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Authors: Alan Furst
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figured it out, sensed it, before he did. Zannis must have dozed because, just after dawn, she growled, a subdued, speculative sort of growl --what's this? And Zannis woke up.
"Melissa? What goes on?"
She stood at the window, out there , turned her head and stared at him as he unwound himself from the snarled bedding. What had caught her attention, he realized, were voices, coming from below, on Santaroza Lane. Agitated, fearful voices. Somebody across the street had a window open and a radio on. It wasn't music--Zannis couldn't make out the words but he could hear the tone of voice, pitched low and grim.
He opened the window. One of the ladies who sat in a kitchen chair on sunny days was standing in the street, her black shawl pulled tight around her head and shoulders, gesticulating with her hands as she talked to a neighbor.
Zannis leaned out the window, called her by name, and said, "What's going on?"
She looked up at him. "The Italians," she said. "They've invaded us."
Poor Mussolini.
Such a puffed-up, strutting horse's ass. Not a man to be ignored, the way he saw it. And surely he had been ignored. Left standing there, shouting slogans from the balcony, thrusting his chubby fist in the air, while that sneaky Hitler conquered the world. Took Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Norway, and Denmark. Now that was an empire!
And Mussolini? And his new Roman Empire? What glory had it won? Not much. Occupied Albania, publicly scorned as "a handful of rocks." And Ethiopia. What would you call that, a handful of mud? And Libya, a handful of sand? And oh yes, not to forget that when Hitler invaded France, Mussolini rushed in ten days later and took ... Nice! So now the doorman at the Negresco would have to bow down to the might of Rome.
Ha-ha!
Said the world. But the worst thing you can do to a dictator is laugh at him--that's contempt, not awe, and it made Mussolini mad. Well, he'd show the world, he'd take Greece. So there, still laughing? And he didn't tell Hitler about it, he didn't ask permission, he just went ahead and did it. And when Hitler heard the news, as dawn broke on the twenty-eighth of October, he was reportedly enraged. Known to be a teppichfresser , a carpet chewer, he'd likely gone down on his knees, once he was alone, and given his favorite rug a good thorough grinding.
Zannis got the details on his way to work, from headlines on the newspaper kiosks, from the newspaper he bought--which he read while walking--and from people in the street. Greece was at war, everybody was talking to everybody, there were no strangers that day. Least of all the soldiers, reservists called to duty, hundreds of them, many accompanied by wives and children so they could say good-bye at the railway station. And not a soul abroad that morning didn't stop to wish them well.
"Be careful, my child."
"Remember, keep your head down!"
"You give them a good kick in the ass for me, and don't forget!"
"So maybe you need a little extra money? A few drachmas?"
"Here, have a cigarette. I see you're smoking, take it anyhow, for later."
"Good luck, take care of yourself."
This from Zannis, looking up from his newspaper. He might well be joining them, he thought, before the day was done. In 1934, when he'd become a detective, he had automatically been assigned to a General Staff reserve unit in Salonika. If Greece went to war, the army could call up however many detective-grade officers it required because, in a small country, every male below the age of sixty had to be available to serve.
According to the paper, there had been a grand dinner party the night before, in Athens. Count Grazzi, the Italian ambassador, had invited the most important people in the city, including General Metaxas. Seated beneath the crossed flags of Italy and Greece, the guests drank "to our eternal friendship for Greece," Count Grazzi himself having stood to propose the toast. Eventually, they all went home. But then, at
"Melissa? What goes on?"
She stood at the window, out there , turned her head and stared at him as he unwound himself from the snarled bedding. What had caught her attention, he realized, were voices, coming from below, on Santaroza Lane. Agitated, fearful voices. Somebody across the street had a window open and a radio on. It wasn't music--Zannis couldn't make out the words but he could hear the tone of voice, pitched low and grim.
He opened the window. One of the ladies who sat in a kitchen chair on sunny days was standing in the street, her black shawl pulled tight around her head and shoulders, gesticulating with her hands as she talked to a neighbor.
Zannis leaned out the window, called her by name, and said, "What's going on?"
She looked up at him. "The Italians," she said. "They've invaded us."
Poor Mussolini.
Such a puffed-up, strutting horse's ass. Not a man to be ignored, the way he saw it. And surely he had been ignored. Left standing there, shouting slogans from the balcony, thrusting his chubby fist in the air, while that sneaky Hitler conquered the world. Took Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Norway, and Denmark. Now that was an empire!
And Mussolini? And his new Roman Empire? What glory had it won? Not much. Occupied Albania, publicly scorned as "a handful of rocks." And Ethiopia. What would you call that, a handful of mud? And Libya, a handful of sand? And oh yes, not to forget that when Hitler invaded France, Mussolini rushed in ten days later and took ... Nice! So now the doorman at the Negresco would have to bow down to the might of Rome.
Ha-ha!
Said the world. But the worst thing you can do to a dictator is laugh at him--that's contempt, not awe, and it made Mussolini mad. Well, he'd show the world, he'd take Greece. So there, still laughing? And he didn't tell Hitler about it, he didn't ask permission, he just went ahead and did it. And when Hitler heard the news, as dawn broke on the twenty-eighth of October, he was reportedly enraged. Known to be a teppichfresser , a carpet chewer, he'd likely gone down on his knees, once he was alone, and given his favorite rug a good thorough grinding.
Zannis got the details on his way to work, from headlines on the newspaper kiosks, from the newspaper he bought--which he read while walking--and from people in the street. Greece was at war, everybody was talking to everybody, there were no strangers that day. Least of all the soldiers, reservists called to duty, hundreds of them, many accompanied by wives and children so they could say good-bye at the railway station. And not a soul abroad that morning didn't stop to wish them well.
"Be careful, my child."
"Remember, keep your head down!"
"You give them a good kick in the ass for me, and don't forget!"
"So maybe you need a little extra money? A few drachmas?"
"Here, have a cigarette. I see you're smoking, take it anyhow, for later."
"Good luck, take care of yourself."
This from Zannis, looking up from his newspaper. He might well be joining them, he thought, before the day was done. In 1934, when he'd become a detective, he had automatically been assigned to a General Staff reserve unit in Salonika. If Greece went to war, the army could call up however many detective-grade officers it required because, in a small country, every male below the age of sixty had to be available to serve.
According to the paper, there had been a grand dinner party the night before, in Athens. Count Grazzi, the Italian ambassador, had invited the most important people in the city, including General Metaxas. Seated beneath the crossed flags of Italy and Greece, the guests drank "to our eternal friendship for Greece," Count Grazzi himself having stood to propose the toast. Eventually, they all went home. But then, at
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