Authors: Kerry Greenwood
Goss and I, and Jason, who had come in from the bakery, watched him in suspense. First there was the raising of the eyebrows, denoting astonishment. Then there was the gradual realisation that this was, indeed, a chocolate orgasm. There was the blissful consumption of the rest of the muffin. Finally he swallowed the last crumb and sipped some more coffee.
‘Yes,’ he said crisply. ‘You do make the best. I’ll send someone in every day for a dozen. Any flavour. Thank you,’ he said to Goss, handing her a twenty dollar note. ‘No, keep the change. Benson,’ he added as he went out. Evidently we should have known the name. ‘Stock exchange. A dozen. Every day.’
Goss fished in her own purse and found a ten. ‘Half for the muffin man,’ she said, handing it over to my apprentice. He laughed and stuffed the note into his pocket.
‘I’m cleaning up today,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Goss. That was nice of you,’ he added, and went back into the bakery in case I noticed that he had learned some manners.
Goss patted me. ‘See?’ she encouraged. ‘I told you. The nice people won’t want to eat that Best Fresh stuff. That was a really awful muffin.’
‘It was,’ I agreed. ‘I wonder how their rye bread turned out?’
Goss was interested in the story of the rye flour mix-up. She agreed with Mrs Dawson. I felt freshly vindicated.
Soon the lunch trade flooded in, seeking bread for their soup or something to take home to their starving families. We sold all the cakes and I yelled to Jason that he might think about some small cakes with his raspberry icing tomorrow. Which sent him out to buy some frozen raspberries before he got on with the cleaning and mopping.
Then another visitor arrived, a very tired Greek lady with a lot of shopping bags. She had been to several sales. I knew old Greek ladies and sales. My ribs still occasionally ached from their forcible use of their elbows in securing the towel or sheet on which they had set their Hellenic heart. They always got it, too, to the tune of small yelps of pain from the shoppers around them.
I came out from behind the counter to direct her to the loving arms, familiar food and comfortable chairs at Cafe Delicious when she passed me a bag and said, ‘For Mr Pandopoulos,’ and then staggered out in the direction of the cafe.
‘It’s getting weirder, like you said,’ commented Goss, putting the bag behind the counter. I took over so that she could collect herself some lunch as well, and when she came back she did not bring any more gifts from Greeks but just the usual village salad, my favourite food in the universe, and I went into the bakery to find a real fork to eat it with. Nothing is better than black olives, feta cheese, tomatoes, radishes and cucumbers in a lemon, oregano and olive oil dressing. You can just feel it doing you good. I crunched and slurped myself into an equable frame of mind.
By about two thirty business had dried up, and I sent Goss off to the bank with the takings. It’s my shop, so I can shut it when I like. I gathered the various offerings to strange Greeks and carried them upstairs, leaving Jason with the cleaning and Meroe’s recipe. Jason plugged himself into his iPod and went off into another world, and I carried Horatio up the stairs to my own apartment, as he intimated that he was too fatigued to climb.
I had missed Mrs Dawson’s Russian tea, but I made some of my own. I drank it on the balcony, where Trudi has planted some Corinna-proof plants which Horatio does not relish. He ate a few blades of the soft green grass which Trudi grows for all the Insula cats in their very own flat terracotta bowls, then lounged over to a sunbeam and lay down in it. Actually, was captured by it. I am sure that he meant to perch on the arm of my chair, which he likes to shred, but he never got there. The sunbeam ambushed him and he collapsed and fell asleep instantly.
I was dozing over my detective story, re-reading the Jade Forrester about Harry and whatever his name was—begins with S—and their unlikely love affair, when I was woken by a kiss. It was Daniel. He seemed tired and made himself a drink. Stronger than usual, too. It seemed only civil to join him. Then he noticed the basket from Mama Pandamus and the bag and the cling wrapped plate and said, ‘Is that all for Old Spiro?’
There was a silence. Then I chuckled and poured myself some more gin.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I should have known it had something to do with you, mystery man. Tell me, before I rupture a gusset. Who the hell is Old Spiro?’
‘He’s an old man who lives alone and I promised to go and see him this afternoon,’ said Daniel, an answer which wasn’t as full of information as I could have wished.
‘I see. So Mrs Pandamus sends him a basket of goodies and Yai Yai says that he is a prostitute.’
‘I think she meant another word,’ said Daniel gravely.
‘In all probability,’ I agreed. ‘Then Anna P comes in with a plate of goodies for Mrs Pappas,’ I went on.
‘Who is the lady who takes care of Old Spiro,’ Daniel informed me, and poured himself another drink. It was unusual for him to gulp, but he was gulping.
‘And the shirts and underwear delivered by the third Greek bearing gifts was for Old Spiro Pandopoulos,’ I guessed. He nodded. ‘And I do know, by the way, that
timeo Danaos et
4
5
dona ferentes
actually means “I fear the Greeks and especially those bearing gifts” because Professor Dion told me, but the conventional translation fits this situation better,’ I added.
Daniel leaned back and closed his eyes and it seemed a pity to disturb him so I let him sleep for almost an hour and read more of my Harry story before I got up, made coffee, and brought him some. He woke, rubbed a hand over his face, and accepted a cup.
‘So where are we going?’ I asked.
‘You don’t have to come,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t ask you to.’
‘But unless there is a reason why I should stay away, I am,’ I told him. ‘You don’t look like you are anticipating a pleasant encounter so at least I can take you to dinner and make you feel better.’
‘Oh, Corinna,’ he said, taking my hand.
And he didn’t say anything more but in half an hour Daniel, me and all the parcels were in Timbo’s car, on our way to Fitzroy.
Daniel had helped Timbo, an ex-getaway driver, to regain his licence when they let him out of jail, and he acts as Daniel’s wheel man. In size he is a smallish Sumo and in temperament a rather soppy labrador dog. I like him very much. He accepted the bag of leftover little gem cakes with which Jason was experimenting. He gave me a big smile and on Timbo a big smile is like one of those huge ones on a drive-in screen. That concluded the conversation and we went off to Fitzroy in a mood of gentle efficiency.
Timbo found the house and stopped.
‘About an hour,’ said Daniel. ‘If you go down Brunswick Street, the best ice cream is at Charmaine’s and the best hot chocolate is at Mario’s.’
‘Okay,’ said Timbo and the car slid away.
Daniel squared his shoulders and took up my parcels.
The house was small and old, one of those brick houses evidently designed by someone who hated tenants. The windows have looming stone brows which keep out the light and the steps up to the door are uneven and high. There was a light on in the hall and we rang the doorbell.
After a long interval the door opened a crack and a suspi
cious voice spoke in Greek. Daniel replied. The door creaked open.
That was strange, because what the voice had said was, ‘Go away.’
I don’t recall whether I have mentioned my only friend at that frightful girls’ school to which Grandma Chapman consigned me, once I had learned basic table manners and how to plait my own hair. Her name was Soula and she was Greek and desperately bullied and terribly unhappy, which made an instant bond between us. She had taken me home to her family at weekends sometimes and I had joined in the joyful Greek scrimmage known as ‘the kids’. It had been so nice. They had just accepted me and I had learned many things, like how to milk an uncooperative goat (it needs five children, one to milk and the other four holding a leg apiece) and that spinach can taste really good in spanakopita, rather than being the strange blackish stuff which curdled on our school plates and was universally loathed. Soula had gone off and married an Irish artist, of all things, and now raised paintings and children in a palatial villa just outside Florence. Her textiles are greatly valued and she is making a name for herself as a landscape gardener, and if you can do that in Italy, you are good. The thing I had never even thought of telling Daniel was that I spoke a little Greek, and understood a lot more. ‘
Fighe!
’ the old man had said, and that meant, ‘Go away!’
And yet he was letting us in. Odd. I followed Daniel inside and we were met by a gnarled old man, presumably Old Spiro. He was small and twisted and looked like he had probably been a mere slip of a lad when he greeted the Turks as they entered Salonika in 1754. He was completely bald and wore a great uncle’s hand-me-down blue suit, greasy and threadbare. He inspected Daniel narrowly, and then gave me an unpleasant once-over. His eyes went immediately to the basket and he reached out rude hands for it. This was a social solecism. He probably didn’t care about manners, having outlived them. I hung on to the basket so he had to lead us into his parlour.
It was stuffy and unused but clean. I put my basket down on a table draped in sugar-stiffened antimacassars and asked, ‘Mrs Pappas?’
In answer Old Spiro bashed on the adjoining wall with a shoe. A female voice shrieked something in response. Old Spiro did not speak or invite us to sit. Presently a middle-aged Greek woman came in through the back door, halted when she saw us, then hurried forward.
‘Mrs Pappas?’ I asked again. She nodded, breathless. I handed over the plate.
‘Mrs Pandamus sent these to you, and asked you to call her.’
‘That was kind,’ replied Mrs Pappas in English. ‘Come, come into the kitchen, leave the men to their talk. I make you lemonade, such a hot day.’
‘And coffee for them?’ I asked.
‘He’s not to have coffee, the doctor said,’ she replied. ‘He’s very old. My grandmother married his brother. His younger brother.’
‘I was also given these.’ I caught her up at the kitchen door. The kitchen was clean and shabby and looked comfortable. She inspected the shopping bag.
‘Good, his old ones are in rags. Kyria Elena always get them cheap enough so he’ll pay. He’s a mean old devil,’ sighed Mrs Pappas, opening the fridge and getting out ice and homemade lemonade syrup. ‘But the Devil looks after his own. There, sit here while I make up a tray and find the
glykos
. Would you like some?’
I have never turned down
glykos
, a confection made of candied citrus peel. This one was made of orange peel and was delightfully chewy. The lemonade was also excellent. By custom, having offered me refreshment which I had accepted, Mrs Pappas could now ask me what I was doing at Old Spiro’s house. She struggled to form the question. I saved her the trouble.
‘My friend Daniel wants to talk to him,’ I said. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s about.’
‘I hope it’s not trouble,’ she said. ‘I’ll take in the tray and if we sit here we can hear what it’s all about. I can’t give him coffee but maybe some ouzo. The doctor hasn’t got around to telling him he can’t have ouzo.’
She collected glasses and the bottle and the little dishes of
glykos
and went into the parlour, was not thanked by Old Spiro but got an ‘
eftharisto
’ from Daniel, and came out, not shutting the door. We could hear quite well.
Mrs Pappas might have been forty, but while the men were talking she aged twenty years in front of my eyes. I couldn’t understand all of the words, but she could, and even I caught the dreadful tone of the story from Daniel’s soft questions. Sometimes she whispered a translation.
They were talking about the German occupation of Thessaloniki, Salonika, where most of the Jews in Greece had lived since 1492 when that Columbus-loving King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella expelled them from Spain. A little later they had been driven from Portugal. With their sophistication and languages and capital and trading skills they had made Salonika the Mother of Israel and a very prosperous and beautiful place.
‘Then the Germans came,’ whispered Mrs Pappas. ‘They wanted the Jews. We gave them the Jews. Who needs Jews?
Christofonos
.’
I knew that word. Christ-killer. Until very recently all the Christians blamed the Jews for killing Christ, carefully forgetting that Christ was also a Jew. And that they were getting their information from only one side. The Polish Pope, who knew Jews personally, apologised. Soula had told me that most of the really anti-Semitic stuff had been left out of the Orthodox liturgy. Everyone was a bit embarrassed by the Holocaust. The hateful old voice was going on. Old Spiro was gloating and I wondered that Daniel could bear to be in the same room, or house, or country with him.
‘All of them. Mothers and fathers and little children. I saw them go. It was Commandant Mertens. He was very good at getting rid of them.’
Mrs Pappas fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Her translation dried up for a moment but I heard the words for ‘child’ and ‘mother’. And
nekros
, the word for ‘dead’. Daniel was talking, his accent soft and educated, his Greek too fast for me to even pick out words. Mrs Pappas abruptly shoved back her chair, got up, opened a vegetable bin, and brought out a bottle of whisky. She opened it with a twist of her strong wrists and spilled a lot into her lemonade. I followed suit.
Then I picked out more words. The word
Ebraois
, Jews, and the word
chrysafi
, meaning ‘gold’, also the names of jewels;
amethystos
,
thiamandes
,
rombeeni
,
zahfeeri
. Amethyst, diamond, ruby, sapphire. Mrs Pappas took a gulp and began translating again. ‘They were all gone at last. It took weeks. But they all went away to slaughter. I knew they were going to die because I was a friend of Max Mertens. I translated for him. He didn’t speak Greek. Oh, you old demon,’ she interpolated. ‘You old devil! How could you? Mothers and children! I curse you,’ said Mrs Pappas in a cold white undertone. ‘I curse you with the leprosy of Namaan, the sorrows of Job, the pangs of death, the noose of Judas, the whale of Jonah, the shivering of the dying, the horrors of Hell...’