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Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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him: ‘She didn’t say a word,’ he whispered. Karamanlis’s face twitched in a strange smirk, in grotesque contrast with his smooth, respectable countenance.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Weak. If we force our hand, she’ll buy it.’
‘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
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Weak. If we force our hand, she’ll buy it.’
‘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
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