After moving chosen possessions to his father's new home, Stephane needed to bring many back when his father couldn't stand his memories or there was simply not enough space in his tiny bedroom and small sitting room. He could not condemn his father. The move meant his father had recovered a positive attitude. He now could leave his retirement complex and enjoy Le Figaro in a café close by.
He returned there each evening. He'd made friends, or acquaintances who might in time become friends. Knowing Montpelier from the past provided a leg up. Stephane was an agreeable decoration now, no longer the pillar of support of the previous month. His father had moved on.
Stephane envied him. The maison de maître was comfortable, but isolated. The village it dominated offered nothing to satisfy Stephane's restless mind. The local swimming pool was inadequate for maintaining his fitness, and that was before the locals implored him to perform his butterfly anywhere else than there: it bothered the little ones, or so they professed. He purchased and installed a mini-gym.
He took stock.
He had aspired to a small house or apartment near his parents, but not with them. That was no longer relevant. He owned this house though his choice was not to be in the Hérault countryside. He would prefer life in a university city, like nearby Montpelier.
But that wasn't what he possessed. There was no way he could sell before his father's death. Stuck here for who knew how long, with the olives and vines to mind, he made a note to himself. Find somebody in the village fast. His father mustn't believe he didn't care about those precious trees.
There was no longer any need to buy a place near his parents. His living costs here were minimal. This freed up resources for a better apartment in Paris. Most of what he'd saved from the work in Limassol and then Nicosia remained in the bank. The mini-gym and a second-hand car were his only extravagances.
But did he want to move back to Paris? He couldn't decide. The truth was, he lived where he worked. Not to work was not to live. His constant trial was combining intellectually challenging work with an interesting place.
He ran through possibilities. London was out: too grey and damp. New York was another non-starter: the US had lost its magnetism, which eliminated San Francisco as the only other North American city he might consider. Frankfurt was too dour. Amsterdam: the same. Italy could be fun, but Milan was no favourite, though the surroundings and the food had their attractions. Geneva? Not a financial centre like Basle. Could he find employment there to stretch his intellect? It was an option for investigation. Or back to Paris?
His laptop bleeped. He picked it off the sofa to see a Skype invitation from an unknown handle asking to connect. Not another person fishing for a contact. He refused two or three of these a week.
He looked closer. This was more than the ordinary, bland system invitation to correspond.
He recoiled, startled.
This was a message from Eleni. Could she speak with him? She included an apology of sorts and asked if he'd achieved his 100 Tonnes? She hadn't. The competition in Nicosia was over.
He reflected.
She was a mean cow.
She'd treated him like dirt.
In fairness, this was just like she did to everybody else, except her precious uncle.
But she pressed several of his buttons.
Plus his failure to complete the 100 Tonnes rankled. His mini-gym wasn't a substitute.
He couldn't deny it.
She provoked him, intellectually and physically.
He'd not met many women like that. To look at, she could be as plain as sin. Yet, when she bothered, she could stupefy.
Then there was Nea Hagia Sophia. Its progress never ceased to intrigue. It was ridiculous, yet a magnificent conceit.
Which, come to think of it, was a good summary of her.
He see'ed and he saw'ed.
Should he or shouldn't he?
He capitulated, as he knew he would. Boredom fomented ill-considered actions. It was why he'd accepted the Limassol job in the first place.
He reassured himself; she probably only wanted to talk. He could do this without hanging himself out to dry. He typed acceptance. Within seconds, he had a second message: 'Could we speak in 5 minutes?'
He could.
Two minutes later, and he checked – it really was a couple of minutes, his laptop bleeped again.
"Kalispera Stephane."
"Bonsoir Eleni. You know my Greek is non-existent."
"True. English it is. How are you?"
They meandered through their usual banter. Stephane stretched it out, hoping to irritate Eleni. Not wise but he was determined to manage events going forward.
Her exasperation became palpable. She tried to focus on what she wanted. He persisted with badinage.
Until.
"Can you transport your miserable self back here this week?"
"Why should I want to, after your latest contretemps?"
"I apologised. I know you've forgiven me. You wouldn't be talking if you hadn't... I have a problem that perplexes me. No one else understands. You might. I bet you can help me."
"What problem?"
"You must be here to understand."
"Or you could come here. No, maybe not."
What had he said? Silly, silly, silly. Escape from here was critical. Better to go back to Nicosia than suggest she visit Hérault. Who knows what ideas she might bring with her? Pray god she wouldn't accept.
"Why not? Though I'd rather not travel at this time. The Basilica needs me. I'd prefer you be here in Nicosia. We'd be paying, expenses and retainer – as before."
"Okay. When?"
"This week? Early next week?"
"I could do the latter, if pushed."
"Please push."
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Nikos did not look forward to his meetings with Christodoulou. His Beatitude had insisted. The Archbishop considered the meeting's purpose to be straightforward. It was to finalise the SinCard franchise. There were almost no circumstances Nikos could imagine where he'd enjoy Christodoulou's company.
He sat in His Beatitude's meeting room and scrutinised progress at Nea Hagia Sophia. The outer dome was almost sealed. Only the topmost parts of the ribs remained visible. Progress was swift and he had his next meeting with Eleni to relish. Being with her remained the one highlight of his work. Not very holy. Inescapable.
"Good morning, Father."
"Good morning, Mr Christodoulou."
"Please call me Tassos. It's much easier when we negotiate. May I call you Nikos?"
"If you insist, Mr Tassos."
Nikos's innards rebelled in distaste. What hold did the Archbishop have over this snake? Or was it the other way round? They seemed in hock to each other via a mechanism or piece of knowledge neither admitted. It discomforted Nikos to be ignorant when haggling, for that is what he would have to do. The way his thick eyebrows met as they bridged Christodoulou's nose squashed all of Nikos's generosity of spirit.
He reminded himself. He must ask, on behalf of His Beatitude, if Christodoulou had made progress on how the Church could enjoy some of the future revenues from the newly discovered Aphrodite gas field off the south coast. His master was intent the Church participate in whatever way produced income.
"I'm happy with the SinCard proposal, except for two aspects. You seem to have done all the preparatory and technical work. The system is simple. The sales process is admirable and also simple. The cashing in, of the sins, straightforward. But..."
"But?"
"My first reservation is about the franchise price. Not the percentage paid when SinCredits are bought and deposited onto the SinCards but the upfront capital sum."
"The second?"
"The marketing. My partners and I are not prepared to commit until you convince us there is a credible initiative in place which will encourage the faithful to replenish their SinCards. It's not the original purchase of each SinCard which perplexes us. I'm sure every dutiful congregation member wi
ll buy one at least once, and that is worth a considerable amount. It is the regular topping-up once the SinCard deposits diminish. I guess, if I may put it another way, we're not convinced the Church can migrate believers from today's occasional confession to adopting it as a regular practice. All depends on this."
Nikos had to agree. His master thought the same. He decided to approach this negotiation in a way different to what His Beatitude had recommended.
"We have an expert on confession-encouragement, to coin a term, visiting. We are confident this input will provide the impetus to secure the common confession practice you desire."
"When will this be?"
"Next week, we hope. And we are already working through some of her suggestions."
Nikos pinched himself. He should not have let 'she' pass his lips. Too late now. He'd have to hope Tassos did not pick up on his slip. He also had to hope that Davide would make it back here with his expert next week. That wasn't assured. He hurried on.
"Rather than focus on what we don't yet know, there may be an alternative to satisfy His Beatitude's aspirations along with yours, regarding the franchise fee."
"Yes?"
Christodoulou was unenthusiastic. If anything, irritation threatened.
"Rather than a lump sum paid up front, is there a way to re-arrange the repayment of the loans and the interest payments? His Beatitude would like to see both diminish fast."
Nikos stopped himself. He must give Christodoulou time to reflect.
Christodoulou's bridged eyebrows clenched to indicate thought. Better not to say too much, or anything.
"You mean, if we can devise a different 'payment schedule' then we might not have to produce an upfront lump sum?"
"You understand His Beatitude to perfection."
"What about the parking?"
"What about it? I don't understand."
"You will have those 500 parking spaces underneath Nea Hagia Sophia. If there was a way for us to 'share' or incorporate a pre-agreed fraction of that income, that could oil our way to a final agreement."
Discomfort enfolded Nikos. His Beatitude wouldn't like this. Nikos had to choose. Should he press forward and attempt an agreement now? Or wait?
Christodoulou removed his options by standing. He leaned over to shake Nikos by the hand. "You've given me food for thought. Let me reconsider. Including some of the parking is a clever idea of yours, and if you let us sell some leases..."
"It wasn't my suggestion. You raised it."
"Details, details, Nikos. Don't fuss. This will all work out for the best now I understand where His Beatitude's top priority lies."
He departed. Nikos shook like a rag.
Had he just played a bad hand badly? Or worse? Had he given away a golden gosling? He didn't like to think so. With a reptile like Christodoulou, one could never be sure.
Should he confess – he didn't notice the irony – the gist of the conversation to His Beatitude? On reflection, he decided he wouldn't, at least not until Davide and his confession specialist had been and gone. He crossed his fingers, though this was a Catholic gesture.
He left for his office. There, he switched gears to prepare for the next discussion with Eleni about the dedication ceremony. It would be extravagant.
That was His Beatitude's intention: to demonstrate to the world he could conjure a grandeur as magnificent as that of the Emperor Justinian or the Pope or the Patriarchs of the Greek or Russian Orthodox Churches.
Sierra de Mariola (Spain)
The car passed between the pair of gate-guardian olive trees, motored past the elbow of the hill and drew to a stop in front of her farmhouse. Hours of driving, though shared between them, and eight hundred kilometres each way... These were enough to exhaust Ana and Kjersti.
They'd made the bad but more economical choice of taking Ana's beloved Cinquecento. For prolonged journeys, especially frustrating ones like this, it was tiny. The cost had appalled them both, tolls and fuel. Neither Kjersti nor Ana was in a good humour. Both were desperate to eat.
"What about we use my nice new kitchen and I do us some eggs. I think I have some smoked salmon. We could mix that in or have it as a side dish?"
"It sounds wonderful. Have you the energy? We could go out?"
"I'm not sitting in another vehicle for at least a week. Do you realise we've spent about twenty hours on our butts staring at tarmac?"
"Point taken. I'm not complaining, but I am going to shower."
"Me too. There's beer in the fridge and there should be white wine. Help yourself if you make it down first."
An hour later, cleansed by solar heated water, Ana cooked. Fifteen minutes later, they sat at the small kitchen table to wolf her huevos rotos, with the salmon chopped and interspersed. A green salad followed.
"I'm going to have to call Iphi and Aris. They'll be on tenterhooks" next offered Kjersti.
"Leave it 'til tomorrow. You'll be more sympathetic."
"Good thinking. They won't like the news that we missed Thibault-Trani by a day, nor the fact that no-one knows where he went. Not even his father."
"From what the village said, Thibault-Trani's always been peripatetic. My impression is they were astonished he was living in the maison de maître at all.
I'd hoped the pointer to the father would enlighten us. That was a bust. I still can't believe he refused to meet us, just sent us a note."
"At least we had one decent evening in a good place. I liked Montpelier. The Place de la Comédie was fun."
"I'm with you there. That juggler was astonishing. Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"No. To be good enough to juggle so well you can do it badly and still entertain was a revelation. When you mis-chucked the baton and he had to unicycle like crazy to catch it, his words!"
"What did he say?"
"The real surprise was he was Norwegian like me, albeit with a thick Lofoten Islands accent. He looked so French. What he squawked was unrepeatable in polite company. Along the lines of 'fuck my grandmother'. When he saw I understood, he was furious."
"He made for interesting company when you placated him afterwards with the offer of a drink. I thought you would spend the night with him."
"Good to look at when performing in the Place. Close up he appealed less. In person, talking, there was no spark, and he rattled on solely about juggling. A one night stand well missed."
Ana tittered. A typical Kjersti summary. No looking back. No regrets.
The next morning, the sun beat down. Ana fussed around her precious olives. Kjersti took herself off for a short, very sharp run to clear the weekend's cobwebs.
She hadn't been honest with Ana. She had fancied the juggler. A romp in Montpelier might have swept away the frustration about missing Thibault-Trani. Yet the juggler had managed to turn her off. She wasn't sure how.
Time to call Iphi. She should hedge no longer.
"Iphi? It's Kjersti."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No. We, that is my friend Ana and me, drove to the Hérault. We hoped to confront him in person."
"How long did that take? We didn't expect anything more than a couple of phone calls."
"Longer than I wish to discuss. My ass is sore. My mood is sour. We missed him. He'd left the previous day according to the village where his house is. Nice looking place. I should have telephoned. I thought face-to-face would produce more. I'm sorry."
"What now? Might you consider visiting us here again in Cyprus?"
The longing in Iphi's voice was palpable. Kjersti didn't much want to. Might Costas take it the wrong way? But she felt an obligation. After some hemming and hawing, she yielded to Iphi's entreaties.
Now she had only to explain her decision to Ana. At least the architect was back in his box, though she would be disappointed not to meet Ana's nearby farmer-with-pretensions. He was 'due' for dinner, and to pay court, the next weekend. Ana hadn't told him Kjersti would be there, nor that she was thinking of inviting the architect to provide Kje
rsti with a 'distraction'.
Kjersti snorted. Maybe it would be better to be in Nicosia.
Chapter Ten
Limassol (Cyprus)
Tassos locked his front door, drove home the bolts and entered his study. He shut its door, and locked it. Now he felt secure. There was only himself in the room, lit by the massive plate glass window-wall overlooking the sea.
The window-wall dominated the room. Around the three interior walls were modern light wood bookshelves which rose to mid-stomach level. This was deliberate. On the shelves were a diverse variety of art books, from detailed monographs to exhibition catalogues. The top of the bookshelves functioned as a platform on which to display objets d'art, like vases or ancient figurines and the occasional book. Above were plain light beige walls on which hung his personal selection of pictures.
Hanging from the ceiling, on a small platform pointed to the right when looking out to sea, was a high-resolution projector. Its lens aimed at the space where a thick screen could descend on command, just millimetres in front of any pictures hung on that right-hand wall. This offered two benefits. The lowered screen masked any prized picture on that right-hand wall. The projector enabled Tassos to choose whichever artwork he liked and cast a fine image onto the screen for his pleasure. He possessed an extensive image library, all stored on the fancy computer system in a closet next door.
He heaved his briefcase onto his desk. It was heavier than normal. Father Spanos's understanding was acute. If he was lucky, it would reveal the extra incentive to sign the SinCard franchise. From inside, with great care, he withdrew a package.
Before opening it, he thought about a celebratory drink. He pulled a bottle of Roederer from a small fridge discreetly hidden within one bookcase. He popped the cork, poured and savoured the chilled champagne.
Next, he pulled up a list of accommodating ladies. He chose one and arranged to meet later. They decided on a bar he liked nearby, after dinner. He instructed her to order a taxi, for which he'd pay. Unless she would like something smarter? As he'd guessed, she didn't wish to divulge her address. The cab would do. He thought of ordering a limo for himself. That would be extravagant unless it rained. He could walk.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 23