Sophia Nikolaidou: The Scapegoat

Jack wasn’t just any foreign correspondent, which would have been bad enough. He also came from a historic and wealthy family, from old money — to the extent that there is such a thing in America. The eleventh president of the United States of America occupied an important position in his family tree. Jack had plenty of journalistic successes on his résumé, as well as a badge of honor from his days in the Navy. In Palestine he had almost killed an Arab who dared throw a punch at him. In 1947 his airplane had crashed while he was on duty in the Middle East. The nurse who tended to his wounds saw a tall, thin man smiling at her through the blood.

— There’s no way I’m going to die, I’ve got a fellowship at Harvard, I have to get home, he whispered.

The nurse had seen people die of less severe wounds, but the young man wouldn’t give up. He’d decided to live, so he lived.

And now his swollen corpse had turned an entire country upside-down. The head of the Security Police in Salonica, Thomas Tzitzilis, under whose jurisdiction the case fell, was widely praised for his work, and was considered able and sharp-witted. He was a pious citizen who took communion regularly. He crossed himself in public, always bought the most expensive candle to light at church, and took care of the poor and the weak, especially if someone else was watching. He was on good terms with God— and even better terms with the devil , his enemies claimed. A rabid anti-communist, he had served in the city of his birth for all the years he was in the police force. He knew all the side streets and back alleys, he knew which witnesses would be most willing to talk, he knew everyone’s weak spots. He was on a first-name basis with men in high places but had ties to the underworld, too, and particularly its nightlife. Perhaps that was why some suggested that a case of such international significance wasn’t for the likes of him, that he was too much the uncouth boor who knew, to be sure, how to make a man scream, but hadn’t learned the art of subtlety or circuitousness.

Of course the American reporter had gone too far, had dug his own grave, as many hinted but no one dared say outright. Before he came up to Salonica Talas paid a visit to Rimaris, the Minister of the Interior, and threatened him to his face. It was as clear as day, in fact he had proof, that government insiders were selling arms to the rebels and stealing American aid. Those were dangerous words, especially when spoken by a reporter.

Jack was fighting with fire. He confided to a friend, also a well-known foreign correspondent, that in Greece there were royalist right-wingers who are squeezing the country for their own benefit — and sending dollars out in diplomatic pouches as fast as possible . Antrikos, who was present for the conversation, hurried to close the door. There were informers everywhere, and an American passport wasn’t a suit of armor, even if Jack thought his indignation should be contagious.

The worst was that Zoe, or Zouzou — whatever they called his widow — had naïvely asked the American consul, when she heard that her husband had been killed:

— Was it the far right?

Her mother wasn’t there to tug her sleeve, to put pepper on her tongue, to keep her in line. So she let it slip without considering the consequences. It took weeks for them to undo the damage.

Thomas Tzitzilis had never cold-cased a file. He tidily completed his investigations, had an unfailing instinct, and didn’t waste time on bureaucratic formalities. His superiors were sure his smarts would be sufficient to solve the crime.

But certain critics— fairies , the men in the police force called them — were bothered by his disregard for due process. What did they know of prisons and interrogations? Greece was at war, it would behoove them to remember that fact every now and then. Due process was all fine and well, but the current political situation didn’t allow for any dragging of feet.

The coast guard had catalogued everything on the dead man’s person: checks and bills, in drachmas and dollars, an identification card, a watch, and a wedding ring. There was thus no evidence, Tzitzilis noted, that the victim had been murdered by a thief.

The next scenario he considered was a crime of passion. The deceased’s wife seemed too refined for affairs, a spoiled, impulsive, almost childlike young woman. She claimed to be nineteen, but she had the chest and hips of a sixteen-year-old girl. The police chief questioned her no fewer than eight times. Such a thing was unheard of, the girl’s parents objected, but Tzitzilis insisted on asking her all kinds of unspeakable questions — how many suitors she’d had before she met Jack, if her hymen had been unbroken on the night of her marriage, if she had a lover, if Jack might have had a lover, if they had intercourse regularly.

The girl was struck dumb. She didn’t understand what all that could have to do with the case.

— It’s all relevant, the police chief said sharply. If I’m asking you, it’s relevant.

He offered her a cigarette. He filled it, brought it to his mouth, ran his tongue along the paper, and then held out his hand in a gesture of goodwill. Zouzou didn’t even look at it; that was the last thing she needed, to lick the old man’s spit.

The police chief smiled. But inside he was annoyed: this snotty kid thought she was calling the shots. If she thought the Americans would take her side, she was sorely mistaken. He’d heard what the American officials had to say on the subject: generals and diplomats alike were hoping to get Zouzou off their backs, particularly now that she had an American passport. That’s why they were taking their sweet time with her visa. After all, she was no longer a spouse but a widow, so what business did she have going to America?

But Zouzou was no pushover, as Tzitzilis quickly realized. A wisp of a girl, sure, but she turned them all inside-out with her eyes and their expression of innocent wonder. Her clothes were more suited for a dance than for mourning. She walked around shamelessly with arms bare to the shoulder. Her sweet perfume alerted them each time she walked into the station; the scent trailed her down the corridors. She threw all the men into an uncomfortable state, and they lowered their eyes when she passed, as if they were her lackeys. And that’s just how Zouzou treated them, too.

Only Tzitzilis was unaffected by her wiles. He heard the snap of her high heels at the front door and her smell burned his nostrils. It was, he thought, the smell of a woman of the world, who knew how to open her legs, to move her hips expertly. He knew her kind inside and out, her tricks had no effect on him, he’d laid his hands on his fair share of society women. He wasn’t interested in silk slips and perfumed armpits, he knew what a girl like that had under her skirts. Tzitzilis was more interested in whores, working girls who washed with clean towels. Smiling and obedient, grateful for a customer who finished quickly, particularly if he might tip.

Zouzou was full of dreams and caprices. How tiresome , Tzitzilis thought every time he had to question her. Only an American would get involved with her, or an over-educated dupe. Though he had to admit, the girl had spunk. Sure, her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies in spring — but on the inside she was sharp as a razor. She cut right through you, never bowed her head. The police chief quickly realized that the hypothesis of a crime of passion wouldn’t hold water, either. He needed to look somewhere else.

So he turned his suspicions on Antrikos. Everyone knew that journalists were jealous and competitive. They would tear one another to pieces for a scoop, and were always trying to get the upper hand. Antrikos was a Greek reporter, which meant he lived in Jack’s shadow. There wasn’t much to be done about it, he’d simply had the misfortune to be born in a weak country, and would thus never have his moment in the sun. Whereas everything had been handed to the American, ever since he was a child.