The Oracle (8 page)

‘None of my concern. Make her talk. We’ll get this one talking too. Has the Englishman arrived?’

‘Yes, but there’s not much to tell him yet.’

Claudio had come a step closer and was trying to figure out what was happening. Karamanlis took pleasure in his anguished expression. ‘Your friend’s not talking,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you’re wondering. But she will, I can guarantee it. I’ve called in just the right person to make your girlfriend talk . . . and you too. Sergeant Vlassos.’ The officer gave a little giggle. ‘Sergeant Vlassos is a charmer, especially with the ladies. You know what his colleagues call him? They call him
O Chìros,
the pig.’

Claudio started screaming and seized the chair, hurling it forward, but the door had already closed behind Captain Karamanlis and the chair crashed loudly against the iron.

A
RI ENDED HIS
shift at the museum at 2 p.m. He had gone to the director that morning to report the sudden death of Professor Harvatis and to turn in his keys. The director hadn’t asked any questions because Harvatis had been on the staff at Antiquities and wasn’t his direct responsibility. Ari had for years had a state transfer to the Ephira excavation site for a couple of months every summer, after which he’d return to his regular custodian’s job at the museum. It was all perfectly normal. But Ari didn’t breathe a word about the gold vase hidden in the basement or the letter he had in his pocket.

He went into a tavern and ordered something to eat. As he was waiting, he tried to think things through, to decide what to do next. Who should he contact? Who could he ask for advice? What should he do with the letter? He took it from his inside jacket pocket and turned it over in his hands. The waiter brought a little carafe of the house retsina and Ari sipped at his glass without taking his eyes off the wrinkled envelope on the table. He picked up a knife to slit it open and see what the letter said, but then thought better of it: he’d promised the old professor before he died that he’d deliver it to the address written on the envelope.

He’d have to go back to Dionysìou Street, to that printer’s. He’d surely find someone there. He was foolish to have let that man frighten him; it could have been anyone, one of those derelicts who wander around all night with nothing better to do. Everything looks different during the day, but at night an encounter like that would have scared the wits out of anyone.

The waiter brought some chicken and rice and a plate of salad with cheese and Ari started to eat hungrily: he hadn’t eaten anything for at least twelve hours. He thought of the boys hiding in the museum, and of the girl. Had they managed to save her?

The waiter returned with another little carafe of wine.

‘I didn’t order any more wine,’ protested Ari.

The waiter put the carafe down and pointed to a man sitting near the door: ‘It’s on him.’

Ari turned slowly and felt his blood run cold: it was him, no doubt about it, the man who had spoken to him on Dionysìou Street. He couldn’t see his face, but he had on the same dark coat and the same wide-brimmed hat worn low over his eyes.

He was smoking and had a glass of wine on the table in front of him.

Ari put the letter in his pocket, picked up the carafe with one hand and his glass with the other and went to the stranger’s table. He put them down.

‘I can’t accept anything from someone I don’t know. How did you find me? What do you want from me?’

The man lifted his head and held out his hand.

‘The letter. The letter addressed to Stàvros Kouras.’

His eyes were light-coloured, a soft blue, darker at the edges, like ice on a chilly winter’s morning. His black hair and beard were streaked with white, his dark skin furrowed by deep wrinkles. He looked to be about fifty, more or less.

‘But you aren’t Stàvros Kouras,’ said Ari uncertainly.

‘Sit down,’ said the man, as if giving an order which could not be disobeyed. Ari did, and the man took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to waste. Stàvros Kouras doesn’t exist; it’s only a name. That letter was written by Periklis Harvatis, wasn’t it?’

Ari felt a knot in his throat. ‘Periklis Harvatis is dead,’ he said.

The man fell silent for a few moments, without betraying any emotion.

‘Was he your friend? Did you know him?’ insisted Ari.

The man lowered his gaze: ‘We were working on a project together . . . an important project. That’s why you absolutely have to give me that letter. I must read it.’

Ari took it out of his pocket and looked deeply into the stranger’s eyes. ‘But who are you?’ It was difficult to meet his gaze for any length of time.

‘I’m the man that letter is meant for. If that weren’t the case, why would you have found me at that address, at that very moment? And how would I know who had written it? Give it to me. It’s the one thing you have left to do.’ He spoke as if saying obvious, unquestionable truths. Ari held it out. The man took it, practically tearing it from him. He opened it, ripping the envelope, and read it rapidly. Ari watched his forehead under the brim of the hat. Not a quiver. No emotion, smooth as stone.

‘Harvatis brought something with him. You know what I’m speaking about. Where is it?’

‘Locked up, in the basement of the National Archaeological Museum.’

‘Did you . . . see it?’

‘Yes.’

‘No one else?’

Ari felt embarrassed, as if he had to justify his actions to this man whose name he didn’t even know.

‘A few young people saw it . . . university students who . . .’ The man stiffened, and a flash of rage darkened his features. ‘Oh, mother of God, you know what happened last night, don’t you? You were out, I saw you. They were students escaping from the Polytechnic. There was a girl, she was wounded . . . I know them, nearly all of them. They’re students from the foreign archaeology schools. What else could I do? The storehouse in the basement was the only safe place. Then what happened was that . . .’

‘Where are they now?’

‘I don’t know. I gave them an address of a doctor who was willing to treat the girl without reporting her to the police. I don’t know anything else, I haven’t heard from them.’

‘Then the police have them. They’ve surely been caught.’ He got up, leaving a twenty-drachma coin on the table. ‘Who are they? Tell me who they are.’

‘Why, what do you want to do?’

‘If you don’t tell me who they are, they have no hope.’

‘The one I know best is Michel Charrier, a boy studying at the French school of archaeology. The other two are called Claudio Setti and Norman . . . something. The wounded girl’s name is Heleni Kaloudis. That’s all I know.’

The man nodded and walked towards the exit.

‘Wait, tell me your name at least, how can I get in touch with you again? . . .’ Ari followed him, pushing at the glass door that had already closed behind him, and walked out onto the pavement. The trucks passing were full of soldiers and screaming sirens tore through every corner of the city.

The man had disappeared.

Athens, police headquarters, 18 November, 7.30 a.m.

S
ERGEANT
V
LASSOS WALKED
up the hall with short, rapid steps, sticking the toe of his foot forward and moving his small, fat hands rhythmically over his hips. He was heavy and thickset and his shirt looked as if it was about to tear over the huge, hard belly which protruded well over his belt. He wore his hair very short to disguise his incipient baldness, but he always had a two-day-old beard, black and stiff on his milk-white skin. His eyes were light in colour and watery, pacific, the eyes of a clerk. Ferocious and cowardly at the same time, faithful as a dog and deferential to his superiors, he was capable of savage atrocity as long as he was guaranteed impunity.

There was this little whore who’d had a good time with the boys at the University for days on end. Now she didn’t want to collaborate. That little bitch on the radio who spat out all kinds of poison and insults against the police. And now she was refusing to answer the questions they were putting to her.

‘This is a job for you,’ the chief had said. ‘Vlassos, you take care of it: this baby is all for you, do whatever you want with her. Got my message, old friend? Anything you have to . . .’ and the chief had smiled in that way that meant, ‘You know what I mean, don’t you, buddy?’

And Vlassos had answered: ‘You can count on me, Chief, I know how to handle these things.’

‘That’s what I wanted to hear. We’ll see if your . . . bedside manner is sufficient to get her to see things our way. Otherwise we’ll just have to repeat the treatment until she becomes more reasonable. It’s not a problem for you to repeat the treatment if necessary . . .’

And Vlassos snickered: ‘Oh, no, no, not a problem for me . . .’

H
ELENI WAS LYING
on an iron bed, drowsy with weakness and exhausted by her anaemia, but she lifted her head and tried to get up on her elbows when the door opened and Sergeant Vlassos’s corpulent figure filled the doorway.

‘Now I’ll get you to talk, you little whore, I’ll get you talking

Heleni begged him through her tears: ‘For the love of God . . .’ she said with a faint voice, ‘please . . . don’t hurt me.’

‘Shut up!’ yelled Vlassos. ‘I know what I have to do.’ He lifted his hand and slapped her face with all his might. Behind the door, Karamanlis was watching everything through a oneway window: behind him a man with a taut face, evidently upset, drew back into the shadows of the corridor so as not to see.

‘We’ll find out everything we want to know now,’ Karamanlis said without turning around. ‘And if she doesn’t talk, he will, I can guarantee it, mister.’

‘Your methods are disgraceful and you are a sod, Karamanlis,’ said the foreigner. ‘I wish you’d drop dead.’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite. Your friends are as interested as I am in knowing what’s behind this story, who’s manoeuvring these fools. We’re lucky to have caught so many of them, and they’ll give us all the information we need. You just let me work and don’t break my balls.’

Claudio arrived at that moment, dragged down the hall by a policeman. Karamanlis made a gesture and the man pushed Claudio against the door with his face up against the window. Claudio saw Vlassos violently slapping Heleni’s face again. He turned, screaming, towards Karamanlis, but the man holding him twisted his arm to the point of breaking it. Claudio fell to his knees but never stopped shouting and insulting the officer: ‘Coward, bastard, your mother fucked a Turk! Goddamned fucking murderer!’

Karamanlis paled, took him by the shoulders and lifted him back up to window level, smashing his face against the glass. ‘See, look at that, you’ll talk now, you’ll tell us everything you know, won’t you? You’ll quit playing the smart guy, won’t you?’

Claudio was paralysed with horror: Heleni lay there motionless, unconscious. But hitting the girl had obviously excited Vlassos, and he was unzipping his pants, displaying the hairy obscenity of his groin. He lifted Heleni’s skirt, tore off her underwear and mounted her, sweat-soaked, panting and groaning.

Claudio felt something break inside him, shatter like a sheet of ice smashed by a hammer. ‘There’s nothing to say!’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing to tell! Stop him, for God’s sake, stop him! Stop him!’ He twisted free, swiftly pulled his arm back and dealt a lightning-quick blow to the cop who had been holding him, devastating his face. The man fell back, moaning, covering his smashed nose and broken jaw with his hands. Claudio pounded against the door like a battering ram and would have crushed himself against the armour-plating had another two policemen not lunged at him and blanketed his face and body with wild, violent blows, immobilizing him on the ground. One of them pinned his knee on Claudio’s chest and held both hands around his neck.

Karamanlis, white as a rag, ordered them to get him back up and make him watch, but the man behind him intervened: ‘Stop that animal, Karamanlis. Stop him, for God’s sake, can’t you see that she’s dead? Christ, he’s killed her, that damned bastard. Stop him or you’ll have hell to pay for this.’

Heleni’s body shook under his last thrusts like the disjointed body of a rag doll; her eyes rolled up whitely.

Karamanlis opened his mouth and called Vlassos, to no effect. It took two men to pull him off Heleni’s corpse.

The man standing in the shadows could no longer hold back and approached Karamanlis: ‘Idiot, now you’ll have to kill the boy too, after what he’s seen. Great results, you idiot, you piece of shit. And yet you’re a citizen of an allied country, you goddamned imbecile.’

Claudio was about to lose his senses; his left eye a mere slit in his swollen cheek. It was winking with tiny, dry movements, seemingly automatic, but each time he blinked, his eye captured a face and branded it in his memory: Captain Karamanlis, officers Roussos and Karagheorghis, the man with the English accent illuminated by the fluorescent tube on the ceiling . . . and Vlassos. He never saw him leave the room, but as his mind sank into unconsciousness, his nostrils were filled with the sharp, nauseating odour of rape.

Karamanlis, who had been tense but impassive, suddenly seemed exhausted. His face was lumpy and wrinkled, his forehead beaded with sweat. ‘Take him away,’ he ordered. ‘As soon as it’s dark, take him out of the city and get rid of him. Don’t leave a trace, or you’ll be in the worst trouble you’ve ever imagined. You can bury her in the same place,’ he added, indicating Heleni’s body, which had been repositioned on the bed.