The Oracle (6 page)

‘I’
VE DONE EVERYTHING
I can,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ve put her on a drip to raise her blood pressure and I’ve stopped the haemorrhage, but this girl needs a transfusion and your friend is nowhere to be seen. Something must have happened to him.’

Claudio twisted his hands: ‘I don’t understand, I just can’t figure it out . . .’

Norman got to his feet: ‘Claudio, this situation could turn critical from one moment to the next. If there had been some minor snag, Michel would have called, he would have got word to us somehow. Something very serious must have happened. Why don’t you call Heleni’s parents? You’re taking too much responsibility upon yourself.’

‘They live in Komotini, there’s nothing they can do from way up there. It would just worry them to death. But what could have happened to Michel?’

‘I can’t imagine. Even calculating for traffic jams, roadblocks, whatever, he should have been here more than an hour ago.’

‘Maybe he’s in an area that’s been sealed off by the military and he can’t get out.’

‘Well why hasn’t he called us, then?’

‘Maybe they’ve cut the phone lines, what do I know?’

Heleni, lying on a bed, opened her eyes. ‘Claudio,’ she said, ‘we can’t stay here. We’re even putting the doctor at risk. I can’t go to the hospital; they’d arrest me immediately. Listen, I feel better, I really do. Call a taxi and take me to my apartment. Then you can go and look for the medicines and things that Michel was supposed to bring. The doctor could come by tonight and finish up. He said the bullet went right through me. I’m going to be okay. Michel will show up sooner or later, but now we have to get out of here, please . . .’

‘Heleni’s right, Claudio,’ said Norman.

‘Yeah, maybe it’s the only thing to do.’ He turned to the doctor: ‘What do you think?’

‘Maybe . . . She’s young, and she’s not losing blood any more. There are nutrients in the drip. But she mustn’t do anything, just lie still, and sleep if she can. My office is open until seven; I’ll come after I close. Where’s her house?’

They told him.

‘I’ll be there at eight o’clock. The curfew doesn’t apply to doctors. Norman, you be there for the transfusion.’

‘When can we move her from there?’

‘Not before a week’s time. Absolutely not, for any reason.’

‘Of course. And I’ll tell her parents right away.’

‘Go now. I’ll call a taxi for you.’

Claudio dressed her and Norman went down to the street to check that it was clear. The taxi driver rang the doorbell twice, and Claudio and the doctor came down supporting Heleni, who was pale and unsteady.

‘How do you feel?’ Claudio asked.

Heleni tried to reassure him: ‘I feel better, really. You’ll see, everything will be okay. If we get to my place, we’ll be fine.’

They got into the cab and Norman closed the door. Claudio lowered the window and gestured for him to come close: ‘Norman?’

‘Yes?’

‘We’re not going to Heleni’s house. The police might be on to us. I’ll bring her to my room at the Plaka.’

‘You’re right, that’s a much better solution. I wanted to suggest it myself. I’ll see you there tonight.’

Claudio took his hand: ‘Swear to me that you won’t say anything to anyone, for the love of God. Except for the doctor, of course. Tell him right away about the change of address for tonight.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’ He smiled: ‘But I’m warning you, Heleni will never be the same with a pint of Welsh blood in her veins. You’ll be no match for her. Go now.’

Claudio gave the driver his address and the taxi took off immediately.

‘Why did you give him your address?’ whispered Heleni.

‘The police will have interrogated dozens of people by now: they’ve arrested hundreds of students. So many people knew you . . . someone might have talked.’

‘There are no traitors among us,’ said Heleni, and the colour seemed to flare up in her pale face for an instant.

‘I know, but it’s better not to take risks. There were two thousand of you in there. In any case, no one knows me. We’ll call your parents from the booth near my house. Take it easy now. Lean on me.’

Heleni rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The taxi driver glanced at them now and then in his rear-view mirror: they had been in a doctor’s office and she looked so pale, with those dark circles around her eyes. The boy was so big and so scared looking. That whore must have just had an abortion, and he was to blame, the worm. Young people had no morals nowadays, and no shame. They should be whipped. Give them an inch and they get into all kinds of trouble. Like those others at the University. Give them a finger and they’ll take your whole arm . . . what they needed was a good whipping, university my ass . . .

The taxi took the long way round to the Plaka, behind the Olimpieion, and finally stopped in front of a little whitewashed house. A grapevine curled over the enclosure wall and a couple of cats were rummaging through the uncollected garbage bags. Claudio leaned forward and paid the driver. Heleni, who seemed to have dozed off, sat up.

‘We’re here,’ Claudio whispered in her ear. ‘Do you think you can walk? We don’t want anyone noticing us.’ Heleni nodded. Claudio got out and opened the door for her. He took her hand and walked her slowly towards the external staircase that led up to his little one-roomer. The taxi disappeared into the maze of streets in the old city and Claudio put his arm around Heleni to hold her up. He let her in and had her lie down on the bed, covering her with a blanket.

‘I have some meat in the fridge. I’ll make you some nice strong broth. You have to drink a lot and rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here. Nobody knows me.’ He double-locked the door.

Heleni followed him with her eyes. ‘Do you know what the inhabitants of Plaka are called?’

Claudio opened the refrigerator door and took out the meat. ‘No, I don’t. What are they called?’

‘
Gàngari.
It means “bolts”.’

‘That’s a funny name.’

‘It’s in memory of the resistance of Plaka against the Turks during the siege of Athens in 1925. They bolted the gates to the city and bolted the doors to every house in the Plaka, determined to defend themselves house by house if necessary.’ She caressed him with a long melancholy gaze. ‘Now you are a
gangaros
, and it’s my fault.’

‘You got it: you’re worse than the Turks, you are. Now be quiet and sleep. I’ll wake you when the broth is ready.’

He put the meat in a big soup pot, and added water, vegetables and lots of salt. ‘This’ll help raise your blood pressure . . . until Norman and the doctor get here to top you up, darling. But what in God’s name could have happened to Michel, why didn’t he call? . . .’ He lit the burner under the pot and fell back on to a chair. He watched the blue flame lick the pot for a while, but was overcome by fatigue. His head soon dropped forwards and he fell fast asleep.

Athens, the British embassy, 17 November, 2 p.m.

T
HE DESK CLERK
at the embassy put down the receiver and dutifully filled out the visitor’s pass: ‘Mr Norman Shields for Mr James Henry Shields, diplomatic affairs’.

Norman impatiently pulled it out of his hand: ‘George, do you really have to go through all this red tape to let me see my father? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry, dammit? The air of Athens must be going to your head.’

‘It’s the rules, sir. And it’s a very bad day today.’

‘Come on, George, even the cleaning ladies here know me. You’re right, George, it’s a horrible day, and now can I see my father?’

The clerk nodded and Norman slipped into the elevator and went up to the second floor. He reached his father’s office as he was dictating a letter to his secretary.

‘Dad, I need to speak to you urgently about something very important.’

‘Just let me finish this letter and I’ll be with you . . . “and given the traditional spirit of friendship that joins our two countries, I sincerely hope that this operation will be concluded successfully and to our mutual benefit. Allow me to express our deepest esteem, as I look forward to a note from your embassy which will permit us to proceed with our project. Sincerely yours, etcetera, etcetera . . .” Well, what is it this time, Norman? Have you lost at cards or got a girl in trouble?’

Norman waited until the secretary had left, then sat down and put both hands on the table. ‘Dad, it’s dead serious this time. I need your help.’

James Shields looked at him more attentively: ‘Jesus, Norman, look at you! Have you been in a fight?’

‘No! Christ, Dad, I didn’t sleep all night. I was out with Michel and with Claudio Setti, an Italian friend of mine – his girlfriend was inside the Polytechnic. Her name is Heleni Kaloudis, maybe you’ve heard of her. She was wounded; those pigs put a bullet right through her. We brought her to a doctor to try to get a transfusion but it didn’t work out. She refused to go to the hospital; the police would have thrown her right into prison. Michel went to get some medicine, but he never came back, I’m afraid the police have got him and . . .’

James Shields scowled. ‘Calm down,’ he said, ‘and get a hold of yourself. Start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened. I’ll help you if you want, but you have to tell me the whole story.’

Norman pulled his hands off the table and squeezed them between his knees. ‘Oh Christ. We may not even be in time any more. Okay, Michel and I were in Kifissìa with a couple of girls. Claudio called suddenly in the middle of the night and told us to meet him right away at the Polytechnic . . .’

He told his father everything, from start to finish, continually glancing at the pendulum clock on the wall and at his own wristwatch, carrying on a single-handed battle against time. His father listened carefully, taking a few notes on a small pad.

‘Do you think anyone might have seen you? Anyone from the police, that is?’

‘I don’t know; I can’t say they didn’t, it was such a mess around the Polytechnic. What I’m afraid of is that they’ve got Michel . . . there’s no other explanation. Heleni is terribly weak, and she’s not getting the treatment she needs. She can’t go to the hospital. The police will be looking for her; I’m afraid she’s been on the radio all the time lately. Dad, what I’m asking you is to send an embassy car to pick her up and take her to the British hospital. She needs a blood transfusion immediately.’

‘It’s not so simple, Norman. As you said, the Greek police will certainly be looking for her. What you’ve proposed would be undue interference in the internal affairs of our host country and—’

‘Christ, Dad!’ shouted Norman. ‘I’m asking you to save the life of a twenty-year-old girl who’s risking death just because she was trying to make her country a better place, and you’re giving me this diplomatic crap!’ He got up abruptly, toppling over his chair: ‘Fine, just forget about it. I’ll take care of everything myself.’

He turned to leave, but his father stood between him and the door. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Pick up that chair and sit down. I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few minutes.’

He dialled an internal extension and exchanged a few words with a colleague in another office. He picked up his notepad from the table and left the room. Norman started pacing back and forth in the small space.

His relationship with his father had been cold for some time, if not downright hostile. He hadn’t wanted to ask him for help; he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was in trouble. But now that he’d spoken to him, he was sorry he hadn’t done so right away. Everything would have been resolved by now. He should have thought of it himself, dammit. Both Claudio and Michel knew about the situation and would never have dared to ask him to contact his father. God damn it. Lord knew what kind of trouble Michel was in, or if Heleni would pull through. How stupid he’d been. What an idiot. All this bullshit about independence. If he was going to run home crying like a kid, at least he should have done it straight away.

It was no use blaming himself now; what was important was getting things accomplished quickly. Every minute was important.

His father came back into the room, smiling: ‘Where are your friends? We’ve got a car ready to go; they’ll be safe in less than an hour.’

His voice trembled: ‘Dad, I don’t know how . . . my Italian friend lives in a one-room apartment in the Plaka, thirty-two Aristomenis Street, second floor; there’s a little external staircase. I could go with the driver.’

‘Absolutely not. We’ll send an operative who’s done things like this in the past. But he has to work alone. I’m sure you understand why.’

‘Yes, of course I do. But please hurry.’

‘Thirty-two Aristomenis Street, you said?’

‘That’s it.’

‘I’ll go and give him instructions.’ He started down the hall.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks.’

Norman returned to the office and went to the window. He saw his father go into the courtyard, say something to the driver of a car waiting with its engine running. The car shot off immediately, headed towards the Plaka. There was so much traffic, it would take time . . . time . . .