felt compelled to fake laughter just then.
Thanos hit and passed. “You want a beer?”
“Please.” He went to the fridge and got two Fix beers and handed one to her. Pallas cracked it. “This friend of mine tried to get Fix to sponsor the grand opening party for his bike shop.”
“Why Fix?”
“The shop specializes in single speeds and fixies.”
“Ah, like a pun.”
“Fix beer, Fixed gear. Yeap.”
“And?”
“They told him no, because it’s supposed to be a working class beer.”
Thanos cracked his beer. It occurred to her that she didn’t know his last name and he didn’t know hers. It was probably better that way, the vibe she got. “So tell me what happened with . . . ah, what’s her name.”
“Mara.”
“Mara, yeah.”
“I cheated on her.” No use in sugar. Pallas packed with the lighter and hit and passed back.
“Re, everybody in this city cheats. It’s not even cheating if it’s the way the game is being played. Now, do you think it’s something that can be resolved?”
“What I think is that I’m probably going to be homeless soon.”
“You can stay here if you need to.”
“Thanks.” Pallas had no such intention. “Where’s your cat?”
“Vronti? He died last week.” Thanos sighed.
Pallas looked down. “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that. He was so cute.”
“It happens.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“So what’s new?”
“New? Uh . . . nothing, really. Business is alright. I think I need to spend less time on the Internet. Between Skyrim and news sites, I’m feeling pretty depressed. I bought the bike last week to cheer myself up and the feeling only lasted a few days—oh, shit, reminds me, speaking of being online . . . I was reading some shit earlier. Ever hear of the Bystander Effect?”
“Yeah? I think so?” Pallas felt good, reasonably lighter. Like a tiny seed at the back of her mind had rooted, was growing, shooting. “No.”
“It’s this term for people who witness a traumatic event happening and can’t intervene. Like an accident or a fight or a crime. Anyway, it reminded me of a few months ago, in Piraeus, the incident with that girl during Karnivali. Do you remember that? Everyone all dressed up, parading around, drinking and whatnot. Then someone lit her on fire in front of the marina. Right in front of a large crowd. People watching her scream and burn to death. And there’s no suspect. Witnesses all said they remembered the gasoline dousing and couldn’t remember seeing whether someone was holding the canister. Too mesmerized by the fire, they claimed. And the girl’s body was almost unrecognizable—they still haven’t identified her. I’m reading about it and thinking, damn, it’s true, people freeze up more than they react. When we’re unprepared, I mean. But to be fair, some might have thought it was part of a show.”
Pallas blinked, imagining the words “gratification” and “agony” linked together by a bridge. “That’s fucked. Why don’t I remember that?”
“It used to be you could walk around the city and never find trouble. Now it’s getting worse every year.”
“Hey, you think I could nap a bit?” Pallas feeling suddenly very tired. Invisible hands trying to pull her down into darkness.
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
She put her feet up and leaned back.
When she awoke later, Thanos was watching porn on a laptop and had his cock out, stroking it. He looked over at her and folded the laptop shut and she could easily tell the thoughts as they turned in his head. Expression reading Maybe she’s feeling indignant enough just to roll with it. “I’ll give you free weed for some head.”
Pallas yawned. “It’s not free if I have to do something for it.”
“Fine. Call it a trade. I’d just like to feel a mouth for a little while.” Thanos still at it, slower now. Pallas considered but declined. He looked at the floor, disappointed. Rolled his eyes up at her and asked if she’d at least be interested in fingering herself in front of him.
Pallas scrunched her face. “Fuck it, okay, why not.” She kicked off her shoes and stood and began to slide her skinny jeans down to her ankles, her underwear far from sexy—white cotton panties dotted with pink and blue flower designs—but her pants got stuck at her feet, so she left them at her ankles and worked the underwear down with her thumbs. He asked her to turn around. Pallas scooted an awkward three-sixty, slowing halfway, then sat back down. Reached down and touched herself and was dry. She tried to picture what Junesong looked like and couldn’t. Licked her fingers and thought of famous tits, Chrysta Bell, but when her projection started to cry, she tried Gogo Suicide, tried Katy Perry, et al. but nothing held, except guilt, and she kept going until the room in her head was crowded with dozens weeping faces staring at her, like she’d done something wrong and would continue to do it.
Thanos struggled to focus, his face strained, his erection losing its rigidity. He sighed.
But Pallas had already stopped paying attention to him, staring at the ceiling and imagining the distance between it and her, the hand working on autopilot, autonomous.
“Hey.”
Pallas snapped back. “Huh?”
“Can you make yourself come for me?”
“Yeap. Sure can.”
“Show me.”
Thanos resigned now to petting his flaccid dick and watching, hoping to be able to get hard again soon.
Light through the windows projecting a grid over the opposite wall.
Maniotis spooned instant coffee and sugar into a water bottle and shook it, foaming the ingredients. He uncapped the bottle and took a sip. Tasted
like sludge. The uniform in the box still fit, though tighter than he expected. He ate canned sardines, spooning slowly, watching the door. The best thing to feel was blank. He cleaned his service pistol and practiced marching, feeling righted. He’d stashed backpacks of cash in some lockers in two of the metro hubs that still had them. Most of what he had was in those. He had never trusted banks. Trusted less any security he couldn’t carry. Maniotis fingered a key in his pocket, making sure it was still there.
He supposed he could have run the moment he’d heard. But this wasn’t who he told himself he was. He nodded, affirming nothing.
Maniotis later remembered the punch line to a joke about a tiger’s stripes and a lion’s mane, but couldn’t quite piece the rest back together, the way you can understand a word and still be unsure how to define it. Before his father got sick, his father had disowned him. This was because of what he now did for work. The way fathers can so easily buck sons who follow too close to their step.
What no one knew was that his first had come long before he’d ever been paid for it. The man had been a teacher who’d disrespected his sister. Had touched her in the washroom at school, before she was even old enough to bleed. Elektra had confessed this in his confidence, begging him not to tell their parents. He kept the secret and handled it himself.
Everything different after. Lighter. Already, the strength of a murderer at fifteen.
He could still picture the resting place. Mediterranean grass, tall thistles bending against the breeze. He was certain he’d released more souls into hell than he’d ever called friends.
Maniotis scanned through his mobile, mulling over searching for his sister. Dragging his feet. He called around and got her boyfriend’s number. Got him on the phone and found out he was no longer her boyfriend and hadn’t been in a while. The guy was scared enough of him he’d have spilled had he known where she was. Maniotis asked him to check her social media accounts (he wasn’t so great with computers) and waited over the phone. There had been no updates or photos from the date of their father’s death onward. The ex-boyfriend gave Maniotis contact numbers of her friends that he had and asked if the two of them were “okay now.” Maniotis hung up, purposely ominous. He made calls. Those who answered said they hadn’t heard from her. He tried to think of what he knew of his sister’s personality. He opened the door and looked outside. The sun not yet peaked. He called the ex-boyfriend back and asked for more ideas.
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