The Whispers of Nemesis (34 page)

‘And did your undertaker, by any chance, provide you with your body?'

The poet laughed, and took another drink.

‘I can see why you would think that. And I had thought of him; I would have gone there. But in my dead man's shoes – and looking the part, as I now do – I went back to those port bars I had discovered in the early days of my decease. Life's underside is there, and depiction of that underside adds seasoning to my art. In one of those places – as tawdry a bar-room as you could wish to find – an opportunity presented itself which seemed God-given. I simply took that opportunity.'

The fat man frowned.

‘What opportunity?'

‘A wretched man, beyond help. His liver was destroyed by drinking.'

‘What happened between you?'

The poet drained his cup, and gave the fat man an unpleasant smile.

‘I see no reason to share those secrets with you.'

‘Tell me the truth,' said the fat man, quietly, ‘or I will take you away from here this afternoon, and see your name disgraced. There are police on Seftos, aren't there?'

‘What pass as policemen. They wear the uniforms, at least.'

‘They'd serve my purpose; and they'd be glad to have the interesting job of jailing you, no doubt.'

‘Jailing me? What for?'

‘Tell me what happened, and tell me fast; your daughter will be here at any moment.'

The poet stood again, and fetched down from the shelf a fresh bottle of
tsipouro
, and filled his cup. The fat man's glass was still half-full, and he declined.

The poet drank.

‘He was close to death,' he said, ‘so close as made no difference. He suited what I needed: about my age, about my height, with something of the look of me, if I had taken no care of myself, for twenty years. So I took him from the bar – it was an act of mercy, really – and took him with me to my hotel room, and stayed with him, until his time was done.'

‘What did you do, then, for this dying man? Listened to his confession, and held his hand? Gave him comfort, and sang him songs of home?'

‘I talked to him.'

‘Who was he then, this unfortunate? Where was his home, where was he from?'

‘I don't know.'

‘His name, then.'

‘I don't know that, either.'

‘A man dying before you, and you didn't ask his name? How is that possible, in a decent human being?'

‘I didn't want to know. He gave me a paper with a number on it, his daughter's phone number. He wanted her to come and say goodbye. I would have called, but how could I? The complications were obvious.'

‘Can this be true, that our nation's great poet, who writes so eloquently of love and death, when faced with the real thing, lacked all compassion? Are you a man or a monster? Where is this paper?'

‘I threw it away.'

‘So you had a man not yet dead, and a date you were due to appear at your own exhumation. Is that right?'

‘I was already late for the exhumation. Leda will tell you, I am not good at keeping commitments in that way. But it troubled me that questions would already have been asked. They would be calling me a fraud, or worse. Something had to be done.'

‘So what did you do?'

‘He was in pain. In agony. I helped him.'

‘You helped him how?'

‘He craved a drink. I gave him one. And he had medication for his pain. I helped him take it.'

‘You gave alcohol to a man dying of liver disease.'

The poet closed his eyes, and rubbed his face with his hands.

‘That was a mistake,' he said. ‘He began to vomit blood. I hadn't expected anything so . . .' He shuddered at the memory. ‘He was in a great deal of pain, so I persuaded him to take more of his tablets. It was a miracle he kept them down.'

‘You gave him an overdose.'

‘It made no difference. He was close to the end.'

‘How close?'

‘How should I know? Close enough.'

‘Hours, days, weeks – what?'

‘Not weeks.'

‘But days, potentially?'

‘I should say that was very unlikely.'

‘Hours, though?'

‘Yes, hours; most probably a few hours.'

The poet took another drink.

‘And are the hours of a man's life yours to dictate?' asked the fat man. ‘May you choose how many remain to a man, and when his time is up?'

‘His life was over. What could I have done?'

‘You might have made his last hours, good hours. You might have phoned his daughter, and let him spend a little time with her. You might have been a friend to a friendless man, and called him a doctor so he could leave this earth properly sedated and pain-free, instead of hurrying him off so you could make use of his body. And why, tell me, did you think his mortal remains were yours to claim?'

‘I needed them. They were no more use to him.'

‘And his family?'

The poet was silent. The dog rose, and yawned, and went to the door.

‘What did you do next? Your daughter's on her way back. Answer me, quickly.'

‘I had to wait for the right time to move him. My hotel was in a busy part of town; I tried to get him out several times, and was interrupted.'

‘So there was a delay,' said the fat man. ‘Enough for the beginning of decay. How did you transport him to Vrisi?'

‘In the car that I'd rented. It was hard to move him at all, by myself; for a man so thin, he was heavy. In the end I had the idea of wrapping him in a net, so I could drag him.'

‘You sat him beside you, in the car?'

‘I laid him on the back seat, and covered him with a blanket.'

‘And the weather was cold?'

‘Bitter. I was worried about keeping ahead of the coming snowstorm.'

‘So you turned on the car's heater, and further hastened the life-cycle of the flies,' said the fat man.

‘Probably so. In Vrisi, it was a simple matter to unravel the net and roll him into place at the roadside.'

‘But why did you take him all the way to the village? If you'd left him where he was and called the police anonymously, with your identification on him, the result would have been the same.'

The door opened, and Leda entered the cabin, without the bottle of
tsipouro
.

‘I left him the bottle,' she said. ‘He asks when you'll be ready to leave.'

‘Sit down, just for a while,' said the fat man, and Leda did so. ‘Your father was just telling me why he saw it necessary to drive the body to Vrisi, rather than let it be found where it lay.'

The poet shrugged.

‘It seemed important to me to deliver myself personally,' he said. ‘And I wanted to get a look at the old place.'

‘And did you?'

‘I drove around a little, yes. I walked up the driveway, and had a look at the house.'

‘You were homesick, then.'

‘A little.'

‘Do you miss your old life, Santos?'

The poet lifted his chin.

‘The work I'm doing now makes my old attachments irrelevant. The muse is here with me, and I have everything I need, for her service.' He drank more
tsipouro
. ‘What ties us to the earth, friend? Only gravity, the gravity of forces, and the gravity of our natures, our focus on the dull and fundamentals, on our comfort and the needs which we assume. But I've discovered how few our needs are: food to eat, water to drink, warmth against the cold, a place to rest in sufficient comfort to sleep well of a night. I take my dog as my role model. I try to be like him, and live on my wits and instincts.'

The fat man laughed. The poet looked annoyed.

‘Forgive me,' said the fat man. ‘Your little homily amused me. Do you take me for a complete and utter fool? I see the plan too clearly, my friend, and I see – as I think your daughter does – what a hypocrite you are! I know why you drove that poor corpse over to Vrisi; nothing to do with homesickness at all, but a piece of carefully staged publicity! Your body found dramatically by a roadside, close to your home, is a much, much better story than Santos the once-great poet found dead of alcoholic poisoning in some cheap hotel. Always the drama with you, Santos! Leaving the body at the chapel so near your old home was guaranteed to provoke more interest in you, and your work. More interest, more sales! And with a new batch of poems discovered by Attis . . . It was a publicity stunt, pure and simple! You were creating a spike in sales! You sell yourself as the dedicated artist, my friend, and perhaps you are; but there is nothing noble or poetic about your lust for money. You put your imagination to excellent use in creating mystery, and therefore interest. You faked your own death once, and then you staged it a second time – yet here you are, still with us! What is your ultimate plan, Santos? Is Leda to channel you money, and see you comfortable? What is the betting this shack might evolve, over time, and become a comfortable house? Then you would really be sitting pretty, wouldn't you? A house on your own private island, your daughter with you when she chooses to be. Will there be electricity here soon, a television? A better boat? All paid for by the nameless man in your grave.'

‘If he wasn't in my grave, he'd be in a pauper's grave somewhere.' The poet drank again.

‘Maybe so. But if that were the case, someone, somewhere, would have gone to the trouble of naming him. What else does a man have, when he is gone, but his name?'

‘I shall have my work. It will live on, beyond my death.'

‘You are right, Santos; you will be remembered. That is important to you, but you have not considered that to be remembered might also have been important to him. You have cut short his life – by how long, you do not know – and deprived him of the right to a memorial. And there is one very significant detail we haven't yet got to the bottom of.' The fat man took another sip from his glass. ‘You took a big risk, Santos, having your body – your second body, that is – found in Vrisi, because it was likely – more than likely – to be found by someone who knew you. Someone, in other words, who would know that the corpse wasn't you at all. How did you make sure the wrong identification wouldn't be made?'

Santos shrugged.

‘It was a chance I had to take. I'd been gone for years. He wore a beard, and that disguised a lot. Still, it was a risk, but I took it.'

But the fat man shook his head, and smiled.

‘You are far too clever a man to take a risk like that. Leda, I turn to you for my answer. Did your father take a risk? Could anyone have said the body wasn't him?'

Leda recalled the room at the police station – the covered, stinking corpse, the flies, the horror of the stranger's battered face – and shuddered.

‘He didn't look much like anybody,' she said, faintly. ‘No one could have said for certain who he was.'

‘So even if it had been your father, you wouldn't have known?'

‘No.'

The fat man frowned.

‘So what made this unfortunate so hard to recognise, Leda?'

The poet drained his glass.

‘You should go,' he said. ‘You have your ring, and the grocer grows impatient.'

‘Leda?' prompted the fat man, as if he hadn't spoken. ‘What made it difficult?'

‘It was the swelling, and the bruising,' said Leda. ‘His face looked as if it had been beaten.'

‘He fell,' interrupted the poet. ‘I dropped him. He fell face-downwards on the floor. I was sorry, but I couldn't help it.'

‘You know,' said the fat man, ‘I don't think I believe you. You say you dropped him on his face; your daughter says he was bruised and swollen, as you needed him to be, to avoid proper identification. I think the dropping of him – if that's what caused his injuries – was deliberate. What do you think,
kori mou
? Is your admirable father the kind of man who would drop a dead man on his face?'

She looked into the fire.

‘Tell him the truth, Papa,' she said. ‘You tell him, or I will.'

‘Your daughter advises you well,' said the fat man. ‘Your version of events, Santos, does not have the ring of truth. I have warned you once already, that if you do not tell me the truth, I shall make my way to the police station and tell them there what you have already told me; and then I shall call my friends in the press, and suggest they might find a newsworthy story in Seftos. Your disgrace, then, will be complete. You didn't drop him, because there was no need. Tell me what you did.'

The poet drank more spirit.

‘I hit him in the face,' he said. ‘He didn't look enough like me to fool anyone who knew me.'