The Oracle

  ‘What are you saying, Norman?’

  ‘It’s reappeared, as I said. In a little town in the Peloponnesus, Skardamoula. And it’s for sale.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Half a million dollars.’

  ‘Who knows about it, besides you?’

  ‘No one, I think. Besides the sellers. I was informed about it directly. Three days ago. I work for a newspaper, the Tribune. But I’ve also been working as a consultant at a prominent auction house for four years, and I’m in charge of investigating archaeological pieces, even the clandestine stuff.’

  ‘Stolen.’

  ‘Right, sometimes the pieces are stolen,’ replied Norman with no apparent embarrassment.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s that vase and not something else?’

  Norman took a photograph from his briefcase and handed it to Michel. ‘It’s ours. Without a doubt.’

  ‘You’re right. Without a doubt. Who gave you this photo?’

  ‘I don’t know. A voice on the phone told me I’d find it under my windscreen wiper. It was a man’s voice, with a foreign accent. Greek, I’d say, almost certainly Greek.’

  ‘And he told you where the vase is?’

  ‘Yes. And he also told me how to get there.’

  ‘But . . . what good can I do? You can easily do it all on your own. Bring it back to England and sell it.’

  ‘You know I can’t buy it at the price they’re asking. Michel, that vase might take us to Pavlos Karamanlis . . . and help us find out the truth about Claudio and Heleni.’

  Michel put his cup down on the table, stood up and walked to the window. He remained there, still and silent. Out on the street, Saturday-night life was in full swing.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said abruptly. ‘Norman, you shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘But I’m here, Michel, and I’m waiting for an answer.’

  Michel returned to the table and picked up the abstract he’d found in his mail at the University. ‘It’s strange,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got that photo. And I got a sign as well. Both leading directly to that vase.’

  ‘Are you afraid of something?’

  ‘Yes, but I couldn’t tell you what.’

  ‘Well, what’s your decision?’

  ‘I’ll go with you. Just let me finish this exam session at the University.’

  ‘What was that sign you were talking about?’

  ‘This abstract.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘I’ve been studying it for weeks. It is a hypothesis regarding the rite for raising the dead described in the eleventh book of the Odyssey. And the hypothesis is closely connected to the scene represented on that vase. You know, for twenty-five centuries, Odysseus’s end has remained an unsolved mystery. Oh, I’m sorry, Norman, I wasn’t thinking . . . your father died such a short time ago.’

  ‘No. Please, go on.’

  ‘The key is in the second part of the prophecy of Tiresias. You remember the story: Odysseus is stranded on Circe’s island, and he asks her to foretell his destiny, but she’s not able to. Only the prophet Tiresias can reveal his fate, but Tiresias is dead. And so Odysseus is told he must cross the sea, reach the ocean and find a rock which marks the point at which the Acheron, the Cocytus and the Piriphlegeton – the three rivers of hell – flow together. There he will sacrifice a black ram and collect its blood in a sacred pit dug with his sword. The blood of the ram will attract the souls of the dead from Hades, Tiresias among them. Odysseus will be able to question him, after allowing him to drink the blood.’

  Norman walked to a shelf containing the Greek classics, and took out a version of the Odyssey.

  ‘The prophecy begins at line 119,’ said Michel.

  Norman looked for the passage and began to read, slowly:

  After you have dealt out death – in open

  combat or by stealth – to all the suitors,

  go overland on foot, and take an oar,

  until one day you come where men have lived

  with meat unsalted, never known the sea,

  nor seen seagoing ships, with crimson bows

  and oars that fledge light hulls for dipping flight.

  The spot will soon be plain to you, and I

  can tell you how: some passerby will say,

  ‘What winnowing fan is that upon your shoulder?’

  Halt, and implant your smooth oar in the turf

  and make fair sacrifice to Lord Poseidon:

  a ram, a bull, a great buck boar; turn back,

  and carry out pure hecatombs at home

  to all wide heaven’s lords, the undying gods,

  to each in order. Then a seaborne death

  soft as this hand of mist will come upon you

  when you are wearied out with old age,

  your country folk in blessed peace around you.

  And this shall be just as I foretell.

  ‘“Thànatos èx halò s”,’ repeated Michel. ‘“Death from the sea.” Ever since ancient times, it has been thought that these three words meant that Odysseus died at sea. Dante Alighieri – although he didn’t know the original Greek – imagined that Odysseus dared the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules, sinking to its depths with his ship before the mountain of Purgatory. Tennyson has him die in the middle of the Atlantic, sailing towards the New World. But the original expression in Greek can also be interpreted in a different way: not as “from”, but as “away from”, meaning that Odysseus would die far away from his natural element.’

  ‘The prophecy does talk about a journey inland.’

  ‘Exactly, towards a land where men live so far from the sea that they have never seen a ship and mistake an oar for a winnowing fan, a blade used to toss the threshed grain up into the air to separate it from the chaff.’

  ‘An odyssey over land, then, of which no trace has ever been found, is that what you’re saying?’ Norman looked for the notes at the end of the chapter. ‘This commentary says that the second part of the prophecy of Tiresias is the device used by the poet to patch up the hostility between Odysseus and the god Poseidon, whose son, the Cyclops, had been blinded by Odysseus. Homer could not conceive that a man would continue to challenge a god to the bitter end.’

  ‘You know, many scholars have considered the eleventh book of the Odyssey to be an afterthought, that is, added on at a later date, but now we have proof that this isn’t so: this vase is irrefutable evidence that this second Odyssey did exist, and that it is at least four hundred years older than the first written version of the poem. See what I mean? This is a Mycenaean vase, without a doubt, dating back to the twelfth century BC.’

  He opened a drawer, pulled out the drawings he’d made at the University and spread them out on the table, one by one. Norman was astonished: ‘Who did these drawings? My God, these are perfect, where did they come from?’

  ‘I did them. A while ago. The image of the vase sprang into my mind, so clear and well-defined that I drew it as if I had it in front of me.’

  ‘So you would have gone looking for it even without me.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been overwrought for weeks.’

  ‘Michel, I can tell that your mind is made up. Just what do you hope to achieve? A journey always has a purpose and a goal, remember? That’s what we always used to tell each other.’

  ‘I’m not sure. My goal has been constantly changing. My God, Norman, it’s like . . . I can’t even control my own emotions any more. First, it was pure ambition. I wanted to make the greatest discovery of the century – the last days of Odysseus – and to join my name to this incredible endeavour. But now . . . I don’t know. Maybe I want to find Karamanlis as well. I’m thirty-five; he’ll be nearly sixty. Time always gives you a second chance, if you are patient. Time has made me stronger, but it has pushed him closer to the edge – the natural turn of events, no? What about you, Norman? Is it just the truth that you’re seeking? Or is it the treasu
re hunt that entices you? If we go together, we have to be honest with one another. Time has passed and we have changed . . . we have to turn our cards up if we want to take off together.’

  ‘Okay. It’s not only about my father’s death. What happened back then has healed over inside me and I never thought I’d think about it again. But that photograph woke up a part of me that I thought was dead . . . the hate that I’d buried, the sadness, the dreams. Michel, I want to go back because I lost a part of myself ten years ago: I want to know who took it and why. And what’s left to me. There’s nothing that can stop me now.’

  Michel put the Odyssey back up on the shelf, carried the coffee cups to the sink and rinsed them out. ‘If we’re going back,’ he said, ‘and if it’s Pavlos Karamanlis who you want to see again, maybe I should tell you everything that happened to me that night . . . if you’re not too tired.’

  ‘No,’ Norman said. ‘That coffee you made was pretty strong. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us. And there are some things that I have to tell you as well.’

  MIREILLE WAS CURLED up in the seat of her car, watching Michel’s window. She could see him walking around the room, a dark shape against the light. His gestures were sharp, nervous; now it looked like he was bringing his hands to his face, back bent as if oppressed by pain or bitter memory.

  A young man wearing a studded leather jacket over his nude chest stopped near the car and tapped his knuckles against the window: ‘Hey, give me a ride, baby?’

  ‘Go get fucked,’ she said, turning the key in the ignition. She put the car into gear and stepped hard on the accelerator. The car flew through the carefree city, through the warm, sweetly scented countryside and towards the horizon, loaded with black clouds and streaked with lightning.

  NORMAN AND MICHEL talked at length and then fell silent, unmoving on their chairs, nearly catatonic, looking without seeing each other. Only thus could their long-dormant feelings return to the surface. And when Michel had said the last word and had got up to leave the room, Norman stopped him.

  ‘Michel.’

  ‘We’re tired. We have to go to bed.’

  ‘What is that vase? What do those figures mean?’

  ‘It’s the dark side of the Odyssey, the unknown voyage that we all have to make. The route goes up, at first, towards dreams and adventures, towards the flaming horizon. But then it descends towards dark mist and icy solitude, towards the shores of the final ocean, its cold waters black and still.’

  Norman pulled up the collar of his jacket as if a cold wind were suddenly breathing down his neck. ‘No, it’s just a vase, Michel,’ he said. ‘A stupendous Mycenaean vase of embossed gold. And we’ll find it.’

  9

  Parthenion, Arcadia, 15 July, 9.30 p.m.

  RETIRED POLICE OFFICER Petros Roussos was pedalling down the country road leading to his village, and the bicycle’s headlight cast a wide glow over the dusty sides of the road. Olive groves stretched out right and left; the century-old trunks were twisted and gnarled and their silvery foliage sparkled under the rays of the full moon. A hare froze for an instant on the lane, blinded by the headlight, then leapt aside lightly, disappearing into the maze of shadows streaking across the ground.

  He rode past a spring which flowed crystal clear from a little moss-covered cave, and crossed himself in front of the shrine of the Virgin Mary. Thousands of fireflies quivered like stars over a field of oats, a remnant of the heavens amidst the bushes.

  It was what he had always wanted: to retire to his hometown in Arcadia, far away from the confusion of the city, the noise, the suffocating grey air. To breathe in the fragrance of lemon and cedar blossoms and the scent of wild rosemary, to enjoy the simple cuisine of the shepherds and farmers, to care for the fields and the pastures that his old folks had left him before they passed on so long ago.

  And to forget all about the dirty work he had done for years. Everyone needed to make a living somehow, and certain jobs needed doing. There wasn’t much choice for a poor country boy if he didn’t want to starve. But, God willing, it was all over with. He’d been back for just six months, but he almost felt as though he had never left – except that so many friends of his childhood and youth were no longer around. Some had emigrated to America, some were dead, may their souls rest in peace, others had gone to the city. Thank goodness some had remained, like Yannis Kottàs. As boys they had brought the master’s flocks to pasture together for years, until they were called into the army. They had been stationed together as well, at Alexandroupolis, near the Turkish border. It had been wonderful to see him again, to look under the wrinkles and grey hair for traces of the boy he’d left so long ago, and to talk about old times. They saw each other often, every Thursday evening for a game of cards and a bottle of retsina.

  He crossed the provincial road, ringing his bell loudly, and continued along the lane, on a slight upgrade now, headed towards the other side of town. A few houses, lit by a couple of lamp-posts, and the church of Haghios Dimitrios on the hill, then he was there. Yannis Kottàs worked as a nightwatchman in the area’s only factory, which made blocks of ice for the isolated houses which didn’t have electrical power. He leaned his bike against the wall of the building and rang the bell twice so his friend would know it was him. He peered through the office window; the light was on but Yannis wasn’t there. He must be doing his rounds. The door was open and he walked in.

  ‘Yannis? Yannis, it’s me, Petros. Have you put our bottle on ice? It’s my turn to win tonight!’

  There was no answer. He went into the warehouse and called again loudly so his voice could be heard over the hum of the compressors. He looked all around, but there was no one to be seen.

  ‘Yannis, you in the john?’

  The lights went out suddenly, but the compressors continued to hum: ‘Yannis, what kind of a joke is this? You trying to scare me? Come on, turn the lights back on, stop fooling around.’

  Then the compressors went out as well, and the building was plunged into silence. The only sound to be heard was the odd car driving down the provincial road. One thing was sure – it wasn’t Yannis playing this trick on him; Yannis would never turn off the compressors. Roussos backed up towards the wall so no one could surprise him from behind and took the ice hook hanging from a rack. ‘Come and get me, smart guy,’ he said to himself, ‘I’ll teach you to play tricks.’

  ‘Petros! Petros Roussos!’ The voice boomed under the metal ceiling beams, sounding like thunder from the sky.

  ‘Okay,’ thought Roussos, ‘now we’ll see who’s talking.’ And in his mind he ran through all those episodes in which as a policeman he had created mortal enemies. Arrests, beatings, you name it. It must be one of them, someone with a grudge who had waited patiently until now. Who else?

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Where did you put the girl, Roussos? Heleni Kaloudis, where did you put her?’

  That’s what it was. So the joke was on him. Something that had happened ten years ago! Just now that he’d come home to enjoy his retirement.

  He flattened himself against the wall and gripped the ice hook in his hand. He realized that he might have only a few minutes to live. The voice resounded again, hard and cold, fractured into countless echoes by the cement walls. ‘Aren’t you the boatman of death? Roussos!’

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again. ‘Her father? Her brother? I’m a father, too . . . I can explain . . .’ His voice was cracking: his throat was dry and he was soaked with sweat.

  ‘I’m the one who’s come to settle up, Roussos!’

  The voice was coming from another direction, but no noise had been heard.

  ‘Then come and get me; I’m waiting. I’ll send you to hell!’ He advanced cautiously towards the voice, brandishing the ice hook, but a loud crash very close by paralysed him completely. All the lights switched back on abruptly, blinding him. A block of ice had fallen from above, exploding into a thousand splinters that glittered on the floor lik
e diamonds. He heard a sharp metallic click and then a roar of thunder: an avalanche of ice fell towards him, sweeping away everything it encountered. He turned, trying desperately to hide behind a pillar, but a block of ice hit him full force, hurling him against the wall and breaking his legs. In a last glimmer of consciousness he heard the rhythmic puff of the compressors as they were started up again, saw a shadow looming before him in the glare of the lights, and realized that his day of judgement had come.

  YANNIS KOTTÀS HAD gone into town to buy a couple of bottles at the tavern; he didn’t want his friend Petros to find him high and dry! He was walking back up towards the factory at a good pace. He was sure that there had been at least half a dozen bottles left, but he’d found the crate empty. Must have been the workers sampling his stuff, those sons of bitches. From now on, he’d put his stash under lock and key.

  He saw his friend’s bicycle leaning against the wall and called him: ‘Hey, Petros, you there? Have you been here long? I just ran over to the tavern, I was out of wine . . .’

  He took out his keys but saw the door standing ajar. He smelled a rat; he was sure he’d locked the door before leaving. Who could have opened it? Maybe they’d forced the lock. But where was Petros? He called him again, but got no answer.

  He went to his guard station and took a gun out of the table drawer. He made sure it was loaded and walked towards the compressor area. He opened the door and was nearly blinded: all the lights were on and illuminating a catastrophe. Blocks of ice everywhere, shelves overturned, drums of ammonia scattered here and there on the floor. A bloodstain in the corner had left a trail leading towards one of the deep-freeze chests. The wall of the container was stained with blood as well. He lifted the lid to look in and his knees buckled as he began to shiver uncontrollably. The gun fell from his hand as the lid banged back into place. He staggered backwards, eyes as wild as if he’d seen the devil in flesh and blood. ‘Oh, Mother of God,’ he muttered, ‘Oh, Holy Mother . . .’

  THE POLICE INSPECTOR didn’t arrive from the nearest station until around midnight, riding a scooter. Nearly all the men in town had already gathered around the ice factory. He found Petros Roussos’s corpse completely naked, encased in a block of ice. His heel was still caught in the ice hook used to drag him there, like a butchered animal.