The Whispers of Nemesis (5 page)

He took out a business card featuring a newspaper's logo, and, ignoring the policeman's glare, laid it on the dowry chest.

‘A statement?' She seemed bewildered. ‘It's Attis you should go to, for a statement.'

‘Attis?'

‘Attis Danas, Santos's agent. He handles Santos's publicity. He handles everything.'

‘Do you have a number for him?'

‘I'll call him. I'll call him myself, and give him your number.'

The policeman ushered the journalist out of the door, and the women were left alone.

 

As Attis Danas unlocked the apartment door, the phone on the hallstand was ringing. The fabric of his jacket stank of cigar smoke, his breath of stale brandy; his silk tie was rolled up in his pocket. As he picked up the phone, he glanced in the mirror, and rubbed a smear of lipstick from his cheek.

‘
Embros?
'

‘Attis, for God's sake, is that you? Where have you been?'

‘Frona! This is a surprise! So early!'

‘Attis, I've been calling you for hours! Where have you been?'

‘Celebrating. A client of mine – that woman who writes the cookery books – made this week's Top Ten. Frona, are you all right?'

‘Attis, you must come. You have to come, come now. Something terrible has happened. I still can't believe it! I still can't believe he's gone!'

‘Who's gone? Frona, what are you talking about?'

‘You must come, Attis, and help us. The police have been here. They came to tell us poor Santos is dead!'

For a moment, Attis didn't speak, but looked out through the window at the hall's end, where grey clouds drizzled over city rooftops.

‘That's not possible,' he said. ‘How can he be dead? I spoke to him myself, only . . . When? When are they saying he died?'

‘I don't know, Attis, I don't know! You must come now, and help us. There's only me and Leda, and Maria, and I don't know what to do! The press were here, too. You need to speak to them.'

‘Of course I'll come,' said Attis. ‘Don't worry. Trust me. You know you can leave everything to me. Just let me make some calls, and I'll be leaving. So just stay calm, Frona, and I'll be there with you in a few hours.'

Five

Anxious to get out of the rain, Father Tomas hurried through the final words and cast a fistful of wet earth into the grave, where soil and stones thudded dismally on the coffin lid. The mourners in their turn picked up handfuls of the freshly dug ground, and tossed them after the priest's.

They left the graveside slowly, under the shelter of umbrellas: bright parachutes of colour which hid the stricken faces of the bereaved.

 

As they made their way towards the cemetery gates, Attis Danas held a blue umbrella over his own head and that of Yorgas Sarris. Rain pattered on the nylon fabric; wind gnawed easily through their urban clothes. Amongst the tombs, under the dripping portico of a small chapel, the journalist in his sheepskin jacket sheltered from the rain. Seeing Attis and Yorgas, he dropped a half-smoked cigarette to the ground and hurried along the path to join them.

‘Gentlemen,
kali mera sas
,' said the journalist, stepping in front of them, shrugging up the collar of his jacket. ‘Forgive my intrusion on this sad occasion; but I am told you,
kyrie
' – he looked at Yorgas – ‘are Santos Volakis's publisher. Is that right?'

Yorgas held out his hand from under the umbrella, as if he thought the rain might have stopped. In only moments, his palm was wet.

‘I'm his publisher, yes,' he said, wiping his hand on his raincoat. ‘Who wants to know?'

‘Might you have a few words for the press?'

The journalist held up a reporter's notebook, poked a blunt pencil out of its spiral binding and flipped through many pages of untidy shorthand.

He readied his pencil over a blank page.

‘It's up to you, Yorgas,' said Attis, ‘but I've sent out a press release already.'

‘A personal statement always gives a better story,' said the journalist. ‘If you wouldn't mind?'

Yorgas shrugged his agreement.

‘Your name?'

‘Yorgas Sarris. I'm the proprietor of Bellerophon Editions, and we have the privilege of publishing all of Santos's work.'

The reporter made notes; despite its untidiness, the speed of his shorthand was slow, and the marks of his pencil were faint on the damp paper.

‘And how have you been affected by his death?' he asked.

Out of respect for the dead man, neither Attis nor Yorgas had shaved. Overhanging the collar of his shirt, Yorgas's jowls were rough with stubble. He brushed away the watery beginnings of tears.

‘I myself have lost a friend, and that's a personal tragedy,' he said, pacing his words to the speed of the reporter's slow pencil. ‘But this is a tragedy of epic proportions, which will have its effect on us all. The fact is simple: Santos was one of the brightest stars Greek poetry has ever seen. He was a genius, the Seferis of his generation, a man of extraordinary talent. And to leave us so young, when he had still so very much to give! It was an honour to publish him, a true honour. His loss leaves a vacuum that may never be filled.'

‘You describe his death as a tragedy,' said the reporter, writing down Yorgas's last sentence. ‘But would you say it's true that his life was as tragic as his death?' He looked up from his notebook, watching the publisher for his reaction; but though Attis frowned, the publisher's face did not change. ‘I've heard he was a lonely man. Divorced.'

‘A divorced man needn't be lonely,' said Attis. ‘What are you suggesting?'

The reporter gave the same pleasant smile, and made a gesture which invited Attis to make a suggestion of his own; but before Attis could speak, the publisher interrupted.

‘What you have to understand, friend,' he said, ‘is that Santos was an artist in the true sense, and the artistic temperament tends from time to time towards melancholia. It's in the nature of the artist to reflect on the human condition, and the human condition has many aspects. Of course Santos was low on occasions; of course he had his moods, as we all do. But he had family he loved deeply, and he was wholly committed to his work. His career was going from strength to strength; his new collection of poems came out very recently, and we were looking forward to excellent sales. Santos's life was no tragedy. It was a celebration of language, and of the literary arts. Excuse us.'

‘A moment more, please,' said the reporter, turning to a clean page to complete his record of Yorgas's remarks. Attis loosened the knot of his black tie. At the graveside, a gathering of women remained. Frona, Leda and Maria, the housekeeper, were weeping; others entreated them to leave.

‘Local people say he never recovered from losing his wife,' said the reporter, his attention still, apparently, on the page. ‘She left him, didn't she? Is it true she ran off with another man? Is she here, today?'

He looked back towards the grave, searching amongst the women for one who might be the poet's wife. A trickle of water ran down his forehead from his wet hair, and he brushed it away with his cuff.

‘She's not here, no,' said Attis. ‘
Kyria
Volakis lives abroad now, in the United States. She couldn't possibly have got to Vrisi in time for the funeral.'

‘But there's a daughter, isn't there? What's her name?' He scanned the earlier pages of his notes. ‘Leda. I had the pleasure, the other night; a pretty girl, and unmarried, I believe. Who'll be taking care of her, now she's an orphan? Deserted by her mother, and now her father dead in his prime – her future'll be uncertain, I suppose.'

‘She'll be well cared for by the family, as she's always been,' said Attis. ‘And what do you mean, you had the pleasure?'

The reporter looked at him.

‘May I ask your name,
kyrie
?' he asked, his pencil ready at the start of a new line.

‘My name is on the press release I'm sure you've already received,' said Attis. ‘I knew Santos for many years. They call me Attis Danas, and I am – I was – his literary agent. I built Santos's career; I nurtured him and guided him in his work. Above all else, I like to think that he and I were friends.'

The reporter looked from Attis to Yorgas, and again at Attis.

‘That's very interesting,' he said. ‘So we have here two men who have lost both a dear friend and a valuable source of income. Truly, it's a sad day for you both.'

On the path behind them, a babble of women's voices was growing closer, as Frona, Leda and Maria were guided from the grave under an assembly of umbrellas. The reporter's eyes brightened.

‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your time,' he said. ‘May I offer you my card? I'd welcome a call, if you've anything that might be of interest.'

‘Scum,' said Attis, when he was certain the reporter was out of earshot. He reached into his raincoat, and producing two small cigars, gave one to Yorgas, and lit both with a petrol lighter. ‘Time for a drink, I think.'

They moved on, keeping ahead of the women, whom the reporter was delaying. Rain drummed on the umbrella, and dripped from its spokes.

‘Poor Santos,' said Yorgas, as they reached the cemetery gates. ‘It's a sobering thought that any one of us might be gone, just like that.' He snapped his fingers.

‘And yet,' said Attis, thoughtfully, ‘as I was saying to you the other night, even what seems black may bring opportunity. We must look for the good in this disaster.' He pointed to his temple. ‘We have to use our brains, and take care of our own interests. And of Frona's and Leda's, of course.'

‘The truth is, we've had more orders for Santos's books in the last two days than we've had in his whole career,' said Yorgas. ‘I've been thinking we might do another print run. Another five thousand maybe, see how they go.'

‘Poor Santos,' said Attis. He glanced at the tip of his cigar, which had gone out. ‘Man has many projects, and God cuts them short. To hear that he was selling well would have been balm to his very soul. You might let me have the figures, when you get back to the office. In the meantime, let me buy you that drink.'

 

Maria found no comfort in her tea; there was no soothing in the floweriness of the camomile, nor any sweetening for her bitterness in the melting honey. She untwisted her damp handkerchief, and dabbed again at her eyes.

‘Such a loss I never thought to feel,' she said. ‘And the casket closed and sealed, so I never even kissed his face goodbye!
Kamari mou, kamari mou!
Like a son he was to me; he was the son I never had!'

‘He was,
kalé
, he was,' said the next-door neighbour, squeezing Maria's hand before taking another biscuit from the plate. ‘You were a mother to him, all those years.'

Roula, Maria's own mother, was preparing vegetables for pickling. On newspaper spread over the good table, she pared the earth-darkened skins of carrots pulled from the garden; the acid smell of vinegar hung in the air.

‘It must have made him ugly, for it to be closed casket,' she said, making a triple cross over her heart. ‘They say with a choking, the face is blue. It makes them goggle-eyed, and swells the tongue. And you doted on him too much,
kori mou
. You spoiled him, you and that sister of his. Writing poetry was never honest work, for a man.'

Maria was about to object, but the neighbour spoke first.

‘What about the will,
kalé
?' she asked; the pap of chewed biscuits stuck in the gums of the new teeth she was so proud of. ‘Tell us what you know about the will.'

‘He left a little to me,' said Maria, tearfully. ‘He left me a little token, as I expected.'

‘I hope it isn't books,' said Roula, dropping carrot slices into a preserving jar. ‘It's cash you want. Is it cash?'

‘He left me a few drachmas,' said Maria. ‘It's not a great deal, but it's something.'

‘Not a great deal, for all your years of service?' asked her mother. ‘Don't let them insult you. If it's not enough, you give it back.'

‘I don't think he was wealthy,' said the neighbour. ‘If he was wealthy, he hid it very well. And they say no one left the will-reading with a smile.'

‘Why should anyone be smiling at a will-reading?' asked Maria. ‘They were doling out a dead man's effects. Who would be smiling at that?'

‘They might be smiling more in four years' time,' said the neighbour darkly, as she chose another biscuit.

‘Four years? What do you mean?' Roula brushed carrot parings from her apron lap. ‘Pass me those biscuits, Maria; let me have one whilst there's still one to have, and tell me what she means.'