by Alex A King
Do anything long enough and you wind up blind to the alternatives.
"It was not suicide," Lemonis says, shoving away from the desk. "Impossible. No residue on his hands. And all those houses around the train tracks, yet nobody heard the gunshot? Here nobody dies without making noise. There are no secrets."
"Except," Kiki says slowly, "the ones we pretend we have."
"That's right." He nods over his notes. "I don't think you did it, Despinida Andreou. But his mother thinks you are guilty, and she is not the only one."
"Akili. Like I said: snake."
The detective shrugs.
It's a cold blade through her heart. But she can't be angry at Helena. Disappointed, yes, but not angry. The woman has known her since birth, watched her live and grow. At times she's been a confidante, a soothing hand on her mother's ruffled feathers. Kiki loves her like a second mother.
"She just lost her son,"she says carefully. "She'd say anything to point the finger in a direction that makes sense."
"You are not angry that she is accusing you of murder?"
"She lost her only child, Detective. Can you imagine? Wouldn't that make you crazy and desperate?"
"How saintly of you."
Not saintly at all. Thea Helena's loss is, on some level, Kiki's gain. What Kiki feels is a slow, steeping guilt that won't ever let her dry out.
"I'm not a saint. I just want to be left alone."
Whether he likes it or not, she's done here. The chair scrapes across the floor as she stands.
"I read the paper," she continues. "I hear the talk. Vivi Tyler is a friend of mine and my cousin's fiancée, and I know you've got it wrong before, Detective. And in exactly the same way."
"No one heard the shot," he reminds her.
"You've forgotten one important thing about this place. Even the most … attentive people hear only want they want to hear, see only what they want to see. What is it you want to see and hear, Detective? A murder or the truth?"
* * *
No more old man in the waiting room.
Now he's doing his waiting outside—for her, apparently.
"Do you want a ride?" he asks.
She looks at the moped leaning on its prosthetic leg. "On that? Does it even run?"
"I offer you a free ride and you complain? Women, all you do is complain. And Greek women are the worst." He shakes his finger in her face. "You complain sixty percent more then other women."
Kiki walks. Perfect weather, but there's a cloud overhead that won't let her leave. It's been stalking her since the wedding that never happened, and it's moving closer.
Agria is slowly gaining its summer kilos. Tourists are trickling in now, but in another month they'll be a full pour. That's fine; the people who come here are good. They like Greeks and they like a good time. And Greeks know how to show visitors a good time.
"Kalimera," she says, waving. Once, twice, three times she says good morning to faces she knows. Even in her black mood she doesn't throw away her reputation as a polite woman. Once is all it takes. Forget to say hello and they throw you into the social dungeon with the chicken thieves and adulterers.
Behind her, the moped gargles.
He's following her, isn't he?
That's a big, neon yes, he's following her.
"Socrates," he calls out. "I am Socrates Karas."
Karas.
Ha-ha.
Now there's a name from not nearly enough years ago. Which branch of the family is this monkey swinging from? She stops, takes a good look. Now she remembers: he's the patriarch. Leonidas's grandfather.
"What do you want, Kyrios Karas?"
"You think this is my idea? No! Laki. He is the one who tells me to speak to you."
Ha-ha. Very funny man, this lunatic. "Why?"
He shrugs. "Do I look like I know? If I knew, I would be speaking instead of following you like a dog. Can I pinch your kolos?"
"My Virgin Mary," she mutters.
"I would pinch her kolos, too."
* * *
Forget Italians—Greek men are consummate ass pinchers. They start young. It's nothing for a ten-year-old boy to pinch an ass he likes when it walks by.
Greek men do everything early. Except make their own beds.
For that they have mothers, then wives.
* * *
"Yia sou, Kyrios Karas."
Yia sou. It's one of those allen wrench phrases that means more than one thing. It's hello, it's goodbye.
Kiki means goodbye.
But the old man takes it for hello. When she speeds up, he follows.
And now Kiki feels like a jerk, because the day is getting hot and he's getting older. Annoying or not, the last thing she wants is another death on her hands.
She stops in the nearest patch of shade, a wide, dark rectangle, cast by the backside of a taverna.
"Why are you stopping? Are you weak? You look strong, like the ox."
This guy … "I'm stopping for you, so you don't drop dead."
"Bah! I am immortal. Nothing can kill Socrates Karas. And they have tried."
"Who tried to kill you?"
"Eh." He shrugs his way into the shade, alongside her. "The Turks, the Greeks, the snakes, the ocean, the gods. And one time, my wife, because I pinched her mother's kolos."
"Just say what you've got to say. Please. I have to get back to work."
Socrates's grin is a mixture of gums and gold. "Okay. Listen carefully. Laki tells me that you will meet a man soon."
"Do you want me to cross your palm with silver?"
"Silver? You are cheap. But no—no silver. What I tell you is for free. You will meet a tall, dark, handsome man. And also you will go to jail. What?" He holds up the statue, looks it in the eyes. Zones out for several moments. "Apparently Greece's current economic crisis is a Turkish plot to seize Greece for itself."
"Sounds rational." On Mars, maybe.
"You will see." Socrates shakes a finger at her. "Laki is never wrong, except for those few times when he is. He makes many, many predictions for the future and thinks we should write a book."
"You should do that," she tells him.
"I will. But we will be seeing each other again very soon."
God, no. "How is your grandson, Kyrios Karas?"
"Which one? I have many."
"Leonidas. The one who went to America." Before she had a chance to apologize for showing him the disappearing finger trick.
He shrugs. "Why ask me? You will find out soon."
13
Helena
Stavros is not dead.
Dead men do not laugh at their mothers and say, "Mama, you're overreacting—again. You get these ideas in your head and make yourself miserable, and for what? Nothing."
"I saw you with my own eyes," she tells him.
"Theater. I had to make everyone believe I was dead."
"Why?"
"Why?" He shakes his head. "Because you and Thea Margarita were forcing Kiki and me to get married. Wasn't any other choice."
"You could have said."
"We tried. But you two, you wouldn't listen."
"That is not true."
He slams his fists on the table so hard its feet skip across the marble tile. "Don't lie, Mama. You stole my choices when I was too young to stop you. And now look at me."
This trick her mind plays is a cruel one. She is both sadist and masochist.
"You are not dead," she says.
"Mama …"
"You are not dead!"
He pulls up his Scorpions T-shirt, the one he died in. "Then what is this, Mama? What is it?" His fingers touch the bullet-made hole. "Nobody escapes this."
"You will. I will go to Hades and drag you back myself!"
* * *
Helena doesn't tell Kristos about their son. He'll mistake her for trela if she does. She isn't crazy, just desperate. But he will not see desperation, only insanity.
She packs a small bag and waits for the taxi to ferry her awa
y. The cabdriver does not require gold coins—euros will suffice. At her command, he takes her to the bus station in Volos, where the air is stale and the exhaust fumes form clouds of despair.
One after the other, tin cans rattle up to the boarding bays. They dump old passengers for new, then they're gone with a burp and a drawn-out groan.
Which bus does she take? Which bus goes to the mouth of Hades?
The names blur together.
A bus going west is the one she needs, bound for the place where three of Hades' rivers meet. That is where she will find the bones of the old Necromanteion and bargain for her son's life.
But with what? What does she, Helena Bouto, possess that Hades could possibly want?
What is the price of a life?
Another life, of course.
The only life she has to swap is her own, half-used, its soul sick with grief. In no way a fair trade. Hades will not want her stale leftovers.
She picks up the bag that's never been anywhere but home, walks back to the where the taxicabs wait. Begs one to ferry her home.
Until she has something worth trading, she will not believe Stavros has gone.
It cannot be borne.
14
Leo
Five weeks in basic training. A few months ago he'd have said five weeks was nothing.
Now it's too much.
He filed his complaints, gave his reason, and now the army's deciding whether to give him a green light or red.
If you had volunteered like you were supposed to, it would be different, they told him.
If they say he has to do it, he has to do it. No choice.
The training itself isn't a problem. It's more fun than his marriage was, near the end. Not that it was all bad. There were great times, then good times, and okay times. Near the end, there were times.
Both of them tried to make things work. Too bad it wasn't a simultaneous effort.
Now here he is in green splotches, taking orders from some barking kid he doesn't respect. Leo is the oldest of the bunch, and the brat won't let him forget it. Calls him 'Papou.'
Yeah, right. If he was the brat's grandfather, he'd put that kid over his knee and paint his butt red.
Five weeks. Followed by nine months. Too much time when his mother's got a couple of months or so—max.
Not long now until he gets a few days respite. For that he's going back to Athens on a camping trip. Destination: the US Embassy's front door step. That way he's not just a voice on the phone, he's a person. An American.
If the army doesn't release him first.
"Hey, Papou. Pick up the pace!"
Little bastard.
When he gets back to the barracks, there's a messenger waiting with a big, fat "No" in his hands.
15
Kiki
The body snatchers have been hard at work. These women look like Kiki's friends, but they've been hollowed out by strangers.
Star Trek had it wrong. The only fuel they ever needed was a half-dozen or so Greek families. They could have zipped all over the universe at the speed of gossip.
Marianna is not the first to snatch away her friendship, just the most recent. "Kiki? What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I don't know. Looking for a friend?"
"Kiki …" Tired, wary. No offers of hospitality. "Is it true? Do the police think you killed Stavros?"
She coughs up a laugh. Because—really? Don't her friends know her better than that?
Good thing for her she and Soula aren't cut from the same blue and white cloth, because Soula wouldn't waste a second reminding Marianna that it wasn't long ago the same police accused her husband of sexually assaulting a Swiss tourist.
They had the wrong guy, but Kiki came everyday to give Marianna a place to cry.
What does Marianna give her?
Nothing but a handful of salt, flicked in her direction.
* * *
No sleep for the falsely accused.
Kiki spends her nights imagining herself in stripes. It's not a good look. Never wear clothes that don't flatter even a tall, slender woman.
The warmer nights pull her onto the small balcony overlooking the yard. Most nights, she hears the soft hum of Soula chatting into her phone. Her words are indistinct, but her tone is gentle, happy. Sometimes she laughs; a throaty, intimate sound.
On this mid-May night, Soula's voice wears armor. Her words are tough, sharp. Someone's taking a beating. The woman knows how to win fights and stand on the bodies afterward, banner held high.
It's not long before her front door slams. Espadrilles dance down the stairs to the yard and all its obstacles.
"Where are you going so late?" Yiayia says.
"Nowhere," Kiki hears her sister say.
"Does this nowhere have a big penis?"
"Not every destination has a penis, Yiayia."
Their grandmother grunts. "Then why else go out so late?"
Light floods the yard. Mama sticks her head out the door. "What is wrong with you? People are trying to sleep!"
"What people?" Yiayia says. "There is only you complaining."
Mama disappears. The door slams.
Soula tosses her final words over one shoulder. "Good night, Yiayia."
The Mini buzzes away.
16
Helena
She follows Stavros into the kitchen.
"I'm starving," he says. "What's for breakfast?"
"Anything you want."
"Toast with olive oil."
Toast with olive oil. Stavros has always loved that.
She makes toast, drizzles olive oil over the top. Slides it in front of him.
But he doesn't touch it.
"Eat," she says.
"I'm not hungry, Mama."
"Okay. You don't have to eat."
He sits there not eating, her beautiful boy. And she sits there watching him, wondering if he is happy.
"We should not have insisted you marry that girl. It was a mistake."
Silence.
"She is too much like her sister. Too independent. She would never have stopped working when your children came."
Silence.
At least Stavros doesn't leap to Kiki's defense the way he used to.
That is something. That is … Something.
17
Kiki
May twenty-first, Kiki walks to the Boutos home, gift in hand. At dawn, the bells chimed for Saint Helena and the women and men who share her name, in all its variations.
Greeks don't do birthdays unless you're a child. It's the name day that matters.
"Kronia polla, Thea Helena," she says, wishing the woman many more years.
"Kiki!" Helena waves. She rushes to the gate, arms open wide, pulls Kiki into her arms. "Let me look at you," she says. "What a beautiful girl you are. Come, see Stavros. He is inside. I will fix you something to eat—you look too thin. Are you well?"
Ten seconds ago she was a woman, now Kiki is a goldfish, mouth opening and closing and opening.
"I'm fine." The words squeak out. It's clear Helena is anything but fine. But how deep do the cracks go?
Answer: All the way.
Stavros is in the kitchen, all right. Not in the flesh, but in latex. Someone (Helena) has glued a headshot of Stavros to the face of a blowup man-doll.
"Thea Helena …"
"Stavros, look who has come to see you," Helena crows. "I will fix something for you both to eat, then I will leave you two lovers to talk."
What's she supposed to do? Sit and talk to the doll? Kiss it on both paper cheeks? What's the proper etiquette for greeting an imaginary son? She looks at the beaming mother. "And you, how are you, Thea Helena?"
Thea Helena wags a finger in her face. "Soon you will be calling me Mama, yes?"
Kiki sits slowly. Any second now, she expects the older woman to shatter.
"Where is Theo Kristos?" she asks cautiously.
"Mind your own business, putana!"
The words
fly out of the crimped edge of Helena's mouth, but the words are meant to be her son's.
Now is when anyone else would run, but she's on a goodwill mission.
Helena switches personalities, puts on her own. "Stavros! You will not speak like that in my home! Poor Kiki, he didn't mean it, my doll."
Maybe Stavros didn't mean it (dead men don't mean much, do they?) but Thea Helena's stake was expertly kicked into her chest.
"I know," she says slowly. "It's been a difficult time for the family."
Helena's face is innocent. "Oh? How so?"
"With Stavros's death." She sets the words out there gently, waits for the crash of breaking glass.
"Stavros is not dead, he is here!"
Switch.
"I'm dead because you killed me, putana!"
Okay … "I have to go," Kiki says.
"Stay! You haven't eaten yet. Don't mind Stavros, he's having a bad day. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed—the wall side."
Kiki hovers in that uncomfortable position between air and chair. Her ass says, sit, her head tells her to scream "Fire" and run.
Her mouth is a lousy mediator. It says, on her behalf, "Just coffee, please."
Yeah, thanks for that, mouth. Now she's stuck here in the Craziest Place on Earth, making polite conversation with Thea Helena and Stavros's eternal grin.
She slides her feet into the older woman's metaphorical shoes. How else does a parent cope with losing a child? It's the act of a desperate woman. Someone has to get her some help—someone being Kiki, because who else is there? Thea Helena won't talk to Mama, and Theo Kristos is grieving in his own invisible way.
In the meantime, she plays along.
"How's work, Stavros? Are all the numbers adding up right?"
"Very good accountant, my Stavros." Thea Helena glows. "The best in Greece."