The Doctor of Thessaly Page 5

  The photograph had lost its regular shape; around its edges, the paper was scorched, with scallops of it burned away. In the picture was a woman, seated on a wall; but the picture was not new, and though the woman in the photograph was young, in life she would be twenty years older now.

  With red-rimmed eyes, he stared at her. Then, almost carelessly, he held a damaged corner of the photograph close to the candle, until smoke rose and the scorching spread; but before it caught, he whisked it from the flame, blowing to put out the glow of almost burning.

  Outside, the dog barked again.

  He pulled out a drawer set in the table; the wood was swollen from the damp, and, sticking, didn’t open easily. Except for a box of matches, the drawer was empty; he laid the photograph face-down inside, and pushed it to.

  Taking a swig from the bottle of spirit, he blew out the candle; and throwing open the badly fitting door, went out to berate the barking dog.

  Six

  The post office reeked of gloss paint; entering, the fat man caught his arm on the doorpost and glanced down to make sure there was no wet paint on his sleeve. Some effort, it seemed, had been expended on improvements. The painters’ tools – ladders, paint cans and dustsheets – were still stacked in a corner; the skirting boards and window frames were newly brilliant white, and the walls wore a mint-green emulsion, a little patchy where they’d missed the second coat.

  But fresh paint had worked no magic on the place, and the dinginess of decades of neglect was seeping through. Inadequate light shone through the north-facing windows, so the low-wattage lights were always on, turning the daylight yellow and creating shadows that fresh paint failed to lift. The outdated public-announcement posters had been pinned back on the walls; the poste restante pigeonholes stood where they had always stood, with the same uncollected letters left in the same dusty slots – several for a German who had gone home a year ago, some for a Cypriot now deceased, a few the postman had failed to deliver, addressed to people he had never heard of. In the umbrella stand, a forgotten bamboo-handled umbrella remained forgotten; the side table where customers filled out forms had the same beer mat folded under one leg to stop it wobbling and the same non-working biro chained to its top; the dog-eared information leaflets were back in their pinewood rack; and on the back wall, the handwritten sign that had always been there advised customers to check their change before leaving.

  Behind the counter, the postmaster held a lighted cigarette between his lips. He was short and very thin; his grey moustache was stained with nicotine from the smoke he exhaled down his nostrils with each breath. A missing button on his shirt showed the neckline of a woollen vest and curls of grizzled chest-hair creeping over it; hands hidden in the pockets of a bottle-green cardigan, he watched over the top of silver-framed glasses as the fat man approached, sprightly and smiling.

  The fat man lifted his holdall on to the counter, placing it next to a large parcel already left there; the parcel and the holdall together filled the workspace. With exaggerated impatience, the postmaster shifted the parcel a little to the right, and the fat man’s holdall a little to the left, clearing himself enough room to place his hands.

  ‘Kali mera,’ said the fat man, still smiling.

  The ash on the postmaster’s cigarette – already of such length, it drooped like a wilting flower – grew as he exhaled. The cleared counter top was covered in flecks of ash; the ashtray at the counter’s end was overflowing.

  ‘Kali mera sas,’ said the postmaster. To keep his cigarette in place, he spoke with tightly clamped lips, like a ventriloquist; but the slight movement of his mouth dislodged the length of ash, which dropped to the counter. In annoyance, he swept it away, on to the black-and-white tiled floor.

  The fat man opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, the postmaster held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘Would you mind, kyrie,’ he said, ‘doing me a favour? My back is bad, and this damp weather we’ve had makes the problem worse. Would you move this wretched parcel over there, out of the way? The damn thing’s been here all morning, taking up the whole damned office.’

  ‘Gladly.’ The fat man lifted the parcel easily, and carried it over to the side table, where it covered the pen on its chain.

  ‘Another delivery for the mayor,’ said the postmaster. ‘God knows what’s in this one. He seems intent on wasting every cent in the public coffers. God saves money and the devil spends it.’

  ‘I’ve seen the improvements around the town,’ said the fat man. ‘Your mayor’s a busy man. Surely it’s not a waste of money when it’s spent for the good of all?’

  The postmaster drew deeply on his cigarette, and removing it very briefly from his mouth, leaned towards the fat man, looking at him intently over the top of his glasses.

  ‘Flowers,’ he said. ‘Do you think that’s a good way to spend money, on flowers? We have flowers by the thousand in the mountains, and he’s wasting public money on plants.’

  ‘The only flowers I’ve seen are at the fountain,’ said the fat man, ‘and I have to say, to an outsider’s eye, they look most attractive.’

  ‘But at what price?’

  ‘A few drachmas only, surely?’

  ‘Pah!’

  The postmaster’s cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. Taking the butt from his mouth, he ground it out in the overflowing ashtray. Out of habit, he still spoke from between tight lips; his voice was raw, roughened by smoke.

  ‘May I help you with something?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed you may,’ said the fat man. From his raincoat pocket, he withdrew his paper bag of postcards, and removed two already written and addressed. Then, unzipping his holdall, he took out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and laid both parcel and postcards on the counter. ‘I wish to mail these.’

  Ignoring the donkey in the hat, the postmaster turned the second postcard – the rock-top monasteries at Meteora, spectacular in a sunset – towards him.

  ‘Meteora,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Where the foreigners travel in droves. There’s nothing for tourists in a place like this. You’ll find us all cabbages and cotton. A few sights like these, and we’d be laughing.’

  From the pocket of his cardigan, he took a pack of cheap Greek cigarettes, lit one and placed it burning between his lips. Turning his attention to the fat man’s small parcel, he moved his glasses up his nose to read the address, tapping on the name of its destination with a nicotine-yellowed fingertip.

  ‘This where you’re from?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a house there.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’ The postmaster placed the parcel on the scales and read off its weight, then ran his stained finger down the wall chart listing inland postal rates. ‘You’re just over.’ He named the price of postage. ‘Is it business? Do you want a receipt? Are you a government man, by any chance? You look as if you could be, to me.’

  ‘I’m not a government man, no. But I do work for the authorities.’

  ‘North or south?’

  ‘My work takes me all over.’

  The postmaster blew a long stream of smoke down his nose and looked at the fat man with suspicion.

  ‘You’re not from the tax office, are you?’

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am no tax man. The parcel is just a curiosity, something of interest I found on my travels.’

  The postmaster gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘If you like curiosities, you’ll find we have more than our share of those here! And all living and breathing and walking the earth! All possible strangenesses of mankind, they’re gathered here, in one small town. Keep your eyes open! We won’t disappoint you there!’

  The fat man smiled politely, and handed the postmaster a note from his wallet. The postmaster removed the cigarette from his mouth, and flicking off the ash from its tip, laid it on the edge of the ashtray. In a drawer beneath the counter, he placed the fat man’s banknote under a clip and picked out a large number
of coins, counting aloud as he did so. Closing the drawer, he laid a handful of change before the fat man.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I’ve no small notes.’

  The fat man glanced at his change, then looked at the postmaster, who replaced his cigarette in his mouth, eyes narrowed against the sting of its smoke.

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘Petty theft,’ he said.

  A touch of colour came to the postmaster’s cheeks, and he frowned.

  ‘I’m joking, of course,’ said the fat man. ‘But I think you’ll find my change is thirty drachmas short.’ Spreading the coins across the counter, he sorted the coins with a fingertip into small piles, putting like with like, and having done so, counted them aloud. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘You owe me another thirty drachmas.’

  Obsequiously, the postmaster bowed his head, and took thirty drachmas from his drawer.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘My fault entirely.’

  ‘Oh, I forgive you this small mistake,’ said the fat man. ‘But if mistakes became a habit, and the habit harboured intent, then the authorities would take a dim view. Thirty drachmas here and there might add up, over years, to a nice little sum.’

  The postmaster slammed the cash drawer shut.

  ‘An honest mistake,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the fat man, ‘indeed. Will my parcel go today?’

  ‘This afternoon, if the van’s not delayed.’

  ‘That’s good. I wouldn’t like the contents to deteriorate.’

  The postmaster looked at the parcel with renewed interest, and seemed on the point of putting another question; but behind them, the street door was opened by a young man, who stood a few moments under the portico, calling out his side of a conversation with someone who remained unseen.

  ‘Don’t let me down!’ he said, allowing the door to close. ‘Tomorrow, for sure!’

  He took a step towards the postmaster, then seemed to be overtaken by a thought and stopped, patting the side pockets of his leather jacket. Obviously feeling what he sought there, he took another step, only to stop again, raise his eyes to the ceiling as he thought again, and turn to leave.

  The postmaster gave a slow smile, and touched the fat man’s arm.

  ‘Here’s your chance,’ he said, very quietly, ‘to meet our spendthrift.’ Raising his voice, he called out to the young man.

  ‘Mr Mayor, kali mera sas,’ he said. ‘Don’t be leaving without picking up your mail.’

  With his cigarette burning at the corner of his mouth, he jerked his head towards the table where the fat man had placed the large parcel.

  ‘It’s here,’ said the young man to himself, ‘thank God.’

  He crossed to the table, and laid a hand on the parcel as if about to pick it up; but then he seemed to change his mind, and instead turned to the postmaster, his mouth open to speak.

  But the postmaster spoke first.

  ‘This gentleman’s from out of town,’ he said. ‘He’s been admiring your flowers.’

  The fat man held out his hand.

  ‘Mr Mayor,’ he said, ‘it’s a pleasure to meet you. Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens. I have admired not only your flowers but all your projects. A man of drive and vision such as yourself is quite a rarity.’

  The mayor took the fat man’s hand. Close up, he was older than he had at first seemed, and his face was developing lines of strain; but his physique was strong, and his expression open, so he seemed to the fat man both likeable and attractive.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘They call me Angelos, Angelos Petridis. And I am only doing my best. I love this town; it’s my ambition to see it flourish.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m running late,’ he said to the postmaster. ‘I might have to leave the parcel till tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t leave it there,’ said the postmaster disagreeably. ‘People use that table. This office isn’t big enough for great parcels like that to be left for your convenience. What’s in it, anyway? What have you been spending our money on this time?’

  ‘It’s a plaque,’ said the mayor, ‘to commemorate the minister’s visit. It’s going on the fountain, to remind us of the day our betters in the capital took notice of us.’

  The postmaster shook his head, as if in despair; the fat man smiled broadly.

  ‘What an excellent idea,’ he said, ‘to encourage civic pride. Perhaps I can assist you, if you’ll allow me. Shall I deliver it to the town hall? I have plenty of time, and you, apparently, don’t.’

  The mayor smiled, and the smile removed the stress-lines from his face, showing him to be somewhat younger than he had seemed – young enough, in fact, still to be called a youth.

  ‘I’d be very grateful,’ he said. ‘There’s so much to organise for the minister’s visit. I have a meeting with the police to discuss security, and I’m already late.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said the fat man.

  The mayor left them. The postmaster watched him go, narrowing his eyes like a predator as his cigarette burned low.

  ‘How refreshing,’ said the fat man, ‘to see such commitment and optimism. I think your mayor could have a bright future ahead of him – a political career would suit him, don’t you think? You must all be very proud.’

  ‘Optimism has its place, and so do improvements,’ said the postmaster. ‘But we’ve managed without either for many years. Still, young wood makes a hot fire. He’ll burn himself out before long. I’ll welcome the day; then we can all get back to normal.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said the fat man. ‘Does this town not deserve to be improved? Is the mayor the only one who cares for it at all?’

  The postmaster turned away and placed the fat man’s parcel in a mail-sack which held little else. He took the burned-down cigarette from his mouth, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  ‘A place like this,’ he said, ‘the pace of life is steady.’

  ‘Steady, or stagnant? In my experience, a good dose of change can make a world of difference. The ministerial visit he mentioned – that’s quite a coup he’s pulled off there, bringing a government official to a place as small as this. Usually they require a larger audience for their appearances.’

  A smile touched the postmaster’s lips.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Stamatis Semertzakis, from the Ministry of Public Works. As you suggest, a great event for us, who see so little excitement.’ Feigning deference, he tipped his head; his tone was sarcastic. ‘He’s coming to see how our good mayor has been spending his department’s money; in short, he’s coming to inspect the plumbing. It will be a great event: they’re having a parade of schoolchildren, and a banquet at the town hall for a privileged few. There’ll be TV cameras and newspaper men; no doubt they’ll be covering the great unveiling of the plaque. If you’re just passing through, you’ll be sorry to miss all the fun.’

  The fat man smiled.

  ‘As it turns out, I shall still be here. And I’m looking forward immensely to the festivities. What an excellent boost for the town! You’ll be expecting an upturn in trade, no doubt, as a consequence of the publicity.’

  The postmaster took his cigarettes from his cardigan pocket.

  ‘Publicity may be good or bad,’ he said.

  The fat man picked up his holdall, and crossed to the table for the mayor’s parcel.

  ‘Not in the ad men’s books,’ he said. ‘What they would say is, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

  Seven

  That day, at its end, held more of winter than spring. The low sun was hidden by cloud, and the light had reached that moment of dusk where, though adequate to see by, its luminosity was lost. The absence of light turned all colours drab; it stole the greenness from the grasses and thistles, the purple from the spiked blooms of the lupins, the sugar pink from the petals of the cyclamen, and made everything monochrome, camouflaging all true variations.

  Adonis Anapodos had returned to the chapel of St Paraskevi, because his mother had made him; he was t
o light the lamps for the poor doctor’s sake, as she had said.

  Inside the chapel, his offertory candle cast dark shadows on the walls, making his own shadow monstrous as he carried the oil-lamp to the icons. Created for candlelight in rich reds and gold, the images of the saint seemed to move as he stood before each in turn, making the triple cross and kissing the glass which covered them (though his obeisance, he noticed, did not brighten their dismal faces). As he honoured the icons on the chapel’s right side, wondering at the origins of the beaten-silver offerings tied to them – an arm, a nappied baby, a man in a trilby hat – he felt the saint’s other eyes on him, waiting for an error in the ritual, or disapproving of his starting on the right and not the left. Shadows hid the corners of the chapel; behind the altar screen was darkness, and once his eyes had strayed there, the certainty of someone hiding there began to grow.

  Mid-cross, he stopped and stood quite still, holding his breath to listen for the breathing of another; but the place remained silent in the way of lonely places. Rebuking himself for his own stupidity, he moved down the line to the next St Paraskevi.

  But as he lifted the lamp to invoke blessings for her, outside, across the courtyard, beyond mistaking the chapel gate squealed; and although he heard no footfall, the fading light falling through the dirty window changed, so he knew someone was out there, crossing the courtyard stones.

  And for a moment, the chapel grew still dimmer as a figure passed across the half-open door. Adonis turned, expecting someone to enter; but there was no hand on the latch, only a return to the stillness that the movement had disturbed, as if a breath of wind had passed, and no more than that.

  More than ever, the saint’s images seemed not kindly but conspiring. Unmoving, he waited, knowing anyone here would know that he was here too – the open door, the lamplight gave him away – and yet no one had shown themselves. He began to doubt himself (the gate’s squeal, the figure he thought he’d seen – had they been real?), for who would come here and not first enter the chapel to honour the saint?