The Messenger of Athens: A Novel (31 page)

“That’s a big fish, friend,” he said. “You’ll need a strong line to land that one.”

“I have the line,” said the fat man. “The question is, where should I fish for such a catch?”

“If I were you,” said Jakos, “I’d try a church. And if I were guessing which church, I’d try my luck with Ayias Lefteris.”

The fat man took out his wallet, and laid a generous sum beneath the ashtray.

“Many thanks,” he said.

“Still on the trail?” asked Jakos, curiously. “Still think there’s foul play been involved?”

“Foul play and bad behavior,” said the fat man. He stood and, placing his right hand on his heart, spread his left arm in the pose of a classical actor.
“Look now,”
he recited, “
how mortals blame the gods, for they say that evils come from us, but in fact they themselves have woes beyond their share because of their own follies
. Homer. He understood a great deal of human nature.”

Jakos stared at him, uncomprehending, and the fat man, realizing he had understood nothing, wished him goodbye.

But Jakos caught his arm.

“So who did it?” he asked. “Have you identified the guilty party?”

“To my own satisfaction,” said the fat man, “yes.”

“So who is it?”

“I’m sure you realize, Jakos,” said the fat man, “that I cannot share that information with you. But rest assured, in due course, all will become clear to those who need to know.”

I
n the light of many candles, the women of the congregation showed their boredom. At the lectern, a man wearing the thick-lensed glasses of the almost-blind sang an archaic chant from a handwritten, leather-bound tome; a robed priest echoed each
Kyrie eleison
, and rattled the chain of a burning censer. The air was dense, with the heady smoke of incense and candles; from the walls, the gold-painted images of St. Lefteris gazed down with sad expressions, as if despairing at the absence of true piety. The children played with lighted candles, and ran laughing up and down the nave, while the women fidgeted, and whispered, and criticized the clothes their neighbors wore.

At the rear of the church, a sandbox held a stand of burning candles, wilting and drooping in their own heat. An offertory plate filled with coins and banknotes lay alongside banks of fresh candles, stacked in scores; an elderly woman with disheveled hair played needlessly with the candles in the sandbox, snuffing some with spittle-wetted fingers and removing them, rearranging
those remaining, tallest to the center, those burning low towards the front.

For a while, the fat man listened from the vaulted porch to the rambling liturgy, until the candle-tender, rubbing splashes of hot wax from her fingers, held up a fist of slender, white candles and beckoned to him.

As the liturgy droned on—
For all those who commit injustice against their neighbors, whether by causing sorrow to orphans or spilling innocent blood or by returning hatred for hatred, that God will grant them repentance, enlighten their minds and hearts and illumine their souls with the light of love even towards their enemies, let us pray to the Lord
—the fat man crossed the red-and-black tiled floor, but raised his hand to decline the woman’s offered candles; he placed no money in the offertory plate, and he did not kiss the icons, or make the triple cross over his heart. Instead, he took the woman gently by her bony wrist, and, pulling her close, spoke into her ear.

“Fetch me Eleni Tsavaris,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be waiting in the courtyard.”

Outside, the sky was overcast, but even muted daylight was brilliant after the dimness. Beneath a bush of purple-flowered bougainvillea was a stone bench, from which he brushed the fallen petals before sitting down to wait. Soon, in the church porch, a woman—short, and gone to fat in the way of middle age—appeared; she wore a suit of moss-green wool, and black pumps, and carried tucked under her arm an old-fashioned clutch bag. Her hair, severely short, was damp and lined with the marks of a wet comb; her skin was sallow, as if never touched by sunlight.

The fat man stood, and held out his hand to her; she crossed the courtyard to him but, reaching him, did not take his hand.

“Eleni Tsavaris?” he asked.

“You’ve fetched me from my devotions, from the worship of Our Lord,” she said, stridently. “State your business with me and let’s be done. People will talk.”

He stretched his arm towards the bench, inviting her to take a seat, but she ignored the gesture, lifting her chin, setting her lips, hugging her bag across her body as a barrier, and he inclined his head, politely, in acceptance of her preference to stand.

“My name,” he said, “is Hermes Diaktoros. I want to talk to you about the death of Irini Asimakopoulos.”

She blinked, and the tip of her tongue ran across her upper lip, where a few dark, masculine hairs grew.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” she asked.

But she sat down on the bench, and placed the clutch bag at her side; as she folded one hand firmly inside the other, the fat man caught the trembling in her fingertips.

He sat beside her, leaning forward on his knees to close them in an intimate half-circle, and she, to emphasize her modesty, brought her knees together, and moved her ankles close. Her feet above the pinching shoes were red, and the scuffs of long use on the shoes’ toes and heels poked pale through the disguise of buffed shoe-polish. On her lapel, the pearls set in the little brooch were fake.

“You knew Irini?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t know her.”

“You knew of her, though? You knew that she was dead?”

She shrugged.

“Of course. This is a small place. Everyone knew it.”

“How did she die?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“What have you heard?”

“Accident, some say. Some say suicide.”

“You knew your daughter’s husband was in love with her?”

“That,” she said, angrily, “is an insult to my daughter, and to the honor of my family. You have no right to say such things to me.”

She moved to stand, but the fat man touched her on the arm.

“Just a moment, Eleni,” he said, “or I will fetch Elpida from the church—I assume that she is in there with you?—and I will tell her everything I have learned since I have been here.”

Eleni sniffed, and snatched her arm away. Her hands lay in her lap. The knuckle above her wedding ring was inflamed, and swollen, as if arthritic; around the finger’s base, the tight, gold band dug deep into the flesh.

“Tell me about Irini Asimakopoulos.”

“I can’t tell you anything about her. I don’t know why you think I could.”

“Perhaps I should mention that I spent some time, yesterday, talking to your brother, Harris.”

“My brother is a know-nothing fool. Don’t waste your time on what he tells you.”

“He has compromised himself greatly as an officer of the law,” said the fat man, “but he’s not such a fool as you think. He’s smart enough to realize there’s no place to hide from this. And so should you be.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps I should be talking to your daughter instead of you. Perhaps your brother, as you say, knows nothing. Elpida is, after all, the one with all the motive.
Was
Elpida the guilty party, Eleni?”

“Elpida wasn’t even there!”

“Where, Eleni?” asked the fat man. “Where wasn’t she?”

She gave no reply, but pulled a leaf from the bougainvillea and dropped it to the ground.

“Let me make it easier for you,” said the fat man. “I am not the police.”

“You have no right to ask me these questions, then. No authority. In which case—”

“Let me finish,” said the fat man. “I am a private investigator. Whatever you tell me, you won’t go to jail for. That assurance I can give you. But I will have the truth. And if you tell me the truth—if you volunteer it—things will go better for you.”

“But you have no authority.”

“In the written law of this land, no, I don’t. But when the law of this land fails to deliver justice—through corruption, or ignorance, or bureaucracy, or fear, whatever the reason for its failure—it is
my
job to see justice is done. It is my job to see the guilty punished.”

“Punishing the guilty is the job of Our Lord, Jesus
Christ,” she said. She crossed herself, then raised her eyes skywards, as if seeking confirmation for her homily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my devotions.”

“Not yet, Eleni,” he said. “Because if you won’t talk to me, I shall follow you inside that church, and tell the whole congregation exactly what I think happened to Irini Asimakopoulos. I shall tell them how I believe she died, and why, and I shall tell them who was responsible.”

She smiled, unpleasantly.

“You have nothing to connect us with that woman’s death,” she said.

“On the contrary. I have what your brother told me. And don’t blame him, Eleni. He was in an impossible position. He felt no inclination to do time for a crime he didn’t commit. Now, I believe I know exactly how it was. I shall tell you how I think it went, but if I get anything wrong, I want you to put me right; I want the full story. And understand, if you lie to me, it will be the worse for you; and if you lie to me, believe me, I will know.”

She didn’t speak, but fiddled with the faux-pearl brooch, straightening and re-pinning it. Outside the church’s walls, the excited shouts of children and the sound of running feet were there, and gone.

“Your daughter’s marriage wasn’t going well, was it?” said the fat man. “Elpida wasn’t keeping Theo happy, was she? Maybe she just wasn’t enough for him. What do you think?”

He thought she wouldn’t respond, but she turned to him, and said, “He’s a dreamer, Theo. For some, the grass is always greener.”

He waited for her to go on, but she said no more.

“He did what many men do, didn’t he?” asked the fat man. “He found himself a bit on the side. It’s common enough, not out of the ordinary. Perhaps your own husband did the same thing.” Her eyebrows lifted, in tired acknowledgement. “In the end, they all come back to hearth and home.”

“Men are all the same,” she said. “Always have been, always will be. And there’ll always be whores like her.” She used the crudest word for “whore,” the word used in the barracks and the bar rooms. “Let me tell you about my husband. My
man
. I put up with it for years, his running around with every whore who’d drop their knickers for a wink and a smile. He wasn’t fussy. He’d go with anybody who’d have him. He’d still go now, if he could find one willing. He used to get caught, sometimes; he’d take a beating from someone’s husband, come home all bloodied and bruised and not walk for a week, with his balls all swelled up where he’d been kicked…. And me?” She bent her head to the brooch, and twisted it out of line, and back again. “I was the one in disgrace! The shame was all mine. ‘Eleni Tsavaris doesn’t know enough to keep her old man at home.’ I knew what was said, behind my back. But I was strong. I showed them I didn’t give that”—she snapped her fingers—“for what they said. We struggled on, and I put up with him. There were the kids. And I knew he’d always come back. So I was strong.

“But Elpida. She was different. He was different, Theo. I chose him for her because he wasn’t that way. He was a quiet boy. He had never put it about, tom-catted around.
I didn’t want Elpida to go through what I went through. I couldn’t have borne to see her hurt that way. I wanted to protect her. But in the end, I couldn’t. By the time I knew what was going on, that whore had already got her claws in.”

She reached up absently, pulled one of the purple blossoms from the tree, and laid it in the palm of her hand; lying there, plucked from the branch, its beauty was diminished, and, in a moment, its perfect form was gone.

“And as for Theo…” She shook her head, and a sigh of exasperation hissed through her teeth.

“So Theo wasn’t different after all.”

“Oh, Theo was different, all right. Theo couldn’t just go for the fuck. With Theo, it had to be love. All or nothing. I went around there once, and there he was, crying at the kitchen table. Crying like a girl. I knew then there was trouble brewing, and I was right. The bitch had already got him, body and soul. Men don’t cry for nothing. When I saw him crying like that, I knew he’d leave Elpida.”

Holding its stalk between finger and thumb, she twirled the dying flower.

“I couldn’t bear it, for her. The shame of it. She’s a good girl, a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve that. But I didn’t know what to do; I just knew I had to do something. Then rumors started to fly. George heard in the cafés that Theo had been seen with her, so then I knew. I knew my enemy. And Elpida knew something was wrong; she just didn’t know what. She cared for Theo—she cares still. But he doesn’t love her, and I don’t suppose he ever has. And that wasn’t important, it was just the way things are.
I told her that. But it
was
important when he fell in love with someone else. Who was going to look after my Elpida, my little Panayitsa, if he left them? When I’m gone, who will there be to take care of them? Your kids come first. Your kids always come first. So when I knew who she was, we went to warn her off. We went to find her. To talk to her.”