The Devil Takes Half (14 page)

Then it had all gone to hell. A year ago the Scandinavians had stolen the priceless Byzantine icon out of the cathedral in Chora and walked it out right past Evangelos Demos—this without even bothering to wrap it up—and onto a boat. Never to be seen again. And the Athens papers had gotten wind of it, not to mention the ones in Sparta. He'd had to talk to Interpol and the Ministry of Justice and innumerable representatives of both political parties. The Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church in Constantinople had even gotten involved. And the FBI, in case the Swedes headed to America. And the feeling of all and sundry (but most especially his mother-in-law, who finally made it to Chios on a plane following the publicity and had stayed the entire summer). Yes, the feeling of one and all was that he, Evangelos Demos, was not up to the job.

It wasn't going to help his reputation when it got around what had happened on the beach earlier this week. How, summoned by the local fisherman, he'd rushed down to the cove, and when he'd seen what was lying there, fainted dead away. And the other policemen had just left him there—the bastards—lying on the sand like a beached whale, the waves lapping at his leather shoes until the chief officer arrived.

The chief officer hadn't asked if he was feeling better. He'd threatened to disembowel him, as if there hadn't been enough of that already on the beach.
Oh, the injustice.

Evangelos Demos moved one of the shards up next to another. He didn't understand what the fuss was about. He'd done his duty. As soon as the call had come in, he'd set about rigging up a makeshift body bag—though from the way Costas Stamnas had described the thing, they're weren't going need a very big one—and then had turned on the siren and roared to the beach. In the car, he thought he better alert the chief officer in case the two cases were related. “What do you mean
in case
?” the chief officer had shouted when he'd heard this over the walkie talkie. “Of course they are related, you imbecile. We haven't had a violent death on Chios since 1943 and now we've had two in one week.”

“
It could have been smugglers.”

“
When was the last time smugglers generated this much blood? Use your brain, you numbskull.” And so on and so forth, the chief officer continuing in this disrespectful manner for more than fifteen minutes, leading Evangelos Demos to declare to his wife when he finally got home the next day that the first thing he was going to do when he got back to Sparta was change professions. Become an accountant.

The chief officer was going through his notebook “You know what I think, Evangelos?” he asked. “I think Eleni Argentis didn't die on the beach that night. I think she died in that trench here and someone chopped her up and hid her away until he could dispose of her.”

Evangelos Demos closed his eyes. And this before breakfast.

“
But why? Why did Eleni Argentis end up in chunks on that beach?”

Evangelos Demos had been trying to forget that very thing. “I have no idea.”

“
My guess is she stumbled onto something. Something she couldn't live to talk about. Whoever did the dumping must have been in a big hurry. Didn't realize he'd dropped a piece.” Patronas went on musing. “Look here.” He lifted up a strip of something yellow with tweezers. “It's a piece of gold leaf I found it on her leg. I remember when they redid the iconostasis in the cathedral, the painter had sheets of it, strips of gold pounded as thin as paper. I had to post a guard there while he worked. He was very careful with it because it cost so much and well, you know, the bishop and money.”

Evangelos Demos did indeed know the bishop, rather more than he liked. He'd made his acquaintance after the icon disappeared. He hadn't realized before that day that cursing was permitted of bishops, cursing and threatening people.
Oh, the shame of it.
Did no one realize he had feelings?
The shards didn't match. He reached for another.

The chief officer remained fixated on the gold. “The painter applied it to the icon with a little brush, a tiny bit at a time. Static electricity helped it to adhere, smoothed it out. Perhaps this got stuck on her leg the same way.”

“
Are you saying she was killed by an icon painter?” Evangelos Demos was surprised. Icon painters by and large were pious men who survived off the largesse of the church and money from the more devout parishioners.

“
An icon painter?” Patronas turned and looked at him. “Who said anything about an icon painter? What are you, an idiot?” His tone was the same disrespectful one he'd used on the walkie talkie.

“
Perhaps she found people smuggling icons?” Evangelos Demos offered in a hopeful voice, thinking no one would blame him now for letting the Swedes walk off with the treasure of the island. Not if the Swedes were murderers and cutting people up on the beach.

“
That was a year ago, Evangelos. I don't think they would have waited twelve months to move your Goddamned icon.” Again, that same tone. “Holy Mother of God. Wait till I tell the Bishop that one.”

In addition to switching professions, Evangelos Demos decided, he was going to have to switch religions. Become a Catholic.

Two watermelons don't fit under one arm.

—
Greek proverb

N
ever having mastered the automobile—which, truth be told, he'd thought was a fad when it had first appeared in Greece—Papa Michalis was forced to hitch a ride with Vassilis Korres' father, Spiros, whose land adjoined that of the monastery.

“
I hope this didn't inconvenience you,” he said as he drew up his skirts and stepped into the farmer's weather-beaten pick-up.

“
I'm heading into town anyway,” Korres said. “Got a load of watermelons I want to sell.”

Gunning the engine, he swung the truck back onto the highway. He was an older, sloppy looking man with a grizzled face and gold teeth on either side of his mouth. His black eyes were set deep in his face, and the glance he gave the priest was full of cunning. There was something wolfish about Spiros Korres, the priest thought, something he'd never liked. Whenever the farmer smiled, baring those flashing incisors, he found himself drawing back, feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood.

Korres gave him an assessing look. “Any word on the woman?”

The priest knew from his somber tone that he meant Eleni Argentis. “No, nothing.”

The farmer turned on the radio to listen to the news, keeping one hand on the wheel. The truck predated the war and roared like a locomotive. Papa Michalis could feel the watermelons banging around in the back and grabbed the dashboard with his hand.

“
Albanian scum!” Korres banged his fist on the steering wheel in response to something he'd heard on the radio. When all he got was static, he turned the radio up louder and cursed.

Papa Michalis wished he'd keep both hands on the wheel. “Petros' grandmother has had a bad time of it. He was her only real family ….”

“
Strange, a kid like that hanging around those trenches. I never understood what he was doing up there.”

“
Eleni was paying him to help her with the excavation. It was a job.”

“
Digging up shit,” Korres shifted gears. “Stupid reason to die.”

A typical Greek attitude,
the priest thought. He remembered seeing tell-tale bands of shards at a construction site near the airport. Such a finding could delay a builder for years, and he wasn't surprised when the crew worked all night, burying the evidence in cement before someone could alert the Ministry of Culture.

“
Something like King Tut, now that I could understand,” Spiros said. “But not what she was doing. They never found anything, did they? Her and the boy. Two years and nothing. Right?”

“
Not that I'm aware of.”

“
So, why'd they kill her?” He asked this ever so casually. “You'd know, wouldn't you? If she'd found anything?” Again, that same assessing look.

“
Yes, I'd know.” Papa Michalis looked out the window. “Trust me, Spiros. She found nothing. No gold. No silver. Nothing.”

“
Funny you should say that. I heard just the opposite. I heard that she had.”

* * *

Taking his time, Papa Michalis moved through the crowd at the market, inspecting the food on display. A young woman was selling home-made
bougatses
, a custard-filled pastry from Asia Minor, and he bought one.

“
Smyrneiko
,”
the woman said. “My grandmother's recipe.”

The priest nodded. The sweets from Smyrna were legendary, the recipes brought from the million or so Greek refugees who'd come pouring out of the region after the Turks burned them out.

“
You should have been here fifteen minutes ago,” the woman selling the pastries told him. “Petros' grandmother and the Argentis woman had a big fight. The old woman was shouting, calling her a whoremonger.”

“
What did Titina Argentis do?”

“
Oh, she left.”

After bidding the woman ‘good day,' Papa Michalis moved on. A little boy was selling painted rocks for a euro and he bought one. He could hear the voices of other children playing in the field behind the stalls, shouting as they kicked a ball around. Usually he enjoyed the open-air market, but today he just wanted to go away. Too many children about, too many boys like Petros. A stray dog with a distended belly passed him and peed on the curb. The pavement was spotted with rotten fruit, greasy squares of wax paper. Gathering up his robes, the priest walked on, mindful of the filth.

* * *

“
That man you saw,” Yiannis Patronas said. “Can you describe him?”

Costas Stamnas, the fisherman who'd stumbled across the remains of Eleni, shook his head. “It was too dark on the beach and I didn't want the man to see me.”

“
You had to have seen something. There was a full moon out.” Patronas opened his notebook. “Let's start at the beginning. How tall do you think he was?”

“
I don't know.”

“
Try.”

Stamnas thought for a moment. “Like me, I guess. Medium.”

“
How about his weight? Thin, fat?”

“
Average.”

“
Do you remember anything else? Anything special that could help us catch him?”

“
He was dressed funny. Not in a shirt and pants. Something tight. It covered his whole body, his head, too.”

“
What about the car? Did you get a good look at it?”

“
The muffler was shot, but he could have damaged it on the way in. The road's pretty rough. All I know is, it sounded old.”

“
Color, make?”

The man shrugged. “Could have been a Fiat or Ford Fiesta. Something about that size. Not too big.”

“
If you think of anything else, will you let me know?”

Costas Stamnas nodded and drifted out of the police station. Patronas lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
What a waste of time. Average-looking and driving a Fiat or Ford Fiesta. Shit. Half the people in Chios drove those cars.

He was leaving the station when he spied Marina Papoulis, standing in front of her car, talking to Papa Michalis. He joined them, helping Marina load her groceries into the trunk, the watermelons and bags of peaches. She had her daughter with her. Dressed in a white dress and scuffed leather shoes, the little girl had long braids and a little purse with a kitten embroidered on it.

She watched him shyly, exactly the way her mother had when the two of them had been in school together. Patronas sighed. That face, those eyes. It was as if a window had opened up and he could see himself again as a boy, wheeling around on his bike, trying to impress Marina, his precious, golden-eyed Marina.

“
What's your name?” he asked the child.

“
Margarita.”

“
How old are you?”

“
Eight.”

“
Did you know that when your mother and I were your age, we used to hide under our desks at school and eat
svingis
?”
Svingis
, a specialty of Marina's village, Pyrgi, were rounds of fried dough. Notoriously hard to make, they were the size of dinner plates and never found in stores. Marina used to bring a bagful from home and share them with him.

“
Did you get in trouble?”

He nodded.

“
What did the teacher do to you?”

“
Made us stay after school.”

Her mother laughed. “I'd forgotten all about those
svingis
. What a mess they made! Sugar everywhere. No wonder we got in trouble.”

“
The teacher could have expelled me and I wouldn't care. They were worth it, those
svingis
. They were the best things I ever ate. What I'd give to taste one again.”

* * *

Unable to face another truck ride with Spiros Korres, the priest had asked Marina Papoulis to drive him back to the monastery. A careful driver, she took the slow way back to Profitis Ilias—a one-lane road that wound through the fishing villages on the eastern side of the island. Turkey so close he could see cars moving along the road on the other side of the channel. A beacon marked the border between the two countries. It had just come on and he could see the light blinking in the middle of the dark water.