The Whispers of Nemesis Page 3

  ‘Have an aperitif, first.’ Yorgas picked up an empty glass from the terrace wall and filled it from the bottle on the table. He gave the glass to Attis, and raised his own in a toast – Yammas – before he drank. ‘They say all access to the campus area is closed. I’ve come up here to watch the sorry sight.’ He looked out to the horizon, where the glow of fire was orange against the sky. ‘Our students are burning their books. That’s enough to make a publisher’s blood run cold, and a literary agent’s too, wouldn’t you say? No doubt they’re infiltrated by anarchists. They should round the bastards up and hose them down with water one degree above freezing.’

  ‘Your publisher’s soul overrides your nose for business, Yorgas,’ said Attis. ‘Forget the offence in your handiwork being burned. The books they’re burning tonight will have to be replaced, come the morning. No books, no studying; no studying, no degree and no fat doctor’s pay cheques. Why not just look forward to an increase in sales?’

  ‘That’s what I admire about you, Attis. You always see the opportunity.’

  ‘In my experience, most problems have a solution that’ll take you forward.’ Attis drank more of his wine. ‘This is very palatable. Is it French?’

  ‘Pah!’ A flake of ash settled on Yorgas’s hair. ‘The French are amateurs at the wine-making game, compared to us Greeks! This nectar comes from Kefalonia. You know, I wish I had more of your positive view of the world. Sometimes, I feel disaster waits to ambush me round every corner.’

  A look of wariness crossed Attis’s face. Down on the street, a nightclub’s gaudy sign flashed across the windscreen of a waiting taxi.

  ‘When you say disaster, do you mean disaster in business?’ asked Attis.

  ‘Where else? I inherited a noble publishing house and a raft of liabilities.’

  From the speakers, the over-familiar melody of ‘Zorba’s Dance’ began. In the taverna below, a plate smashed on the floor tiles, to cheers and applause.

  ‘You’re not thinking of Santos as a liability?’ asked Attis, uncertainly. ‘I know sales could be better, but he brings you a certain cachet, surely?’

  Yorgas shook his head.

  ‘Not Santos. He’s a jewel in both our crowns. My problem is, Bellerophon has several such jewels, all breaking even or making losses. The market’s skewed, and it’s never talent that makes money. Sales come from popular appeal, and popular appeal is not Bellerophon’s long suit. It’s the same for you, of course. Let me ask you: who is it who makes you your money?’

  ‘Such money as it is, those you’d expect. A couple of my novelists do well – romance, if there’s sex in it, thrillers, if there’s violence. And the cookery writers. I secured a TV deal for one girl, and now she’s selling in the thousands. Santos is disgusted. He doesn’t understand why a woman who shows the nation how to make soup should be better rewarded than a man who holds up a mirror to the nation’s soul. He says he’s under-appreciated, and he’s right. I feel sorry for him, but what can I do? I’ve tried to tell him there’s no money in poetry, but he thinks he can change the world with his words. I’m afraid he’s destined to go through life disappointed; but he would be very grieved indeed to think he had disappointed you.’

  The glow at the horizon was growing brighter, lighting ever more of the sky.

  ‘Looks to me as if they’ve set the buildings on fire,’ said Yorgas. ‘And speaking of fire – how’s it going with Santos’s sister? What’s her name?’

  ‘Frona.’

  ‘So, have you asked her for a date yet? No? So ask her. Pick up the phone. She won’t bite.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an old man, in her eyes.’

  ‘You’re too hard on yourself. Look at you. Hardly a grey hair in sight.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘Well, don’t wait too long, friend. Maybe she’ll get snapped up. Shall we eat? I’m freezing my balls off here, and there’s kleftiko in the kitchen, if we’re quick.’

  He drained his glass, and picked up the half-full bottle from the table.

  Attis put a hand on Yorgas’s arm.

  ‘If you had a problem with Santos, you would tell me?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Yorgas, heading down the stairs. ‘His fortunes tie you and me together.’

  Two nights later, in the hour before dawn broke over Vrisi, the tyres of a fast-moving police car scattered the loose stones in the yard, and cracked the ice which had covered the pooled rainwater. The car’s headlamps, on full beam, lit up the house façade; the dark rooms were filled with white light, like the arrival of celestial hordes.

  The uniformed officer at the wheel turned the headlamps down to side-lights and killed the engine. His companion stubbed out the last inch of his cigarette in the dashboard ashtray, and exhaled a smooth stream of smoke.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Pray God there are no hysterics,’ said his companion. ‘Wailing and weeping get on my nerves.’

  ‘If you don’t like hysterics, you shouldn’t have begged the favour,’ said the policeman. ‘Now come. And treat them with respect.’

  They climbed from the car. As they crossed the yard, the policeman buttoned his blouson jacket against the cold, and pulling his beret from under his shoulder-tab, positioned it on his head to cover what he could of his baldness. His companion turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and pulled his slacks up higher on his waist.

  In the village below, a dog barked.

  Darkness hid the old place’s many flaws – the walls cracked by invading tree roots, the sagging gutters, the young borage and thistles choking the pots of narcissi – leaving the house a half-seen grandeur. The men stood on either side of the doorway, the policeman taking up an official’s stance: feet apart, hands clasped over the groin.

  From inside his jacket, his companion produced a spiral-bound notebook.

  ‘You can put that away,’ said the policeman. ‘You keep quiet, and hang back, like you said you would.’

  His companion raised a conciliatory hand.

  ‘It’s all the same to me,’ he said, putting away his notebook. ‘My memory’s infallible when it comes to what people say, and what I can’t remember, I make up. But if I need corroboration, I’ll come to you. I like to get good value for my money.’

  He gave a smile; the policeman turned from him, and spat on the ground.

  ‘Just leave all the talking to me,’ said the policeman. ‘Don’t be upsetting them with questions.’

  ‘Whatever you say, friend. Whatever you say.’

  The policeman cleared his throat, and banged on the door, hammering with a force which rattled the frame. His companion licked the pad of his thumb and ran it over his modest moustache.

  They waited. Behind the door, there was silence.

  The policeman hammered again. His companion stepped away from the doorway, and craned up to the first-floor windows. All remained dark.

  ‘Louder, friend,’ he said to the policeman. ‘It’s a big house; they can’t hear you.’

  ‘What do you mean, louder?’ asked the policeman. ‘Malaka. My hand’s bruised black already, banging on this door. If you can bang louder, take a turn.’

  His companion shook his head.

  ‘Banging on doors is official business,’ he said, ‘and official business isn’t my place. Seems to me there’s no one here. I’ll take a quick look round, and we’ll be off.’

  ‘They’re here,’ said the policeman. ‘Where else would they be at this time, except here at home, in their beds?’

  ‘Maybe in someone else’s bed?’ suggested his companion. ‘There might be a story there. What d’you think?’

  But before the policeman could answer him, light showed at the door-foot and behind the keyhole, and through the door a female voice asked, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police!’

  A bolt slid; a key turned in the lock.

  A woman opened the door. Wrapped in a candlewick robe, a man’s leather slippers on her fee
t, she looked at the policeman through light-blind eyes, and tried to smooth the mess of her tangled hair.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Police,’ said the policeman, again, as his companion looked with interest at the woman. ‘Are you Kyria Volakis?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’

  The policeman frowned.

  ‘This is the house of Santos Volakis, is it not?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Yes, Santos lives here.’

  ‘May we come in, then, kyria?’ asked the policeman, and not waiting for a reply, he passed through the doorway and stood at the centre of the hall. His companion followed, and took up a position behind the policeman’s shoulder.

  The woman closed the door.

  ‘Is this about Santos?’ she asked. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Are you a relative, kyria?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Of Santos’s? Yes, of course I am. I’m his sister.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Frona. Frona Kalaki. What’s going on?’

  The policeman hesitated. His companion stared round at the hall’s ornaments and artefacts – watercolours and sepia photographs hung in old frames, a chess set carved from olive wood laid out on a dowry chest, the tusked head of a boar glowering from the wall – taking in as he did so the house’s dilapidation.

  ‘There’s bad news, about your brother,’ said the policeman.

  Frona’s face fell. Feeling behind herself with her hand, she touched the corner of the dowry chest and lowered herself to sit down on its edge. The belt of her dressing-gown caught the chessboard; pawns, knights, monarchs rattled as they went down.

  From above them, over the banister rail, Leda called out.

  ‘Frona? Frona, what are you doing? Is Papa back?’

  ‘It’s not your father, no. Go back to bed. I’ll deal with this.’

  But Leda had reached the head of the stairs, and crouched down to see who was in the hall. The policeman met her eyes, then looked away.

  ‘Papa!’ cried Leda, and sank down on the staircase, burying her face in the long nightdress which covered her naked legs.

  The women’s distress troubled the policeman, making him reluctant to say more, to provide unwelcome details. His visit had conveyed the painful message; was it not now better to depart and leave the questions that would inevitably come – how, when, why? – to another man, by daylight? He removed his beret, and holding it across his chest, looked up at Leda, whose face was still hidden in folds of pink cotton, and at Frona, and in preparation for departure, said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  He gave his companion a nod of dismissal, and the companion took a step towards the door.

  Then Frona spoke.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said to the policeman.

  ‘Do you want anyone with you?’ he asked. ‘I can call a relative. Is there someone in the village who would come?’

  ‘Please,’ said Frona. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘We had a call from our fellow officers in Nafplio. They say your brother died by choking. On an olive, they believe. He was alone in his room, and there was no one there to help him. Your brother’s body has been passed into an undertaker’s care, to be sent here, to you. He’s on his way already. You should expect him tomorrow, or, at the latest, the day after.’

  Frona fell back into silence.

  ‘So is there anyone?’ asked the policeman. ‘I can fetch them in the car, if you’d like.’

  ‘Maria, our housekeeper,’ she said. ‘She must be told. She must come and be with us.’

  She gave the officer directions to Maria’s house. Nothing remained, then, but for the men to leave. The policeman’s companion offered Frona his hand; she did not take it, and the companion let it drop back to his side.

  ‘May your brother’s memory be eternal,’ he said. ‘I don’t doubt it will be so. He’s a great loss to us all. Not just to you, as his family, or to the people of your village, but to all of Greece. The nation mourns him. Perhaps when you’ve had a little time, we might talk. Maybe as his next of kin, you’d make a statement?’

  He took out a business card featuring a newspaper’s logo, and, ignoring the policeman’s glare, laid it on the dowry chest.

  ‘A statement?’ She seemed bewildered. ‘It’s Attis you should go to, for a statement.’

  ‘Attis?’

  ‘Attis Danas, Santos’s agent. He handles Santos’s publicity. He handles everything.’

  ‘Do you have a number for him?’

  ‘I’ll call him. I’ll call him myself, and give him your number.’

  The policeman ushered the journalist out of the door, and the women were left alone.

  As Attis Danas unlocked the apartment door, the phone on the hallstand was ringing. The fabric of his jacket stank of cigar smoke, his breath of stale brandy; his silk tie was rolled up in his pocket. As he picked up the phone, he glanced in the mirror, and rubbed a smear of lipstick from his cheek.

  ‘Embros?’

  ‘Attis, for God’s sake, is that you? Where have you been?’

  ‘Frona! This is a surprise! So early!’

  ‘Attis, I’ve been calling you for hours! Where have you been?’

  ‘Celebrating. A client of mine – that woman who writes the cookery books – made this week’s Top Ten. Frona, are you all right?’

  ‘Attis, you must come. You have to come, come now. Something terrible has happened. I still can’t believe it! I still can’t believe he’s gone!’

  ‘Who’s gone? Frona, what are you talking about?’

  ‘You must come, Attis, and help us. The police have been here. They came to tell us poor Santos is dead!’

  For a moment, Attis didn’t speak, but looked out through the window at the hall’s end, where grey clouds drizzled over city rooftops.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘How can he be dead? I spoke to him myself, only . . . When? When are they saying he died?’

  ‘I don’t know, Attis, I don’t know! You must come now, and help us. There’s only me and Leda, and Maria, and I don’t know what to do! The press were here, too. You need to speak to them.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ said Attis. ‘Don’t worry. Trust me. You know you can leave everything to me. Just let me make some calls, and I’ll be leaving. So just stay calm, Frona, and I’ll be there with you in a few hours.’

  Five

  Anxious to get out of the rain, Father Tomas hurried through the final words and cast a fistful of wet earth into the grave, where soil and stones thudded dismally on the coffin lid. The mourners in their turn picked up handfuls of the freshly dug ground, and tossed them after the priest’s.

  They left the graveside slowly, under the shelter of umbrellas: bright parachutes of colour which hid the stricken faces of the bereaved.

  As they made their way towards the cemetery gates, Attis Danas held a blue umbrella over his own head and that of Yorgas Sarris. Rain pattered on the nylon fabric; wind gnawed easily through their urban clothes. Amongst the tombs, under the dripping portico of a small chapel, the journalist in his sheepskin jacket sheltered from the rain. Seeing Attis and Yorgas, he dropped a half-smoked cigarette to the ground and hurried along the path to join them.

  ‘Gentlemen, kali mera sas,’ said the journalist, stepping in front of them, shrugging up the collar of his jacket. ‘Forgive my intrusion on this sad occasion; but I am told you, kyrie’ – he looked at Yorgas – ‘are Santos Volakis’s publisher. Is that right?’

  Yorgas held out his hand from under the umbrella, as if he thought the rain might have stopped. In only moments, his palm was wet.

  ‘I’m his publisher, yes,’ he said, wiping his hand on his raincoat. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Might you have a few words for the press?’

  The journalist held up a reporter’s notebook, poked a blunt pencil out of its spiral binding and flipped
through many pages of untidy shorthand.

  He readied his pencil over a blank page.

  ‘It’s up to you, Yorgas,’ said Attis, ‘but I’ve sent out a press release already.’

  ‘A personal statement always gives a better story,’ said the journalist. ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’

  Yorgas shrugged his agreement.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Yorgas Sarris. I’m the proprietor of Bellerophon Editions, and we have the privilege of publishing all of Santos’s work.’

  The reporter made notes; despite its untidiness, the speed of his shorthand was slow, and the marks of his pencil were faint on the damp paper.

  ‘And how have you been affected by his death?’ he asked.

  Out of respect for the dead man, neither Attis nor Yorgas had shaved. Overhanging the collar of his shirt, Yorgas’s jowls were rough with stubble. He brushed away the watery beginnings of tears.

  ‘I myself have lost a friend, and that’s a personal tragedy,’ he said, pacing his words to the speed of the reporter’s slow pencil. ‘But this is a tragedy of epic proportions, which will have its effect on us all. The fact is simple: Santos was one of the brightest stars Greek poetry has ever seen. He was a genius, the Seferis of his generation, a man of extraordinary talent. And to leave us so young, when he had still so very much to give! It was an honour to publish him, a true honour. His loss leaves a vacuum that may never be filled.’

  ‘You describe his death as a tragedy,’ said the reporter, writing down Yorgas’s last sentence. ‘But would you say it’s true that his life was as tragic as his death?’ He looked up from his notebook, watching the publisher for his reaction; but though Attis frowned, the publisher’s face did not change. ‘I’ve heard he was a lonely man. Divorced.’

  ‘A divorced man needn’t be lonely,’ said Attis. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  The reporter gave the same pleasant smile, and made a gesture which invited Attis to make a suggestion of his own; but before Attis could speak, the publisher interrupted.

  ‘What you have to understand, friend,’ he said, ‘is that Santos was an artist in the true sense, and the artistic temperament tends from time to time towards melancholia. It’s in the nature of the artist to reflect on the human condition, and the human condition has many aspects. Of course Santos was low on occasions; of course he had his moods, as we all do. But he had family he loved deeply, and he was wholly committed to his work. His career was going from strength to strength; his new collection of poems came out very recently, and we were looking forward to excellent sales. Santos’s life was no tragedy. It was a celebration of language, and of the literary arts. Excuse us.’