The Whispers of Nemesis (21 page)

But as he turned back to the road, his eye was caught by what seemed to be a pile of rags, heaped at the base of a tree a short distance away.

The fat man lifted a fold of his find with his white toecap, and let it fall back. The pile was not of rags, but of fine-meshed fishing-net, which had caught nothing in its spread but the dirt and debris of the forest floor.

He looked around, to get his bearings from the road and from the chapel; and confident he would easily find this place again, retraced his path back to the shrine at St Fanourios's.

 

Back on the road, Hassan left the volume of his music high. The fat man raised his voice to make himself heard.

‘Are there any fishermen in Vrisi?' he asked.

‘Fishermen?' Hassan laughed. ‘What would they catch, here? It'd be a stupid man who took up fishing as a trade in Vrisi.'

‘They have no use for nets here, then, I assume? Not to protect crops from birds, nothing like that?'

‘No crops, no nets,' said Hassan. ‘The Greeks learned their fishing from the Turks, did you know that?'

‘So now the clan's all gathered again, when is the funeral?' asked the fat man, ignoring Hassan's last comment.

‘They brought him from the mortuary this morning. The funeral's tomorrow, when the bells toll.'

‘And is there a pension in Vrisi where I might stay?'

‘Not in Vrisi. There's a hotel in Polineri, if you're looking for a room.'

‘I expect they'd give me a room at the poet's house, but it would suit me better to stay elsewhere, for tonight at least. So drive me, if you would, directly to Polineri. Can I ask you to pick me up again tomorrow morning, in time for the funeral?'

‘You can ask, and I'll be there,' said Hassan. ‘And I'll come in plenty of time, since you're such a nervous traveller, so we can take the journey nice and slow.'

 

Though the hotel was little bigger than a pension, welcoming touches augured a comfortable stay – an arrangement of fresh-cut evergreens in an alcove, current editions of popular magazines in a rack. But Polineri was a place for passing through, and the hotel's trade was unlikely ever to be brisk. Behind the polished reception desk, the proprietress opened a ledger at a page near the front, and wrote the day's date in the first column. Behind her, eight fobbed keys waited unused in a set of pigeon-holes. By the window, three café-style tables overlooked the street, their chairs all equidistant from the tables, as if no one had sat there yet today. Outside, a young girl at a bus stop nursed a crying toddler, who time and again spat out the dummy forced between his dribbling gums.

The proprietress, though drably dressed and diffident in manner, was a woman of some attraction, on the cusp of middle age.

‘Do you have your identification,
kyrie
?' she asked, hesitantly, as if her request might give offence.

‘Certainly.'

The fat man took out his wallet.

‘I am so very sorry,' he said, searching through its contents, ‘but I don't seem to have it with me. In fact, I am wondering if I left it at the post office when I picked up my
poste restante
. How very careless of me.' He looked at his watch. ‘Too late to phone them now; I shall have to call them in the morning. They would be able to provide the serial number over the phone; would that be acceptable? Would you be good enough to wait for it until then?'

With the back of her hand, she waved the question away.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘I'd let it go, but the regulations demand we keep records, even though they're never checked. My husband used often to forget to ask, and then he'd make up the details. They never caught him out. But I don't have his confidence with the authorities. If they did come asking questions, I should hate to be in trouble.'

‘Of course you would; and there will be no trouble, believe me. In fact, you have given me an idea. If there is a police station in town, I could call in there and report the loss of my card. They might be able to get in touch with the post office concerned. If I tell them I am staying here, they would know that any omission from the records was not your fault. What do you think?'

She gave him a charming smile.

‘I think that would be best,' she said. ‘Could you at least give me your name and address?'

‘Of course. My name is Hermes Diaktoros. As for an address, I think the Athens one would be best.'

‘You're from Athens, then? You're a long way from home, in Polineri.'

‘Not so far away as I often travel.' He dictated an address.

‘I'll put here,' she said, her pen over the column headed ‘ID', ‘
Details awaited
. Then they'll know I've asked.'

She turned to look at the keys in the pigeon-holes and seemed anxious at the wealth of choice.

‘Do you prefer to look out over the road, or would you like a rear-facing room with a mountain view? The view isn't very good, actually; the trees get in the way. I think the trees make the rooms a little dark, but some people prefer the back to the road. The road can be noisy.'

She glanced uncertainly out at the empty road. The girl with the fractious toddler still waited at the bus stop; a man was driving a donkey overladen with hay.

‘I don't mind a little traffic,' said the fat man, good-naturedly, ‘and I would prefer somewhere light. So perhaps a room on the front would be best.'

She chose a key from the eight behind her.

‘Number three, then,' she said. ‘Please, follow me.'

 

Though the room was chilled, there were feather-stuffed pillows and thick blankets on the bed, and the night-stand held a yellow-shaded lamp and a dish of candied almonds. There were adequate wooden coat-hangers in the small wardrobe, with an extra blanket and pillow on the shelf.

‘It's not very warm,' said the proprietress. ‘There's a heater downstairs, if you'd like. I have it behind the desk with me, but you're welcome to it, though you wouldn't have to leave it unattended. There's a fault in the plug, and it overheats. If it starts to smoke, you must switch it off.'

The fat man declined, but accepted her offer of an evening meal.

‘Well,' she said, handing him the key. ‘Since you're wanting to eat, I'd better get on. Is everything all right for you here?'

‘I shall be perfectly comfortable, thank you,' he said. ‘If you could direct me to the police station, I'd be grateful.'

‘Out of here, and turn left,' she said. ‘Then right at the junction. You can't miss it. They spared no expense when they built it. It's the smartest building we've got in Polineri.'

 

A bull-nosed bus arrived at the stop, its engine-cover rattling over a labouring engine. The gloss of its blue livery was weather-damaged and faded; the abundant rust on its bodywork was painted over in a lighter shade of blue. Through the windows, the bus's passengers stared down on the girl with the toddler and at the fat man as he came down the hotel steps. As the fat man passed the bus's open door, the driver looked at him with open curiosity; the fat man wished him a cheerful
Kali spera
, and set off down the road.

A minute later, the bus pulled away from its stop. The fat man moved to the very edge of the narrow road, his back against the stone wall of a house as the bus passed him so close, he felt the heat of its engine and the blow of its exhaust. It disappeared around the bend, and in the quiet it left, Polineri seemed abandoned and remote; then, a motorbike tore through, one youth leaning intently over the handlebars, another grinning in the slipstream on the pillion, his hands on the back of his seat. Seeing the fat man, both young men turned their heads in his direction; but by the time the fat man had raised his hand in greeting, the boys had sped past him, and were gone.

He found the police station without difficulty. As the proprietress had said, it was Polineri's most impressive building, recently built and modern in design; yet its fashionable architecture would date quickly, and its construction – a flat roof prone to leaking, prefabricated walls with over-sized windows which would make the place expensive both to heat and to cool – was impractical.

The concrete planters at the gateway were empty except for the greenery of weeds; there were no official police vehicles in the car park, only a moped and a high-mileage Citroën saloon. A damp national flag hung limp on its pole. The fat man crossed the car park, pushed open the swing doors and entered a foyer which offered no welcoming warmth, but the chill of a badly insulated building.

Ahead of him was a reception area. A high front concealed the desk behind it, so it was unclear, from the doorway, whether or not the desk was occupied. Noiseless in his white tennis shoes, the fat man crossed a tiled floor marked with boot-prints, and leaning an elbow on the desk frontage, looked over. No one was there; the wheeled chair was empty, and the desk held no sign of recent use: no coffee cup, no ash in the ashtray, or smell of recent smoking, only a telephone, a jar of pens and pencils, a notepad with the name of an agricultural machinery company as its header and a cardboard file with blue forms showing at its edges. The telephone was connected to a simple switchboard showing several numbered extensions, with one in-use light lit.

The fat man placed his holdall between his feet, and listened. On the street, a car drove by, and a woman called out to the driver; on the wall, the hand of a clock clicked one minute on. Somewhere in the building, a man was talking, though his voice was faint; around the foyer, flies buzzed, crawling on the windows and the ceiling.

Next to a pen and holder for public use was an electric bell-push, which the fat man pressed. It rang shrilly behind a set of swing doors leading to the station's offices. He rang the bell long enough for it not to be ignored, then turned to face the view through the window of the saloon car and the moped, of the houses across the street, of the mountains that lay beyond. He waited; the extension light on the switchboard remained lit, and somewhere in the building, the man's voice talked on.

The fat man pressed the bell again, for somewhat longer. Still the engaged light on the switchboard remained lit; still there was no movement within the building, nor any indication that his request for attention had been heard. He pressed the bell once more, this time leaving his finger on the button as he counted slowly aloud, intending to stop at ten; when he reached eight, the light on the switchboard went out, and at ten, a door opened, and footsteps at last approached.

Banging back the swing door from the offices against the wall, a man strode into the foyer, his face set with the effort of controlling his annoyance. He looked across to where the fat man waited by the reception desk.

‘
Oriste?
' he said, unpleasantly.

‘
Kali spera sas
,' said the fat man, politely. ‘I wish to consult someone on a problem with an ID card.'

‘An ID card?'

The fat man smiled.

‘Of course this is not my local police station, but I find myself without my card – lost, I must assume – and in this locality, with no firm date for a return home. I am hoping you can let me have the necessary forms for a replacement, and that the business can be handled from here.' He took several steps towards the policeman. ‘Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens. My father is a classical scholar; the name he gave me is something of a family joke. In the same way I call these my winged sandals.'

The policeman's eyes followed the fat man's pointing finger to his white shoes. When the fat man offered his hand, the policeman shook it without enthusiasm.

‘I'm Inspector Pagounis, head of this station,' he said. ‘But I can't help you with your ID card. You need to speak to our desk man, Constable Takas. He isn't here at this time, as you'll have seen.'

‘I noticed a lack of personnel, certainly,' said the fat man. ‘That's why I rang the bell.'

‘Well,' said the inspector, ‘if you come back tomorrow morning, maybe he might help you, though I make no promises. I don't know the rules regarding replacement cards outside your domicile. You'll need to bring with you a certified birth certificate from your home municipality, a statement of your blood type from a registered doctor or an IKA office, four passport-sized black-and-white photographs – hair off the face, neither smiling nor frowning, and matt finish – and stamps to cover the fee. Constable Takas will no doubt see what he can do. He'll give you a statement of facts to fill in then.'

He turned to go, but the fat man stopped him.

‘That is a great deal of documentation to procure in one night,' he said, ‘a labour worthy of Hercules himself. Yet I have no option, do I, but to attempt the task? An ID card is so vital to our modern lives. If I were to suffer an accident on these dangerous roads, how else would you find out who I am?'

‘We'll hope then that you have no accident, whilst your card is missing,' said Inspector Pagounis. ‘
Kali spera sas
.'