The Messenger of Athens: A Novel (34 page)

“It’s for the best, Manolis,” he said. “A little time away, and a fresh start.”

The squat man shook his head, and stared down at his feet.

“I never thought she was that kind of woman,” he said. “I did my best to make her happy. She was a good wife to me, until he came along. But how could she say no, to him?” He clenched a fist; his face grew hard, and angry. “I should have killed the bastard, when I had the chance.”

“If you’d laid one finger on him, you’d be staring at a prison wall right now,” his father said. “Just do as I tell you, son—a time away, until the dust has settled. Before you know it, it’ll all be forgotten, and you’ll be back home with your mother and me.”

“I’ll miss you all.”

The old man grasped him by the arm, and pulled him on.

“There’s plenty more fish in the sea,” he said, as they moved away. “Work hard, make yourself a bit of money. You’ll soon be back.”

The fat man watched them go; the squat man went reluctantly, as if towards a fate he didn’t want. Beneath the fat man’s chair the black cat yowled, as from the darkness, a solitary figure emerged. Keeping close to the walls, away from the weak light of the street-lamps, a man moved silently around the harborside, towards the dock.

The fat man held still the pages of his book, and
lowered his head as if absorbed in reading. The man in the shadows caught sight of him, and hesitated; then, face averted, he stepped into the red light cast by the candle-lamp. Discreetly, head down, the fat man watched him take another few quick paces; when the figure was almost past, and close to being absorbed by the assembly, the fat man called out to him.

“Chief of Police! Chief Zafiridis!”

The Chief of Police stopped; after a moment, he slowly turned to face the fat man.

The fat man called again.

“Good evening, Chief of Police! A word, a word if you please!”

The Chief of Police retraced his steps, back into the ruby light which lit the fat man’s table. His hair was slick, and gelled in place; on his face there was a smile, which showed his teeth but did not reach his eyes.

“The great detective,” he said, with sarcasm. “You’re dining very early.”

“Not dining yet,” said the fat man, cheerfully. “I trust you got my message. There’s a place here laid for you. Please, sit.”

“I did receive your message. But I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, this evening. Another time.”

“Come, come,” said the fat man. “Your friend is very keen to see you. He tells me that he’s had no news of you for quite some time. Since you took up this posting, in fact.”

From far away, the siren of the inbound ferry boomed. The Chief of Police glanced towards the horizon.

“One gets caught up in work,” he said, “and social lives suffer, as I’m sure you know. But for an old friend…”

“Sit down, then,” said the fat man, pulling the chair beside him from beneath the table. “When the boat docks, we’ll go and meet him together.”

“I’ll join you in a while,” said the Chief of Police, “as soon as I can. I’ve some matters to take care of at the station.”

The fat man held out his hand.

“Leave your bag, then. I’ll take care of it while you’re gone.”

The Chief of Police looked down at the flight bag in his hand, as if surprised to see it there.

“Uniform,” he said. “A change of shirts, to hang in the closet. I’ll see you shortly.”

He took a step towards the dock.

“Chief of Police,” called the fat man, “you forgot to ask your friend’s name!”

But the Chief of Police walked on, as if he hadn’t heard; slipping into the crowd, he disappeared from view.

Out in the bay, the three-tiered deck lights of the ferry were growing bright as the vast vessel drew near. Again, the siren blasted its deep, sad note.

The fat man closed his book, and tucked his holdall underneath his chair. Motioning to the waiter that he would be back, he followed the path the Chief of Police had taken.

As the massive, white hull approached the quayside, the crowd moved closer to the water’s edge. There were shouts, and shouted responses; crewmen on the lower deck
threw down the lines, and the first links of the anchor chains rattled through the winch.

The fat man left the heart of the crowd, and made his way up the stone steps of the police station. Halfway, he stopped, and leaned his back against the wall, concealed by shadows; from there, he watched as the ramp was lowered, and the arriving passengers disembarked. He watched the departing passengers go aboard, and make their way up iron stairs to the saloon; he watched the boisterous young soldiers who had passed him, the three solemn priests, the grandmother hugging the now-silent toddler, the squat man, unwilling and bewildered. He watched the incoming freight unloaded, and the outgoing freight stacked in its place; he watched the waiting vehicles replace the trucks being driven off. He watched, until the boat was ready for departure.

A whistle blew; on the car deck, an alarm bell rang.

And from behind the clock tower, a figure moved speedily towards the ramp—the figure of a man who carried a flight bag and whose slicked hair shone under the deck lights. As the ramp lifted from the quayside, the figure jumped aboard and slipped away inside the ship.

The fat man watched him go, and smiled.

At the taverna, the waiter and the cook were both inside, warming their backsides at the fire.

“I’m afraid I shall be dining alone,” announced the fat man. “My companions are unable to join me, after all. And I find you were quite right about the weather. I think I’d much prefer to eat in here, out of the cold.”

F
rom the railings of the upper deck, the Chief of Police watched the island’s lights retreat, and in the distance shrink to tiny points. The night at sea was bitter cold; the railings were wet with spray, the deck was slippery with seawater. Overhead, a tattered national flag flapped in the rising wind, and as it dipped and rolled, the ship strained, and groaned.

He found himself a narrow, dead end of the deck, close to the prow, where he could be alone and avoid anyone who might know him. On the deck below, the saloon TV blared music, and men’s voices shouted in an argument over poker; but here, there was only the fiercely gusting wind, and the hiss of spray, and the eerie creaking of the ship’s fabric as it labored through the rising sea.

On the iron stairs, footsteps rang, slow and heavy. The Chief of Police glanced in that direction, where a man appeared, short and squat, gripping the slick, iron stair-rail to keep his footing as the ship rolled. At the stair head, the man hesitated. Discouraged by the high wind and the cold, he turned to retreat to the saloon, but as he turned, the boat’s starboard side lifted, tipping the deck to port. As if taking a shove in the back, the squat man, off balance, made three uneven paces to the deck rail, and held himself steady there, a little way from where the Chief of Police was standing.

Unseen, unnoticed, the Chief of Police turned away his face, and fixed his eyes on the constellations he had
learned to name in childhood: Orion’s Belt, the Great Bear, the Pleiades.

Along the deck, the squat man pulled a flat pint-bottle from his pocket, and took a long drink of spirit. Settling his forearms on the wet railing, sighing, he too raised his eyes to the stars.

At the Chief of Police’s feet, a rope ladder was knotted to the railing uprights. Forgotten by some deckhand, its paint-spattered, wooden rungs swung out and back above the rough, black water, ringing hollow and arrhythmic as they struck the body of the ship. The Chief of Police looked beyond the prow for signs of land—for winking lights, for the soft, electric glow which hangs over towns, and villages—but there was nothing. He shivered, and, cupping his hands, blew into them to warm them, then pushed them deep into the pockets of his jacket. His hand fell on his keys, and he took them out to move them to his breast pocket, where he could zip them safely in.

His fingers were chilled, red and stiff. The keys slipped through them, and clattered to the deck.

The squat man turned.

“Kali spera,”
he said.

The Chief of Police did not reply, but bent to pick up the keys. He heard approaching footsteps ring out along the deck; as he raised his head, the man was there beside him.

In obvious search of company, the squat man smiled, and held out to him the uncapped bottle of spirits.

“Drink?” he said.

The Chief of Police regarded him: flabby at the belly,
flaccid in the jowls. He had a boxer’s nose, crooked at the tip, and sad, booze-reddened eyes, whose lids were lined, and drowsy.

The Chief of Police knew him instantly; he remembered him very well. Mandrakis, Manolis Mandrakis. There had been some unpleasantness in a butcher’s shop: the woman crying behind a freezer door with her underwear betraying her on the floor; himself helpless and ridiculous with his trousers round his knees. There had been a rack of knives to hand, and a chopper to split bones; only rank and his uniform had stopped Mandrakis cutting him. Mandrakis’s rage had frightened him; he knew he had been lucky to walk away unscathed. The woman, though not pretty, had been in awe of him, and did as she was asked. Just for the moment, her name escaped him.

Mandrakis looked at him; the smile left his face, and the drowsy lids lifted over eyes suddenly focused, and alert.

“You,” he said. He looked behind him, and behind the Chief of Police; seeing they were alone, the smile spread back across his lips.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll be damned all the way to hell and back.”

“How are you, Manolis?” asked the Chief of Police, quietly.

“How am I?” asked Mandrakis, incredulously. He took a step towards Zafiridis, and shook a finger at his chest without quite touching him. “I’ll tell you how the fuck I am, you prick. You’ve ruined my fucking life, that’s how I am! I’m leaving home because I can’t stand it any longer, the ribbing and the snide remarks. Home! It’s no
home to speak of, now I’ve got no wife. And we both know why I’ve got no wife, don’t we?” He jabbed again at the Chief of Police’s chest; this time, the fingertip made contact, poking the hard bone of his sternum. The Chief of Police stepped backwards, out of range.

“I’ve got no wife,” ranted Mandrakis, “because some prick thought she’d be a good lay! Some prick who thought she was his for the taking. The same prick who thought he’d get away with it, because of who he is. Because he wears a uniform.”

He leaned towards Zafiridis, and tugged at his lapel, exposing the buttons of a plain, civilian shirt and the slender, gold chain of a small crucifix. His smile broadened into a grin.

“Where’s your uniform tonight, officer?”

He drank deeply from his bottle, and looked into the Chief of Police’s eyes.

“I hope she was worth it, you piece of shit,” he said. “You fucking piece of shit.”

Mandrakis upended the bottle in his hand; spirit splattered on his shoes and on the deck, filling the air with its sweet and potent scent, warm and golden-brown. He grasped the bottle by its short neck, and cracked it sharply on the deck rail. As the bottle smashed, half stayed whole in his hand, jagged-edged and ready.

Zafiridis held up his hands.

“Come on, Manolis,” he said. “We can talk about this.”

Mandrakis took up a fighter’s stance, the half-bottle held out before his face. A trail of mucus ran from his nose. Agitated, he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“Go ahead, officer,” he said. “Talk.”

“It wasn’t how you think,” began Zafiridis. “She…”

Mandrakis lunged, and hit him in the face. The pain was like a punch, and, dazed, Zafiridis thought he had been struck only with a fist; but in one eye, the sight was gone, and warm, wet liquid was trickling down his face. He touched his fingers to the injured eye; his touch, though gentle, added stinging to the pain, and lowering his hand, he saw dark liquid spread across his fingertips. The warm, wet blood ran down his neck, inside his shirt and to his chest, and from his chin, it fell in slow drops to the deck.

“So was she worth it, policeman?” yelled Mandrakis. “There’s more coming to you! Here!”

He lunged again, and caught Zafiridis in the shoulder, causing him to stagger. Lowering his head, he crossed his forearms over his skull to shield himself.