SIMEON PIERTZOVANIS GOES ON A DAY TRIP
January 30
Friday, 9:30 p.m.
I had just had my coffee and was about to change Rina’s water when that infernal device started whining and blinking. Halkidis just wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You’re coming with me. The monastery where our man’s hiding out is just beyond Karpenisi, not even three hours away. We’re very close, very, very close and we can’t back off now. Meet me at 2:00 outside the Polytechnic, at the gates the tanks used.”
I was not trying to “back off”; I just wanted to give my canary her water, treat her to a piece of apple, and force her to take pity on the only creature on this earth who has ever cared for her. Last night had hit me hard. I couldn’t deal with it, neither through the punches I threw at the walls, nor with the half bottle I downed in my attempts to pass out. My only hope of cleansing my wretched mind of the violence that had defiled it was a solid afternoon drinking session alone with my bottle, the shutters firmly down, Rina singing away, photographs of Sonia spread out in strict chronological order, that corny English comedy she had done at the beginning of her decline playing on the video, Simeon Piertzovanis a sniveling wreck on the floor, waiting to hear the doctor’s voice on the answering machine announcing that unfortunately the ancient car Sonia had owned was a lost cause, the motor having been destroyed in a head-on collision with an armored vehicle, and the parts no longer available. I would wait for the announcement, curled up in a heap with the old pictures right in front of my eyes, as though I was entirely innocent. After that everything would be easy. I had a lot to wait for, and I would wait. I would not neglect the canary. Never. I would turn on the television every evening to persuade myself that there is greater misery than mine out there, and I would wait. I’d explain to sweet little Rania that she was a terrific girl who had been born too late, but I would wait. I would let that insane policeman pursue a past he was not equal to and I would wait, just like those cantankerous old men who wait to hear just one spontaneous “Happy New Year!” from their grandchildren. I would wait for one more departure, for the sadness of one more loss, for one more low-key winter funeral.
Rina shouted something at me, something along the lines of “I’m fed up with your whining,” and began an assault on my central nervous system with noises attributable only to exhibitionist successors of Ludwig Minkus. I poured water for her, whiskey for me, sat at my desk, lit a cigarette, and phoned Halkidis.
“Chronis? Simeon. Listen—I can’t come with you today.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather see Sonia than yet another criminal.”
“I’ve sorted that out with Fotini. She’ll be there at visiting time.”
“I mean it.”
I could hear something like a fax coming through on the other end. And then a door closing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to help anymore?”
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”
“Okay I’ll wait at the Polytechnic till 2:05, just in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“A pity,” he said, and hung up, irritation in his voice.
I hurled the cell against the wall, narrowly missing my framed photograph of Romy Schneider. Rina started flapping frantically. The whole thing had smashed to pieces. I emptied my glass and let my forehead drop to the desk. It was the shame. I could not be rid of it. It had pitched its tent inside me, and would pop up every time I thought about the events of last night and my part in the interrogation of the blond fascist. The two cops did a professional job, perhaps a little too angrily, but anger is an acceptable emotion in such circumstances. The ever sober Simeon Piertzovanis, however, the longer it went on, was enjoying himself like the classic idiot in the crowd watching the boxer choking on his own blood. I wasn’t short of excuses: the exile and torture my father had been subjected to and which had screwed up my childhood; the images of his comrades, who took care of me, and who, to their dying day, honored lives destroyed by the victors. I remembered something an old man in Thessaloniki, who had never had any regrets, said to me years ago: “Civil wars never end.” But most of all it was a woman, a woman who was slowly dying. I was too afraid to admit that if I wanted to keep Sonia alive inside me, I would have to team up with an honorable but ruthless policeman, play the part of an apprentice cowboy, and admit that I envied his unconditional devotion to her. But then again, maybe I would not have to resort to excuses and cheap psychologizing. I am a lawyer and therefore know that there is no legal route to justice when injustice is supported by representatives of the law. But Chronis was not interested in justice: he wanted revenge, a concept that had never meant anything to me, but somehow yesterday I had begun to articulate it. Perhaps because I worried that if centuries later Sonia were to turn around and ask me “What did you ever do for me?” I would want to be able to give her a more convincing answer than, “I waited.”
A second whiskey failed to clear my head. I threw on my coat and walked out into the freezing sunshine, still dogged by the nightmare image of the loser drunkard and the coked-up cop fighting the forces of darkness.
The wooden door to the Migrants’ Center stood half open. I pushed it and climbed the stairs to the bar. The stools were all inverted on the tables and a tall woman of about thirty with the body of an athlete was mopping the floor and singing something that sounded like a slow tarantella. As soon as she saw me, she interrupted her performance, and without a shred of embarrassment gave me a big smile. She had tied her hair back into a ponytail and I struggled to see her eyes through the large dark circles.
“It’s been stuck inside my head since yesterday. We had some Italian musicians over and it went on till morning.”
“Yes,” I said absently, “I popped in for a bit.”
She looked me up and down, as far as her condition allowed.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you looking for someone? We’re usually closed in the morning.”
“No, I just dropped in. I live around here and . . .”
“Are you alright? Do you need anything?”
Apparently my face also had something of the night before about it.
“No, I’m fine,” I said and turned to leave.
“Be careful, won’t you?”
Her voice was warm. I stopped.
“Careful?”
“I thought I saw you shaking.”
“It’s the cold.”
“Oh, right.”
She was leaning on the mop handle, hesitating before she finally came out and said, “The truth. What are you doing here at this time of day?”
“I’m looking for Stratos,” I said without thinking. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Stratos?”
“Yes, the astrophysicist.”
She burst out laughing.
“And where would you expect to find an astrophysicist in the morning?”
“I don’t know. Where?” I said uncomfortably.
“Think about it: Astrophysicist? Morning?”
She abandoned the mop, grabbed one chair in each hand with admirable strength and put them down in the middle of the floor.
“Take a seat. It’s easier to think sitting down.”
I sat down, unsure whether she was playing with me or was slightly mad. She straddled her chair backward and asked me for a cigarette.
“Gitanes! Nice,” she said, hurriedly lighting it with a black Zippo she fished out of the pocket of her black jeans. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep drag on it.
“So where can I find an astrophysicist at 11:00 in the morning?” I asked her, interrupting her march toward Nirvana.
She gave me a sly look.
“What do astrophysicists study?”
“The stars?”
It was not a rhetorical question. I genuinely did not know what astrophysicists did.
“That’s right, Mr. Gitanes. And when do the stars come out?”
“At night.”
“And if an astrophysicist discovers a new star one night, wouldn’t it make sense for him to continue observing it with his long telescope?”
I was confused. I was never up to much in the mornings. To my relief, this tall woman challenged my intellect no further.
“Stratoulis left with a starlet he discovered last night, here in this hotbed of anti-globalizing debauchery. Who knows when he’ll complete his research.”
I laughed with what little enthusiasm I had left.
“Do you need any help with the cleaning?” I asked when one of my coughing fits was over. They never missed an opportunity to remind me that my lungs were no longer robust enough for such extreme sports as laughter.
“No. Almost done. It’s not like a man to be so eager to help.”
“Are you suggesting that the male revolutionaries around here don’t lend a hand with the chores?”
“Do I really look like such a helpless little woman to you?” she said, feigning anger, releasing a volley of baritone cackles that left me open-mouthed. “Oh, come on—it was a joke. My real laugh is almost feminine,” she insisted, and offered me her hand. “Eva—Independent Lesbian Community.”
“Simeon,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
“I haven’t made you feel uncomfortable, have I? A little, maybe? You’re a friend of Stratos’s, you say. Are you his professor?”
“Do I look like an astrophysicist? I’ll take that as a compliment?”
“No—it’s just that you’re skinny and scientists are always skinny.”
“They forget to eat—at least according to the stereotype. So—what do you do?”
“Assistant director of photography. Television mostly. I’ve done a short as well.”
“Can I guess what it was about?”
“There’s no way you could,” she said with a glint in her eye.
“Shall I try?”
“Okay—one cigarette for every wrong answer.”
She had turned into a mischievous little girl—a very pretty mischievous little girl.
“First guess. I’ll have three. Three wrong guesses and you get the whole pack.”
“Off you go.”
“Short film about traditionally male professions in which gender equality has now been achieved.”
“One down.”
She asked me for the pack, plucked out a cigarette, and slid it behind her ear.
“Second guess: ‘We can do what we want with our bodies.’”
“Another Gitane, please.”
“Of course. Last guess. The poetry of Sappho and its influence on the performance of female athletes of the GDR in the 1980s.”
“The pack, please.”
I kept one back and handed the rest to her.
“Cheat,” she said sternly.
“Tell me what it was about.”
“It was called ‘We don’t bite.’ It’s a documentary about the contribution made by women on Chios to the island’s gum mastic trade.”
I lit up and got to my feet.
“Leaving so soon?”
“I appear to have run out of cigarettes.”
“Have one of mine.”
“I’d rather you gave me an answer.”
“Eva’s all ears,” she chuckled, removing the three cigarettes from her behind her ears, returned them carefully to the pack and waited for the question.
I asked it, without really knowing why.
“If someone destroyed everything that you loved, would you use violence to get revenge?”
“Easy,” she said without any hesitation. “If I had the balls, that is. You obviously haven’t discovered yours yet, have you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I found mine the minute I realized that life is short and there’s no point spending it skulking in your little corner because the bastards are out there doing exactly as they please.”
“You could be right,” I said and left, hiding my disappointment.
“Good luck,” I heard her shout as I walked down the wooden staircase.
*
“What are you reading, young man?”
“One of your old interviews.”
“From when?”
“1986.”
“1986. Wait, let me think . . . Light me a cigarette.”
“At your service.”
“Twelfth Night?”
“No.”
“Lulu?”
“No. Something short.”
“Röhmer. Trio en mi bémol! It was fun.”
“The interviewer is asking you what you hate the most and you say: ‘When men give me a friendly slap on the shoulder, tweak my cheek, and wish me good luck.’”
“Yes. You see—I haven’t changed at all in the last fourteen years.”
“Why do you hate those three things so much?”
“Because I’m not their buddy. Because I’m not a baby. Because Lady Luck is a pig-ugly, swarthy old hag who sits by the side of the road deciding our fate.”
“Who says so?”
“Our folk tradition, you ignorant lawyer.”
“You would have made a fine teacher.”
“I am a fine teacher. How else do you think you learned how to dress, to drink elegantly and not to fear the dawn, all in one short year?”
“I had Lady Luck on my side.”
“You rotten opportunist.”
*
The newspapers at the kiosk were celebrating the latest Macedonian scandal; our future prime minister, with a huge grin and dressed like a bohemian, was guaranteeing the happiness of the nation’s farmers, while his opponent was playing deejay at a youth radio station with an enormous pair of headphones on his ears.
“We belong to a despicable race,” I said to Halkidis, fastening my belt.
“Since when were you a racist?”
“Well, you know whose fault it is?”
“How would I know? I’m only a civil servant.”
“The ‘Great Powers.’ If they hadn’t interfered back then, everything would be alright today.”
“Which ‘back then’ are you talking about?”
“The Battle of Navarino. Wasn’t that when it all started?”
“Try to get some sleep. We’ve got more than three hours ahead of us. Open the window a bit—you reek of whiskey.”
“Martini, actually.”
“Do you want anything to eat? I have a sandwich in the back.”
“No, thanks, I’ve eaten. Three, four, maybe five olives.”
“Go to sleep. Wind down the window and sleep. We’ll stop for coffee at Leventis.”
“Chronis?”
“You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I know you do coke, so get off my back. At least alcohol’s legal.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Goodnight.”
*
I woke up with a strained neck, a dry mouth, and a survivable headache. Everything outside was white. I cursed the snow under my breath and asked Halkidis for some water.
“There’s water in the back, handmade sandwiches, and some chewing gum. Eat, drink, chew—take about ten—see if that can’t get rid of the stench of booze from your breath.”
“You haven’t got a beer back there too, have you?”
He gave me a filthy look and carried on driving the Cherokee at high speed along the narrow road. I drained a bottle of water and lit a cigarette. The car clock showed 4:30.
“Where are we, Captain?”
“Not far from Karpenisi. Should be at the monastery in an hour at the most.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any aspirins on you?”
“There’s some Paracetamol in the glove compartment.”
The box was sitting between two pistols and a pair of handcuffs. I swallowed two bitter pills, belched, and fixed my gaze on the snowy landscape.
“Do you like snow?” Halkidis said.
“Can’t stand the stuff.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Ever since I was a child, it’s had an oppressive effect on me, a bit like claustrophobia.”
“The Inuit have forty-nine different words for snow. There was a documentary about it the other day.”
“Fascinating,” I said, opening the window to toss out my cigarette and breathe in the frozen air for a while. To the right, in the distance, the bulk of a mountain loomed.
“That’s Velouchi, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s a Slavic name. Do you know what it means?”
“What?”
“White Mountain.”
“That’s where Velouchiotis got his name from.”
“So I’ve been told.”
We crossed Karpenisi and took the road to Prousso. Despite all the bends and my entreaties, Halkidis continued to drive as though he were taking part in the Acropolis Rally.
“I want to get there before five when they close the gates.”
“Do we have a plan or are we just going to tie the guy up and toss him into the ravine like a slaughtered animal?”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be doing everything by the book today. I’ve got a warrant for his arrest.”
He went into long and tedious detail about the progress they had made in the morning while I’d been knocking back martinis in a student café, celebrating my acquaintance with Eva. Fotini had got everything they needed on Agisilaos: one arrest for disturbing the peace at a Peristeri match and one for dangerous driving on the coastal road. But neither had come to anything. Dedes had broken into his apartment in Holargos, but apart from a baseball bat, some pepper spray, a vibrator, and dozens of anti-Semitic tracts, he found nothing helpful. Chronis’s assistant was at that moment positioned outside the bad cop Berios’s house, with orders not to let him out of his sight and to keep his boss posted.
“Congratulations, head of division! Excellent work. So can you clear something up for me?”
“Ask away.”
“Since you’ve got your warrant for this man, what the fuck am I being dragged through the snow for?”
“The warrant’s a fake. Our Fotini made it. You’re needed because I think you’ll make a first-rate prosecutor. I can’t remember your new name. You’ll find your new ID, a white shirt, and a silk tie on the back seat. You realize that this is not a day for things to get ugly. We’ll escort the young man down to Athens nice and quietly. And before midnight, you’ll be back, describing this breathtaking scenery over a drink with your girlfriend. And don’t fail to convey to her our warmest congratulations for last night’s performance. Tell her that the doors of the police force will always be open to her. How does that grab you?”
He sounded as if he was asking me my opinion of the outline of some carefree day trip he was proposing.
“How exactly do we find this guy among all those monks?”
“I am hoping that the venerable gentlemen will cooperate with agents of the law.”
“They won’t be. They’re not even expecting us.”
“Blondie might have tipped them off.”
“Blondie will have been up all night changing his underpants,” he said.
A short while later a signpost appeared. We only had three kilometers to go. I noticed some arrows on the right, painted onto the rock; there were some votive candles below, lanterns, small icons, and other kitsch objects guaranteeing the faithful a ticket to Paradise.
“What’s all that?” I said.
“If you look closely, you’ll notice some strange shapes on the rocks. That’s what the arrows are pointing to. They say that they’re the footprints of the Virgin Mary as she climbed up to the monastery.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“Not at all. Fotini unearthed the entire history of the monastery on the Internet this morning. The place is positively heaving with pilgrims in the summer.”
“And you say I drink too much . . .”
*
We left the 4X4 in the huge monastery parking lot. Halkidis slipped his pistol and the handcuffs into his pocket and took a piss against a tree. I took my new clothes from the back seat, and, shivering, disguised myself as a prosecutor. I memorized my new name—Adrianos Spyropoulos—pocketed the ID, lit a cigarette, and admired the monstrous structure built into the rocks. A large church with a high dome, and beside it, two three-story buildings, possibly accommodation for visitors. I was wondering how easy it would be to track down Agisilaos inside that vast place when Halkidis popped out from behind a tree with a spring in his step, motioning for me to follow. At the gates, a young monk was trying to communicate with an elderly Scandinavian couple. Chronis interrupted them, pulled the monk to one side, and asked him something. The monk shook his head, but stepped back at the sight of the police ID only a whisker away from his nose and started walking toward the monastery, leaving the tourists at the mercy of the snow. We walked for about three hundred meters and arrived at a wing of cells. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of turbulent water. The monk knocked on a low wooden door, stood aside, and shot us a hostile look. We waited a little, and Chronis gestured to the monk. He knocked again. A key turned in the lock and as the door opened another black figure appeared, with a well-groomed beard and round glasses. Dangling from his ear were the hands-free earphones of a cell telephone fastened to a wide belt. He looked at us questioningly.
“Father Abbot, I . . .” the monk began, but Halkidis interrupted him with a friendly pat on the back.
“Thank you, son, we won’t be needing you anymore.”
“What’s going on?” the abbot said.
Halkidis looked to me. It was my turn.
“Spyropoulos. Prosecutor,” I said abruptly, showing him my special ID, made by Fotini. “This is Police Brigadier Maniatis. May we come in?”
“What is going on?”
“May we come in?” I said again, lowering my voice an octave.
The abbot turned his back on us and walked to the far end of the cell. We followed him, closing the door on the young monk and his questions.
The word cell did not do justice to the abbot’s small room. Among all the austere icons was a huge plasma television screen hanging from a bracket on the wall facing a low double bed. A laptop sat on a small, elegant desk, the screensaver a photograph of the Hagia Sophia. Squeezed next to it were a wine bottle, two glasses and a plate of olives. The floor was covered with white flokati rugs and from the ceiling hung a light with a yellow glass shade. At the back was a closed door, probably his toilet. The room was unbearably stuffy. We removed our coats almost simultaneously and tossed them onto the bed. The abbot folded his arms around his stomach, trying to look composed.
“Make yourselves comfortable, my children. Naturally, we can’t offer you much in the way of luxuries, but . . .”
“We won’t take up a lot of your time,” I said drily. “We have a warrant for the arrest of a Theodoros Anastasopoulos, who we believe to be a guest of this monastery. We’d like you to tell us where we can find him.”
He seemed to relax a little.
“There’s nobody here by that name, so I’d be most grateful if you could—”
“Better known as Agisilaos.”
The abbot avoided my gaze and looked at Halkidis, who was busying himself with the hangnail on his little finger.
“Agisilaos, you said? I’d have to go through our guest books, and they’re in the dormitories. I’m not at all sure whether this lies within your jurisdiction—”
“You can be sure that the entire Greek state lies within our jurisdiction,” I said, irritated that he should have called my office into question.
He was not in a mood to argue.
“My children, as you know, all of us here have renounced the secular world; the only law we serve is the law of the Almighty. And because secular matters are not my domain, I would ask you to allow me to consult the monastery’s legal adviser, and receive the appropriate counsel.”
“Regrettably, there is no time for that. I would not like to have to call for reinforcements. You know these officers, they can be a somewhat heavy-handed. They’ll cordon off the monastery, forbid anyone to enter or to leave, and it’s more than likely that the TV stations will get wind of it and that would not bring you the best sort of publicity. I think this should stay between us, don’t you? It wouldn’t do much for the reputation of this monastery if gets out that you’re harboring a criminal wanted by the police.”
His face suddenly grew calm; a gentle smile formed on his thin lips. I remembered Sonia saying to me that a good priest has to be a good actor, and have complete control over his facial muscles and his voice; then and only then would he be able to persuade his congregation that he is bringing them the word of God. The abbot threw up his arms in the direction of his master’s dwelling place.
“As you wish, my children. Let us walk toward the dormitories.”
I picked up my coat, but before I managed to put it on, Chronis spoke.
“May I use your toilet?”
The pious mask fell from the abbot’s face.
“Please tell Agisilaos to come out peacefully,” Chronis said, producing the pistol from his pocket.
“How dare you?” the abbot whispered, utterly broken.
“If you don’t come out now, you’re in real trouble,” Chronis shouted, and pushing the faithful monk to one side with minimal tenderness, knocked on the toilet door with the barrel of the pistol, and took one step back.
Within three seconds a man appeared at the door. He shot a desperate glance at all of us and lowered his head. Naked from the waist up, he was a poster boy for anabolic steroids. A sweater and leather jacket were draped across his arm. The abbot buried his face in his hands and sat down at the end of the bed.
“Sir,” he said to me, “I promise I had no idea this young man was in trouble with the authorities.”
“Of course you didn’t, Father Abbot,” I said to him. “Your holiness is not in question.”
Chronis waited for the body beautiful to get dressed, cuffed him from behind, and winked at me.
“On behalf of the Greek state, I thank you for your cooperation and wish you every success with your most holy endeavors,” I said cheerily to the black heap on the bed and opened the door.
Halkidis walked out, pushing Agisilaos in front of him. Night had fallen and the small flakes of snow adorning the closed horizon welcomed us in a crazy dance.
*
“How did you know he was hiding in the men’s room?”
“Because our black-clad diva in there had forgotten to hide the second wine glass. You’re not very observant for a prosecutor, are you?”
“I’ve never been inside a monk’s cell before; the decor took my breath away.”
“What did you think?”
“Cozy little nest, wasn’t it?”
“I’d settle for a motel any day. That Agisilaos—what do you know? Great strapping lad, Philhellene, successful businessman—owns his own gym, that he should sink so low!”
“May I remind you that everybody has the right to do as they please with their body? Law 1296, 1989 clearly states that homosexuality is no longer a criminal offense.”
“You’re absolutely right. But I’m not a young man anymore. My memory is not what it was.”
“Of course, you’ll have to be a witness in court, and your testimony will of necessity include the matter of the appearance of a half-naked young man.”
“Naturally. I wanted to suggest that once we get back to HQ we contact the medical examiner and ask him to give the accused a full anal examination.”
“We’ll see, we’ll see.”
“Think about it,” Halkidis said in a serious voice and started fiddling with the radio.
“I told you I want a lawyer. I want to call a lawyer. And I need to piss,” came a hoarse voice from the back.
“Where on earth are you going to find a lawyer in this weather, my boy? As for the other matter, you might want to think twice about that. Who’s going to undo your flies? Who’s going to hold it for you? Who’s going to shake it dry?” Halkidis answered in a kindly voice before turning up the radio and singing along to Eleftheria Arvanitaki begging someone or other to stay with her and never kiss her goodnight. I drained the third of the five beer cans I had acquired in Karpenisi, opened a fourth, and humbly took my place in the choir. The Cherokee’s headlights licked a sign saying ATHINA 81 KM.
*
We got to Internal Affairs on Syngrou at 11:00. The first part of Halkidis’s plan had been carried out. The contacts list on the fascist’s cell included the name Berios, which proved a link between the sold-out police captain (we still did not know who he had sold out to) and the gang of arsonists. Dedes was still waiting patiently outside his house somewhere in Ilissia. Agisilaos was going to spend the night in a small room in the basement, watched over by a trusted officer, without of course being given the slightest explanation for his arrest. By morning he would be ready to sing our tune—that at least was what Chronis’s long experience of interrogations had taught him. Fotini had been to visit Sonia and had spoken to the consultant: barring complications, they would be moving her to a regular ward on Monday. Everything had improved since yesterday. Halkidis was in a state of advanced excitement. I was convinced he was doing coke, but did not refer to it again; it was his right. Perhaps I was not far behind? The beers had done me in and the only thing I wanted was a real drink and some friendly conversation. I thought of Rania. I searched for my cell, but then remembered that I had destroyed it. I told Chronis, who gave me strict instructions to replace it.
“Don’t go thinking this is over. We’ve got the person who started the fire and hopefully by tomorrow we’ll have the person who told him to do it. The fun will really begin once we find out who’s behind it—who is trying to cover this up and why.”
He was greeting the guard at the entrance when his cell rang. “Dedes,” he said checking the screen and moving back. When he hung up, he called me over. He was very angry.
“I’m such an idiot. Such a big, fucking idiot.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Berios has just left his house carrying a suitcase, jumped in a taxi, and is heading for the airport. He’ll get there any minute. Someone must have tipped him off.”
“The Abbot.”
“That little creep! How could I be so stupid?” he yelled and started kicking a parked car.
“What were we supposed to do? Bring him along as well?”
“I don’t know. We should at least have taken his cell off him,” he sighed, and lit up.
“Where’s Dedes now?”
“Tailing him. I told him to see what plane he gets on—if it’s a domestic flight, he’ll get on it too. If he’s on his way out of the country, we’ve had it.”
“Can’t he arrest him before he boards?”
“Not without a warrant. Berios is a policeman; he’s not going to fall for any cheap tricks.”
He walked toward his Golf, cursing both himself and the antichrist.
“Let’s just pray that that piece of shit doesn’t get wind of Dedes,” he said, fumbling for his car keys.
“He’s a smart lad—don’t worry.”
He unlocked the door, sat down behind the wheel and tugged at the wrong seat belt. I sank down next to him. He opened the glove box, found a leather tobacco pouch, and took out a pre-rolled joint.
“Don’t mind, do you?” he said as he lit it. “It’s Dutch, strong but harmless. I need it for inspiration. Have a drink if you want to.”
His features were taut with exhaustion. I wound the window down a fraction.
“Close it, Simeon! You’re not going to die. Look, I might be in charge of this whorehouse, but I still have to keep up appearances.”
I took a drag and spluttered.
“The next one will sort you out. By the way—are you in favor of legalization?”
“Of course,” I choked.
“So am I, but don’t tell anyone,” he laughed. A strange laugh, a slightly demented laugh.
“If they do decriminalize, just think of all those fat cats who’ll go into mourning!”
“Yes, and all those police officers too,” I said, lifting the joint out of his fingers. He was right; the second time it went down more easily, as did the third, and then all the rest.
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Feel free. My lips are sealed, and only open in response to the code words, ‘what’s new, Simeon?’”
We both laughed, loudly and inanely.
“Did you know that my assistant, Emmanuel Dedes, is a leftie?”
Another fit of laughter.
“What kind of leftie?”
“A left-wing kind of leftie—progressive, parliamentarian, establishment—what do you call it? Not marginal, like the ones you hobnob with in your part of town.”
“But I’m not a leftie, Halkidis, old chap.”
“If you insult me one more time, we’re finished!”
“Alright. Where’s your sense of humor?” he said, stubbing out the joint in the ashtray and turning the key in the ignition. My head was turning pleasantly, and the prospect of the night ahead no longer seemed so grim.
“Chronis—switch off for a minute. I want to tell you something. It’s not a long story—I’m not going to bore you.”
He turned off the engine and lit a cigarette.
“We’re always telling each other stories. Is this a sign of old age?”
I rested my back against the door and looked at him. He moved his eyes away from mine and squeezed the steering wheel.
“I don’t mind if you share this story with your leftie assistant—but no one else.”
He nodded.
“Once upon a time, I turned up skunk drunk at my old man’s house, asking for money. I had lost a lot in a kafeneion in Gyzi; I’m sure the cards had been fixed or something. My old man gave me the money to pay off the debt without a murmur and made me a cup of black coffee to help me recover. ‘Is it my fault that you’ve ended up like this?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s your fault that you’ve ended up like this. We’re all to blame for the things we’ve never done.’ He stood up, opened the fridge, and got out a bottle of water. It was the thick of winter, just like now, but he always drank chilled water. He gulped it down greedily and then started talking. ‘You know when it all went wrong for me, son? I’ve never told you this, but it won’t hurt you to listen. Besides, you’ll have forgotten it all by tomorrow. In the early ’50s, I was in prison, in Sotiria, the hospital. Ploubidis was with us. When the party put it out that he was a police snitch, we said nothing. How were we supposed to know if it was true? Zachariadis knew more than we did. August ’53. It was a cool day; his appeal was quashed. They took him, and on the way up to Daphni, he walked past in front of us and said, “Farewell, comrades.” He was scared, but still managed to smile. To this day I can remember the look in his eyes. And do you know what we did, son? We looked away, that’s what we did. We turned our sorry heads away. Most people thought it was all just for show and that the police would never execute one of their own snitches. Well, that’s what happened to that teacher. He didn’t get a single word from any of us. To be able to go on living with that guilt, I had to do something. And I did the wrong thing. I kept quiet, got married, just so I could feel like a normal human being, and carried on living like that, hoping the wound would heal. And I ended up punishing myself, just like those Christian martyrs I used to ridicule so much. What a waste of time! Ploubidis had evaporated—hadn’t even managed to take one greeting with him. I still dream about him, but it doesn’t disturb me anymore. He simply evaporated, that’s what I say, and it’s just as well because imagine if he could see what we’ve achieved, we who back then didn’t have the decency to give him a proper farewell.’”
Halkidis glazed over. I struggled to light a cigarette, but I couldn’t get my fingers to do what they were told.
“Do you see now why I’m not a leftie? The road is full of hazardous bends and my old man didn’t reach the end of it. He hanged himself from a tree, fourteen years ago to the day, January 30.”
Halkidis turned the key and revved up the engine.
“You should have asked me to put on some background music and hold your hand.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Gladly, but tell me where to drop you off first.”
“Stadiou. By the statue of Kolokotronis.”
Friday, 11:50 p.m.
Where are you? Don’t be angry—our agreement not to ask more of each other than we can give still stands. I know, darling, it still stands, but it’s just that the same old demons keep coming back. “Demons are company too,” as you used to say back then, or was it yesterday, next to a calm sea, a deep green sea? I did agree, but I didn’t know then . . .
I didn’t know what it’s like not being able to move your lips, not to have a voice, just a weak death rattle, your fingers so heavy that they can’t reach those transparent tubes. Those are different demons, new demons I never imagined existed. There was a time when I found comfort in your chest, and you in mine. Just look at it now—buried under all this stuff, come cut yourself on my dry lips, come tell me how far my toes have gone, fetch me my small round mirror, I want to see my hair ruffled. by your hands one more time.