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Authors: Petros Márkaris
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newspaper,’ and kept hold of the main section of the newspaper , which was no more than a dozen pages. I was quickly thumbing through it to find the report on the two Kurds, when I saw the waiter putting the sweet Greek coffee down in front of me and walking away in silence. He had brought it without even asking me.
‘Just a moment,’ I called out and he turned round. ‘How do you know that I don’t want an iced coffee today?’
He gave me a bored look and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who spends any more on Sundays,’ he said and went on his way.
I was ready to give him a mouthful, but my eye fell on a photograph of Frearion Street and a three-column article devoted to the murder. I started to read the article with relish, but after the first few lines I realised it was a rehash. Only the third column had anything new, and that was the names of the two Kurds: Kamak Talali and Masoud Fahar, who indeed had worked on the construction of the Olympic Village that was contracted to Favieros’s company. The only new information came from the rejuvenated Markidis, who confirmed what we had both suspected from the beginning: namely that the murderers had used knockout spray on the victims in order to execute them in their own good time.
I scanned quickly through the rest of the paper, but I could find nothing other than the usual screeds with analyses of foreign, domestic and financial policies. I left the exact money for the dishwater on the table and next to it the newspaper with all its accessories.
I leisurely walked up Aroni Street and tried to drive out my sinful thoughts concerning the two Kurds, Favieros and the Philip of Macedon Greek National Front. Besides, it was far more pleasant to think of Sunday lunch with Fanis, which had become established as a regular meeting of the ministerial cabinet, with the exception of those Sundays when he was on duty.
The door of the flat opened, leaving me with the key in my hand. Adriani, a worried look on her face, was standing in the doorway and blocking my way. Evidently she had been listening out for the lift so that she could rush and open the door for me.
‘What is it?’ I asked her, listening to the trembling sound of my voice, because my mind automatically imagined that something bad had happened. I thought perhaps something was wrong with Katerina and Fanis had come to tell us.
Instead of answering, she stepped out into the corridor, leaned towards me and whispered into my ear in an angry tone: ‘That insistence of yours not to want to have a mobile phone. My mother was right: those who wear blinkers become as stubborn as a mule.’
It was true that she had inherited that method of analysing character from her mother. According to my mother-in-law, a blinkered person was stubborn, a slant-eyed person was a dark horse, a large pointed nose signified someone stingy and miserly, while a hooked nose signified someone lecherous and insatiable. These were the character analyses that Adriani had inherited, even though her mother had no connection at all with Lombroso, whose work we studied in the criminology course.
‘What is it?’ I asked again and received a second shriek in the ear.
‘Go inside and you’ll see!’
I went into the sitting room and stood there, rooted to the spot. He was sitting in the armchair that formed a corner with the TV, but as soon as he saw me he leapt to his feet. We both stood there motionless staring at each other. He was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that Ghikas had ever come to my house. I continued to stare at him in astonishment, while trying to answer two questions together: what was the reason for this Sunday visit and what should I say to him by way of welcome. Should I confine myself to being formally polite, that would sound extremely cold, or should I break into raptures of fake enthusiasm?
In the end, I resorted to a neutral welcome.
‘Just a moment,’ I called out and he turned round. ‘How do you know that I don’t want an iced coffee today?’
He gave me a bored look and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who spends any more on Sundays,’ he said and went on his way.
I was ready to give him a mouthful, but my eye fell on a photograph of Frearion Street and a three-column article devoted to the murder. I started to read the article with relish, but after the first few lines I realised it was a rehash. Only the third column had anything new, and that was the names of the two Kurds: Kamak Talali and Masoud Fahar, who indeed had worked on the construction of the Olympic Village that was contracted to Favieros’s company. The only new information came from the rejuvenated Markidis, who confirmed what we had both suspected from the beginning: namely that the murderers had used knockout spray on the victims in order to execute them in their own good time.
I scanned quickly through the rest of the paper, but I could find nothing other than the usual screeds with analyses of foreign, domestic and financial policies. I left the exact money for the dishwater on the table and next to it the newspaper with all its accessories.
I leisurely walked up Aroni Street and tried to drive out my sinful thoughts concerning the two Kurds, Favieros and the Philip of Macedon Greek National Front. Besides, it was far more pleasant to think of Sunday lunch with Fanis, which had become established as a regular meeting of the ministerial cabinet, with the exception of those Sundays when he was on duty.
The door of the flat opened, leaving me with the key in my hand. Adriani, a worried look on her face, was standing in the doorway and blocking my way. Evidently she had been listening out for the lift so that she could rush and open the door for me.
‘What is it?’ I asked her, listening to the trembling sound of my voice, because my mind automatically imagined that something bad had happened. I thought perhaps something was wrong with Katerina and Fanis had come to tell us.
Instead of answering, she stepped out into the corridor, leaned towards me and whispered into my ear in an angry tone: ‘That insistence of yours not to want to have a mobile phone. My mother was right: those who wear blinkers become as stubborn as a mule.’
It was true that she had inherited that method of analysing character from her mother. According to my mother-in-law, a blinkered person was stubborn, a slant-eyed person was a dark horse, a large pointed nose signified someone stingy and miserly, while a hooked nose signified someone lecherous and insatiable. These were the character analyses that Adriani had inherited, even though her mother had no connection at all with Lombroso, whose work we studied in the criminology course.
‘What is it?’ I asked again and received a second shriek in the ear.
‘Go inside and you’ll see!’
I went into the sitting room and stood there, rooted to the spot. He was sitting in the armchair that formed a corner with the TV, but as soon as he saw me he leapt to his feet. We both stood there motionless staring at each other. He was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that Ghikas had ever come to my house. I continued to stare at him in astonishment, while trying to answer two questions together: what was the reason for this Sunday visit and what should I say to him by way of welcome. Should I confine myself to being formally polite, that would sound extremely cold, or should I break into raptures of fake enthusiasm?
In the end, I resorted to a neutral welcome.
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