The Messenger of Athens: A Novel (33 page)

“Would you please tell him,” said the fat man, “that I am expecting a mutual acquaintance on the ferry this evening—an old friend of his from Patmos with whom I have some business. I mentioned Mr. Zafiridis’s name, and his friend is very anxious to see him. Would you ask Mr. Zafiridis if he will join us for dinner, after the boat docks?”

“I’ll pass the message on,” said the constable.

T
he fat man made his way on foot to the remote limits of the upper village. The district lay in silence broken only by the small sounds of archaic domesticity heard behind walls and through open windows: the punch of a carpet-beater on a line-draped rug, the splashing of water from an emptied bucket, the snap of a chopping knife on a wooden board, the catching of the bristles of a yard-brush sweeping stone. Weeds sprouted in the steep, cobbled alleyways, and the branches of old trees—almond, pomegranate, medlar—stretched low over the pathways.

He passed a kiosk, half-heartedly open on a Sunday, where a woman sat popping long, green pods of broad beans, flicking the gray, kidney-shaped seeds into a bowl. She gave him directions, but the directions were complex, and, forgetting them, he asked a young boy to show him the way. The boy led him further through the maze, until they reached a cast-iron gate set in a wall.

“Here,” said the boy. “This is where she lives.”

The fat man tipped him, and watched him disappear, exuberant, down the lanes where the echoes of his running feet grew faint. Lifting the latch, the fat man pushed at the bars of the rusting gate, and stepped into a garden overgrown with flourishing thistles and feathered grasses, brightened by the heads of wild, scarlet poppies. A stone-flagged path led to a house almost a ruin: from eaves to door-lintel, a deep crack ran across the façade, and tendrils of ivy intruded beneath the loose-hanging shutters at the upper windows.

The door was many years unpainted, and the little paint remaining had disintegrated into brittle flakes; between door-frame and wall, the dry corpse of a crane fly fluttered in a broken web, and the delicately molded brass knocker—an elegant and petite gloved hand—was marred by the patina of verdigris. The fat man raised the knocker, and let it fall, then rapped three times with his knuckles.

She was slow, it seemed, in everything—in the slippered shuffling to the door, in the drawing of the stubborn bolts, in the hunting for the key which wasn’t in the lock. As she hunted for the key, she called out that she was coming, and then began a murmured monologue, as the slippered feet tracked back and forth behind the door. She announced she’d found the key, but she was talking to herself, and not to him; he heard the ring of metal as she dropped it on the bare tiled floor, and her complaints at her own clumsiness as she bent to pick it up.

The key rattled in the lock, and she opened the door to him. She squinted a little, and blinked, like a nocturnal creature discomfited by daylight; on the back of her
head, her graying hair lay flat, as if she had been sleeping. Beneath the uneven hem of a home-sewn skirt, the lace of a white slip showed bright against the faded black serge.

“Yes?”

“Sofia?” asked the fat man. “Sofia Bakas?”

She peered at him, pulling her face into lines.

“Do I know you?” The question was of herself, and not of him; her brows drew close as she began the slow search of memory.

“No,” he said, “you don’t know me. My name is Hermes Diaktoros. I’ve come from Athens. I’d like to speak with you, if I may.”

“Well, come in anyway,” she said, turning from him into the house. “Come in.”

He followed her into a kitchen where the smell of nesting mice was unmistakable; that, and the spores of mildew from the dark growth on the ceiling caught in his throat. He gave a little cough, and put his hand up to his sternum.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve been troubled by a chest cold, these past few days.”

“Perhaps you’d like some tea, then,” she said, tentatively. “Sage tea is always very good for colds.”

He smiled.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

She filled a small saucepan at a single, dribbling tap and, setting the water to boil, moved slowly to a cabinet where a set of the cheapest china was displayed. The open cabinet released a breath of fustiness; black pellets of mice droppings lay amongst the tea-cups. She made his tea, not
speaking, as though conversation were a skill she had forgotten, and every tiny task—the rinsing of a spoon, the wiping of the table—grew, and swelled beyond its reasonable duration, as she spun out those little occupations in the way of those with endless time, and no diversions.

She served his tea, and offered him a plain biscuit from a torn cellophane wrapper. Smiling, he took one, and bit into it; soft with damp, it had the taste of must.

She sat across from him, and watched him sip his tea.

“I expect you’re wondering why I’m here,” he said, though it was clear she had no curiosity at all.

“Is your tea sweet enough?” she asked. “I can put more sugar in, if you’d like.”

“No, no,” he said. “It’s fine. Sofia, I have news for you. It’s about your husband, Stamatis.”

The slack expression left her, and a frown of deep anxiety took its place. Agitated, her lower lip trembled as though a crumpling into tears were very close, and to hide it she placed her hand across her chin.

“News,” she said, to herself. “There’s news.” She moved the hand that covered her chin and, laying it protectively over her heart, asked, “What news?”

“Good news or bad news, I don’t know,” said the fat man. “Stamatis is dead.”

She hesitated before she asked, “Are you sure? There’s no mistake it’s him?”

From his pocket, he took a battered, royal-blue box embossed in curling script with a goldsmith’s name, and pushed it to her across the table. Cautiously, she raised the lid, and, lifting a wedding ring from the white satin
lining, held it up to read the inscription on its inner surface:
Stamatis—Sofia 1966
. She spread the fingers of her right hand on the table, and laid the ring that he had brought beside the one she wore on her third finger. Her own was a narrower band, but that the two were a pair could not be doubted.

She closed her eyes, and allowed a smile to spread across her face.

“Thank God,” she said. “At last, thanks be to God.”

He said, softly, “You’re a free woman, Sofia.”

And she covered her face, and began to weep.

The fat man crouched beside her chair, and, disregarding the great impropriety he was committing in touching her, put an arm around her stooping shoulders. As she cried, he held her close, until he sensed the worst was past, and pressed his silk handkerchief into her hand.

He returned to his seat while she wiped her nose, and brushed the wetness from her eyes.

“God bless you, sir,” she said. “God bless you as the bearer of such welcome news.” The pinkness of embarrassment spread across her cheeks. “What a dreadful thing to say,” she whispered. “What must you think of me? Poor Stamatis. Poor, poor Stamatis.”

But the fat man shook his head.

“No pretense is necessary here, Sofia. I can only guess how wretched your life has been, and how you’ve suffered.”

“Twenty-eight years,” she said, “is a long time to wait for something not to happen. To wait for someone not to come back.”

“Yes, Sofia. It is.”

She took his handkerchief by the corner, and began to fold it into smaller squares.

“Never a day went by I didn’t worry he’d be back. That he’d come and make a bigger fool of me than he did when he left. One week we had together. One week with him, and I paid for it with my whole life. No children, no grandchildren, no money. Never a pretty dress, or an evening’s dancing. A widow’s life; an old woman’s life. Seventeen, I was. God strike me dead, but I hated that man. Yet I protected him. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t answer you. He was to blame, not me. He wasn’t a ladies’ man. He didn’t like women, and I repulsed him. They told me I wasn’t pretty enough, that I hadn’t pleased him. They told me that, and I believed them, because I was a village girl who knew no better. I was an innocent. But we see more, now, don’t we? On the television, they show us everything. I saw the news one evening at Maria’s, about some scandal, some politician and his boyfriends. And my brother-in-law called him a
poustis
. I asked him, ‘What’s a
poustis?
’ and he said—he laughed at me, because I didn’t know—he said, “A man who doesn’t like women, a man who only gets it up for other men.’ And it was like a revelation, like a light going on in my head. I said, ‘That’s what Stamatis was.’ And they looked at me. They all looked at me, as if they were embarrassed. I said, ‘Mother married me to a
poustis
.’ And they said, ‘Sofia, sshh. If Stamatis’s family hear you say that, they’ll take us to court.’ And Maria said, ‘Don’t blame your shortcomings on other people.’ ”

There was silence. The handkerchief was folded small. She laid it at the center of the table.

He said, “I have something else for you.”

From his top pocket, he handed her a business card.

She glanced at the card; it gave a name, and an address in Athens.

“You’re a lawyer.”

“Not I,” he said. “I am merely the messenger. The card belongs to Stamatis’s lawyer. Legally, you were still Stamatis’s wife, and so his next of kin. By law, you should inherit all his estate.”

“His estate? Is it much?”

“I can’t say, Sofia. There may be nothing.”

“No. I don’t suppose there’s much.”

“There may be a fortune. You know, Sofia, your life isn’t over yet.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “My life was over the day he walked out on me. I have lived the life of an old woman, and so I have become one.”

He leaned towards her, and laid his hand over hers.

“Listen to me, Sofia. You have lost many years, I agree, but your life need not be over. By no means. Life is full of chances, twists of Fate. It’s not time for you to lie down and die. Now, take that card and phone that number, find out what’s due to you. That’s my advice. I have a feeling that your luck’s already changed. And remember this isn’t the only place in the world. Your feet are not chained to this island—to this rock. There are cities, and other islands; there are other countries, if you were brave…”

“But I’m not brave,” she said, sadly. “I’ve never been away from here. And I have no one to go travelling with.”

“Now there,” he said, “you might be wrong. Just bide your time, and you might find a travelling companion comes along. Just wait a while, that’s all.” He stood and held out his hand; when she gave him, demurely, her fingertips, he raised them to his lips, and kissed them.

“Thank you for taking the trouble to find me,” she said. “And don’t forget your handkerchief.”

“Please, keep it,” he said. “And it’s been no trouble, but a pleasure.”

Together they crossed the yard. At the gate, he turned to her.

“Look to the future, Sofia,” he said. “Your future might be bright, if you choose to make it so.”

From amongst the weeds, he plucked a scarlet poppy, and held it out to her.

“I’ll do my very best,” she smiled. “You can rely on it.”

A
s evening fell, the day’s warmth dissipated. The fat man was very early at the harborside taverna—the tables were still unlaid, and last night’s garbage stood in reeking bags beside the crates of wine and water.

The waiter looked up from his newspaper. The fat man asked for a table for three, on the terrace.

“In this weather?” asked the waiter. “You’ll be better off inside. We’ve got the fire lit.”

But the fat man insisted.

“Set it up,” he said, “where I can see the ferry dock. I’m expecting an acquaintance, and I don’t want to miss him.”

The waiter dragged a table to the terrace, and fastened down the tablecloth against the wind. He set places for three, and brought three chairs. The fat man chose the seat with the best view, and, taking a novel from his holdall, opened it at random, and laid it in front of him. Out on the dark water, the waves broke up the reflected harbor lights; the waiter lit the red glass candle-lamp, and its ruby light made demon shadows dance around the fat man. Beneath his table, a scrawny black cat rubbed at his foot and yowled for food. The rising wind riffled the pages of his book, turning them like a reader demented.

Along the quay, the passengers for the ferry were gathering. A truck laden with empty wooden crates squeezed by, blowing hot, oily exhaust fumes across the table; a taxi carrying three robed priests blasted its horn at a scavenging dog. The fat man watched each new arrival; they came out of the shadows to pass before him, and merged with those already watching the dark horizon, where black sea met night sky and nothing could be seen. A grandmother chivvied a grizzling toddler. Three shaven-headed recruits climbed laughing from an army jeep, and slapped the driver on the back before he drove away.

By the lamplit table, two men—one squat, one elderly and breathless—paused.

“Just stop a minute,” said the old man. “You walk too fast for me.”

“I’ll take you home,” the squat man said. “I’ll take a boat tomorrow.”

The old man laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.