The Oracle (20 page)

‘Yeah, fine with me,’ answered Michel.

They sat at a little table and ordered fish, bread, wine and Greek salad with feta cheese. The man running the stand set out a sheet of newspaper as a tablecloth and put out dishes and silverware to keep it from blowing away, joined by a loaf of bread and a jug of retsina. He then brought two crisp mullets and a plate of salad. Norman poured a glass of wine for his friend and himself, and downed his in a single gulp, seemingly anxious to drive away his troubled thoughts. ‘Only way to drink retsina. Right down your throat, the only way. God, these flavours, these smells, I feel like I’ve never left. Come on, drink up.’

Michel took a long sip, half closing his eyes as if he were swallowing an elixir: ‘You’re right, Norman, by God, you’re right. It’s as if we were kids again.’

‘Remember the first time we met at Parga, when you gave us a lift in that Deux-Chevaux?’

‘Yeah, and we went to that tavern, Tàssos’s it was, right? And I got drunk for the first time in my life.’

‘On this wine.’

‘On retsina. And swore I’d never take another sip.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Norman raised his glass: ‘To those days, my friend.’

‘To those days,’ said Michel, raising his own. Then he lowered his head wordlessly, and Norman fell silent as well.

‘Did you love your father?’ asked Michel suddenly.

‘We never had much of a relationship. After I went back to England, I only saw him once or twice a year. At Christmas, you know? But that doesn’t mean anything . . .’

‘No, no, it doesn’t mean a thing . . .’

‘The only time I thought we might really get close was that time in Athens, when he offered to help me save Claudio and Heleni.’ Michel dropped his head. ‘What? Now you’re not going to get depressed on me, are you? We’re here on a treasure hunt, not to cry over the past. A big treasure hunt – you understand me, Michel? Come on, have another, for God’s sake.’ He filled his glass again.

Michel raised his head, eyes suddenly full of consternation and bewilderment. He pointed his finger at the table: ‘I know this guy, Norman! I know this man. I saw him, that night, in Athens, when they arrested me, when they got Claudio and Heleni . . .’ His voice quavered and his eyes shone with anger and emotion.

‘Michel, Michel, what are you saying? You never could hold a drink . . .’

Michel pushed his plate, glass and silverware over to Norman’s side, then lifted the newspaper on his side of the table and turned it towards his friend: ‘Look! Do you recognize him?’ Norman saw a photograph of what appeared to be a cadaver, eyes staring blindly. His bare chest was covered with blood and he had a sharp object stuck between his neck and collarbone. The headline said: ‘
MYSTERIOUS CRIME AT THE DIROU CAVES: AREOPOLIS POLICE SERGEANT KARAGHEORGHIS KILLED BY MANIAC
’.

Norman shook his head: ‘I’ve never seen him. Are you sure you know him?’

‘As God is my witness. He’s older, his hair is thinner and his moustache is grey, but I’m telling you it’s him. I saw him that night. It was him, along with another cop, who brought me to that cell for the interrogation, after they’d tortured me with the
falanga.
’

‘Well, that’s strange.’

‘Wait, let me read what it says.’ Michel rapidly skimmed the article, then let the newspaper drop on to the table and downed another glass of wine.

‘Hey, cut that out. You can’t hold that stuff.’

Michel leaned forward and took both of Norman’s hands into his own. Forehead to forehead, his eyes wide, he blurted out: ‘Claudio could still be alive.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘No, I’m not. Look at this: five weeks ago at Parthenion in Arcadia another policeman was killed, Petros Roussos. He was Karagheorghis’s colleague for fifteen years at central police headquarters in Athens. In other words, working directly with Karamanlis. And guess who they’ve sent to coordinate the investigation: Pavlos Karamanlis himself. He’s probably already in Areopolis; it’s just a few kilometres from here. They’re all tied in to that night at the Polytechnic.’

‘But what does Claudio have to do with it? I don’t understand about Claudio.’

A little girl with a tray of sweets approached them: ‘Mister, want to buy some
loukoumia
?’

‘No, sweetheart. Michel, listen to me. Claudio is dead. My father told me so when the story came out in the papers. He also told me that the business about them getting blown up was probably something the police made up to get rid of the two inopportune corpses without leaving a trace. Accept it.’

Michel continued to scan the newspaper. ‘Maybe it’s just a hunch, or maybe it’s something more. But I bet we’ll find out soon.’

‘Maybe.’

‘They found the same words next to the dead bodies of both Roussos and Karagheorghis: “She’s naked. She’s cold.” It’s a message, get it? It has to be a message, and if we can manage to figure it out we’ll know who the murderer is and why he killed them with such deliberate cruelty.’

Norman frowned: ‘A message . . . just like my father. But then it could be the same person. You think that Claudio has come back to kill his jailers, don’t you?’

‘You’re thinking that I’m still trying after all these years to rid myself of the guilt of having turned him in, don’t you? Say so! Go ahead and say so.’

‘But what you’re saying is crazy, can’t you understand? If there were a connection between these three crimes, what does my father have to do with it? My father tried to save them. He sent one of his men, a car . . . I was there, he tried to save them, I’m telling you.’

The owner of the stand craned to get a look at them, as did the people sitting at the tables nearby. Norman lowered his head and finished eating in silence, while Michel bit his lower lip, forcing back the tears springing to his eyes.

‘Your nerves are shot to hell,’ he said to Michel. ‘Eat. Fried fish tastes terrible cold.’

Skardamoula, 24 August, 10.30 p.m.

M
ICHEL KNOCKED ON
Norman’s door: ‘I’m going down to get the car out. I’ll wait for you downstairs.’

‘All right,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll be down in ten minutes.’

Michel drove the car out of the hotel’s garage and on to the street, parking under a street light. He switched off the engine. He took the abstract by Periklis Harvatis – ‘Hypothesis on the necromantic rite in the
Odyssey,
Book XI’ – out of his briefcase and started to read.

Harvatis’s hypothesis: Michel knew it by heart, having read it time and time again. The author held that the necromantic rite for raising the dead described in the eleventh book of the
Odyssey
– which Homer set at the ends of the earth on the shores of the Ocean – was the same rite used in Ephira for consulting the Oracle of the Dead. Ephira was in Epirus, right opposite the Ionian islands . . . opposite Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus. Actual excavations had shown that the oracle had been active since as early as the Mycenaean age, from the time of the Homeric heroes.

It had been a magical, dreadful site for centuries. The Acheron flowed into Ephira after having been joined by the Cocytus and the Piriphlegeton. The Stygian swamp was found in Ephira, and in the villages on the surrounding mountains the dead were still buried with a twenty-drachma silver coin in their mouths – the obol demanded by Charon, who ferried the dead souls into the underworld. Raw fava beans were still eaten in commemoration of the dead – time seemed to have stood still in Ephira.

And the eeriest episode of all antiquity had taken place right opposite Ephira, near the island of Paxos. The commander of a ship headed for Italy at the time of emperor Tiberius had heard the cry: ‘The great god Pan is dead!’ He had heard it distinctly, more than once, and he had heard a mournful chorus of laments from the forests which covered the island. News spread, and Emperor Tiberius himself demanded to speak with the ship’s commander to ask him about this mysterious event: the announcement that the pagan gods existed no more and that a new era had begun. It was the year, and perhaps the month and the day, of the death and resurrection of Christ . . . of Christ’s return from the underworld.

Ephira knew.

And the anguish-laden voice of a dying world shouted to the sky and to the sea: ‘The great god Pan is dead!’

Norman opened the passenger door and got in: ‘You still reading that stuff? You must know that booklet by heart.’

‘I do. And yet, you know, there’s something I still can’t understand. Harvatis’s study is pretty naive, at times even superficial, and yet it led to the most incredible of discoveries: the vase of Tiresias, the proof of a second Odyssey. I’m starting to think that maybe this isn’t the complete version of his studies. I think that something important – fundamental – is missing here.’

‘It’s possible. Maybe the conclusion was never published. Harvatis may never have had the time or the chance to gather all his notes and have them printed. Start the car – it’ll take us nearly an hour to get to our appointment.’

Michel turned the key and started the engine. The car crossed the nearly empty town square and headed south towards Cape Tenaros. The sky was clear and full of stars, but there was no moon and the road was dark and narrow between the mountains and the sea.

‘Norman.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s something there. At Ephira, I mean.’

Norman lit up a cigarette and took in a long draught of smoke. ‘The door to the underworld. There was an Oracle of the Dead in ancient times, wasn’t there?’

‘You can laugh about it if you want, but there must have been something about that place that gave people the idea they could bridge the gap with the other world. For nearly two thousand years.’

‘Well, sure, in Delphi they thought they could hear the voice of Apollo predicting the future . . .’

‘There’s a reason for that, as well. Did you know that it was directly off the shore of Ephira, during the age of Emperor Tiberius, that the Paxos incident occurred? Norman, it’s believed to have happened on the very day of Christ’s resurrection. Understand? A voice announcing the end of paganism and all the pagan gods, symbolized by the god Pan. And that voice came from Ephira . . .’

‘From the gates of hell. So what did I say?’

Michel seemed not to listen to the irony in Norman’s words. ‘And that vase, the vase of Tiresias, also comes from Ephira. That’s where Professor Harvatis found it, where it had once been immersed in the blood of so many victims. And now it’s reappeared near Dirou: and there’s another entrance to Hades in Dirou.

‘Norman, you remember that night at the Polytechnic? Ari Malidis told us that that vase had been discovered by Professor Harvatis, that he had died for that vase. He said he would explain later. Just what did Periklis Harvatis die of? I never saw Malidis again. The next morning they put me on a plane to France. I never saw him again.’

‘I know.’

‘Maybe we’ll find Malidis waiting for us today.’

‘Or Pavlos Karamanlis.’

‘Why?’

‘I was the one who told Karamanlis where the vase was.’ Michel jerked suddenly towards Norman. ‘Watch the road! You’re driving off the road! Look, that town down at the bottom of the gulf is Oitylos. We go straight from there to Pirgos Dirou, then we turn left towards the mountain.’

At the Oitylos exit there was a police roadblock. The officer leaned down towards the window and shone a torch inside. Michel felt his blood run cold: for a moment he was that boy in his Deux-Chevaux, scared to death, trying to explain to the police why he was speeding through Athens before dawn that morning, and why the back seat was stained with blood.

‘Your documents, please,’ said the policeman.

Norman realized how frightened Michel was. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder hard with his left hand and leaned over towards the police: ‘Right away,’ he said in Greek and handed over the car registration while Michel took out his licence. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘There was a crime the other night at the Dirou caves and we’re checking everyone and everything. Where are you headed?’

Norman hesitated.

‘Kharoudha,’ said Michel. ‘We have a boat down there and we’ve taken a couple of weeks off to go fishing. We wanted to see the caves, too, but they must be closed, after what’s happened.’

‘Oh no,’ said the policeman. ‘They’ll be opening again tomorrow. You can see them, no problem.’

‘Can we go now?’

‘Yes, certainly. But be careful – the criminal who committed this murder may still be in the area.’

‘Thanks for warning us, Officer,’ said Norman. ‘We’ll be careful.’

‘We said we were putting all our cards on the table,’ said Michel after they’d driven off. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Karamanlis?’

‘I wanted to force him into making a bargain: the vase for freeing Claudio and Heleni. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel—’

‘Even more humiliated.’

‘I didn’t think I should. But now, thinking about it, since we don’t know who we’ll be meeting, I thought that you . . . that we . . . should be ready for any possibility.’