“Why a yak?”
“Don’t they have yaks in Scotland?” I seemed to remember having seen a picture of a particularly small one that was indigenous to the Scottish Highlands.
“You’re out of your mind,” said Olivia, laughing. “We’re not getting married. I really don’t know you.”
“Marriage, Livvy,” I said, “it’s the best way to know people. Trust me.”
“Just stop,” she said. She managed a brave and unattractive smile. “I came here to escape feeling sick, but you are a constant reminder.”
“Me?”
“I’ve stopped the radiotherapy and the chemicals. It wasn’t working. And they’ve removed just about everything south of my rib cage.” She smiled again in a challenging way. “I thought you’d want to hear it from me, because marriage is out of the question and I’m tired of arguing with you. It’s depressing.”
I realized I was holding my breath. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
“Thank you.”
“I do love you,” I said. I came to sit on the side of the bed. I knew she was feeling sorry for me, and I felt sorry for myself.
“Rupert,” said Olivia, “are you all right?”
“No,” I said, “of course not.” I sighed. I suppose the general mood was intimate and Olivia, clever girl, was wondering what undiscussable thing she should try on me.
“Why do you call your father Uncle William?” she said finally.
“I’ll tell you if you want,” I said, “but to be honest it doesn’t bother me much. In fact, I actually see the wisdom in it.”
“You do surprise me,” she said.
“Oh, yes. Handsome, damaged, and surprising.” I took a sip of the whiskey. “My mother wanted to put me up for adoption, but Uncle William wouldn’t hear of it. But he wasn’t ready to be a father. Anyone who knew him knew I was his child. He doesn’t have any siblings.” Here I laughed. It had taken me years to find this funny, but I now found it hilarious. “He took my rather maudlin circumstances and cast them in a romantic light. People wanted to know who my mother was, and of course Uncle William always traveled a lot. Maybe I was royalty. Maybe my mother couldn’t marry a commoner, but he loved her. He could not claim paternity so as not to expose their relationship. He would have to say I was adopted.”
“People really believed that?”
“Yes. Some still do,” I said. “I did until I was eleven.” I reached for the cigarettes off the nightstand and lit one. “And then there was the possibility that he really was my uncle. Did he have a mystery sister living abroad? Some people even claimed to have known this sister when she was young.” I shook my head.
“But didn’t the news of who your mother really was get around?”
“Of course it did,” I said. “But the circumstances aren’t that interesting, and who wants to believe that? And of course Uncle William denied everything, and he’d had a lot of affairs, and my mother was shipped off to relatives somewhere when her situation became obvious.”
“Well, that’s quite a story,” said Olivia.
“I made up my own stories too,” I said. “I always wanted to believe that the relationship Uncle William had with my mother was special. True love. The one that mattered. But it wasn’t.” I was momentarily thoughtful; I blew a series of smoke rings up at the ceiling. “My Uncle William is a terrible father but he is an exceptional uncle. The best. And not only that, he loves me very much.”
“Happy ending,” said Olivia.
I nodded, because I was still open to the possibility, but both of us knew that it wasn’t over yet.
I was just getting ready to head back to the front room, to my little twin bed, when I heard someone banging on the door downstairs. My first thought was that Jack had shown up. I stayed at the railing, and the knocking continued, and someone yelled something in Greek. Amanda was nowhere to be seen. I felt Olivia’s small hands grasp my elbow. Clive had clearly been sound asleep, but Nathan was holding a book, keeping his place with his index finger. And Neftali was there, masked in green face goo. Then Nikos came out.
“Why don’t you open it?” he said, addressing us all.
Nikos walked right down the stairs. He opened the door, and there was a moment of suspense. Then he stepped back, swinging the door open so we could see our visitor, a bemused look on his face. Of course I recognized who it was immediately, but what was he doing on Aspros? What was he doing here in the dim light of the hallway, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his fingers raking through his hair, which even in the darkness gave off a burnished glow?
It was all very strange, because our visitor was Steve Kelly.
12
p
No one really saw the bad news coming. They all assumed that Steve was visiting me. But I knew he wouldn’t be on Aspros unless there was a story to cover, and my mind began racing as soon as I recognized him.
“Rupert, nice to see you,” he said. “I knew you were on Aspros. I didn’t realize you were staying at this house.”
“Nice to see you too,” I said. I went down the stairs and shook his hand. “Who are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for Amanda Weldon. I’ve been told she’s staying here.”
“Amanda’s not here,” said Clive with some authority. “Are you a friend of hers?” He grabbed Nathan’s wrist and looked at the time. It had to be closing in on 2 A.M.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “this is Steve Kelly. He’s a journalist.”
There was silence, then Olivia said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” said Steve hastily. “So Amanda Weldon isn’t here?”
“Is it important? I know where she is,” said Clive. “I can go get her.”
“It is important,” said Steve. He rubbed the two-day stubble on his chin and regarded first Clive and then me. He had some bad news, that much was obvious. “Jack Weldon’s been murdered.”
We had all poured ourselves a drink, except for Clive, who was off to Tomas’s to fetch Amanda. The light in the living room seemed too bright and, with the exception of me who was not dressed for bed, we all looked rather silly. Neftali and her face mask, her hair up in curlers and netted, was slumped over her glass of whiskey. She was tearing up and I knew, from spending time with her, that she felt personally responsible for Jack’s death; somehow his murder had been a direct result of bad hospitality. Nathan’s pajamas looked as if they’d been ironed and Olivia was wearing her bed turban, an item I’d never really understood but which she thought was essential.
“How did Jack die?” I asked.
“He fell from a cliff,” said Steve.
“What was he doing on a cliff?” asked Nathan.
“You’ve never been to Hydra, have you?” said Steve.
I wanted to laugh because Nathan sounded annoyed and seemed to think it was just like Jack to stand on a cliff and get murdered.
Nikos said, “Where is the police?”
Steve was sitting on the edge of his chair and looking from Nikos to me to Nikos, with an eager, greasy demeanor. “I got here first. Weldon was found this morning and no one knows where Amanda is except for me, and a few others.”
“How’d you get here?” I asked.
“Kaïka from Páros,” he said.
I had a hundred questions flying through my mind. I looked over at Nikos and he raised an eyebrow, quick, meant for me. I stood up, and addressing Steve, said, “Why don’t we go out and get some fresh air?” I picked up my drink so that Steve knew to bring his.
It was a quiet night but breezy, and the trees were rattling the wind in their leaves. I gave Steve a cigarette.
“Are you up for some questions, my friend?” I said.
“Oh, I’m prepared for that, believe me.” Steve was exhausted, but he managed a smile.
“How did you know Amanda was here?” I asked.
“Custard was tipped off by some of his American friends who were tailing one of her acquaintances.”
I th
ought for a moment. “They were following me,” I said.
“Are you one of her acquaintances?” Steve knew he had to come up with some sort of pretense but was having a hard time finding the energy for it.
“Why me?”
“I don’t know.” Steve gave me an honest look. “I thought you would.”
“Well, I don’t.” I thought for a moment. “You were following me too. I saw your car in Delphi after you’d supposedly left.”
Steve shrugged. “You were suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“How’s the hiking on Aspros?” he asked. There was a play of exhausted humor in his eyes. “Or is it better suited to numisiatic activities?”
“The word is numismatic,” I said. “And I don’t know what you’re getting at. Are you forgetting that you know me? I’m Rupert. I’m not capable of all this.” I gestured with my cigarette, because I didn’t know what all this was. “I’m not averse to helping you. Just ask me something I might know the answer to.”
Steve processed this and then inclined his head in a way that implied both an inquiring mind and the onset of a headache. “What can you tell me about Jack Weldon?”
“Nothing, really,” I said. I’d forgotten that Steve had an interest in Jack. “He was a jerk. He hit his wife. He drank too much.” Would anyone care that he was dead? “How can you be so sure he didn’t kill himself or fall by accident?”
“Well,” said Steve. He winced. “Someone clubbed him on the back of his head, and he landed on his face. And there were signs of a struggle, trampled greenery, two sets of footprints, that sort of thing.”
“Some villager might have had it in for him. Pushed him.”
“That is one theory. One old lady says she saw him arguing with a man.”
“No description?”
“The man was wearing a straw hat.”
“Not much to go on,” I said. I took a long thoughtful drag on my cigarette. “Thanasi,” I said. “Jack had a friend, this Thanasi, a local potter.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“On the coast north of Faros, a fishing village. He lives down a dirt path. There’s a sign for his studio, I suppose for tourists. Maybe some even go.”
“Could you find it?”
“Now?”
I needed Clive to find Thanasi’s place because I’d never been there. Clive wasn’t sure either, but he had dropped Jack off once before. Clive and I hopped on the Vespa, and Steve followed on a scooter he’d managed to rent from one of the restaurant owners in the port town. Amanda was sobbing and frightened when we left. Probably embarrassed, too, since she’d been in bed with Tomas when the news of Jack’s death reached her.
The headlight on the Vespa was out, but I had a flashlight and that, coupled with the nearly full moon, was enough to light our way. I was having a hard time with what Steve had said. Why was I involved? Who would want to kill Jack? What on earth was my connection? Who was investigating Jack, and why? I hadn’t come to any conclusions, but by the time we reached the path that led to Thanasi’s house, I decided I knew more than Steve and probably knew more than any of them—Custard and his British Intelligence or CIA, or whoever—had picked up. I knew more; I just had to put it together.
Clive pulled over by a wooden sign. It said, real local pottery. I took the flashlight and shined a path through the scrubby brush and debris. In the low plants were bottles, misfired pots, and donkey dung, and then, giving me a right heart attack, a donkey, who nuzzled my cheek as I passed.
“Jesus Christ!” I said.
Clive was frightened at first, but then he started laughing. I swung the flashlight around, laughing too, but then I saw Steve, and he had pulled a gun.
“What?” said Steve.
“It’s just a donkey,” I said. “Why do you have a gun?”
“Custard gave it to me, just in case.”
I turned off the flashlight. We were huddled there: me, Clive, Steve, and somewhere—not visible but I could smell it—Thanasi’s friendly donkey. “Steve,” I asked, “am I in danger?”
“I really don’t know,” he said.
“Why would you think Thanasi is armed?”
Steve seemed relieved I’d asked him that. “He might be,” he said. He put the safety on his gun. “The thing is,” he said, “Weldon’s been buying weapons for Greek Communists.”
“What?” I said.
“It’s true.”
I looked over at Clive, who shrugged, apparently willing to entertain this possibility.
“Why would the Communists have anything to do with Jack?” I asked.
“Well, it was kind of his own splinter group,” said Steve. “His own guerrilla army.”
“No,” I said. “That’s impossible. He doesn’t have that kind of money.”
Clive snorted derisively, but I knew he was having trouble following the conversation.
“Wait,” I said. “Does this have something to do with that band of twenty rebels in Delphi?”
“Not Delphi,” said Steve. “Farther north, up by the Albanian border.”
“Seems like a very small guerrilla army,” said Clive.
“And contained,” said Steve. “Not of much interest to anyone except the local officials and the far right, and therefore Custard. Until Jack’s murder.”
“Jack did have a lot of political convictions,” I said. “But they seemed so—”
“Fake,” said Clive. “Just another way of condescending.”
There was a moment of quiet where we heard the donkey, still close by, tearing at the grass.
“So what’s going on?” I asked.
“No one really knows,” said Steve. “Jack was producing something that raised a significant amount of cash and then he was turning around and buying guns that were funneled through Albania.”
“Maybe he was selling drugs,” I suggested.
Steve shrugged. “Opium production in Turkey is at an all-time high, but we’ve been watching the borders, and there’s nothing to connect it to Jack. Whatever it was, Jack was producing it locally.”
I pondered for a moment. “Doesn’t Custard know who killed him? Maybe one of Custard’s American friends?”
Steve shook his head. “This was not organized. Don’t get me wrong. Weldon is potentially embarrassing, and his death might be convenient. But Custard was trying to figure out what he was doing. He wanted to know who else was involved, who the Greeks were, the Albanians.”
“Well, Thanasi might know something.” I found it hard to believe that he was a key figure. This situation gave Thanasi an implausible sophistication.
“What do you know about him?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know anything. But I thought of the crate Jack had taken on the ferry, of the comrade-style embrace that he and Thanasi had shared. “Put the gun away. Thanasi is just a crazy potter with a head full of dreams,” I said. “Let me go first. He’s probably asleep.”
“No, no,” said Steve. He put the gun in his satchel. “I should go. I speak Greek.”
Steve went ahead, but Clive and I followed close behind. I could hear the waves hitting the rocks, but where Thanasi lived there was no beach. Just a cliff, sheer, imposing, beautiful. I wondered if Thanasi knew what a premium this sort of location had in other places, or if he just felt he was stranded at the end of the earth. I thought of the saying, The sea is a road that leads anywhere, but Thanasi wasn’t going far. I had a hard time picturing him anywhere but Aspros.
I waited outside with Clive while Steve went inside the cottage. I would have been happy to stay in the fresh air, with the view of the ocean, the moon, a shred of cloud drifting over it, but the mosquitoes were vicious. I wondered if there was some stagnating pool, a frenzy of mosquito sex and exotic fevers. I edged my way inside the door and Clive followed me.
I assumed that Steve must have broken the news of Jack’s death to Thanasi because of the dejected way he was sitting on the edge of his bed, a small one with a flat mattres
s and dirty sheets, that he must have just risen from. I felt bad for him. What light had Jack shone on his ordinary life? What dreams had now died?
I was trying to think of what Asprian things could be worth something on the black market, and all I could come up with was myzithra, the local cheese—one did need a license to sell it. Cheese. Chickpea croquettes. Caper salad. That’s all Aspros had to offer. Thanasi’s house was barely the size of my room at Neftali’s, and it was difficult to find a polite place to look. Half the cottage was given over to Thanasi’s work, and a pyramid of sunbaked terracotta bowls dominated the space. A sheet was thrown over half of this, and I could see that some of the work—plates, maybe, but the light was dim—had been glazed and fired.
And then I thought, pots, and then I thought, local pottery. On a plank set on two squares of yellowed marble, probably pilfered from an ancient wall, was a book in English. Of course this was suspicious because that Thanasi read—even in his own language—seemed improbable. I picked up the book and opened it. On the front page it had been stamped instructor copy. It was left over from Jack’s teaching days. I flipped a couple of pages and saw an amphora, black figures on red, much like the bell krater the dealer in Athens had described to me, and then a lekythos, almost deco in appearance, with a young woman in profile holding a water jug—the work of the Achilles painter—and this appealed to me, as it should.
I had purchased it, although on a plate, that night in Athens all those weeks ago. My plate hadn’t been dug up in the Peloponnesus. It had been made right here, and by having Kostas purchase it I had funded Jack’s army. Of course Thanasi, and therefore Jack, would know that Kostas, as my agent, was looking for classical pieces. Everyone on Aspros did, just as everyone knew I had the money to pay for them. All Jack had needed was a middleman, some rebel to take the bus down from the Albanian border in his too-short pants and show up on Kostas’s doorstep in the middle of the night, a blanket of goodies bundled on his back.
I put the book down. Clive looked over. I picked up a knife, left on a cutting board next to some very dry-looking cheese. Clive looked at me questioningly, but I raised my finger to my lips so he knew not to follow. I slipped out the door. I was lucky that the Vespa was far from Thanasi’s house. By the time Steve heard the engine, even if he ran out, I would have a good head start. Would he even follow me?
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