The Oracle

  ‘Silly. If you found me naked in your bed . . .’

  ‘Go home. Please. I’m . . . I’m about to consult the Oracle of the Dead and I don’t know . . . what the answer will be.’

  ‘No. I’m going to find you and pull you out of this.’

  ‘Mireille, I want you with me, but I’m at a point of no return. I can feel that something’s about to happen. Please go away.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Mireille. There’s a stain in my past, and I have to work my way out of it. Alone. Even if it’s the last thing I do. It’s something that causes me deep pain. And incredible shame. Something I have the right to keep to myself.’ Mireille fell silent, humiliated. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Michel. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. When I can explain it all, you’ll understand.’

  ‘Michel, strange things are happening on 17 Dionysìou Street. I think I’ve found the man who printed that study of Harvatis’s that you’re interested in.’

  Michel was speechless: ‘How could you know . . .’

  ‘I read some notes you left on your desk in Grenoble, and I’m following a good lead here in Athens. Are you still sure you don’t want to see me?’

  ‘Mireille, you are playing with fire. But if you want to come, come.’

  ‘I will, as soon as I’ve solved a little problem. I’ll call you soon. In the meantime, don’t worry about me. I know how to take care of myself. You’re the one I’m worried about. If something should happen to you, it wouldn’t be easy to find a stand-in . . . in my heart, Michel, in my mind, in my eyes . . . in my bed.’

  Mireille hung up without imagining that her conversation with Michel would be relayed to Captain Karamanlis in a few minutes’ time, right down to the smallest detail. She went to sit at her desk and started looking at the notes she’d taken from Michel’s papers in his study in Grenoble, piecing them together with the information she’d got in Athens. She realized that there were many odd elements in Norman and Michel’s trip to Greece, but she still couldn’t manage to get at the heart of the whole thing. If only she could get behind that shutter on Dionysiou Street . . .

  The doorman buzzed up: ‘A visitor for you in the lobby, miss.’ It was Mr Zolotas.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you!’ said Mireille.

  ‘So am I, miss.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. I looked up that licence plate. It’s registered to a leasing company whose general headquarters are in Beirut. They have a branch here in Athens, on Odòs Dimokritou, but that licence plate number comes out of Beirut. Here in Athens they have no idea who the car dealer or leaseholder is. As for the property registry, I hope to have an answer for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Zolotas. You’ve been wonderful. Can I offer you something to drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be good. They make excellent espresso here.’

  Mireille ordered coffee for her guest and a glass of water for herself.

  ‘How did it go with Karamanlis?’ asked Zolotas.

  ‘He really wants that licence plate number, but I didn’t give it to him. I did find out that, most probably, Professor Harvatis was carrying a very precious find with him that night, an ancient gold vase from Ephira. Karamanlis himself told me that it disappeared that same night without leaving a trace. I somehow have the impression that it was connected with Professor Harvatis’s death.’

  ‘That could be,’ nodded Zolotas. ‘That was an unfortunate night for many of us. Well, it’s a bit late, my dear. I think I’ll be going to bed. If you need me again, please call. I’d be delighted to help you.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Mireille. ‘Goodnight, Mr Zolotas.’

  Mireille went back to her room, turned on the radio, and sifted through all the papers she had on her desk. She’d put a photo of Michel on the mirror and she lifted her eyes to look at him. He felt like her guardian angel. The phone rang again: ‘Miss, I’m the waiter from Milos’s Bar: the black Mercedes is parked on Dionysìou Street.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mireille. ‘I’ll be right there. Please don’t let him out of your sight!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the waiter. ‘I’ll be here for at least a couple more hours.’

  Mireille looked out of the window: the sky was black and there wasn’t a star to be seen. It was windy and looked like rain. She pulled on the only heavy sweater she’d brought with her, threw her leather jacket over her shoulders and left.

  A minute later Pavlos Karamanlis learned from headquarters that Mireille was heading towards Dionysìou Street because someone had told her that a black Mercedes was parked there, probably the same one he was looking for. ‘Post two undercover cars at the beginning and end of the street to keep an eye on the vehicle without being seen. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  The waiter had cleared off the last two tables and served a couple of coffees when he went back to the window to check out the car. There was still someone sitting in the driver’s seat, he could make him out against the light. What was he doing in there all alone at eleven o’clock at night? The waiter noticed a big antenna on the roof and saw that the man was holding something to his ear. Could he be making a phone call?

  CLAUDIO SETTI’S VOICE crackled, distorted by electrical discharges over the line: a strong storm was brewing up somewhere. ‘Commander, it’s Claudio, can you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you. Where are you, son?’

  ‘Metsovon. I’ll be going to Preveza. Is our appointment at the Cimmerian promontory still on?’

  ‘It is. Although I can’t move from here yet.’

  ‘But I need to see you. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m in Athens. I’m calling from the car phone. Listen, you have to go see Ari in Ephira. Tell him he has to take the vase to the place we’ve agreed upon. He’ll get the usual signal by phone. Tell him that I thank him for everything he’s done for me. This is the last thing I will ever ask him. The last. And you be careful: there are people around who know you. Do you understand what I’m saying? Only go out at night, and after you’ve made sure there’s no one around.’

  ‘But Commander, why did you have me come here?’

  ‘I told you. People are gathering. You have to lure them away. Away to a place where there’s no one and nothing they can count on. Where no one will look for you afterwards. Are you up to it?’

  ‘Will you be here?’

  ‘I’ll be there, and everything will go fine. This is important, son, and it’s the last thing I’ll be asking of you. We’ll settle up with Karamanlis and the others, at the right place and time. I’ll explain everything to you once . . .’ his voice faded off.

  ‘Commander? Commander, I can’t hear you any longer. Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, son, but I have to leave you. There’s something suspicious going on here, I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘Are you in danger?’

  ‘It’s not easy to trap me, but someone’s trying. Please, do as I’ve asked.’

  ‘I will, but be careful. Are you sure you don’t need me? I can be in Athens in just three hours

  ‘No, I’ll get out of this one myself. Ari will give you the next appointment. I have to go now, I’ve got myself to worry about.’

  ‘As you wish. Let me know what happens.’

  MIREILLE DECIDED TO park at a distance so she wouldn’t be seen. She walked down the shadowy, tree-lined road which led to Dionysìou Street. Before crossing the intersection she stopped, having noticed a car which was just pulling over. A man got out and walked past the street corner, craning his neck towards the black Mercedes parked a couple of hundred metres further up the street. Other men materialized from the darkness to join him; he seemed to be giving them instructions.

  Mireille got closer, and as he turned his head she recognized him: it was Captain Karamanlis. She saw him take a radio receiver from his car and continue to give instructions: was he setting a trap for the man in the Mercedes?

  Mireille turned back, ran around the bl
ock to reach another side street that led into Dionysìou Street and found herself practically straight across the road from where the Mercedes was parked. She leaned forward and looked both to her right and to her left: she could see the men taking position; or at least, that’s what they seemed to be doing. She raised her eyes and could even see someone poised up on the roof.

  She thought of the man who had posed for that disturbing mask. His proud features and high forehead. She thought of Karamanlis’s hypocritical voice and cold hands, and her instinct told her which side she had to take. She’d run towards the Mercedes and drag him over to the side street she was on; there were a lot of low houses with terraces he could use to easily escape over the rooftops of the city. But as she was gathering her courage to do so, she saw two cars roar up on either side of the street, blocking it off completely. They screeched to a stop, and the men who vaulted out surrounded the Mercedes in no time. Mireille flattened herself against the shadowy wall.

  Karamanlis approached the driver’s side with a torch in hand and put out his hand to open the door, but pulled back angrily. There was no one in the car. It was completely empty. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘I saw him, you all saw him!’

  ‘You’re right, Captain,’ agreed one of the men, drawing closer. ‘We saw him too.’

  Karamanlis stepped away; he could practically hear that taunting voice from the shack up at Mount Peristeri: ‘What are you doing here, Captain Karamanlis?’ He was furious. ‘There must be some kind of trapdoor in this thing. Inspect the bottom, quickly.’

  One of the men stretched out on the ground under the car. ‘Right again, Captain,’ he said shortly. ‘There’s a slide-out panel on the floor of the passenger’s side, and there’s a manhole cover right underneath.’

  ‘Pull it off!’ ordered Karamanlis. They pushed the car a few metres up the road and the captain dropped down into the sewer hole, followed by a couple of his men. Mireille was watching everything, checking behind her every now and then to make sure no one was sneaking up on her. She could hear Karamanlis’s suffocated voice crying out: ‘Follow me, hurry! I can hear the sound of his footsteps!’

  It was cold and her hands were numb, yet her armpits and breasts were moist with perspiration. She tried to imagine what was happening underground, where the owner of the black Mercedes might be at that moment. Maybe his pursuers were already on his heels. Maybe he was wandering, out of breath and disoriented, under low, dripping vaults, putrid water and disgusting rats at his feet.

  ‘Check all the other manholes in the area!’ ordered the officer who had stayed behind with the car. ‘He won’t have any way out.’

  ARI HAD JUST finished his tour of inspection and was watching television. The evening news was commemorating the events that he had been a part of ten years earlier, showing the scenes of the assault on the Polytechnic. The smoke bombs, the screeching tanks, the shouted threats, an astynomia officer shooting at close range. But the commentator’s voice soothed over the old tragedy, filed it away, defused it so it seemed like so much ancient history.

  Old Ari felt inexplicably nervous, agitated. He got up often to go to the window. It was pitch-black outside and raining; the windows reflected the wavering images of the TV. The doorbell rang and Ari went to answer it:

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me, Ari, it’s Michel Charrier. Do you remember me?’

  Ari backed up in confusion. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said after a moment of bewilderment. ‘Oh yes, I remember, my boy. Come in, don’t stand there at the doorway, come in and sit down.’ He turned off the television and went to a cabinet, from which he took a bottle and a couple of glasses. Michel was wearing a raincoat and his hair was wet and tousled. He sat down and combed it through with nervous fingers.

  ‘Do you like Metaxa?’

  ‘You aren’t surprised to see me.’

  ‘At my age nothing surprises me.’

  ‘You’re not so old. You’re not even seventy.’

  ‘It feels more like a hundred. I’m tired, my boy, tired. But tell me then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  Michel appeared confused, ashamed. ‘Ari, it’s hard for me to find the words. We’ve never seen each other since . . . that awful night.’

  ‘No. Not since then.’

  ‘And don’t you want to know why?’

  ‘From the tone of your voice it must be a sad story, or one that is difficult to tell. You don’t owe me any explanation, my boy, I’m only an old custodian. I’ve retired to this quiet little corner to end my days. You don’t owe me any explanation at all.’

  He looked at Michel with clear, tranquil eyes. Michel fell silent, sipping his brandy, while the old man fingered a komboloi of fake amber, clicking the beads together in his hands.

  ‘I was taken away by the police, Ari . . .’

  ‘Please, I don’t want—’

  ‘They forced me to talk.’

  ‘What does it matter? It’s all finished now, part of the past . . .’

  ‘No. That’s not true. Claudio Setti is still alive, I’m certain of it. You must know something. I’ve been told that he’s been seen around here. Is that true, Ari?’

  Ari stood up and walked to the window. The soft sound of a flute and singing could be heard coming from town. He looked out into the darkness. ‘Someone is playing the flute at Tassos’s place . . . it’s a beautiful song, can you hear it? The music is lovely.’ The singing could be heard more clearly now, a melody without words, and Ari started singing it to himself, following the distant notes.

  Michel started: ‘It’s his song! It’s him singing somewhere in the night. This agony is going to kill me.’ He jumped up, went to the door and threw it open. ‘Where are you?’ he yelled. ‘You don’t want to sing with me any more? Where are you!’

  Ari put a hand on his shoulder: ‘It’s raining. You’re getting all wet, come back inside.’

  Michel swallowed the tears rising to his eyes and turned towards the old man. ‘Ari, in the name of God, listen to me. Norman and I have come back to Greece after all these years, after we’d nearly succeeded in forgetting everything, because someone spoke to us about that golden vase. Remember it? The golden vase you brought to Athens that night. That’s what’s lured us back here after so long. The vase disappeared that night. Only you could have taken it, so you must know why we’ve been called back here. First to the Peloponnesus and now to Epirus, through a series of messages, of clues . . . You are our only contact with that damned vase. You brought it to Athens and you took it away. Ari, it’s Claudio who wants us here, isn’t it? Ari, you were with us, you knew we were just kids – why were we touched by such a terrible destiny that night? Why us?’

  The old man looked at him with resigned compassion: ‘We are all touched by destiny, my boy. It’s difficult to pull back when our moment comes.’

  ‘Ari, for the love of God, if Claudio’s alive, tell me how I can talk to him . . . oh God, let me talk to him . . .’

  Ari had an absorbed expression and seemed to be listening to the distant music: ‘Oh, my boy . . . I don’t know whether he is dead or alive, but certainly there is no language that you could speak in that he would understand . . . Do you know what I mean? Do you?’

  The music was confused now by the sound of the rain. More distant, yet even more beautiful and tormented, pushed and pulled by the gusts of the western wind.

  ‘Ari. Help me find him. In the name of God, I beg of you.’

  Ari slid the komboloi beads through his fingers. When he opened his mouth, his gaze was intense and penetrating: ‘Go away, son. For heaven’s sake, go home and forget everything. Go away . . . far away. You’re still in time.’

  ‘I can’t. Tell me where to look for him.’

  The old man lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if to escape from Michel’s obsessive insistence. ‘Your friend . . . Norman – his name is Norman, isn’t it? Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s here in Ephira. He’s looking for him too
.’

  The old man stared at him with eyes full of melancholy, shiny with emotion: ‘This could have been a happy celebration. We could be here drinking a glass of retsina together and remembering old times . . .’

  Michel took his hands and leaned closer until they were face to face, his expression troubled: ‘Tell me . . . where . . . he is. Tell me now.’

  ‘Look for the crossing between life and death . . . if death is what you want, you’ll find him. At the pier at Canakkale, the day after tomorrow, just before midnight. Maybe you’ll see him there.’

  Michel’s face lit up: ‘I was right, then. Claudio is alive.’

  ‘Alive? Oh, my son . . . there are places . . . times . . . and people for whom the words “alive” or “dead” no longer have the meaning we are familiar with.’

  20

  Athens, Odòs Dionysìou, 10 November, 11 p.m.

  MIREILLE FELT FRUSTRATED and impotent and somehow to blame for what had happened: Karamanlis must have been there because of her. How else could he have known about it? Maybe it had been naive of her to trust Zolotas, or maybe the police were watching her. While she was pondering what could possibly have happened, she was startled to hear a barely perceptible creaking behind her, and the low yelping of a dog.

  There was an enclosure wall just a few metres away, behind which she could see an external stair leading from a little door on the second floor of a modest building. A man wrapped in a dark coat, wearing a hat, was just coming out of that door. A big, dark-haired dog was greeting him joyfully and wagging his tail. The man closed the door, touched the rain gutter above with his right hand and bent down to pet the dog who was rubbing against him. He went down the stairs and disappeared from her sight, but Mireille thought she could hear him talking softly to the dog, who was whimpering in response to his owner’s affectionate voice.

  A minute later, the little door which opened on to the street from the courtyard opened and the man walked off in the opposite direction. Mireille, hidden behind the wall, watched him walk, neither quickly nor slowly, with long, even strides, his hands in his pockets. She suddenly had a keen sensation of having seen that walk before, that way of holding his head so erect: it was him! The man from the black Mercedes, the man who had posed for that mysterious sculpture, that stone face with its closed eyes.