It seems that God loves reporters of all kinds. Otherwise there’s no explaining how, every time that a story is about to fizzle out, manna falls from heaven and it rises again from its ashes. This time the manna went by the name of the Philip of Macedon National Greek Front and came to completely turn things on their head, without actually changing anything. Because this new line that certain nationalists had supposedly forced Favieros to commit suicide for the simple reason that he was employing workers from the Balkans and Third World countries in his factories and that he committed suicide in public in order to indulge their whims didn’t stand up even as the kind of cock-and-bull story told by aunt Lena, who, in any case, only had truck with good nationalists. On the other hand, however, it opened up a whole new ballgame for conjectures, theories and opinions and for all kinds of claptrap so that the news reporters would have plenty to discuss with the usual TV experts for the next ten days or so. This amazing combination where everything seems different, though nothing changes, can only be achieved by God and only with the help of Greeks.
The other thing that stuck in my mind was the name of the organisation. The Philip of Macedon National Greek Front. Where had I heard that name before? I racked my brains but I couldn’t for the life of me recall. And yet it kept echoing in my head.
The answer came with a phone call from Katerina, who was dying to discuss the developments in the Favieros case.
‘But do you seriously believe that they forced him to commit suicide?’ she asked.
‘It seems unlikely to me too, and yet the one sure thing is that Favieros committed suicide publicly. What we need to find out is why. There’s something we’re missing.’
‘I agree. Everything they’ve been saying and writing about his bad financial situation, about incurable illnesses and the like doesn’t have any basis in fact from what I can see.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘What then?’
‘Why would he commit suicide publicly? There’s no logical explanation for public suicide.’
‘So what are you saying then? That they told Favieros, who was on first-name terms with everyone in the government and even with the Prime Minister, to go to some TV channel and, in front of the camera, put a pistol in his mouth and blow his brains out?’
‘Don’t you find it strange that that’s exactly what he did?’
‘Of course, but I can’t believe he was made to do it by some puny little organisation like the Philip of Macedon National Greek Front.’
‘Have you heard of it?’ I asked surprised.
‘Come off it, Pops! They’re those cranks who every year celebrate the birth of Alexander the Great by blocking the traffic in the centre of Thessaloniki.’
That’s it, I said to myself, that’s who they are. I remembered how my colleagues in Thessaloniki raged and cursed each time because a mere handful of people created chaos in the city centre.
‘Tell me, Katerina, are we talking here about accessory before the fact?’
‘More like incitement to commit suicide, but who could you pin it on?’
‘The heads of the organisation.’
‘Some organisation!’ she said scornfully. ‘A dozen or so wackos and as many again who just go along to gawp. Do you know what the biggest gathering they ever managed was?’
‘No, what?’
‘When they turned up outside the Officer’s Club in Ethnikis Amynis Street to protest because at an academic conference someone had given a paper claiming that Philip II of Macedon was a homosexual and that he’d had a thing for Pausanius, his general.’
I laughed and hung up, but despite the laughter, my mind was working overtime. How could an organisation that only made an appearance once a year to cut a birthday cake for Alexander the Great force Favieros to commit suicide? Maybe because they threatened that they’d kill his whole family if he didn’t? So why didn’t he send his family to the Alps for an extended holiday?
All this led to the only conclusion that Favieros’s suicide was for other, still unknown, reasons and that the little group of nationalists had simply seized the opportunity for some free publicity. Perhaps this was the right explanation but it didn’t bring me even one step nearer to the reasons that led Favieros to his public suicide. And I would continue to torment myself with the ‘public’ aspect until some convincing explanation could be found.
I knew that all these thoughts were of no practical value, that it was just a crossword puzzle that I was creating for myself and trying to solve, yet I still preferred this a hundred times more to the crosswords in the newspapers that turned me into a nervous wreck at the first word.
The only way I was going to learn anything more was from the newspapers again. I decided to pop out to the kiosk and as I passed by the kitchen I saw Adriani stuffing tomatoes and peppers.
‘I could smell them even before you put them in the oven,’ I said to her jokingly.
‘All very well, but I’m warning you, they won’t be as tasty as usual because I’ve used very little onion. Don’t tell me afterwards that they’re not up to standard.’
She has had a complex about stuffed vegetables from the time that she was in competition with my mother and she trembles at the thought of not getting them right.
‘For a first step back to normality, it’s fine,’ I replied and she seemed relieved.
If someone were to ask me why, instead of turning right into Aroni Street, I turned left and from Nikiphoridis Street emerged into Formionos Street, I wouldn’t have been able to explain. Nor could I explain what was in my mind when I hailed a taxi and said to the driver: ‘Alexandras Avenue. Police Headquarters.’
Nevertheless, as soon as I got out of the taxi and crossed the road at the lights, my reflexes started to kick in. I decided to avoid making a stop on the third floor, where my own department was. I was in no mood to open my office door and see Yanoutsos lolling in my chair and reading the Trikala News. After thirty years in Athens, the only newspaper he reads is his village local.
The guard at the entrance was about to ask me for some identification, but my face was familiar to him and he hesitated.
‘Inspector Haritos, I’m on my way up to Security,’ I told him to help him out of his difficult situation. He was about to get to his feet, but I stopped him. ‘I’m on sick leave. There’s no need for formalities.’
The lift was playing its old tricks and I waited a full ten minutes before it did me the honour of opening its doors. I prayed I wouldn’t bump into my two assistants, Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis, and even more so into Yanoutsos. Fortunately, the lift raced up to the fifth floor.
I wish I’d had a camera to take Koula’s photo when she saw me. The barometer that tells you just how much a person likes you or not is to suddenly appear before them after a long illness or absence. It’s then that you can see on their face whether you bring with you high or low pressure. Koula’s face shone. She leapt up and shrieked with delight:
‘Inspector Haritos!’
She flung herself at me, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks so that neither would feel aggrieved. Koula had always shown a liking for me, though, being a suspicious copper, I had always thought that it was feigned. That day, I had to admit that I had been wrong. The way I saw her looking at me, blonde and beautiful and with a big smile, I reflected that if I had come sooner, most certainly she would have boosted my shattered morale with the help of her kisses.
‘You’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you!’ she said joyfully. ‘You can’t imagine how much I missed you!’
‘Maybe, but you never came once to the hospital to see me,’ I replied, like a lover complaining to his beloved that she doesn’t take enough care of him.
‘You’re right.’ She suddenly felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. ‘But, you know, we… We don’t know each other all that well and I couldn’t just turn up suddenly with your wife there… and your daughter… It would have gotten around and people here would have started talking…’
‘What do you mean, Koula. Who would have started talking?’
‘You know how rumours get started in here…’
‘Rumours about what?’
She nodded her head resignedly. ‘Ah, Inspector Haritos. You’re so innocent. You live on a different planet.’
I didn’t know whether I should be happy or curse myself.
‘Anyhow, you’re looking fine,’ she said to change the subject. ‘Healthy, strong, rejuvenated… When will you be back with us?’
‘I have another two months’ sick leave.’
‘I envy you. Make sure you make the most of it.’
‘Is he in? Can I say hello to him?’
‘But of course, I don’t have to announce you. You won’t be interrupting any important discussion.’
It was only on entering Ghikas’s office that I realised what Koula had meant. Ghikas was sitting at his desk, which was three yards in length with a curve in it and resembled a race course. Facing him, in the seat I usually sat in, was Yanoutsos. He was around forty-five, quite tall, but thin and sluggish, who was never out of uniform because in plain clothes he looked like a sewing-machine salesman. Serves me right, I should have gone by my assistants’ office first to find out where he was lurking.
‘Come on in,’ said Ghikas on seeing me. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I just dropped in to say hello.’
‘If you’ve started to miss us, you must be feeling better. Have a seat.’
Yanoutsos didn’t take the trouble to greet me, but simply looked at me with an expression that showed him to be both annoyed and worried. Those who show indifference will receive indifference, I said to myself and I fixed my eyes on Ghikas.
‘So how are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting bored,’ was my honest reply. Ghikas smiled.
‘You should take up whist,’ said Yanoutsos, in an attempt at humour.
‘I read the papers, go for walks, watch TV… that’s all you can do.’ My reply was directed to Ghikas. I had already written Yanoutsos off. ‘What about you here, how’s it going?’
‘Routine, you know how it is.’
‘Hasn’t Favieros’s suicide broken the routine?’ I replied, feigning innocence, to see how he would react, but he continued on the same wavelength.
‘A new lead-story for the TV channels.’
‘And what about this organisation that claims to have forced him to commit suicide?’
‘Hardly,’ Yanoutsos chipped in again. ‘If we’d taken such prattle seriously when I was in the Anti-terrorist Squad, we’d have been running all over the place.’
When you were in the Anti-terrorist Squad, you spent your time playing whist, was what I wanted to say, but I restrained myself so as not to rile Ghikas.
‘Another unknown caller phoned a newspaper today to say that the statement did not come from the Philip of Macedon organisation and that it was sheer provocation,’ said Ghikas gravely.
‘Nevertheless, something doesn’t fit.’
‘What?’
‘The public suicide. Why would Favieros commit suicide in front of the cameras?’
Ghikas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you looking for logic in someone who’s decided to put an end to his life?’
‘People like Favieros usually avoid the spotlights,’ I insisted. ‘They do everything discreetly. That’s why I’m surprised.’
‘Listen Haritos,’ said Yanoutsos, chipping in again. ‘We’re pleased to see that you’re well, but the Chief and I were in the middle of an extremely important departmental matter and you interrupted us.’
I didn’t have time to be taken aback by his nerve because Ghikas got to his feet, as if he had been waiting for his cue, and held out his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to see you well, Costas,’ he said. ‘Stop by again and we’ll have a chat.’
They want to get rid of me, I thought to myself. They can’t wait to see the back of me. I shook Ghikas’s hand, turned and walked out without saying a word.
‘How do you rate Yanoutsos?’ I asked Koula in order to calm down
‘He’s ill-mannered and always ready to pass the buck,’ was the immediate reply. ‘It’s not enough that he behaves like a boor, he’s always trying to hang all his mistakes, which are at least a dozen a day, on me.’
‘Be patient, Koula, it’s only two months, they’ll pass quickly.’
‘Amen to that!’ she said, laughing.
Despite Koula’s comments, my anger still hadn’t abated. I stood in Dimitsanas Street, in front of the church of Aghios Savvas, and waited for a taxi, but to find a taxi in the centre of Athens at two in the afternoon you have to have gone through special training. My schooling was only basic so other people grabbed the taxis from under my nose before I even had time to talk to the driver. After much ado I finally managed to grab one myself, I was ready to explode. The moment I sat in the front seat, I realised I’d chanced upon the rule rather than the exception, in other words, on the music-loving taxi driver who has his radio on constantly at full blast. My nerves gave way at the corner of Michalakopoulou and Spryrou Merkouri Streets, when a female voice started singing: We’re getting on so well, I’m starting to hear bells.
‘Shut the damn thing off and honk the horn so we can get through the traffic!’ I said to the driver.
He turned and looked at me with that arrogant expression that taxi drivers have. ‘Why, are you ill? You don’t look ill to me.’
I stuck my police ID in his face. ‘I’m a police inspector and I’m on official business. And your radio is interfering with my CB. Turn it off and honk the horn or I’ll hand you over to the first patrol car we meet and you’ll lose your licence for six months.’
He did exactly what I said without a second thought. He drove like a kamikaze pilot and within two minutes we were at the corner of Aristikleous Street. I asked him how much the fare was.
‘Never mind about it, Inspector. I’d rather you let me have your name,’ he said as though he were planning to invite me out. ‘You never know, it might come in handy some time.’
I flung three euros onto the seat and slammed the car door behind me.
‘Where have you been all this time, dear?’ Adriani asked, with a worried look.
‘Omonoia Square. I missed the illegal immigrants.’
She saw my expression and understood that it was useless to go on. ‘Let’s go and eat,’ she said.
As soon as I took the first bite of my plate of stuffed vegetables, I felt better and my anger evaporated as if by a miracle.
‘Tastes delicious, Adriani! That’s the best present you could have given me today,’ I said, full of enthusiasm.
‘Oh come on, you don’t have to lie. They’re short on onion, like I said.’
I took a second bite and held it in my mouth to allow my taste buds to do their work. There was so much we were short on, I wasn’t going to complain about the onion.