The Whispers of Nemesis (13 page)

‘Well, well,' said the fat man, knocking the ash from his cigarette. ‘A family of partings. Did his divorce not affect his work?'

The patron brought their tumblers of Metaxa. Attis raised his glass to the fat man.

‘
Yammas
,' he said, and drank. ‘His divorce did affect his work, yes, but perhaps not in the way you'd think. You'll think me cynical – probably I am – but the loss of her was the making of him as a poet. His work after she left him has a poignancy, an ethereal quality not found in his earlier poems. The best work comes from a suffering pen; that is the nature of art.'

Over the rim of his glass, the fat man regarded him.

‘That seems very cold,' he said, ‘to wish suffering on your clients to improve their poetry, or prose.'

‘I don't wish anyone suffering. All I'm saying is, in my experience, pain makes a good artist great. And is it not the function of art to express the human condition?'

‘So you may barter the human condition for cash?'

Attis gave a tight smile.

‘You're hard on me,
kyrie
. As I said, I didn't bring Santos's misfortune on him; he needed no help from me there. I merely made the point that, having suffered the misfortune, his work was immeasurably improved. He had in any case a great talent; but he was a gifted man who even to early middle age – he was forty when we lost him – had never known financial success. He struggled for money, always, because he was dedicated to his art. He wasn't modest about his talent; he knew he had it; he was proud of it, and carried himself accordingly. That didn't always make him popular. These are country folk, as you can see; they're not ones for poetry when there's work to be done. They value hard labour, and Santos put himself above that. They mocked him for it, pulled his leg, and that hurt him. His art made him poor; he would have done better, he used to say, as a farmer, and he was right. I told him time and time again that such is the way of the world, and he knew what I said was true – that the great poets are only great when they are dead.'

The fat man raised his eyebrows, and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘So how did he die?' he asked.

Attis shook his head.

‘Such a stupid thing. He choked on an olive. His death was mundane and unglamorous; but, let me tell you, as a plan to advance his career, it was a masterstroke. With that sorry death,
voilà
– he was famous. His work began to sell, and sell, and sell, reprint after reprint. He would have been a wealthy man, if he were with us now.'

‘But he's made you wealthy?'

‘I've done well enough. His family is still waiting, though, to see the benefit.'

He drank again; the fat man looked quizzical.

‘Such a boost in sales hasn't made them money? How could it not?'

‘There was a clause in Santos's will. No money was to be paid from his estate until his bones – as he so poetically put it – had seen the light of day. We assumed that to mean following his exhumation, and we expected his bones to see daylight yesterday. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Let me be honest again – if you're worth your fee, you'd find out for yourself, anyway – that clause affects me, too. As far as ongoing earnings are concerned, I have no financial interest in the first book, as he agreed that contract before he and I met. The royalties on his other work are paid direct to me. I take my cut, and Frona and Leda's share – by far the greater share, I have to say – goes into the estate's account, which remains frozen. But, though my share of the royalties is unaffected by the will, he did leave me a legacy, a one-off payment, which I've not yet received.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I'm pressed for time. I have an appointment back in the city, and they're forecasting more snow. You should think about leaving yourself, unless you want to spend the week in Vrisi.'

‘Well,' said the fat man, ‘if our time is short, perhaps you should use it to explain to me what exactly you want me to do, if you wish to use my services. If you're wondering if I am capable of doing the job, I can provide references, of course. But I feel you are someone who prefers to make up his own mind, rather than relying on the opinions of others. If you feel you can trust me, set me your task. If not, we'll shake hands, and I shall leave you.'

He reached out, picked up the matchbox containing the strange piece of ivory, and slipped it in his pocket with his cigarettes and lighter as if preparing to leave.

‘I'll give you the job,' said Attis, draining the last of his brandy. ‘But if I hire you, I must tell you things I don't want anyone to overhear. Would you mind – though I know it's cold – stepping outside?'

‘Gladly,' said the fat man, draining his own glass.

Attis signalled to the patron and laid money on the table to cover the bill. As he put away his wallet, the brown envelope showed in his pocket.

‘As far as my fee goes, by the way,' said the fat man, as he stood up, ‘I use an unconventional scale of charges. The more interesting the mystery, the less I charge, so if it really taxes me, I'll solve it for no payment. A more mundane problem would be poor use of my time and talents, and so the fee might be substantial. Do you agree to my terms?'

‘I'll agree to anything,' said Attis, ‘as long as it clears up this affair.'

 

Outside, the sky had lost any shade of blue, and was darkening, minute by minute, to stormy grey.

‘I'll make it quick,' said Attis. ‘Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of Santos's interment, and so his exhumation. The event was happily not well attended – in this cold weather, even the most interfering and ghoulish prefer their firesides to the cemetery. Still, there were more than enough witnesses to provide an embarrassment. It'll be difficult to contain such sensational gossip, but I've enlisted the church's help in that direction.'

‘Were the bones not clean, then?' asked the fat man. ‘I know how superstition persists, in these rural communities, on the correlation between the whiteness of a man's bones and the purity of his soul.'

‘Worse,' said Attis, rubbing his chin as he considered whether to go on. ‘Far worse. Listen. Before I speak, I must have your absolute assurance of discretion.'

‘It is my nature to be discreet. You may rely on that.'

Attis shrugged.

‘I have anyway no choice but to tell you, because you have to know. Whether the bones were white or not is of no relevance. They were not Santos's bones.'

‘How can you be sure?'

‘Because . . .' Attis looked anxiously around, concerned even in the open at the possibility of being overheard. ‘They were clearly the bones of a pig.'

The fat man's face showed his apparent surprise.

‘A pig? How should a pig's bones be in a poet's coffin?'

‘That, my friend, is for you to tell me. But my guess is, they were put there by someone who wishes to keep Santos's heirs from his money. Yesterday should have been a pay day they've looked forward to for years. So Frona and I have come to a decision – rightly or wrongly – to cover up the swap, and let the family claim what's theirs regardless. But it's essential we find out who's played this cruel and despicable trick. If word gets out, Santos's reputation will be damaged, and that will affect sales.'

‘And if the lawyers who drew up the will find out its terms have not been met, what will happen then?'

‘No doubt they will contact the bank, and the accounts will remain frozen.'

‘And the family will be short of a good deal of cash.'

‘Yes. I'm ready to help them, because it's so unfair.'

‘Not because you look forward to your own cut?'

‘That too, of course. But I'm very fond of Frona. I don't like to see her struggle when there's money in the bank.'

‘Nonetheless, the terms of the poet's will have legal standing. I should like to see this document.'

‘I have a copy at the house. You're welcome to it, if you'd like.'

‘Thank you. The problem is altogether intriguing, yet it is difficult to know where to start. If I stay here in Vrisi, I shall be conspicuous; yet the solution to the problem must be here, in part at least. Someone, as you say, has swapped Santos's bones; are you thinking that to make the swap, they must have come to Vrisi?'

‘I assume so, yes.'

‘Assumptions are always dangerous,' said the fat man. ‘I have no dealings with them. Here is my suggestion. I shall take on your mystery, but I think it would be better to delay a while, until the incident is forgotten and no connection made between it, and me. In the meantime, if there are developments, you may summon me through the newspapers; put a notice in the personal column of the
Ethnos
, and I shall see it. I may not be free to come immediately, but rest assured, I shall get here as soon as I'm able.'

‘Here, take my card,' said Attis. ‘If you have questions, please ring me.'

The men shook hands; but as Attis was walking away, the fat man called him back.

‘One more question, an important one,' he said. ‘If Santos's bones weren't in his grave, where might they be?'

‘I've no idea,' said Attis. ‘That's the question that troubles Frona most of all.'

‘It troubles her, but it doesn't trouble you?'

‘You're putting words in my mouth,' said Attis. ‘I didn't say it didn't trouble me. And rather than asking me where they are, perhaps, with respect, you should earn your fee, and find them.' He hesitated. ‘There's something I'm reluctant to part with, but which may be of help to you. I must confess, I've no business having it in my possession at all. I found it at the house. If I give it to you, will you give me your word you'll return it to me as soon as possible, so I can replace it?'

‘Of course.'

Attis reached into a pocket, and handed over the small diary from Santos's desk; as he did so, the fat man glimpsed again the brown envelope produced during Attis's phone call.

The fat man produced the diary, and glanced through the pages.

‘There's very little to go on,' he said. ‘What do you make of these initials, and these phone numbers?'

‘I'm afraid they may relate to Santos's – liaisons.'

‘And there's almost nothing at all after the date of his death.'

‘Isn't that what you'd expect?' asked Attis.

The fat man smiled.

‘It is indeed,' he said. ‘Under the circumstances, I would expect no different.'

 

The fat man went back inside the
kafenion
. At the counter, the patron was polishing glasses.

‘I wonder,' said the fat man, ‘if you might be able to give me breakfast?'

‘There're eggs,' said the patron. ‘You'd have to wait a little while for bread. My daughter's not gone yet to the baker's.'

‘I don't mind a short wait,' said the fat man, ‘but the weather is deteriorating, and if I don't leave the village soon, I may be here much longer than I intended.'

‘Take a seat,' said the patron. ‘I'll send her now.'

The fat man returned to the table he and Attis had left. Laying his holdall on a chair, he stood at the payphone and scanned the numbers pencilled on the wall. Finding the one he needed, he pressed a coin into the slot, and dialled the number.

‘Taxi?' asked the fat man, when the call was answered. ‘I need your services. There is a document which needs collecting from the Volakis property. Then I would be obliged if you could pick me up at the
kafenion
, on the hour.'

With the pick-up arranged, he replaced the receiver and wrote the taxi's number in his notebook. He drank another coffee with his breakfast: an omelette of duck eggs, bright yellow and well seasoned, filled with buttery and melting
kasseri
cheese and a handful of wilted spinach; on the side were curling slices of air-dried ham, burgundy-dark and lined with soft, white fat. The fat man ate with relish, mopping up the olive oil the eggs had been cooked in with bread fresh from a wood-oven, and for dessert, he enjoyed a piece of
galaktobouriko
– milk pie – cut from the baker's tray: crisp filo filled with milky semolina custard, which oozed pleasingly between the pastry sheets when he cut it with his fork.

With a fingertip, he picked up the last crumb of syrupy filo from his plate, and finished the water in his glass. Glancing at his watch, he approached the counter to pay his bill.

‘You'd better go, if you're going,' said the patron as he handed the fat man his change. ‘There's lively weather coming. There'll be snow by afternoon.'

‘I hope I haven't left it too late,' said the fat man. ‘I felt I must do justice to your excellent food, and to the skills of the baker who made the
galaktobouriko
.'