The Whispers of Nemesis (29 page)

Attis refolded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

‘I'll show this to Frona, of course,' he said. ‘But is it wise to be looking for poems when you might be looking for answers?'

‘Do you think I am wasting time, then? It is my view that Santos's poems are at the root of this difficult situation, as you describe it. And I include, with those poems, the works you have recently acquired. I have spoken with your publisher friend, who is anxious to prove their provenance or be clear about their lack of it. But I don't think you are trying to deceive him, are you, Attis? I believe you think – maybe you even know – you have the genuine article in your hands. But I'm wondering why you're so keen to sell them quietly, outside the terms of Santos's will. And I have a suspicious mind, especially when it comes to conveniences like this one. How come these poems have suddenly appeared? Where exactly did you find them?'

Attis gestured at the far side of the room.

‘Here,' he said, ‘in the desk.'

‘So you have been searching Santos's room. No wonder you wish to stop me. Finders, keepers: is that what you're thinking?'

‘On the contrary, I have no intention of keeping anything. Nor did I come sneaking in here motivated by self-interest, and you have read me wrong if you think so. I came looking because I was prompted to do so.'

‘Prompted by what?'

‘About six months ago, I had a letter. Not even a letter, really – an anonymous note, just a few words, suggesting Santos had left publishable work here. I dismissed it at first; there was nothing I could do about it, anyway. I had no reason to come to Vrisi, gain access to the house and start hunting in Santos's desk. I took it as some kind of joke. But when I was here for the exhumation, I thought I might as well take a look, and there they were.'

‘How very convenient. Providential, in fact. There's no doubt in your mind that it's Santos's work?'

‘None whatever. There're more than twenty poems, in a collection he called
Odes to Nemesis
. The work is wonderful, and unmistakably his. Listen,
Kyrie
Diaktoros. I haven't told Frona I have these poems.' The fat man's eyebrows raised. ‘I want to present her with a piece of good news, with a sale already made in such a way as she will immediately benefit, not with another untouchable asset. It's been hard for me to see her in financial difficulties whilst I've reaped some of the benefits, at least, of Santos's improved fortunes. I've offered to help her, of course; but she's a proud woman, and reluctant to accept what she calls “loans”. It's my intention to structure this deal such that she'll have her money now, and not in another four years. But to do that, we'll have to be unorthodox.'

‘So what is your intention, exactly?'

‘That I should sell these new poems for a pittance, nominally. The meat of the advance would come to me, personally, and I shall give it to Frona, for her and Leda.'

‘You'll forgive me for pointing out that such an arrangement appears highly dubious, to an outsider like me.'

‘It will only appear dubious until the cash appears in Frona's account.'

The fat man regarded him.

‘Has it occurred to you that perhaps, in some way, you are being set up?'

‘Set up? What do you mean?'

‘That you might be the victim of some fraud?'

Attis shook his head.

‘Impossible. I know Santos's work. His quality has not been matched in a generation. The poems are his work.'

‘You recognise, of course, that you are taking a huge risk in selling this work without declaring it to Santos's lawyers? They will certainly find out what you have done, before too long. And, though I have great sympathy with Frona's position in regards to the legacy, you are going against the wishes a man took the trouble to stipulate in his will. You and his family do not understand why Santos laid out those conditions as he did, and so you take them to be punitive, and unfair. Yet might there not be factors involved here of which you know nothing? You are playing with fire, Attis, by taking this matter into your own hands, and I advise you to proceed with extreme caution. The truth still has a long way to come to light in this case; in fact, even the barest of facts are still concealed. So be careful you are not deceived into taking action which will reflect badly on you. You might see yourself as coming to the rescue of a distressed damsel; but many a man has come to grief over a damsel who turned out to be a black widow.'

‘Frona's a decent woman,' said Attis. ‘She deserves an easier life, and I wish to help her towards that.'

Outside, a car drew up, its wheels scattering the gravel as the driver braked and sounded a blast on the horn.

Attis crossed to the window, and looked out.

‘It's a taxi,' he said. ‘Did you order a taxi?'

The fat man smiled.

‘Perhaps,' he said. ‘I shall go and enquire. Be cautious whom you trust, Attis. I'll be in touch, once everything becomes clear.'

He held out his hand, and Attis took it. Outside, the taxi's horn blew again.

‘It seems I am in a hurry,' said the fat man, picking up his holdall. ‘But I have one more question, before I go.' He reached into his pocket, and took out the diary Attis had removed from Santos's desk. ‘Tell me, where did Santos die, the first time?'

‘In Nafplio.'

‘And why did he go there?'

‘Well,' said Attis, ‘there's a sad story, there. He was booked to do a reading at the university, but at the last minute, it was cancelled. I tried and tried to phone him before he left, to save him a wasted journey. I tried right up to midnight, but no one answered the phone. Probably it was out of order, or he hadn't paid the bill. But the fact was, he didn't need to go. They'd written to him, I gather, and told him not to come; I assume, in this backwater, the faculty's letter didn't reach him. The man who'd organised the visit was heartbroken, and blamed himself; he thought if he had given Santos more notice, he'd never have gone there, and he wouldn't have died.'

‘But he didn't die there, did he?' asked the fat man. ‘And I think it would be a kindness if you telephoned that gentleman, and told him to blame himself no longer. I think Santos did get his letter, and went there anyway. Look.'

He opened the diary at the date of Santos's death, where the word ‘Nafplio' was written in the poet's hand, in ink; the word had been struck through, with a pencil.

In puzzlement, Attis looked at the fat man.

‘But that's absurd,' he said. ‘Why would he have made that long journey, if he knew he didn't have to go?'

‘That's an excellent question,' said the fat man, ‘and one I intend to have an answer to, very soon now.'

 

Hassan waited at the wheel of his taxi, riffling through his collection of music cassettes. When he saw the fat man, he wound down his window to speak to him.

‘I thought I would find you here, my friend,' he said, ‘though you move through Vrisi like a snake in the grass.'

‘I hope I am no snake,' said the fat man, ‘and yet a snake's slyness may sometimes be emulated to advantage. Why did you want me?'

‘I'm bringing you information,' said Hassan. ‘I've been your eyes and ears, as you asked. I've taken a young lady on the beginning of a journey.'

‘And do you know where she has gone?'

‘I certainly do,' he said. ‘Get in, and I'll tell you whilst we travel.'

But the fat man hesitated.

‘The bird has already flown,' he said, ‘and if you know where she has gone, it will do no harm to let her get a head start, and think she is not followed. There remains something here in Vrisi I must take care of. Can you pick me up at the
kafenion
later on? Let us say eight o'clock. That should give me long enough to do what needs to be done.'

‘Eight o'clock it is,' said Hassan.

‘In the meantime,' said the fat man, ‘I'd appreciate a ride down to the village.'

 

Early evening, and Maria was visiting the neighbours, talking over the gossip the day had brought: the low attendance at the funeral; Leda's departure for Patras, and the dangers of travel to unescorted women; the dangers to Frona's reputation, being alone in the house with Attis Danas.

‘She's lonely,' the neighbour was saying, as she shelled beans. ‘Lonely women fall so easily into sin.'

‘He's a predator,' said Maria, sipping tea. ‘He's preying on her. Like a wolf, he's waiting to take advantage.'

But the neighbour's husband laughed.

‘There's only one predator, up there,' he said. ‘A fine specimen of the most dangerous predator there is: a middle-aged woman with no man.'

 

The first stars glittered in the darkening sky. Close by Roula's truckle bed, Maria had left an oil lamp burning on the dresser; the glass was missing from the lamp's door, and the flame danced in the draughts, throwing changing shadows across the room. A cold wind blew off the hills, and Maria had spread overcoats on top of the blankets to keep her mother warm; and Roula was warm enough, if her hands stayed under the blankets, though the cold had reddened her nose, and the blanket's rough wool scratched her chin.

Outside, a dog barked an alarm, then gave a troubled whine, and was quiet.

Roula fell into a doze, a twilight sleep where memories seemed real. She travelled to a night when she, as a young girl with a friend, had come across a youth stripped naked, bathing away the midday heat in a mountain pool; she remembered how they had hidden, and watched. Smiling as she dozed, or dreamed, she didn't hear the door open, or notice the oil lamp flicker as it did so; but she sensed someone was there, and opened her eyes to find Hermes at her side.

He crouched down at the bedside, offering his hand. She took her own hands from the blankets and grasped his, and in the lamp's light it seemed her hands were no old woman's, but delicate and unblemished, as they had once been; and the blankets no longer scratched her chin, but were soft and warm as cashmere.

‘Hermes,' she said, returning his smile. ‘I thought you'd gone without saying goodbye.'

‘Never,' he said. ‘But goodbye is why I am here.'

She looked into his unreadable eyes, and saw her own reflection in their depths.

‘Where are you going?' she asked.

‘I am going to find the truth about Santos's death,' he said, ‘and the answer to the puzzle isn't here.'

‘I'm glad you're here,' she said. ‘I have a feeling I am going away, too.'

‘I think perhaps you are.'

‘I want to go, but I worry about Maria. It's her I don't want to leave.' She was silent for a while, looking away from him and at the lamp's flame. ‘All lights burn out in time,' she said, at last. ‘Will you stay with me?'

‘Of course, my precious one,' he said. ‘I shall be here. Now sleep.'

He bent down to her, and touched his warm lips to her cheek. In the coop, the chickens were restless; in his kennel, the dog began to whine. Roula touched Hermes's face and squeezed his hand, and, keeping it in her own, she closed her eyes to sleep.

 

The clocks struck eight. In the
kafenion
, the card-players ordered up another round and the cards were dealt again, as their eyes were fixed on the pot of money growing before one man. Eustis rose from his stool and poured more drinks, a cigarette clenched at the corner of his mouth. At a table by the payphone, the fat man sipped his beer and picked at a bowl of salted peanuts.

Outside, a car pulled up, its yellow headlamps lighting up the road, the sign on its roof showing ‘For Hire'.

The fat man left a banknote on the table, and shook Eustis's hand on his way out. Wishing the card-players
Kali nichta
, he pulled the
kafenion
door closed, and climbed into the taxi to follow Leda.

Twenty

‘I did as you asked,' said Hassan, taking a bend in the road too fast. Even on full beam, the headlamps illuminated too little of the road ahead to settle the fat man's anxiety, but Hassan knew the road so well, he drove by a series of guideposts: a junction marked a straight where he could pick up speed; a chapel meant a series of tight bends and a narrowing of the road. There was little oncoming traffic: only a labouring truck, overladen with straw bales, and a motorbike or two. From time to time, the headlamps caught night creatures: rabbits, and red reflections from the pinpoint eyes of rodents.

The fat man gripped his seat as they sped round a bend he couldn't see.

‘First tell me about you and Santos,' he said.

In the dark, Hassan's shoulders tensed.

‘Me and Santos? I barely knew him. There's nothing to say.'

‘You may have barely known him; but am I right in thinking your wife knew him quite well?'