Stuart Harrison - Aphrodite’s Smile

‘You have been too long in the sun I think, old man, or perhaps it is the wine,’ Spiro scoffed. ‘Why should tourists come here to see a statue of the Panaghia ? To us she is important, of course. But not to anybody else.’

Spiro gloated in triumph when it seemed for a moment that he had the upper hand, because what he said was undoubtedly true. Unfortunately even if the Professor had found the missing statue, it was difficult to see how even she could work a miracle.

French, however, merely smiled secretively. ‘Perhaps the Panaghia is not the only discovery I have made,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is something else, something that all the world will want to know about.’

The room waited with anticipation for the Professor to continue. People leaned forward in their seats and an expectant hush fell over the room. Spiro Petalas was suddenly ignored as if he had become invisible.

French blinked. It occurred to him that he had been indiscreet and that in fact it would have been better to have kept his mouth shut for now. For a moment the room wavered and wobbled so that he felt disconcertingly as if he were trapped inside a large smoky jelly. His stomach lurched and he wished that he hadn’t eaten quite so much of the seafood stew earlier. Food was one of his weaknesses and he’d long since given up trying to prevent his waistline expanding further. Sobered by a sense of unease that overtook him as he focused on the faces staring back at him, he searched for one in particular. Even though it wasn’t there, he decided that he should leave.

‘I refuse to bandy words with an ignoramus,’ he announced loftily, dismissing Spiro and putting an end to their discussion, though the fisherman gave a sly grin of triumph.

‘You are full of shit,’ Spiro said.

Those looking on shifted awkwardly on their chairs, averting their eyes to the walls or the ground. Though it was regrettable that a fat pig like Spiro had been so impolite as to humiliate the Professor, there was truth in what he said. It seemed that French had unfortunately indulged his love of wine a little too enthusiastically again. The crowd looked on in silence as he set down his half full glass and managed the short walk to the door. One or two of them wished him good-night and advised him to get a good night’s sleep.

At the door, French looked around one last time searching among the faces for one that held sinister intent, but he found only expressions of sympathy.

Reassured, he began the walk home.

It was a half hour walk from the bar to the house. The route took him away from the waterfront along narrow streets that zigzagged up the steep hillside, connected at intervals by sets of concrete steps. The climb was exhausting and French stopped often, his heart pounding deep in his chest as it struggled to supply his bulk with oxygenated blood. When he had caught his breath he pressed on. The night air was fragrant with the scent of jasmine and bougainvillaea, although French admitted that it was spoiled somewhat by the sour odour of his own sweat mingled with the reek of alcoholic fumes. His head was clearing a little now that he was out of the foggy atmosphere of the bar. Enough that he was already regretting the hangover he would have in the morning and being so careless with his talk. Careless talk cost lives they had said in the war, though he had been too young himself to remember.

Half-way up a set of steps, a single lamp fixed to a wooden power pole cast a light that glistened on the waxy leaves of a large magnolia in full bloom with pure white flowers. The sky was lit with a myriad stars. They seemed almost close enough to touch, creating the illusion that upon reaching the top it would be possible to step off into space. From behind, French heard the sound of a stone skittering on concrete. When he looked back he saw only deep shadows close against a wall. His heart skipped a beat but nothing moved. After a while he hurried on.

From within patches of garden the sweet powerful smell of mint wafted on the night air. Another time it might have been pleasant, but by the time he reached the top of the steps, French felt quite ill. He paused until an attack of dizziness passed. Far below, the lights from the restaurants were mirrored in the harbour. As he admired their effect he glimpsed a movement and this time he swore that he heard the sound of footsteps. He experienced a prickling of unease. It was just his imagination, he told himself, though not very convincingly.

Moving on, he hurried along a street past terraces shadowed with grape vines supported by rusting iron trellis. The houses petered out and the road wound upwards through olive groves. As he turned a corner the lights from the harbour were lost from sight and the road was abruptly smothered in thick, heavy darkness. Breathing heavily, French paused to mop his brow with a handkerchief. He was sweating profusely. Behind him the sound of footsteps dogged his progress, any pretence at stealth now abandoned. There was something chilling in their purpose. He felt the darkness close in around him like a shroud. Unfortunate analogy he thought grimly.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out with false bravado. The footsteps stopped briefly, then resumed and quickly picked up pace.

A peculiar sense of calm descended over him. He would not spend his last moments consumed by fear. If he were going to die he would face his killer and look him in the eye. He wondered if it was the alcohol that fuelled his bravery, though he no longer felt drunk. Briefly, he wished he hadn’t said so much at Skiopes. If he’d kept quiet he might finally have found a measure of success towards the end of his life. He might also have had the chance to put things right with Irene and Robert, and at this thought a wave of regret welled up inside him.

The footsteps were almost upon him. French drew himself up and prepared to face his fate, determined to cling to the remnants of his self-respect. And then from around the bend came the unexpected sound of an approaching engine. The road wasn’t used much at night, but perhaps on this evening some greater force was at work. Or perhaps it was just luck.

The footsteps stopped. An indistinct figure was visible no more than twenty feet away. Something glinted in the light. A blade perhaps? Seizing his chance, French turned to run, though his bulk reduced his flight to more of a shambling stumble. He gasped for breath, his heart bursting. He could feel the spot in his back where the blade would enter and pierce his liver. The sound of the approaching vehicle grew louder, drowning out the footsteps behind him and then he was bathed in the headlights of a truck and a voice called out.

‘Professor? Is that you? What are you doing? Slow down before you hurt yourself.’

It was Nikos. He ran a haulage business between the towns on the island and as he climbed down from the cab French almost wept with relief. He turned to face the figure pursuing him but the road was empty.

Suddenly a devastatingly sharp pain gripped his chest. His mouth opened and closed silently as his knees gave way and he felt himself sinking to the ground. He heard Nikos call his name, but it sounded as if his voice came from a long way off, and slowly the lights from the truck shrank to a pinprick.

His last conscious thought before darkness overcame him was that this must be the gods’ idea of a grim joke.

The phone rang at six. I was already up so I took the call in the kitchen hoping that it hadn’t woken Alicia. She had been working long hours lately, leaving at seven in the morning and sometimes not getting home until nine or ten at night. I thought her boss could manage without her for an hour or two.

I wondered who was calling so early. I lifted the receiver feeling the faint stirrings of disquiet, unexpected calls at odd times being harbingers of bad news. When I heard Irene’s voice I experienced an odd reaction of both relief and dread combined.