The Whispers of Nemesis (33 page)

‘On the contrary. I both practise and patronise the arts.'

‘Have you read anything of mine?'

‘I have.' The fat man said no more. The poet glanced in his direction, and seeing him patting his pockets as though hunting for something mislaid, frowned.

The fat man smiled.

‘You are waiting for my compliments and my praise, the stroking of your ego,' he said. ‘That is what you have come to expect. Your work is good, Santos. There, I have said it. Does it make you happy?'

The poet gave a shrug of apparent indifference; but in his face there was a hint of his displeasure.

‘Now you are annoyed at my lack of respect,' said the fat man. ‘How dare I not fall at your feet! Have you missed that adulation, Santos – your celebrity, your disciples hanging on your every word? You must have missed it, because you fished for it so early in our acquaintance. But this is not a place for your adorers. It's the kind of place a man might go quietly mad. Did they not say as much to you, when you first came here?'

‘I'm not mad,' objected the poet; but the expression on his face showed a lack of certainty.

‘I think we should go back,' said the fat man. ‘I think you should tell me your story, and then I can decide what happens next.'

 

The fat man sat on the only chair, at the cabin's table; Leda sat beside her father on the poet's single bed, stroking the dog's head as it rested on her knee. The fat man reached into his pocket, and took out his cigarettes and a matchbox; he shook the matchbox, but hearing no answering rattle from within, placed it in front of him on the table, and took out his gold lighter.

‘You don't mind if I smoke?' he asked, and the poet shook his head.

Leda stood, and handed the fat man a saucer from the shelf to use as an ashtray. The fat man took a cigarette from the box, and lit it, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke towards the fireplace, where a fire of rough logs gave off little heat.

‘Where shall we begin?' he asked, and looked expectantly at the poet; but the poet offered no suggestion, and so the fat man reached again into his pocket, and brought out the little diary Attis had given him.

‘Let us then start with this,' he said, and laying his cigarette on the saucer, opened the diary at the page where the word ‘Nafplio' was written and struck through. ‘The date, here, of your first death; an engagement to read poetry that you apparently knew was cancelled. But you went there, anyway. Why?'

The poet smiled.

‘Obviously, I went to die,' he said. ‘The idea came to me after I had the letter from the university, telling me not to go. It was another disappointment, I suppose; and I had been toying with the idea of dying for some time. It seemed an ideal opportunity; a distant town, where no one knew me. I talked it over with Leda, and she agreed.'

‘Did you agree, Leda?'

Leda looked at the fat man; her tear-swollen eyes made her seem both young and vulnerable.

‘I saw no reason not to,' she said. ‘I thought the plan was clever. At the time.'

‘And Frona? What about your aunt?'

‘My daughter's an intelligent girl,' put in the poet. ‘She could see we would all benefit, in the end. As for Frona, what could we do?' He spread his hands. ‘I knew she wouldn't play along; and she lacked the imagination to play a part, and pull it off. I thought it better if she knew as little as possible.'

‘Did you not think it cruel, Leda, to let her think your father dead?' asked the fat man.

‘We both knew it was cruel,' said Leda. ‘But I was younger and more foolish when I made the commitment. I didn't understand that grief doesn't last days or weeks, but months and years. I hadn't thought how she would struggle to support me. I put my father's talent above everything. And when I began to understand the wrong we'd done, I couldn't find the courage to tell the truth.' In despair, she shook her head. ‘How will she ever forgive us?'

‘I've told you,' said the poet to Leda. ‘There's no reason for her ever to know.'

Leda looked away from him, to the wall, her jaw tight from the effort of suppressing more tears.

‘So why did you do it, Santos?' asked the fat man, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘What has been behind all this theatre? I hope you're going to tell me it wasn't just for money.'

‘In part it was for money,' he said. ‘But there was more to it than that. I wanted to prove a point, about how little art is valued. Every day, I saw no-talent artistes – actors, singers, novelists – make millions from their work, whereas I – a true artist, a unique talent, the best in a generation, the critics say – earned nothing but a golden reputation. Poets make no money till they're dead; so I decided I would die, and improve my lot.'

‘And then, like Lazarus, you'd rise up from the dead, collect your royalties – which you had prevented, through your will, from being distributed to your heirs – and once again claim the crown as prince of the literary establishment. Have I understood correctly?'

‘It was a simple plan.'

‘Simple to imagine, but very hard to execute, surely. How, exactly, did you do it?'

‘In Nafplio, I bribed an undertaker. He was a clever man, though without soul. He'd never read a poem in his life, and my name meant nothing to him. I told him that the tax man was after me, and a wife who wanted to keep me from a pretty mistress; I told him I was heading for Australia on forged papers. I paid him, more than I could afford, but he provided the necessary forms, and packed a pig in a casket to pass as me. Of course there had been no death, so he took on the role of policeman and made the “official” calls. The plan was simple and, actually, full of flaws. If Frona had asked questions – about post-mortems or locations, or anything at all – the truth might easily have come out. But she asked no questions, and nor, of course, did Leda. No one asked questions – why should they have done, when they had been officially informed and all the paperwork was supplied? – and so I was, officially, dead. And I became another man, with another life. Only Leda knew where to find me. I told her to expect me at my exhumation, and to look surprised.'

He spread his arms, as if to invite applause.

‘But she was surprised,' said the fat man, taking a final draw on his cigarette and stubbing it out in the saucer. ‘You didn't appear.'

‘I never planned to stay dead,' said the poet. ‘But something happened here, in my isolation, something only an artist could understand. Of course I could have hidden more easily in a city, but my work led me to choose this place. I chose this place for the purity of my art, and I struggled, at first, as does a monk when he takes his vows. But when I was free from the need for anyone's approval, or critical acclaim – in short, when I had no readers, and could let my work run in whatever direction it chose, and develop in a natural, untainted way – it was a revelation to me! I have written poetry which soars, which stretches boundaries and reaches depths of my own soul I could not have dreamed of, outside this place!'

‘How gratifying,' said the fat man. ‘I'm glad your work has gone so well. But I can only imagine how frustrating it must be to have written this great work of yours, and have no avenue to sell it. Dead men don't write poetry, after all.'

‘Yet I wanted that persona – the old Santos – to stay dead. I didn't want to go back to my old life. All I need is here. I have my writing, and my books.' He indicated a trunk, pushed up against the wall; on its lid were dozens of volumes, new editions and vintage, the works of both Greek and the most renowned of international authors. ‘My life here is dedicated to my art, and that is purifying.'

‘Is there nothing that you miss? The company of women, maybe? Or are you playing your old games, and preying on the wives of other men?'

The poet glanced uncomfortably at Leda.

‘My muse flourishes in my celibacy,' he said. ‘She rewards my self-denial with inspiration.'

The fat man raised his eyebrows.

‘Really?' he asked. ‘If that is true – and I somehow doubt it – I suspect it's only because you're a less attractive prospect to the fairer sex without the mantle of fame draped round your shoulders. And if this life you have crafted is so perfect, why not simply stay here, where you're hidden?'

‘Because of what I had written in the will.'

‘Because of what you had written to protect your own interests? I assume the clause regarding your bones and the light of day was to ensure that, when you returned from the dead, you'd come back as a man of means?'

‘Yes, in truth,' said the poet. ‘But I understood that, even if I was thriving in this place, on next to nothing, it wasn't fair on Frona, or on Leda. It was time, I thought, for them to reap some of the benefits of the success I had enjoyed, following my untimely death.'

‘So it wasn't that you were, yourself, running short of cash?'

‘There was only a little left of what I'd brought with me, it's true. Though I make enough for my modest day-to-day expenses. Honest work amongst labouring men refreshes a weary intellect.'

‘But your honest labour wouldn't by any means cover Frona's day-to-day expenses in trying to educate your daughter. Did that not prick your conscience?'

‘What Frona will ultimately gain from my estate will pay her back a hundred times. Anyway, I have taken steps to ease her financial burden.'

‘The poems Attis found in your desk?'

‘The
Odes to Nemesis
– the finest work I've done. I sent them to Leda, to hide there, and she wrote anonymously to Attis, telling him to search for them. Attis has a creative mind in business, and I knew he'd find a way to get cash for them, outside the terms of the will. Leda and I wrote to each other, from time to time. I phoned her occasionally, if I knew Frona wasn't there.'

The dog grew tired of having his head stroked, and with a yawn lay down at Leda's feet.

‘So you decided, in the interests of your art, to die a second time?'

‘Shall we have a drink?' said the poet, suddenly. He stood up from his bed and reached up to the shelves above it for a bottle, a glass and a coffee cup, then strode across to the table, and filled glass and cup with a measure of
tsipouro
. ‘This is the result of one of my new skills; I learned the sacred arts of distillation. It's much in demand by the locals. Leda, our grocer will be getting cold, down there by the water. Take the bottle,
agapi mou
, and a cup, and give the man a drink. Tell him we won't keep him very much longer; our visitor will be leaving very shortly. Isn't that right, friend?'

‘I shall be leaving when the time is right,' said the fat man, ‘but you may tell the grocer, Leda, that I shall keep him no longer than is needful.'

She rose from the bed.

‘When you leave, may I go with you?' she asked.

‘Leda,' said the poet, trying to grasp her hand. ‘Stay. There's no need . . .'

‘I shall go,' she said, ‘if the gentleman will take me.'

She left them. The poet picked up a poker, and hid his face from the fat man by prodding at the smoking logs on the fire.

‘She's angry with you,' observed the fat man. ‘Why?'

The poet took his cup, and seated himself back on the bed.

‘Young women,' he said. ‘They have moods.'

‘Or has she found out more than you wanted her to know?' The fat man sipped at the rough spirit. ‘Did you consult with her, when you decided on your second death? Did you tell her what your new plan entailed? Of course, what you tell her – and what you don't – is up to you, but if she asks me direct questions, I shall answer her. If you want our discussion done before she returns, make it quick; the walk to the jetty and back is but a short one. Who is the man who is buried in your place, and where did you acquire his body?'

The poet drank from his cup of
tsipouro
.

‘You know,' he said, ‘whilst I was first dead, I had great freedom. I moved like a ghost in places I had never dared go before. When I was fettered to a name and a reputation, I had no freedom at all, though I didn't realise it. But dead men walk free from any ties or expectations. That's what I've discovered: there's no freer man than a dead man. I bought myself a new identity; it was easily done, in the port bars where a certain class do business. I chose a new name; two days later, I was officially a different man, with papers to prove it.'

‘And the identity card found on our mystery man's body – the card proving him to be none other than yourself – how did you come by that? I presume your own identity card was given to the police when you died, as is required by law?'

‘You presume, then, incorrectly. I kept my card; I knew I would need it for my resurrection. When the Nafplio police called the police in Polineri to let them know I was dead, they confirmed that my ID card had been given to them. The undertaker played the policeman's role, of course.'