Forgery

by Sabina Murray

  “Yes,” said Nikos. “Your uncle is getting a classical plate that we can restore very easily. Just be happy.”

  Kostas paid the man and sent him off into the darkness. We sat on the terrace having a drink. Even Athens was quiet at this hour. The only sounds were the diminishing rumble of a motorcycle and a cat that yowled a couple of times, but had little to say.

  “How will you get the plate to my uncle?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to take any chances,” said Kostas. “Tomorrow, I will have the designer from the factory come here. I will get him to make maybe a hundred replicas. I will pack this plate together with all its children—and let my brother know where to find it.”

  I had solved the problem of finding breakfast in Athens by never rising before noon. Yorgos had me figured out, and by the time I called for my coffee and shaving water, he must have had it waiting; the two jugs took exactly as long to arrive as it did to take the stairs from the first floor.

  On Monday, I had showered and put on my trousers and an undershirt and was rather proud of myself for being able to attribute this particular late rising to work rather than drinking. I heard the knock and when I opened the door found Yorgos, the coffee, the hot water, and Steve Kelly all waiting for me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Yorgos pushed his way in and set the hot water in the bathroom, leaving the coffee on the desk.

  “That’s an awful lot of coffee for just one person,” said Steve.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  Steve had the morning’s paper tucked under his arm and handed it to me. “Thought you might like to know what’s going on in the world.”

  “Like the car bomb?”

  “Oh, that,” said Steve.

  “Did you actually see it?”

  “I saw what was left of it.” Steve poured some coffee into a glass, leaving the cup for me. “You know that after the war the Greek-Albanian border moved south. There are many Greeks stuck in Albania. Not that long ago, we had a major civil war on our hands. Now, a lot of the Communist sympathizers are contained, but you know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We’d like to think that any possibility of a Communist take-over had died ten years ago, but you hear things to the contrary.”

  “Not enough to topple the current government, surely.”

  “Maybe not, but there are quite a few people who want absolute stability. Remember, this is one country profoundly affected by the Truman Doctrine. No one wants to see that aid dry up, and everything comes at a price.”

  I picked up the paper, scanning for Steve’s byline.

  “Try page four,” he said.

  I read.

  NATO MILITARY LEADERS DISCUSS BALKAN DEFENSES

  ATHENS, June 15—Top military leaders of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization from Greece and Turkey met here today to discuss “current defense problems” in the Balkans. The meeting was attended also by Gen. Frederic J. Brown, Commander Allied Land Forces Southeast Europe; Maj. Gen. John F. Seitz, U.S. Chief of Staff Allied Headquarters, Naples; and Maj. Gen. Leuhman, Commander Sixth Allied Tactical Air Force.

  I looked at Steve over the top of the paper. “Why is current defense problems in quotation marks?”

  “Custard’s choice of punctuation.”

  “He’s a very creative editor,” I said.

  Steve smiled cryptically. “Yes, he is.”

  I had a decent, if limited, understanding of Greek politics. I knew that after World War Two, the United States, under the Truman Doctrine, had flooded certain countries with cash, countries that had dangerous Communist leanings; Greece had been one of these countries. I also knew that the Greek resistance, quite effective in blowing up bridges and disrupting German supply routes to North Africa, had leaned toward communism, and during this time, with King George II and his lackeys known to be in Egypt, the public had become more sympathetic toward their dynamite-wielding countrymen up in the mountains to the north, who lived, as did the other Greeks, from day to day with the twin threats of starvation and capture. Together they knew the value and cost of liberty. In 1963, the average Greek remembered what it had been like to live under the fascism of Metaxas and was less tolerant of the extreme right than was King Paul, who considered a right-wing government the most reliable way to maintain stability and throne. The Americans and English shared this opinion.

  I could have pursued politics with Kelly, but I had just enough time to run down to Pandróssou Street and talk to the shop owner before Nikos came to get me at two. My ferry left from Piraeus for Aspros at four in the afternoon. Kelly had been on his way to the office to see Custard and was only stopping by for coffee—and to show me his impressive scar, which was healing rapidly and, thanks to his ruddy complexion and flaming hair, seemed to blend in with the rest of him. He had pushed up his bangs with his hand so I could take a better look.

  “I keep thinking I must have learned something from this, but I don’t know what it is. Don’t travel with so much cash? Avoid bacchantes?”

  “Some things you cannot prevent, Steve,” I said, sounding mature.

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If you’re gone too long, I’ll come looking for you.”

  “I don’t have the address of where I’m staying.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Steve. “Finding you won’t be a problem.”

  I had been in Greece less than a week, and somehow this seemed both impossibly long and impossibly short. I could now make the ten-minute walk to Pandróssou Street without really thinking about where I was going and no longer felt conspicuous, although I’m sure that I was. I headed straight for the antiques dealer. By the time I reached the store, it was just after one and the store was closed. I thought he might have been at his siesta, but the previous time I’d visited had also been around one. I remembered this because Nikos and I had ordered lunch at noon and he had joked that this was my effect on him because no real Greek ate lunch that early.

  But now the shop was deserted. I put my face to the window and detected no movement inside and although I knew it was unlikely that the man would leave the more valuable stuff lying around in view of the street, I still scanned the dusty shelves and cluttered tables for some pottery of value. When I finally stood back from the window, I saw a cobbler watching me. He sat on a little stool hammering on a sandal, and when he saw I’d noticed him he applied himself to his work, tapping and tapping, his mouth full of tacks. I crossed the street and watched more closely. I wondered if he spoke English.

  “Is this entertaining for you, my making this shoe?” the man said.

  “No,” I replied. “Was my looking in that window entertaining for you?”

  The man emptied the remaining tacks from the side of his mouth and regarded me calmly. “That store in general has much going on. I sit here all day. Occasionally girls come and buy all kinds of sandals. They buy them for the whole family. Sandals pack flat and they’re cheap. But when nothing is happening, I watch that store.”

  I looked at the sandals that were hanging on the door, just to the left of the shop’s entrance. I picked up a large pair and looked at them.

  “Do you think these would fit me?” I asked.

  “No,” the man said. He got up from his stool and went into the shop. I followed him. “These should fit,” he said, handing me a pair of very plain sandals: simple crossing straps on a wide flat leather sole. “Long and skinny for your long and skinny American foot.”

  “You forgot white,” I said, looking at the sandals.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My long and skinny and incredibly white American foot. I’m heading to the islands today, and I think it’s been close to four years since I exposed my feet to the sunshine.”

  The man smiled and I saw that, despite his diminutive stature, he had huge teeth. In fact, his whole mouth was enormous, but covered up by the drooping wings
of his mustache. “Do you want those?” he said, pointing to the sandals.

  “I think I do,” I said. “But I really would like to know if you saw anything of interest happening at the antiques store today.”

  The man nodded, thinking, as he wrapped up my sandals in a piece of paper and tied it with string. “He is usually open now, but late last night someone was banging on his door.”

  “He lives there?” I asked.

  “Over the store, like me, over this store.”

  I looked to the back of the shop and noticed a narrow staircase leading upward. I also realized that the smell of frying onions and sausage, something I’d attributed to a nearby restaurant, was coming from upstairs.

  “How late last night?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Late. I was asleep, but I looked from my bed out the window and saw him open the door. There was this man banging. He had some things, heavy, tied in a big cloth.”

  “Were his pants short?”

  “Who, the man with the big cloth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think so, but that does not mean much, not here where so many people don’t have money, not like in America.”

  “We rich Americans make a point of wearing very long pants,” I said, “so long they drag behind us and make us trip.”

  The man laughed again, loud. I saw his mustache part and his enormous teeth. “Yes,” he said. “The man had short pants, and today the shop owner does not open his store. There must be some connection.”

  “I wonder what it is,” I said.

  I paid for my sandals and wished the man a pleasant day.

  “Enjoy the islands,” said the man. “Do not burn your feet.”

  By the time I’d stopped at the bakery for a cheese pie and made the walk from Monastiráki nearly all the way to Syntagma, I had left myself ten minutes to pack. Since I was taking nearly everything, it wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t like living in New York with my eleven linen-blend sweaters, my evening jackets, five pairs of seersucker pants. Packing here was easy. The clothes from the tailor had been delivered to the hotel, wrapped neatly in brown paper, and the package went straight into the suitcase. I packed my book on coins but left the others; as Nikos was planning to go back and forth from Aspros to Athens, he could always bring them to me. I opened the package with the sandals and tried them on. They fit well. I wasn’t used to seeing my feet in sandals and they looked very pale. I realized, for the first time, that my toenails seemed to have been placed on my toes at angles. I wrapped my wingtips in the paper and put them in the suitcase too. I cleared off the little counter by the bathroom sink and it filled my shaving kit.

  It was time to close everything up. I looked out the window and saw the taxi waiting outside the hotel. I wondered how long it had been there, but then the driver honked loudly and Nikos leaned out the window. I waved. I realized I was excited, like a schoolboy off to camp.

  I barely had enough time to get in the taxi next to Nikos and shut the door before we sped off to Piraeus. Nikos had his address book open on his leg and was entering a number from a scrap of paper. He did this with great attention; to look at his face one would think he were performing surgery. He finished, put the cap back on his pen, and looked over at me.

  “What has happened to your feet?” he said.

  “It’s my new look,” I replied. “Sandals.”

  “You look like John the Baptist,” he said.

  “He’s my fashion icon.”

  Nikos laughed and shrugged. “You look like a tourist.”

  We did well for time until we got to Piraeus. I could not tell the sidewalk from the street, because every inch was covered with people and vehicles in a generalized, indistinct way. An enormous ferry had come in from Crete, and everyone—grandmas, donkeys, old men wearing vests, young men carrying caged birds, children in strollers or strolling, young women—was in the road and in the path of our taxi. There was some aggressive horn honking, and a number of expletives delivered by the driver and seconded by Nikos. Nikos finally said, “It would be better if we walked. It’s maybe two hundred meters that way.” We left the taxi and jumped into the stew.

  The ferry office was crowded with backpackers who didn’t understand their dimensions, or didn’t care, and insisted on turning one way and then the other. I was pressed up against the wall, but I watched Nikos walk right up to the counter, past all of them. His Greek and his good looks were enough to make the young woman listen, and I watched him get our tickets with a certain amount of pride in privilege. I was not fond of the revolving backpackers, who seemed sanctimonious and negligent with their personal hygiene. The first of these was conjecture, but the second amply proven.

  Nikos returned, bearing the tickets.

  “I hope you got first class,” I said.

  “Of course,” Nikos replied.

  The ferry, the Aphrodite, was relatively new. We had about twenty minutes before it left. We had been doing very well for time until we’d been forced to abandon our taxi, and now it seemed that we were in a cycle of hurry like madmen, wait patiently. We almost ran to the ferry terminal, pushed our way on board with everyone else, and were busily trying to stow our luggage when a man in uniform—very naval in appearance—approached Nikos and with a weary voice began to explain something to him. I watched, hoping for some miracle of comprehension, when the skipper, if that’s what he was, fixed his sad eyes on me and said, “No.”

  “There is a problem with the engine,” said Nikos. “We will be here forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I said. “Let’s go have a cigarette.”

  Nikos nodded and we made our way to the deck. The weather had cooled off a bit and the temperature was pleasant. The wind whipped my hair into my eyes.

  “Does the sea make you sick?” asked Nikos.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Well, on a day like this, it will make everyone else sick,” he said.

  I looked at the waves. The water was a bit choppy. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

  “Not here, but wait until we get out farther. Then the fun begins.” He smiled at me and put his hand on my shoulder. He then mimed some fairly large waves, shaping them out of the air. “The Cyclades is notorious for this, sometimes from nowhere. Poseidon gets mad.”

  I wanted to get going, eager for it, the sea god’s anger, the white-capped waves, the salt-scrubbed rocks. I watched the travelers navigating the port below, and then a couple, two young women, one dark and one fair, pulled themselves out of the crowd.

  “Look, Nikos,” I said, “it’s Sue and Helen.”

  Nikos looked down at them. “Helen,” he said, with conviction. “What time is it?”

  “I think you have a half hour until we leave.”

  “Come,” he said. “We’ll take them for coffee.”

  “I’d rather wait for you here. Though if you really want me to come, I will.”

  “All right,” Nikos said. He was out of cigarettes, so I gave him a couple of mine and waved him off. I saw him disembark and then call to Sue and Helen, the little cluster of conviviality the three of them made, and they all wandered off.

  Nikos must have been gone only ten minutes when I heard the sound of the engine roar into life. At first I thought they must be warming it up or checking it; after all, the delay had been due to engine trouble. But then I felt a shudder of motion. Nikos was nowhere in sight. I rushed inside and pushed my way down the stairs, past the tide of people coming upward. I found the sad-faced skipper, who was taking the last of the tickets.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but is the boat leaving?”

  “Yes.” He looked at me slightly askance. After all, boats were meant to leave.

  “But my friend went ashore. You said it would take forty-five minutes to fix the engine, and no more than twenty minutes have passed since then.”

  The man regarded his watch. “Yes.”

  “My friend is missing the boat.”

  The man looked at
me sympathetically and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, your friend is missing the boat.” He patted me on the shoulder kindly and returned his attention to the tickets he’d collected. I rushed back upstairs and onto the deck. I still felt that I could get Nikos onto the boat somehow, that if I saw him it would make the difference. But by the time Nikos appeared, he was very small, and I only recognized him because no one else had reason to stand at that particular edge of Greece for quite so long.

  I was very upset at losing Nikos. I supposed things like this happened all the time. My uncle had warned me about the ferries. He’d said, “Mind the ferries,” but hadn’t explained what I should do to counter their inconstancy. I hadn’t even brought any good reading material with me. At an English bookstore on Venizelos Street, I’d picked up a couple of novels by Lawrence Durrell, even though one was about Rhodes and the other about Corfu and had nothing to do with the Cyclades, but I’d left them on my bedside table. I stayed outside, watching the ocean. At one point, a woman came on deck and leaned on the railing a short distance away. I considered starting a conversation—she was wearing khaki pants and a white shirt with some sort of scarf and didn’t look Greek—but I missed the moment and she went back inside.

  I went in too and wandered around first class. Someone had abandoned a newspaper, the Guardian, and I took a seat by a window and read the whole thing, even an in-depth report on a cricket test where the Brits had taken on and been beaten by the South Africans. Exhausted, I suppose, by that riveting account, I fell asleep. When I woke up, two hours had passed and I was ready for a drink. I headed for the bar. Something about the seas—I could see quite a few people outside clutching the railing, and it wasn’t for the view—made me decide to get a brandy. There was something healing about it, something almost temperate.

  The brandy appeared in a regular tumbler with some ice. I preferred tumblers to snifters. Snifters always made me feel self-conscious and reminded me of Kiplinger Sand, someone I went to college with. Kiplinger insisted on having people over to his room for drinks. He’d serve outrageously expensive brandies, always in snifters the size of goldfish bowls. I went for the drinks, not that I was wild about brandy, but he always had plenty of it and was very generous. He liked me because I knew girls at Barnard and was invited to everything. Kiplinger had not been blessed with good looks. He had the long ugly teeth of the American aristocracy and sunken cheeks, rather like a cadaver. I was shocked when I met his mother, who looked exactly the same but was somehow almost attractive. Kiplinger had spent the spring break of his junior year in California, and when he returned, the brandy was gone; he had taken to wearing black turtlenecks and smoking marijuana, with which he was equally generous, providing I took him to parties.