The Devil Takes Half (22 page)

* * *

“
Ah, there you are.” Marina Papoulis embraced Papa Michalis and kissed him on both cheeks. She'd invited her cousins to welcome the priest home and smiled at Patronas as she served the food, selecting the biggest piece of fish for him, the most perfect of the little potatoes. It was one of those unspoken rules that governed life: the guest always got the best of whatever was in the house. Marina ladled the sauce of olive oil, lemon, and oregano over the fish and handed the plate to him. She'd set up a long table outside, and her cousins were gathered around Papa Michalis. Her husband, Nikos, was pouring shots of home-made
raki
and insisting the priest drink one, patting him on the back and exclaiming how glad he was to have him back among them.

“
After the Spartan regime at the hospital, this is too much,” Papa Michalis whispered to Patronas. Sherlock Holmes never had to work his way through a bottle of
raki
and all this food. Nero Wolfe maybe could have managed, but then he weighed 300 lbs. and lived in his pajamas. He'd never make it. ‘Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish ….' Solomon had said this and he concurred. “If this revelry continues, I'll be dead in a week. My liver will give out. You'll have to carry me to the undertaker's in a truck and buy me an oversized casket.”

When someone offered him another shot of
raki
, he shook his head. He didn't approve of all the eating and drinking, this light-hearted merriment three days before August Fifteenth, one of the most important days in the Orthodox calendar. This feast, which is also sometimes called the Assumption, commemorated the death, resurrection and glorification of Christ's mother Mary and was a time meant for fasting and reflection.

Margarita and her two brothers joined them for dinner, but had run off as soon as the meal was over. Marina's husband, Nikos, excused himself, too, saying he had to see to the livestock. One of his mules was sick. He smiled at his wife before he left and touched her arm.

Patronas had been watching them, noticing the way her eyes lingered on her husband's face, the affection in her voice when she spoke his name. Although it was his house, Nikos Papoulis had been a little shy during dinner and let Marina and the other guests do most of the talking. A stout man with a kindly face and callused hands, he'd deferred to his wife repeatedly during the evening. “I'm only a farmer,” he told them, “what do I know? She's the one with the education.” Marina and her husband reminded Patronas of his parents, who'd been happy together.
How rare,
he thought,
this simple thing.

After they finished eating and the guests left, Patronas and Papa Michalis relaxed on the terrace. It was pleasant sitting outside at the table, the night-blooming flowers fragrant in the warm air, the fireflies flickering in the cypress trees that marked the end of the property. The streetlights had come on and the children were playing hide and seek in the trees. Patronas joined them for a few minutes, finding Margarita and racing her back to the house, while Papa Michalis applauded from the terrace. It felt good to get away from the case for a few moments, to laugh with children.

He was winded when he got back to his seat. Fetching the
raki
, he poured a glass for himself and the priest and told him what he'd discovered at Profitis Ilias. “Tell the truth, Father,” he said. “You were mumbling about water when you were in the hospital. Did you know there was an opening under the well?”

“
No, no. Of course not. But I did think there must be a tomb or old shrine nearby. It stood to reason. Eleni had found nothing of consequence, and yet, here comes Petros day after day, bringing these beautiful things. Also Profitis Ilias has an interesting history. It's considered a dark place by churchmen. I thought it might have been the scene of a massacre during 1822 like Nea Moni and Aghios Mena, but there was no ossuary there, and if something did occur, I could never find a record of it.”

“
What else do you know about it?”

“
That it's the oldest inhabited place on Chios. You can find references to it as far back as the fourth century A.D. And it wasn't even new then. According to the records in the Archdiocese, it had been rebuilt countless times, so who knows how old it really is? I assumed it had been built on an ancient temple, like many old churches in Greece.”

Patronas could hear the children playing in the distance. “You said it had been rebuilt? By whom?”

“
Just about everyone would be my guess. The Byzantines, the Genovese. Perhaps even the Crusaders. Any of the marauding armies or bands of outlaws who passed through here over the years. Who knows? I never understood why they bothered. It's isolated. The icons are nothing special. Those are the original designs, mind you. They've been repainted over the centuries, but the designs themselves have never been altered. The land around it is too poor to sustain more than a handful of people. It's a forlorn place.” The priest took a sip of his
raki
. “I've always loathed the icons there and that marble well … flames in a Christian shrine? Hellfire and damnation? More in keeping with the Protestant view, those images, the evangelicals across the sea, who believe the Apocalypse to be human destiny.”

“
You don't?”

“
No.” He repeated an old Greek saying: “
Other priests came; other gospels they brought
.”

“
That was how I discovered the hole, you know. It's right under those flames on the side of the well …. ”

“
Maybe the engravings were meant as a warning of some kind. To keep people away.” The priest took another swallow. “They could even date from Minoan times, you never know. Maybe it was a picture of what they experienced, the Minoans—the volcano erupting, the death of their island. You know that tsunami in Asia last year? The people who live where it hit will be talking about it forever. The one on Thera was much worse, they say.” He nodded toward the sea, glimmering faintly in the distance. “Can you imagine what it must have been like? The boiling water, the ocean sinking then rising up to consume you? Like something out of
Exodus
, the Minoans playing the part of the Egyptians.” He began to chant: “ ‘And it shall rain fire and thunder unceasing and there shall be darkness over the land of Egypt. And a pillar of smoke shall lead them by day and by night a pillar of fire.' ”

He shook his head. “Can you imagine? Casting off in one of those little wooden boats like they have in the museum, rowing with all your might, trying to escape the coming cataclysm? The sky black as pitch, fire raining down upon you. It must have been terrible.”

“
Not unlike Smyrna,” said Patronas. “There were flames there, too, and death.”

“
Smyrna was inflicted by man. Thera is different. It's a question of scale, Chief Officer. The Turks might have burned us out and murdered everyone they could get their hands on, but they didn't erase us from the earth. They didn't sink our lands and drown our cities.” Papa Michalis set his glass down. “What are you going to do?” His cheeks were red from the spirits.

“
About the hole? I don't know. See where it leads.”

“
Have you told your men about it?”

“
No. Only you.”

“
Don't worry. I won't say anything.”

Patronas looked at him. No, he wouldn't. Not if you set his hair on fire or boiled his testicles in oil. Sometimes a person's innate stubbornness worked to your advantage. He'd wanted to use the priest as bait to draw out the killer, but sitting there with him on the terrace, he changed his mind. It was too risky. The old man wouldn't survive another attack. Perhaps the priest could help him in another way.

Patronas took a deep breath. “Father, how do you feel? Are you strong enough to do some investigating for me?”

“
Yes, I think so. What is it you want me to do?”

“
Go to Castro with Marina and talk to the neighbors of Petros Athanassiou. See what they tell you about Kleftis and Voula. You're a priest. People will tell you things they won't tell me.” The chief officer tried not to look at the crutches he saw propped up against the wall, the frailty in the old man's face.

“
Will I need to record them? I'm not very conversant with modern technology.”

“
No. Just talking should suffice.” He pushed his chair back and got up. “It's late. I should go.”

* * *

Dimitra had been getting ready for bed when he got to the house. “Oh, Yiannis,” she said when he came upstairs. “I wasn't expecting you. I thought you'd be staying up at Profitis Ilias.” She had some white cream on her face and hastened to wipe it off. The television in the bedroom was on. She'd been watching the Greek movie,
Stella.
Dimitra would like it, he knew. Black and white and depressing, it was right up her alley. The cheap woman got punished and no one lived happily ever after.

He took his badge off and set it on the dresser. “Sorry I'm late. I had to pick up Papa Michalis.”

They chatted amiably for a few minutes until he mentioned his trip to Marina Papoulis' house and how he'd stayed and eaten dinner there. After that, Dimitra's eyes had filled with tears and she'd stopped talking.

“
She drank from the nonspeaking water
,” Patronas said out loud. The saying had been one of his father's favorites. “Watch out when a woman goes quiet,” his father had always said. “Watch out for those nonspeaking waters.”

After putting on his pajamas, Patronas got into bed and turned out the light. “Good night,” he added.

There was no answer. No sound from the other side of the bed.

Remembering the warmth of Marina's house, the noise and commotion, he felt suddenly bereft. He looked over at the blanketed form of his wife. Perhaps if they'd had children.

* * *

As she poured the coffee at breakfast, Dimitra inquired about what Marina had served for dinner. She asked this so nonchalantly, Patronas had thought he was safe and volunteered more than he should have. “She made an excellent
rizogalo
. Tasted just like my mother's.”

“
Oh, so now she cooks better than me, too.”

After that, the conversation had deteriorated into a shouting match and he'd left the house without finishing his breakfast. Dimitra had been nearly thirty-seven when they'd married and so grateful to him for not breaking their engagement after he'd learned she was penniless, she'd cried on their wedding night and kissed the ring on his finger, as if she were a penitent and he were a priest. He'd been embarrassed and the night hadn't gone well. A pattern they'd repeated over and over again in their marriage.

Starting the car, he wondered what had become of the woman who'd kissed his ring that night. For the first two or three years of their marriage, she'd treated him like a pasha and did all he bade her to do without question, and he thought perhaps he'd made a good choice. But then one day this other Dimitra had emerged. The one with the cloven hooves and the pitchfork. Dimitra, the scold. Dimitra, the shrew.

Oh, she'd throw an arm across his shoulders at night in bed and insist that he kiss her when he left for work. He didn't understand why she bothered. He knew he didn't make her happy. Nothing made Dimitra happy. She seemed to thrive on disappointment, to rejoice when someone let her down. She'd asked for a leather handbag once when he'd gone to Athens and he'd spent days going up and down Ermou Street, inspecting the purses at Gucci and Hermes, looking for one he thought would please her. He'd finally settled on a brown calfskin bag with a silk lining and a shiny brass buckle at the center like a horse's bit. Made in England, it had cost a fortune. When he'd presented it to her, she'd twirled it on her arm nonchalantly. “I guess you didn't have much time to shop,” she told him. Like the sharks that have to keep eating, who never feel full, nothing ever satisfied Dimitra, nothing ever brought her joy.

Why this sudden jealousy, this neurotic interest in Marina Papoulis?
he wondered as he turned into the station.
Why this war?
As if she were Leonidas, the king of Sparta, and Marina the invading Persian army. This wasn't about love, for all Dimitra's big words. He knew it wasn't about love.

Look after your clothes that you may keep half of them.

—
Greek proverb

P
apa Michalis got out and directed Marina as she maneuvered the car into a parking space behind the Villa Hotel. The chief officer had asked him to speak with the two archeologists as casually as possible, to see if either had something to add to what the police already knew. He'd told him that the American liked to swim laps in the hotel pool in the morning. Papa Michalis scanned the pool. Perhaps Alcott was there now, and he could hand him a towel, hear his confession.

He wasn't, but the British archeologist was. Sitting under an umbrella at the side of the pool, he was working doggedly, typing on his laptop.

Papa Michalis introduced himself. “Good morning. Perhaps you can help me. I'm assisting the police with their investigation into the murders at Profitis Ilias, and the chief officer asked me to speak to you. You were at the monastery that day, too, weren't you?” Taking a seat, he signaled the waiter and ordered an iced coffee.