The Doctor of Thessaly Page 3

  ‘Is it business that brings you here?’

  ‘Business finds me everywhere I go,’ he said, ‘and I’ve an inkling there might be work here. But I stopped because I’ve a problem with my car. I’m hoping the town might supply me with a competent mechanic.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’ve a mechanic,’ she said. ‘That’s one thing we can supply.’ Her eyes ran over him, and for a moment rested on his shoes. ‘But I was sure that, smartly dressed as you are, you’d come for the wedding.’

  ‘Wedding?’ asked the fat man. ‘No, indeed. I know of no wedding.’

  He lifted his cup, and allowed the drops from its base to fall back into the coffee Evangelia had spilled in the saucer. He tasted the coffee; it was too weak to have flavour, and already growing cold.

  ‘I was invited myself, of course,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t plan to go. I’m tied to this place, night and day. I’m a woman alone, and there’s not much help for a woman with no husband; just the half-wit, from time to time. Everything that’s to be done, is done by me. I wanted to go, of course; the break would have been welcome. But I was glad, in the end, I’d made no effort. What a farce it turned out to be!’ She leaned close to him so her shoulder touched his own, and as she went on speaking, he caught the unpleasantness of her breath. ‘Because the groom didn’t come, and the wedding never took place! He thought better of it, I suppose; she’s no spring chicken, after all. But even so, it’s hard to bear such disgrace. Better never to have been asked than to be jilted on your wedding day! How she’ll hold her head up again, I don’t know.’

  The fat man seemed thoughtful.

  ‘Poor woman,’ he said.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes – a box in the old-fashioned style, whose lid bore the head and naked shoulders of a 1940s starlet with softly permed, platinum hair curled around a coy smile. Beneath the maker’s name ran a slogan in an antique hand: ‘The cigarette for the man who knows a real smoke’. Producing a slim, gold lighter, he knocked the tip of a cigarette on the table, lit it, and laid the cigarettes and the lighter beside his cup.

  Across the square, the grocer hauled out a sack of onions. An elderly woman, bent-backed and bow-legged, made her slow way towards the alley where the bakery was opening its doors, and Evangelia called out a greeting.

  ‘No word, nothing,’ she went on, still close to the fat man. ‘His wedding suit hung ready, the band playing, bells all ringing, and no groom. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Without a word, he’s vanished. And her – they say she’s devastated.’

  ‘And is this ungentlemanly fellow a local man?’

  She tipped her chin and tutted, as if his suggestion were absurd.

  ‘Not local, no,’ she said. ‘Not even Greek. A foreigner, a Frenchman. But an educated man, a doctor, and a good doctor, in fact. I’m under him myself. I suffer with my health, kyrie, though I suppose you’d never know to look at me.’ The fat man’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. Everything about Evangelia seemed hopeless and neglected; like a wilting plant whose season had passed, she seemed to droop, and the skin of her face, the corners of her mouth, the badly fitting clothes, the stockings wrinkled at the knees, all sagged. The fat man sipped his cold coffee, and drawing on his cigarette, let her go on. ‘The doctor has said to me many times, Eva (he calls me Eva, and I allow his familiarity – he’s a professional man, after all) – Eva, he says, it’s a wonder how you carry on. My joints are swollen, and my lungs are weak. Winter is bitter, here; every year, I expect the cold to kill me. Sometimes, I struggle to make it down the stairs. Dr Louis tells me I have thin blood. He gives me medication. Take these, he says, and these and these and these . . . When I object, he presses me. I must take them, he says, or I won’t see fifty. I’m well over forty now, kyrie, though perhaps you wouldn’t guess.’

  The fat man gave a small smile, and sipped again at his coffee.

  ‘The town will be wanting a new doctor, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I don’t imagine this Dr Louis will be welcomed back, if he shows his face.’

  Evangelia frowned.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be welcomed?’ she asked. ‘Good doctors are hard to come by, outside the city.’

  ‘Does the bride have no father, then? No brothers to protect her honour?’

  ‘There are no men left in the Kaligi family. Chrissa’s father is long dead, and there are no brothers, only a sister. At her age, she was lucky to be asked, especially by a doctor. The sister – Noula, they call her – is older, and still a spinster, the obstacle in Chrissa’s way. The father always said he’d see the elder married first, and after he went, the mother stuck by his wishes. But she passed away recently – she suffered, poor woman, though Dr Louis did what he could for her. It was at the mother’s bedside that they met. It was in poor taste, of course, but I suppose she saw a last chance, and led him on. They’re no beauties in that family; there are some who say they weren’t fathered by a man but by a mule. When other girls were marrying, they were passed over, though there was another suitor for Chrissa for a while. But there’s other ways to win a man than by a pretty face, and I suppose she dipped into that box of tricks every woman has at her disposal . . . She’ll have been thinking her chance had come again. Don’t get me wrong, kyrie – he’s not a handsome man, not tall either, nor young. But qualified, and well paid, and well respected. It seems he thought better of it anyway, in the end.’

  From the baker’s alley, the elderly woman made her slow way towards the grocer’s, carrying a paper-wrapped loaf in a string bag. At the grocer’s, she stopped to examine the cauliflowers, and immediately the grocer was at her side. The old woman chose the smallest, and the grocer slipped it smiling into her bag; the old woman offered him her open purse, and he dipped into it, still smiling as he helped himself to coins.

  ‘And her half-blind,’ said Evangelia, shaking her head. ‘You’d think he’d be ashamed.’

  The fat man frowned.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, quietly. He knocked ash from the tip of his cigarette, and drank the last of his unsatisfactory coffee.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, indicating the bunting, ‘is there some festival planned?’

  She laughed, derisively.

  ‘We have a new broom in town,’ she said, ‘a mayor who thinks new drains are the answer to all our prayers.’

  ‘Not all prayers, naturally,’ said the fat man. ‘Yet bad drains can make life miserable.’ He sniffed; the morning air was scented with damp grass, salt water, fresh bread. ‘But I smell nothing untoward.’

  ‘This town suffered for decades with its drains,’ she said. ‘I remember as a girl we didn’t need drains. Each house had a cesspit of its own. I remember my grandfather digging one, and how afraid he was I’d fall in it. But I was in no danger, kyrie; I kept well away. Those pits were deep and dark, and I knew what was going in there. You’ll know the old system, of course: lime on the walls, some water and a sheep carcass thrown in, then seal it up and let nature do its work. The rot that eats the carcass will eat anything that man – or woman – can throw at it. My grandfather used to say that water from a cesspit properly made should be sweet enough to drink, though I never saw him try. Then someone came and gave us some improvements. Mains drainage, they said, was healthier and better for us all. But did they do the job right? Of course they didn’t! All leaking pipes and blockages – in summer, you couldn’t open the windows for the stink. It’s better now, of course. But the price we’ve paid! Digging and drilling, noise and dust! Chaos: we’ve had weeks of chaos. See?’ As she pointed to the barriers around the hole outside the pharmacy, and a similar one beside the post-office door, the fat man looked in puzzlement around the deserted square. ‘Traffic diversions, water cut off for hours. But our new mayor’s a young man, and the young have big ideas. He’s wholly responsible. If you want to complain, that’s where the blame lies.’

  ‘But why the bunting?’ She gave a mysterious smile. ‘We’re expecting a visitor,’ she said. ‘A minister
from

  Athens. A dignitary. A VIP, from the department that gave the mayor the grants for these – improvements. There’ll be ribbon cutting, and a plaque to be unveiled. They’re bringing in the press – TV, and newspapers. And the mayor, of course, to shake the minister’s hand.’

  The fat man took a last draw on his cigarette and, leaning forward to the ashtray, stubbed it out.

  ‘I should like to see that,’ he said.

  ‘If you’re going to be staying, I can offer you a room,’ she said, eagerly. ‘It isn’t much, but if I air the bed to get the damp out, you’ll be comfortable enough. I’d have to make a charge, of course. A man like yourself’d be wanting hot water, and it costs so much to heat. Two thousand a night, including breakfast.’

  The fat man shook his head.

  ‘Your offer is very kind,’ he said, ‘but I don’t expect to stay. And if I did, I couldn’t impose on you. I’m sure there’s a pension here that is well prepared to receive guests.’

  She smiled, wide enough to show her discoloured teeth.

  ‘No pension. No visitors,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be no burden, unless you’ve a mind to be. It’s just a bed, and a little hot water. There’s no shower, but I can fill a bath for you in the yard, or in the kitchen, if you feel the cold.’

  Across the square, the grocer, red-faced with effort, dragged a sack of potatoes from his shop. Hauling the sack into place beside the onions, he rolled back the hessian to display the potatoes, and picked out a mud-dried tuber to inspect a weevil-hole. The damage was fresh and obvious, and so he rummaged in the sack to make room, and hid the infested potato deep amongst the healthier ones.

  The fat man glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and judged there was still a while to wait until the mechanic might be expected at his work; he wondered what kind of living the man made in this small place where, at an hour when country folk were certainly stirring, there was no sign of traffic on the streets.

  Then, from the far side of the square, an engine broke the quiet of the morning, and the battered scooter that had passed the fat man some time earlier came into view. Its driver was the same – a young man with the slipped mouth of a simpleton – but now he had a passenger on his pillion, a plump man who clasped the driver’s waist with one arm, and covered his own eyes with the other, as if in horror at the younger man’s bad driving. Yet the young man rode carefully, avoiding the worst of the square’s bumps and dips.

  Seeing the fat man, Evangelia and the grocer, the young man began to shout.

  ‘Help! Call an ambulance! The doctor is injured!’

  The fat man and the grocer merely stared; but Evangelia rose slowly from her chair.

  ‘The doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Here he is, at last!’

  The scooter stopped before the kafenion’s tables. The man riding pillion placed his feet down on the cobbles – one foot, the fat man noticed, was missing a shoe – and sat motionless and silent, his arm across his face. The fat man, in curiosity, stood and approached; the grocer began to cross the square towards them.

  ‘What is it, kalé?’ called out Evangelia to the driver. ‘Adonis, what’s happened?’

  Agitation, it seemed, prevented Adonis from speaking; instead he shook his head, and placed his hand over his eyes in mimicry of the doctor. But in a few heavy strides, Evangelia reached him, and taking his shoulder in a tight grip, shook him.

  ‘Spit it out, fool!’ she said. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘He’s blinded!’ cried Adonis, flinching. Like a cowering dog, he turned his face from her. ‘He says we have to call an ambulance!’

  ‘Panayia mou!’ Evangelia pulled at Adonis’s sweater. ‘Out of the way, fool!’

  Adonis climbed off his scooter, and moved a little way off, where he stood biting the knuckles of one hand. Crossing herself, Evangelia stared at the unmoving doctor, until the fat man, frowning, touched her shoulder.

  ‘Go, quickly, and call them,’ he said. ‘Dial 111. This is an emergency.’

  She left them, and the fat man moved to the doctor’s side. The doctor’s clothes were marked with splashes of white; around his mouth and jaw, the skin was raw and weeping. The grocer joined the fat man; as he leaned across to see the doctor’s face, the air filled with the smell of onions.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked the grocer. ‘What’s going on?’

  The fat man held up his hand to silence him.

  ‘You don’t know me, yiatre,’ he said to the doctor, ‘but I have a little knowledge of first aid. Will you let me see your injury? Perhaps I can be of help, before the ambulance arrives.’

  The doctor’s lips twitched as if attempting a smile, but the smile was cut off by pain.

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t pretty, friend,’ he said, his Greek inflected with a foreign accent. ‘If there are ladies present, or children, I suggest you ask them to move away.’

  ‘There’s no one here,’ said the fat man. ‘Please, let me see.’

  The doctor lowered his hand, revealing his blank eyes. The grocer grew pale; he crossed himself, and opened his mouth to speak, but the fat man signalled again to him for silence. Leaning closer, he studied the doctor’s face.

  ‘Some chemical,’ he said, quietly. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the doctor. ‘I didn’t see him. Does the damage look bad? I couldn’t get to water. I’m afraid the burn’s gone deep.’

  Gently, the fat man laid a hand on the doctor’s back; the grocer’s expression was of dismay.

  ‘Your colleagues at the hospital will know what to do,’ said the fat man. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Not so bad, now. With the young man’s help, I gave myself some morphine. I’m comfortable, at least.’

  ‘Can you walk?’ asked the fat man. ‘Just a short way, to a chair.’

  ‘I’m sure so, yes.’

  ‘Take my arm, then. Grocer, be so good as to keep the lady out of the way. There’s no need for hysterics or too much fuss. Yiatre, I believe you have a fiancée. Should she be brought?’

  Cautiously, the doctor shook his head.

  ‘Don’t tell her yet,’ he said. ‘I don’t want her to see me in this state. Send someone to tell her when I’ve gone.’

  As the ambulance pulled away, the small crowd in the square began to disperse, the men taking seats in the kafenion, the women moving to the baker’s and the grocer’s to share the news.

  As Evangelia served coffee at the next table, the fat man touched her on the arm.

  ‘Regarding your accommodation,’ he said. ‘I believe I shall be delaying my departure for a while. So if you’ll prepare that room for me, I shall accept your offer of lodging after all.’

  Four

  The fat man crossed the square and made his way along the side street where he had left his car. Beneath the overhanging branches of a pomegranate tree a small boat stood, stripped and sanded, on wooden blocks; an empty paint tin lay under the hull, a dried-out paintbrush by the upturned crate used as the painter’s seat, but of the painter, there was no sign. A woman threw back the shutters of an upstairs room and watched the fat man curiously as he passed. Looking up, he smiled, and called out kali mera; but the woman gave no answer, and stepped back in silence from the window, out of sight.

  His car was an aged Mercedes, grand in the style favoured by statesmen and industrialists, its cream paintwork unmarked except for a little mud spattered around the wheel arches. As he opened the door, the car released its scent of polished leather and the perfume of ripe apples from a well-filled paper bag lying on the passenger seat. He slipped behind the silver-symbolled steering wheel and placed his holdall in the footwell, then, making himself comfortable in the red leather seat, turned the key in the ignition.

  The engine, quiet and reliable, came to life; but immediately it did so, the wipers scraped across the windscreen, squealing on the dry glass and returning noisily to their resting place. The fat man frowned. For a short while, he waited; the wipers remained
still. A minute passed, and he moved the automatic gearstick into drive; but as the gearbox engaged, the wipers squealed again across the screen.

  Tight-lipped, the fat man pushed a button to squirt water on to the windscreen, but the water-tank was empty and only a dribble emerged. Releasing the handbrake, he moved off down the side street, and, as he reached its end, the wipers passed before his eyes again.

  Heading for the outskirts, the fat man drove slowly through the town. It was a place that might have been attractive: the old buildings had architectural interest, the setting between sea and hills had charm. But care was lacking; there seemed no pride taken in the upkeep of the houses, and there were no showpieces amongst the neglected gardens. By contrast, public works in progress showed small improvements everywhere: the collapsed wall around a churchyard was half rebuilt, fresh concrete showed where a road had been repaired, a new basketball hoop stood in the high-school yard.

  Beyond the sign which marked the town’s end, the road dipped and turned in a tight loop, forming an oval of land which was almost an island. Here, the garage stood. Two old-fashioned pumps bore the EKO logo; the forecourt ran back to a workshop where the ground was black with oily dirt, and around the carcasses of vehicles stripped to the bone – cars, trucks and motorbikes – lay the litter of their maintenance: grease cans, cables and springs, tyres and hub-caps, spanners, spark plugs, exhausts in rusty lengths. At a short distance was a single-storey house, and between the house and its privy was grassland, where a line held the washing of three generations, and a tethered goat nibbled at a crust of hard bread.

  The fat man pulled up alongside the petrol pumps and considered the oil-soaked dirt in front of the workshop. Reaching down to his holdall, he took out a parcel loosely wrapped in newspaper, and removed from it a pair of rubber galoshes. Folding the newspaper for re-use, he slipped the galoshes over his pristine tennis shoes, and stepped out of the car.

  Inside the workshop, the sound of hammering was loud. Between workbenches chaotic with tools, lubricants and rags, a little Fiat was raised on ramps, its underside lit by a caged light bulb on a long length of flex; and from beneath the Fiat, two legs protruded. A selection of the car’s components lay under its rear bumper.