R Raichev - The hunt for Sonya Dufrette

Greek Orthodox, not Catholic. Crucifixes as well as incense were among the trappings of both religions. He stood in the doorway somewhat disconcerted, tugging at his tie, trying to rearrange his ideas. Andrula Haywood had given this as her address, though she couldn’t live here, surely? Or could she? The church encompassed two semi-detached houses that had been knocked into one.

He walked through the door and was at once enveloped in a mist of sorts. He felt a wave of warm air – a smell of tapers was added to the incense. His impression was that there were hundreds of little lights, flickering like fireflies; thin wax candles sticking out of candelabras that had been positioned at various points around the spacious room. There were curtains or blinds across the narrow windows, so it was difficult to see things clearly, though he did make out an iconostasis and a heavy curtain at one end, also icons in gilded frames on the walls. But for him, the place seemed to be empty.

Then he saw her: a smallish woman dressed all in black, kneeling in front of a large icon. This showed a bearded saint who, judging by his expression, couldn’t make up his mind whether to look stern or benevolent. (I mustn’t be flippant, Payne reminded himself. Causing offence won’t open the gates of confession.)

He stood very still, watching her profile. He rubbed his eyes, which had started smarting. Despite the inadequate lighting, he recognized her at once from Antonia’s description – the sallow complexion, the slightly crooked nose, the chunky golden crucifix on a chain around her throat. The hair was no longer blonde and done in a fringe, but dark, streaked with grey, parted in the middle and pulled back. Though she couldn’t be more than in her middle forties, she looked older, much older. The face was lined, haggard, and there were dark circles around her eyes, which were shut. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She looked at least fifty-seven or eight, if not older. She had aged prematurely, that much was clear.

Payne stroked his jaw with a forefinger. Had her conscience been troubling her? Was that the reason for the way she looked? Worn out – with care or with guilt. She was leaning forward, her hands clasped in front of her. She hadn’t opened her eyes. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. The thin lips had parted and were moving silently. Praying. Payne wondered whether it was for the soul of little Sonya Dufrette – or for forgiveness… He saw tears rolling down the withered cheeks.

He stepped back quietly, waiting for her to finish. Interrupting her prayer wouldn’t do. If she was aware of his presence, she didn’t give any sign. He backed further and leant against the wall. He saw he was standing beside an icon that showed another saint, much younger and more vigorous than the one Andrula Haywood was praying to, though of a somewhat androgynous aspect. He – Major Payne was sure it was a ‘he’ – was in the process of pulling a devil from the turbulent sea with his left hand, while in his other hand he brandished a hammer.

Eventually Andrula Haywood opened her eyes, crossed herself and started to rise. Payne made a movement towards her, but the next moment three more people entered the church. Two women and an elderly man on crutches. Andrula quickly walked up to them and kissed each one in turn, placing her hands on their shoulders. Payne remained standing beside the wall, watching them. They talked in an animated manner but their conversation was conducted in demotic Greek.

He had done Greek at school, but that had been classical Greek. There had been no classes in colloquial Greek… What a grammatical inferno Greek tragedy had been! As for doing Greek composition, he had thought of it as brutal bludgeoning – not so much different from the fate that awaited the devil in the icon, in fact.

He saw the elderly man with the crutches kneel. Andrula laid her hand on his shoulder and shut her eyes once more. Her lips started moving but this time she spoke the words aloud – Greek again. She spoke with fervour. The two women who had come with the man also reached out and placed their hands on his arm and they too spoke aloud. The man bowed his head. They were praying for his healing, Payne felt sure and, though he didn’t understand a word of it, he felt touched.

He was reminded of the words of Achilles’ ghost to Ulysses: I would rather be a slave at another’s plough, one who is poor with little means of livelihood, than rule all the dead and departed. Well, Andrula had chosen a life devoted to serving people in need… It didn’t seem she had got married either… Her conscience had prevented her from finding happiness of the more conventional kind.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that nearly twenty-five minutes had passed since he had arrived. He remembered his grandfather saying that a true gentleman’s concerns weren’t supposed to include the passage of time. He must have been no more than eleven or twelve at the time. Funny, how some memories stuck in the mind -

He caught a movement. The tableau had broken up and the man, supported by the two women, went to light candles. Andrula Haywood turned round and seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, smiling, and crossed through the swirls of incense, proffering both her hands. ‘Welcome. I have never seen you here before, but I hope you will find what you are looking for.’ She spoke with a slight Greek accent. Her eyes were kind, but full of pain. (He was sure he wasn’t imagining it.)

‘As a matter of fact I was looking for you, Miss Haywood. Could I have a word?’

There was a pause. He hoped he didn’t sound too intimidating – like a plain clothes policeman.

‘You want to talk to me? Of course. Let us go to my office. There will be a baptism here soon and we will be in the way.’

As though on cue, there entered a tall priest. He was youngish, in his thirties, with a trimmed dark beard and wearing a festive black cassock and the tall cylindrical black hat that went with it. ‘Sister Andrula,’ he said in English.

She bowed down and kissed his hand. ‘Father,’ she said.

‘God is good. Is everything ready?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she answered and pointed her hand towards a screen, which presumably concealed the baptismal font.

‘I am a little early but I want to pray.’ He had given Payne an amiable nod.

‘Yes, Father. I won’t be long. This gentleman has come to see me.’ She then led the way across the room, past the iconostasis, which she described as ‘one of the finest products of the nineteenth-century School of Debar’, whatever that was. ‘I had it sent from Smyrna, my home town. That’s where I spent my childhood. It was a lovely place in the mid-fifties. I understand it’s somewhat spoilt now. Through here

…’

She pulled aside a heavy brocade curtain, pushed open a door and they entered a small, cell-like room with plain walls. There wasn’t much in it, apart from a small bookcase, a metal safe, a desk with a computer on it and two. wooden chairs. ‘Please, sit down,’ she said. ‘I’m not offering you coffee because I’m in a hurry. I am a bit worried about the baptism.’ She took the seat on the other side of the desk.

He cast a glance round. ‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes. I have two rooms and a shower at the back.’ She pointed towards a second door in the wall behind him. ‘That’s all I need.’

‘And you – you actually run this church?’

‘I run it, yes. I am the owner as well as the manager. Or do you say “proprietor”? It’s not that difficult, if one has faith. I get a lot of help from my brothers and sisters – there are fifty-three of us.’

She must mean that in a spiritual rather than filial sense, Payne reflected. ‘It doesn’t look like a church from the outside – no cupola, no dome.’