Authors: Ekaterine Nikas
"She
couldn't have left!
I was watching
the street the entire time!"
"I
don't know about that, but there's nothing back there but an empty
courtyard."
"I’d
like to see that for myself."
They
moved away and I didn't hear her reply.
After what seemed an age, but by my watch was less than three minutes,
Cynthia rapped softly against the door and whispered.
"He's gone, but I think you should wait a while before
coming out."
I
agreed.
To pass the time as I
waited, I browsed through some of the open cartons, glancing at the books
stored inside.
My eye was caught
by one containing a stack of children’s picture books.
I knelt down and gingerly lifted a few
out to see the covers.
My father
had a new book out, and I wondered if by some chance I might find it
there.
Usually I avoided his books
like the plague, fearing the roiling emotions I experienced seeing his work in
print, but somehow things were different now; I didn't feel angry or bitter
anymore, only curious.
Serendipity
didn't cooperate with my mood, however.
None of the books on top were his, so I lifted another handful out, but
none of those was it, either.
Eventually every book from the box was stacked in a pile in front of me,
but none was what one reviewer had described as the "humorous tale of a
frog forced to take the form of a prince until he can find a girl who refuses
to kiss him".
With a
surprisingly strong sense of disappointment, I began to put them back.
I
had almost finished doing so when a book of illustrated tales from
The
Odyssey
caught my attention. I had passed over it quickly before, but this
time my attention was caught and held by the cover, where a storm-tossed ship
threaded its way through a narrow strait straddled by a monster reaching out to
grab and destroy it.
It was a
gripping image, but far more gripping to me were the words which appeared
underneath in small gold letters: "Illustrated by Geoffrey Redfield".
The
stories of Odysseus's adventures and his struggles to return home had been favorites
of mine as a girl, and I began leafing eagerly through the book, impressed by
the literate text which accompanied the amazing pictures.
When I turned the last page, it was
with regret; it took a moment for the photographs of the artist and author on
the book jacket's back flap to register.
I
saw Geoffrey first.
He stood on
the steps of a temple overlooking a glimmering sea and grinned at the camera
with a faintly self-mocking smile.
The photograph was captioned,
"
The artist, G. Redfield, at the Temple of Poseidon, Cape Sounion.
"
"Why
didn't you tell me you were this good?"
I demanded of the photograph indignantly, but Geoffrey just
grinned back at me, disdaining to reply.
My
glance dropped to the second photograph.
It was of a man standing in a square pit, his shirt stripped off, sweat
beading on his skin, his face the picture of concentration as he peered at a
broken shard of pottery which a colleague held out to him.
With a gasp of recognition, I stared at
the caption below the photograph: "
The author, Dr. P. Stanathopoulos,
at work at an archaeological site in Sicily.
"
It
couldn't be, but it was.
Paul,
Ithaki
's mysterious gardener, was not really a gardener at all, but Dr.
P. Stanathopoulos, archaeologist and author.
And
Geoffrey had known it all the time.
Below
the photographs was a brief paragraph: "
The Adventures of Odysseus
marks the fifth collaboration between Redfield and Stanathopoulos.
Longtime friends, they have combined
their talents for painting and storytelling with their love of Greek literature
to produce an enchanting series of books enjoyed by children and adults
alike.
Other titles in the series
include . . ."
I
read no more.
I was too angry to
read more.
Geoffrey had deceived
me, had been deceiving me the entire time I was at
Ithaki
.
No wonder he’d seen no need for me to
keep an eye on Michael, to snoop around and learn what I could.
He'd already had someone in place to
fill that role -- his old friend Paul.
But
that left one question unanswered.
Where
was Paul now?
Chapter Twenty-Five
I
had a hunch how to find out the answer to that question when I left the
bookstore twenty minutes later with a copy of
The Adventures of Odysseus
tucked under my arm and the telephone number of Ionian University in my purse.
It
was past one, and the torrent of people that had earlier poured down the narrow
street was thinning to a trickle as the shops began to close for siesta.
The grocer across the way was reaching
up to pull down rolling metal shutters when I called out to him to wait because
I wanted to buy something to drink.
Flashing
me an irritated look, he motioned me into the store.
As I made my way toward the small refrigerated case in the
back where the drinks were kept, I beamed my most ingratiating smile, but to no
avail.
He was in no mood to be
charmed by a tourist.
I
pulled out a cool bottle of carbonated lemonade and carried it to the
counter.
"I'm sorry to keep
you," I said lightly in Greek.
"I was just so terribly thirsty in this heat."
"
Ellenida
eisai?
" he asked in surprise.
"You are Greek?
I
nodded.
"On my mother's
side.
I'm from California."
His
mouth began to curl into a smile.
"California?” he repeated.
“I have a cousin in California.
In Los Angeles."
"Really?”
I said sweetly.
“I'm from Los
Angeles."
His
smile grew broad.
We chatted about
L.A., and his cousin, and how much he wanted to see Hollywood someday, and
finally I broached the subject I'd been waiting to ask him about.
"There
was a man in here earlier, a tall man, English, with light-colored hair and
green eyes.
Do you remember
him?"
"I
did not notice the color of his eyes,
koritsi
" he said, flashing me
a wry look, "but yes, I remember the man you describe.
He wanted to use the telephone
there."
He gestured with his
chin at the large red phone on the counter.
"He is a friend of yours?"
I
shrugged and made a face.
His
mouth quirked in amusement.
"Ah, so that's the way of it, is it?
You two have a fight?"
"You
don't know what number he called, do you?" I asked.
He
shook his head apologetically.
"I'm sorry, no.
Why?
Are you afraid he was
calling a girlfriend?"
"Did
it sound like he was calling a girlfriend?"
He
hunched his shoulders and spread his hands.
"Who can say?
The person he called was not at home.
He tried a second time, but there was no answer, and
eventually he gave up and left."
He flashed me a rueful smile.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I'd better be going.
My wife will not be pleased if she
learns I am late because I was talking with a pretty girl."
"I'm
sorry to keep you, but can I ask one more favor?
That phone," I pointed to the one on the counter,
"is only for local calls, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"I need to call someone in Ioannina.
Do you have a phone I could use to make that call?
I'd be happy to pay you whatever you
think it will cost."
"It
is important?"
"Very
important," I said.
"Very
well.
Come with me, in the
back."
I
took me three phone calls before I reached the right office, but finally a
woman's voice answered with the words, "Department of Archeology,
Professor Kuriakou speaking."
"I'm
trying to reach Paul Stanathopoulos," I said quickly.
"I'm
sorry.
Dr. Stanathopoulos is away
on sabbatical.
Perhaps I can help
you?"
"I
hope so.
You see, I work with Dr.
Stanathopoulos's publisher --" I looked down at the book in my hand,
"-- Raytham & Sons.
I
have some papers to deliver to him, but I'm afraid I've misplaced his address
here on Corfu.
I'm here on
vacation, you see, so they kind of shoved this at me at the last minute.
Anyway, I thought of calling up the
office, but I'm new there, and I don't really want to admit I've been such a
scatterbrain.
I was hoping someone
at the University might be able to help."
"Of
course.
Actually, I have the
information right here.
Someone
else from your office called not too long ago.
Let's see.
Have
you a pencil?
There's no street
number, but the name of the house is
Alcinoos
, and the mailing address
is the village of Pagi. Pagi is on the west side of the island, by the way,
near Paleokastritsa.
The house is
a mile or two north of the village."
I
thanked her and asked about her other caller.
"Actually,
I didn't speak with him myself,” she said, “the secretary did, but I think he
must have been from your office as well.
He told her that he had some contracts for Paul to sign."
"I
see.
Well, thanks again."
"Say
hello to Paul from me," she called out cheerfully.
"I
will," I said, setting the receiver back in it's cradle.
"You've
had bad news?" asked the grocer when I returned to the front of the store.
"I'm
not sure," I said, reaching into my purse and pulling out my wallet.
"I'm afraid I made three calls
instead of one.
How much do I owe
you?"
He
shook his head and handed me a piece of paper.
"This is the name and address of my cousin in Los
Angeles.
When you return home just
drop by and tell him that I send my greetings."
When
I left the grocer's, the street was almost deserted.
Nearly all the shops were shuttered and closed, and the few
stragglers left strolling along the colonnaded walkways were tourists.
Still, I had a lot to think about as I
wound my way back to the Esplanade, so it took me some time to notice that I
was being followed by a short, dark-haired man in a white shirt and khaki
pants.
Belatedly, I realized he
must be one of Lieutenant Mavros's men.
I wondered if he'd been following me since I'd left
Ithaki
with
Geoffrey.
Under
other circumstances, it would have been reassuring to have a bodyguard in tow, but
right now I had to find some things out, and find them out fast, and if what I
suspected was true, the last thing I needed was a policeman along for the ride.
But
how to get rid of him?
There
weren't any open shops to duck into.
It was that time of day when only cafes and museums are open.
A cafe wouldn't serve my purpose, but
perhaps a museum would. I veered to the left, toward the Palace of St. Michael
and St. George.
Five minutes later
I was buying a ticket for the Museum of Oriental Art.