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Authors: Petros Márkaris
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noticed?’ interrupted Yanoutsos. ‘I want to know.’
Markidis thought it superfluous to answer him. ‘If they’d shot them in the chest or the stomach or anywhere else, I’d say that they had surprised them and they hadn’t managed to resist,’ I said. ‘But the eye needs planning, preparation. Why didn’t they resist, but simply sat and let themselves be executed?’
‘Mafiosos. They knew them.’
‘Don’t keep on so much about Mafiosos, because you’ll be in for a nasty surprise,’ I told him and headed towards the door.
Markidis caught up with me at the steps. ‘So where did that idiot blow in from?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis would do better on their own.’
I preferred to make no reply, as I didn’t want to appear to be biased. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked him.
‘Spray. The kind used by petty thieves to knock people out in their homes so they can rob them. They found them sleeping, knocked them out with the spray and then shot them through the eye.’
‘Can you prove it?’
He reflected for a moment. ‘It depends on the composition of the product. If we’re lucky, there may be some traces in the urine.’
We were now outside in the street and I suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the glasses. Markidis looked as if he’d had an entire facelift.
‘You’ve changed completely,’ I said to him surprised. ‘You look ten years younger.’
A wide smile spread over his usually unsmiling face. ‘I wondered whether you’d notice.’
‘How could I not notice? It stands out a mile.’
‘I got divorced. I got divorced and I’m getting married again; to my secretary in the department.’
‘How long were you married?’ I asked him in amazement.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘And you got divorced?’
‘Naturally, she got to keep the three-bedroom flat that cost me a lifetime’s savings, but it was worth it.’ He suddenly came out with it. ‘I’ve started to live again, Haritos. I’ve been in a deep sleep all these years,’ he said, with the certainty of the person who is the last to find out.
Judging from his dress, he was right. Markidis, who had been going around for the last ten years in the same suit, was now wearing an olive-green jacket with a red stripe, black trousers, an orange shirt and a tie with futuristic designs that gleamed in the sun.
‘Does your wife-to-be choose your clothes for you?’ I asked, and at that same moment I realised that my mind was done with the running -in stage of convalescence and was ticking over normally again.
‘Shows, does it?’ he replied, full of pride. ‘Post-modern dress. That’s what Nitsa calls it. Latest word in fashion.’
Post-macabre would be a better description, just the job for the morgue. But I held my tongue and went to find Fanis.
8
The sweet Greek coffee at the neon cafeteria in Agiou Lazarou Square was like dishwater, the waiter was a sourpuss by conviction, yet, despite everything, I berthed there every morning with my paper. Maybe I’d been won over by the peace of the square, with its two old women and three unemployed Albanians on the benches; then again it might well have been the familiar Greek magnet that always attracts you to places that irritate you, so that afterwards you can happily curse your fate.
My usual table was taken by three lads who were all drinking iced coffee. I sat down two tables further away, in the shade, as the weather had suddenly turned unpleasantly hot, and I opened my Sunday convenience store. From inside the paper I took out: a magazine of general interest, a magazine for arts and culture, a fashion magazine, a TV guide, a crossword book, an advertisement for washing powder, an advertisement with a toothpaste sample, an advertisement for mouthwash and three coupons for interest-free monthly payments. I tossed them all into the plastic bag that my local kiosk owner always gives me with the comment ‘Careful, Inspector, don’t spill the
Markidis thought it superfluous to answer him. ‘If they’d shot them in the chest or the stomach or anywhere else, I’d say that they had surprised them and they hadn’t managed to resist,’ I said. ‘But the eye needs planning, preparation. Why didn’t they resist, but simply sat and let themselves be executed?’
‘Mafiosos. They knew them.’
‘Don’t keep on so much about Mafiosos, because you’ll be in for a nasty surprise,’ I told him and headed towards the door.
Markidis caught up with me at the steps. ‘So where did that idiot blow in from?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis would do better on their own.’
I preferred to make no reply, as I didn’t want to appear to be biased. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked him.
‘Spray. The kind used by petty thieves to knock people out in their homes so they can rob them. They found them sleeping, knocked them out with the spray and then shot them through the eye.’
‘Can you prove it?’
He reflected for a moment. ‘It depends on the composition of the product. If we’re lucky, there may be some traces in the urine.’
We were now outside in the street and I suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the glasses. Markidis looked as if he’d had an entire facelift.
‘You’ve changed completely,’ I said to him surprised. ‘You look ten years younger.’
A wide smile spread over his usually unsmiling face. ‘I wondered whether you’d notice.’
‘How could I not notice? It stands out a mile.’
‘I got divorced. I got divorced and I’m getting married again; to my secretary in the department.’
‘How long were you married?’ I asked him in amazement.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘And you got divorced?’
‘Naturally, she got to keep the three-bedroom flat that cost me a lifetime’s savings, but it was worth it.’ He suddenly came out with it. ‘I’ve started to live again, Haritos. I’ve been in a deep sleep all these years,’ he said, with the certainty of the person who is the last to find out.
Judging from his dress, he was right. Markidis, who had been going around for the last ten years in the same suit, was now wearing an olive-green jacket with a red stripe, black trousers, an orange shirt and a tie with futuristic designs that gleamed in the sun.
‘Does your wife-to-be choose your clothes for you?’ I asked, and at that same moment I realised that my mind was done with the running -in stage of convalescence and was ticking over normally again.
‘Shows, does it?’ he replied, full of pride. ‘Post-modern dress. That’s what Nitsa calls it. Latest word in fashion.’
Post-macabre would be a better description, just the job for the morgue. But I held my tongue and went to find Fanis.
8
The sweet Greek coffee at the neon cafeteria in Agiou Lazarou Square was like dishwater, the waiter was a sourpuss by conviction, yet, despite everything, I berthed there every morning with my paper. Maybe I’d been won over by the peace of the square, with its two old women and three unemployed Albanians on the benches; then again it might well have been the familiar Greek magnet that always attracts you to places that irritate you, so that afterwards you can happily curse your fate.
My usual table was taken by three lads who were all drinking iced coffee. I sat down two tables further away, in the shade, as the weather had suddenly turned unpleasantly hot, and I opened my Sunday convenience store. From inside the paper I took out: a magazine of general interest, a magazine for arts and culture, a fashion magazine, a TV guide, a crossword book, an advertisement for washing powder, an advertisement with a toothpaste sample, an advertisement for mouthwash and three coupons for interest-free monthly payments. I tossed them all into the plastic bag that my local kiosk owner always gives me with the comment ‘Careful, Inspector, don’t spill the
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