The Oracle (2 page)

He stepped forward, willing himself to believe that his hand would meet the wall, but he was wrong. His thin fingers stretched into nothingness, the lamplight shrank into a tiny point. That point revealed all that he had vaguely sensed for years and years. And this flash of understanding drained the very life from his veins.

He shrank back, horrified and weeping, and fumbled for the opening to the tunnel that had brought him to the threshold of the abyss. He dragged himself towards the stairs. The vase had become intolerably heavy but he couldn’t let go. He would rather die clutching it to his chest, go out in glory, have the last laugh.

He backed up again and stumbled; the wall dissolved in the halo cast by the lamp. As he made his way in its feeble light, he felt his heartbeat weakening, becoming slower and slower. He finally found the bottom step and pulled himself, gasping, to the upper chamber. With immense effort, he pushed the slab back over the opening and covered it with dirt. He picked up the vase and hobbled to the tool shed.

He couldn’t stand the sight of it an instant longer. He covered it convulsively with a blanket from the cot. Struggling, he found a sheet of paper and a pen and began to write. He put the letter into an envelope, wrote an address and sealed it. He knew he was dying.

A
RI SLOWLY SIPPED
his Turkish coffee and smoked a cigarette, tipping the ashes into the remains of his meal still in the dish in front of him. He glanced at the road with each drag. The last diners had gone, and the tavern owner was busy cleaning up. Every now and then he’d walk over to the window and say, ‘Looks like rain tonight.’ He turned the chairs over on to the tables and wiped the floor with a wet rag. The telephone rang, and he set down the broom and picked up the receiver. He paled and gasped with the phone still in his hand, glancing over at Ari, who was smoking. He stuttered: ‘Ari, come quickly . . . O my Lord, O most Holy Virgin . . . get over here, it’s for you.’

Ari jumped to his feet and picked up the phone: a death wheeze on the other end, pleading interrupted by sobs, the voice – nearly unrecognizable – of Professor Harvatis. He flicked away the cigarette butt burning his fingers and ran to the car. He raced back up towards the excavation tool shed, where he could still see a light on. Wheels skidding as he entered the courtyard, he jumped out, leaving the engine running. He grabbed an axe from the trunk of the car and approached the half-open door, poised to defend himself. He kicked it open and found the professor: curled up in a corner of the room, near the telephone table, with the receiver still swinging next to his head.

His face was deathly pale and carved by deep wrinkles, his body was shaking uncontrollably. His legs were stretched out on the floor as if paralysed and his hands clutched a shapeless bundle to his chest. His eyes, veiled with tears, flickered back and forth, as if his mind, invaded by panic, could no longer control their movements.

Ari dropped the axe and knelt down next to him: ‘My God, what has happened? Who did this to you?’ He reached out towards the bundle. ‘Here, let go, give it to me . . . I’m taking you to the hospital in Preveza.’

But Harvatis clutched the bundle even tighter. ‘No. No.’

‘But you’ve been hurt, dear Mother in heaven, come on, in the name of God . . .’

Harvatis half closed his eyes: ‘Ari, listen, do as I say . . . you have to do as I say, understand? Take me to Athens, right away, now.’

‘To Athens? Not over my dead body . . . you should see yourself! Here, let me help you.’

The old professor’s stare turned suddenly hard, sharp, his voice peremptory: ‘Ari, you must absolutely do as I say. There’s a letter on the table. You must take me to Athens, to the address that’s on the envelope. Ari, I’ve got no one left to me. No family and no friends. What I found under there is killing me. And maybe many others will die this very night, understand? There’s someone I have to see; I must tell him what I’ve discovered. To ask him for help . . . if it’s possible . . . if we’re still in time.’

Ari looked at him, completely disconcerted: ‘Good God, Professor, what on earth are you saying? . . .’

‘Ari, don’t betray me. For whatever in life is dearest to you, Ari, do as I say . . . do as I say.’ The foreman lowered his head, nodding. ‘If I should . . . die before we get there, you deliver the letter.’

Ari nodded again. ‘Give me that bundle at least, let me put it in the car.’ He shook his head. ‘What is it, anyway?’

‘Take it to the storeroom in the basement of the National Museum. The key’s in my jacket pocket.’

‘Whatever you say, Professor, don’t worry, I’ll do what you want me to do. Here, let me help you.’ He picked the old man up like a child and eased him on to the back seat of the car. He took a last look before closing the door: the old man would never make it to Athens. He had seen death in the face. A goner if he’d ever seen one.

He went back to the tool shed, hung up the phone, picked up the letter and took a quick look around. Everything was perfectly in place – there was no hint that anyone had broken in; a familiar smell of onion and olive oil permeated the air. Had the old guy just suddenly gone crazy? And where had he found that thing he wouldn’t let go of? He would have liked to check out the excavation area, but the professor was dying out there in the back seat of his car. He closed the door behind him and went back outside.

‘Let’s go, Professor. We’re going to Athens. Try to rest . . . lie down . . . sleep, if you can.’ He put the car into gear. The old man didn’t answer, but Ari could hear his laboured, faltering breathing. And feel his desire to keep an impossible appointment, in Athens.

The car sped down the deserted streets of the town, and the tavern owner, from behind the dirty windows of his place, saw it shoot by in a cloud of dust down the road to Missolungi. The next day he’d have a strange story to tell his first customer.

Athens, 16 November, 8.30 p.m.

‘Claudio, it’s late. I’m out of here . . . What about you? We could get something to drink at the Plaka before we call it a night. There are these girls we met . . .’

‘No thanks, Michel, I’m not leaving yet. I have to finish up on these files. I’ve got to get this work out of the way.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Norman and I picked up a couple of Dutch dolls on a tour. We’re going to take them for a drink at Nikos’s and then maybe go to Norman’s place in Kifissìa.’

‘Not bad. So how do I fit in anyway – the odd man out?’

‘Okay, okay, you’re too much in love to think about having a little fun. What’s up for tomorrow?’

‘Oh right, Michel – I’ve heard that tomorrow there’s something going on at the Polytechnic, something big. There’s going to be a huge protest demonstration against the government and the police. The students’ committee is talking about a lock-in. They say that the situation in the university has become impossible. Police infiltration, spies . . . people disappearing and you never find out what happens to them.’

‘Who told you, Heleni?’

‘Yeah, it was her. But it’s stuff that everyone knows. Why?’

‘Nothing. So what are you going to do, go to the Polytechnic yourself?’

‘No. Why should I? We don’t have anything to do with it. It’s their thing. But I’m going to hang out here at the Institute tonight anyway. You know Heleni; she won’t let them start anything without her . . .’

‘Okay. Well, see you here tomorrow, then. ’Night, Claudio.’

‘Goodnight, Michel. Say hi to Norman.’

His friend left and he could soon hear the sound of his Deux-Chevaux as it coughed its way into motion.

Claudio Setti returned to the epigraphy files he had been working on. He stood up and walked over to the shelves to check a volume; as he was pulling it out a smaller booklet fell to his feet. He bent down to pick it up and gave it a look. The heading on the title page was:

He started to read the first pages with growing interest, forgetting the files he was working on for his thesis, while a strange uneasiness crept up on him, a sense of confusion and solitude.

The phone rang. He stared at it at length before putting down the book and picking up the receiver.

‘Claudio?’

‘Heleni, honey, is that you?’

‘
Agapimou
, you’re still studying! Have you had dinner?’

‘I thought I’d grab a sandwich and keep working.’

‘I need to see you. I’m going back to the University tonight.’

‘Heleni, please . . . don’t go.’

‘Can’t you meet me here? I’m not far, at the Tò Vounò tavern. Please?’

‘All right. I’ll come. Have them fix me something to eat.’

He gathered up his notes to put them into his backpack. As he was about to close it, his gaze fell on the little book he’d left on the table. Too bad he couldn’t finish it. He put it back on the shelf, switched off the lights and left, throwing his military-style jacket with the fake fur lining over his shoulders.

The streets were nearly deserted. He passed alongside the agora, where the ancient marble gleamed unnaturally white in the moonlight, and slipped down one of the roads in the intricate maze of the Plaka district. Every now and then, between the rooftops and terraces, the Parthenon loomed on his right, like a vessel of the gods shipwrecked on a cliff between the sky and the houses of men. He reached the old Wind Tower square where the tavern was.

He could see Heleni’s black hair through the misty window. She was sitting alone with her elbows on the table and seemed to be watching the thin thread of smoke rising from her cigarette as it sat in the ashtray.

He walked in behind her and put his hand on her hair. Without turning, she took his hand and kissed it. ‘I really wanted you to come.’

‘You know I want to see you. It’s just that I have to get this work done. I want to get my degree. I’m serious about that.’

‘I know you’re serious. They have
dolmades
tonight. I’ve told them to heat some up. Is that okay?’

‘Sure,
dolmades
are fine.’

The girl nodded and a waiter brought two plates and a pan with the stuffed grape leaves.

‘It’s about tomorrow.’

‘Heleni, what do you mean, it’s about tomorrow? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘We’re going to make a proclamation on the University radio asking for a general strike. This government will have to drop their mask and show who they really are. Students at the universities of Salonika and Patras are going to rise up with us. We’ll make such a racket that they’ll hear us all over Europe!’

‘Oh, Christ. Now she wants a revolution. “Darling, there’s a revolution tomorrow.” What time? Have you decided what time it’s going to be?’

‘Stop that. You’re Italian, you’re going to finish your thesis and go back home. You’ll find a job. It’s hell here. Those pigs are strangling this country. They’re selling it piece by piece, they’re prostituting it. You know how many of my friends have suddenly dropped out of circulation because they took part in a protest or because they signed up for a political party—’

‘Heleni, love, it’ll never work, there’s no hope. It’s like South America here; the US don’t want to run any risks, so they back the military and squash the left. There’s no way out. It’s useless, believe me.’

‘Probably. Anyway, it’s been decided. At least we can say we tried.’

‘I suppose that the revolution can’t do without you.’

‘Claudio, what’s wrong with you? Where have all your fine speeches about freedom and democracy gone? The inheritance of the ancient Greeks, Socrates and Pericles and all that other shit? You sound like you’re on the state payroll, for God’s sake!’ She was excited. Claudio looked at her for a moment without speaking: God, she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy, scornful and proud. Small, slender hands and eyes as deep and black as the night sky, her T-shirt draped on her breasts like a sculpture by Phidias. He’d rather take her prisoner than let her be exposed to any danger.

‘Heleni, what would I do if something happened to you? You know . . . you know I feel the same way you do . . . but I can’t stand the thought of you risking your life in there. You’ve been occupying the University for three days now; the prime minister won’t be able to keep the military out of it for much longer, even if he wanted to. They’re going to strike hard, and fast, and the people won’t be backing you up. They’re too afraid, they have jobs and families to worry about, a long past and not much of a future . . .’

The girl smiled: ‘Come on. There’s nothing they can do to us. It’s not like they’re animals; they’re not going to tear us to pieces! I told you, it’s going to be a peaceful demonstration. No one will be carrying weapons.’

A street musician entered just then and started to play his bouzouki. Some of the regulars joined in to sing ‘
Aspra, kòchina, kìtrina . . .
’, a melody that Claudio and Heleni had sung many times with their friends and which seemed very touching to them just then. Heleni’s eyes glistened: ‘How often we’ve sung this one! It’s still lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Heleni, listen, come away with me. We’ll leave everything behind and go to Italy. We’ll get married, find work, anything will do . . .’