by Peter Helton
‘Ta. What’s it like out there?’
‘Muddy.’
It was. The sun had returned, though, running in and out of clouds and quickly steaming away the moisture and drying the mud, leaving just a few puddles behind by mid-morning. A blustery wind from the west promised changeable weather. Morva, still unable to walk around on the uneven ground, had devised a teaching schedule that sent her three students out into the field to draw, then report back to her at intervals for advice and critique.
There was no sign of the much feted builder anywhere, so I went looking for him in Matilda. He was sitting in the open door of the van, wearing just shorts, boots and some Celtic tattoos on his arms. Head supported with both hands, elbows on knees; the cigarette in the centre of his pout made me think of a rectal thermometer. On fire.
‘Looks from here like you discovered the full potential of the local wine.’
‘What do they put in it?’ he groaned without taking the cigarette from between his lips.
‘Enough preservative to keep you just as you are now for ever.’
He gave me a look that eloquently spelled out what he thought of his current status. ‘Didn’t get much sleep, either – what with that racket going on,’ he complained.
‘It sure woke me up. There was a lightning strike up in the olive groves somewhere, quite close by.’
‘Rain hammering on the roof. Through the roof,’ he continued.
‘Sorry about that. I hope you didn’t get too wet.’
‘Not as wet as some.’
‘Like who?’
His cigarette had burnt down to the filter. He spat it elegantly at a nearby puddle. It missed. ‘A couple of figures came slithering past the van just when it was at its wildest out there. I only saw them because of the lightning.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘Wet. Like they were in a hurry. Jackets or something over their heads against the rain.’
‘Can you remember anything else about them? Sex? Age? Number of legs?’
‘Nah. Only saw them for a split second lit by lightning, going that way.’ He pointed down the track. ‘Why, is anything wrong?’
‘Just wondering who was mad enough to splish about in the storm last night.’ The last thing I wanted was to worry him. I hoped he’d recover from his introduction to the local wine soon and set to work before he could get spooked. Though Charlie didn’t look as if he spooked all that easily. So I left him to it. I wasn’t going to suggest anything sensible like not smoking, avoiding coffee and taking lots of fluid to aid his recovery. Every man knows best how to get the most from his hangover.
When I went looking for Sophie’s little Honda, it wasn’t there. ‘She’s gone to her place for a dip into civilization, I expect,’ was Morva’s prediction. This left me with no usable transport. I had another look at the rusting Fiesta by the edge of the road. It was quite bent and needed unbending in a garage. I just kept on walking. The torrential rain of the night had re-sculpted the already rough track in some places, but had kindly washed a lot of gravelly soil into the ruts, doing quite a convincing repair job.
The same three characters at Dimitris’s cafe. One of them called Dimitris’s name as I approached the place. To my ears, it sounded more like a warning this time than an attempt at soliciting service for a stranger. My paranoia levels had risen and my weirdness radar was sweeping the area. Did those guys outside the ouzeria elbow each other in the ribs and nod their chins in my direction? Did those boys loading half a pig into the back of the van pause in the midst of what they were doing? Did they load half a pig into a van every time I was here? And did Dimitris’s smile fail to reach his eyes as he greeted me today? ‘Iássu, fíle, what can I do for you? Coffee?’
‘Yes, why not? What I also meant to ask is: what time’s the next bus into town?’
His head to one side, his palms raised to heaven. ‘No bus, my friend. No bus comes to Neo Makriá. Not for many years. I’ll get your coffee.’
I sank on to a chair, feeling deflated. I had been so sure that there’d be a bus that I hadn’t even bothered to ask Morva about it. All Greek villages were served by buses – that’s how most of the population got around. I wondered how I knew this . . . Ah yes, my language tapes had told me so. It was definitely true, then. Thirty years ago.
My coffee arrived. ‘So how do I get into town from here?’ I asked.
Dimitris gave the briefest of shrugs. ‘Perhaps you can call taxi. Very expensive. Taxi don’t like coming out here – too far. Bad roads.’ And that was that. He wiped a couple of tables and went back inside.
I considered my options. It didn’t take long. It was time to get some transport, wrap up the Kyla thing and perhaps squeeze in a couple of days on the beach. Then it would be high time to get the van back on the road – the road home. Now that I knew what it involved I didn’t look forward to it. For a while I slurped my coffee and watched the world go by. Today the world consisted of a three-wheeled truck delivering bottled gas, an old man riding a tiny white horse, a spade and some empty feta tins tied behind the saddle, and finally a depressed-looking dog being dragged along by a kid on a small bicycle. Then, at a house on the road leading into the square, I could just make out Dr Kalogeropoulos getting out of his car. Since he carried a shopping bag and at a narrow house unlocked a door through which he then stepped, I surmised that he had just entered his own abode. I wasn’t a detective for nothing. Perhaps the good doctor was going into town soon – or at least near a village served by buses – and would give me a lift.
It took me a while to locate the bell button, at child height and painted over with the same blue as the door frame. Pressing it produced a fierce ringing inside, yet it took a long while before the door was snatched open by the doctor.
‘Ah, it’s you.’ His eyes wide. ‘What has happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ He appeared to find this hard to believe. ‘I thought perhaps . . . So . . . good . . . well. How can I help, then?’ A Greek female voice called from somewhere inside. ‘You’d best come in,’ said the doctor. Then he called in melodious Greek to the voice inside the house. I heard the mention of my own name. He turned back to me, apologetic. ‘My mother. She is an invalid. The reason why I came back to live here, for the time being anyway.’ The voice called again. ‘Oh dear. She wants to meet you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. Why should I mind?’ Rash words.
‘She now lives entirely in the kitchen, I’m afraid. This way.’ He led me to the back of the house and through a short corridor into a large kitchen. It was a simple and old-fashioned room, similar to the one at Morva’s place, only this had at least some mod-cons, like a fridge; the big TV set on top of it looked as if it might soon succeed in squashing it. The door to the backyard stood open. A cat slinking by stopped, gave me a tail-swishing look and slunk on. Next to the door stood a daybed and in the corner a large solid-fuel burner. Beside it, in a wheelchair, sat a woman who might be seventy or ninety years old from her looks, but the strength of her voice and the alertness of her eyes seemed to belie both estimates. She was dressed in traditional black and wore a bun of grey hair that had to contain a length of several feet. The doc made the introductions and I heard the Greek for private detective that Morva had taught me. The old lady propelled her chair to a sideboard on which stood an eight-inch replica of the Manneken pis, the statue of the urinating boy from Brussels, lovingly rendered in brown plastic and mounted on a square pedestal. A shot glass was set within easy piddling distance, after which the old lady pressed a button at the back of the pedestal and with a whirring sound the boy peed an arc of (mercifully colourless) liquid into the glass which she then held out to me.
Behind her, the doctor shrugged apologetically. ‘I do regret having brought her back that thing. In this house it pees ouzo. You’ll have to drink it, I’m afraid – traditional Greek welcome into a house.’
I accepted and knocked back the yucky stuff. The
old lady was off towards the fridge next. Her son smiled resignedly. ‘It looks like you’re getting the full works. In a minute you’ll have to swallow something incredibly sweet on a spoon and wash it down with some water,’ he warned me.
‘More Greek welcome?’
‘It wouldn’t feel right to my mother without it. She would offer it to a burglar before screaming for help, I’m sure. Ah, candied rose petals. You’re lucky – there are worse spoon-sweets.’ The lady now held out to me a little tray, containing a charged spoon resting on a saucer and a glass of water while the doctor gave me instructions. ‘Swallow the sweet, drink some water and drop the spoon into the glass.’
The rose petal conserve was a taste revelation, concentrating the fragrance of a garden rose on to a spoon. Why did we bother with quince jam?
At last Mother Kalogeropoulos relieved me of the glass, having performed the whole ceremony with an expression one might wear while clearing up dog mess. ‘She doesn’t speak English,’ said the doc in a tone that suggested this was not altogether a bad thing. Mother and son instantly appeared to start a short sharp argument, after which he said, ‘She wants me to translate.’ Which he did, very fluently. ‘Welcome to my house.’
I thanked her in Greek. She laughed mirthlessly, presumably about my pronunciation.
‘You are a detective?’
‘I am.’
‘But not with the police?’
‘No. A private detective.’
‘Looking for Kyla Biggs?’
‘Indeed.’ Well I never. It appeared the only person who remembered her, even her full name, was the doc’s mum.
‘I don’t think the police will like you coming here.’
‘Anyone can ask a few questions, surely.’
The old lady shot several arm-waving sentences at me without the doctor translating a word, which sparked off another ding-dong argument between them, during which she thumped the armrests of her wheelchair for emphasis. I heard Morva’s name several times in the fusillade the lady directed first at me, then her son.
‘I think what my mother is trying to say is that it is not good to stir up things around here, and perhaps I agree. The police will not be too happy having their investigation called into question, I expect. And the people around here don’t like foreigners, erm, let us say looking around everywhere. Trespassing was the word I was looking for. Apparently, you’ve been walking in the olive groves.’
‘I went for a walk. Got lost.’
The old lady had got a second wind and started haranguing her son again. ‘I think it’s best we go next door and discuss whatever it was you really came for,’ he suggested.
I bid the lady goodbye, which didn’t interrupt her flow as she wheeled her chair towards the TV set. A minute later, when the doc had led me to a sitting room in the front of the house, the noise of a Greek soap opera came booming through the wall. We remained standing in the room which was crowded with furniture. Several prints of Orthodox icons adorned the walls and a red and gold plastic lantern flickered electrically in front of a picture of the Virgin Mary on a shelf in one corner.
‘I do apologize for my mother; she does not like foreigners much. Which really means anyone not born in the village. She never forgave me for going abroad, either. She wanted me to go and study in Thessaloniki or Athens and then practise here.’
‘But you are practising here now.’
‘I see a few patients, yes. But I came back to look after her, really, and she thinks I’m waiting for her to die so I can leave. I am sorry; you did not come for my family history. How can I help?’
After all that, I’d practically forgotten what I’d come for. ‘Oh yeah, I was wondering if you were going anywhere near Corfu Town or even just a bus stop today. And, if so, could you give me a lift?’
‘You have business in town?’
I had no idea how much to trust the good doctor, so I fed him what he might like to hear. ‘I have some things to organize for my trip home.’
‘Is your lady friend coming into town also?’
I realized I was missing a trick here. ‘Not today.’
His disappointment was clear: ‘I will drive you to a bus stop.’
Nothing but the high density of cigarette ends on the ground gave any reassurance that the rural crossroads in the hills where the doctor had deposited me was indeed a bus stop. Standing there gave me ample opportunity to wonder whether his assertion that ‘there’ll be a bus along soon’ was the British type of ‘soon’ or the Mediterranean one. According to him, the only timetables worth knowing were the ones in the bus station in town, telling you when the buses left. Beyond that, the bus would get there when it got there. In the time before everyone carried watches and mobile phones, people here estimated time by the number of cigarettes you could smoke in the interval. This was a three-cigarette wait. I flagged down the bus, told the conductor ‘Stim bóli’ – to town – as instructed and took a seat in the back. This wasn’t so bad. This thing really moved. The driver was working hard, cranking the wheel, heaving the big hissing vehicle through the tight bends, helped by scores of religious medals, miniature icons, garlands, beads and football scarves that festooned the windscreen and by an enthusiastic application of an air horn which he sounded like a steam engine driver by pulling on a looped cord. I soon learned the form on Greek buses: stási parakaló told the driver you wanted to get off, mia sakoola told the conductor you were about to puke from motion sickness and required a little plastic sack to throw up in. The acidic smell soon set off the neighbouring travellers and by the time we turned into the bus station there were six or seven people all holding little bags of their own vomit and the bus smelled accordingly. As I escaped into the fresh air, I resolved that this introduction to Greek public transport was all the education I required. I’d have to hire some kind of vehicle, no matter how broke I was.
Commerce in Corfu Town was relentless. Predictably, many of the more picturesque and colonnaded streets were devoted to tourist tat, though even here there was a sprinkling of useful shops such as greengrocers and cheesemongers. I happily drifted around for half an hour, stopped for a coffee in a little place that mysteriously offered ‘pressed eggs’ and ‘curdled milk’ on its menu, while the bakery next door had a handwritten sign in English promising ‘Fresh Dread Every Day’. No thank you. I had my own supply.
Just when I thought I’d best ask someone, I stumbled on the very thing I was looking for: an internet cafe. Outside, the weather was close as more cloud crept in from the west; inside, the stuffy air was being stirred by a buzzing fan that jerkily shook its head at the task like a faulty robot. Internet cafes like these had practically disappeared from Britain, but here they clung on with battered clacky keyboards and an assortment of monitors that looked as if they’d come out of various skips. I ordered a beer and started.
Tim is an IT consultant at Bath Uni when he’s not doing jobs for me, so he is usually found within eight inches of a computer. First I mailed him my woes and worries. I had lost the only picture I’d been given of Kyla. Could he find the group photograph he had unearthed, scan it and mail me a copy? Then I lied a bit about the weather and how much time I was spending lazing around on the beach, to pay him back for not lending me his car, and hit the send button at the precise time that thunder cracked overhead. By the time I’d paid and got to the door, it was raining hard, sending tourists running for cover. Within a couple of minutes, the only people still walking in the street were locals carrying umbrellas.
I remembered the card Dimitris had given me in case I ever needed to hire a car. It had moulded itself to the curve of my bum in my back pocket. Under the picture of a small green car, I recognized the name of the street; it was near the police station. I stayed out of the rain by skitting from colonnade to colonnade until I ran out of shelter. Then I stepped into the pouring rain and accosted a well-dressed middle-aged umbrellaed local with my card and asked the way. He said something like ‘Oh, it’s not far, please share t
he shelter of my brolly so I might walk you there’; only naturally it was in Greek and I couldn’t swear to the precise wording, and he did sigh a lot but was simply too polite to chase me from under his umbrella. It was only a five-minute walk and he usefully filled the time by muttering to himself in Greek. In front of the rental place, I thanked him profusely for getting me there nearly dry. Actually, my right shoulder was soaked and so was his left since his brolly wasn’t really big enough for two. Without a word, he trotted back the way we had come. Bless.
It was a tiny office. A tourist couple were just completing some business at the desk and the man behind it was talking to them in English while simultaneously holding down a Greek conversation on his mobile. When I saw passports being returned to a handbag, I realized that I didn’t have a scrap of ID on me. Tricky. The couple completed their business and stood by the door, and the man, after a few final words on the mobile, turned his energetic attention to me.
‘Yes, can I help you, please?’ he said brightly.
‘Erm, yes, I need to rent a car. A very cheap car, if possible.’
‘You have come to the right place – cheapest cars in town. Welcome, please take seat.’
I took a seat, while outside the couple’s rental car was being delivered – a shiny green Citroën Something or Other.
‘How long is your stay here, Mr . . .?’
‘Honeysett. One week,’ I told him confidently.
He pointed out the types of car they rented out in a laminated holder, all lime-green Citroëns, then added that the only one they had left was the Citroën Something. Fine.
‘I will need to see licence and your pass-a-port, please.’
‘Ah. I’m afraid I haven’t either of those on me.’ His face fell. Outside, the rain was intensifying. Perhaps I could rent an umbrella without a passport. ‘Ah, here.’ I found the card Dimitris had given me. ‘Dimitris, your cousin, I believe, gave me your card. He’ll vouch for me, I’m sure.’