Katie Kitamura - A Separation

Safely home, and then what? But that was not a question they could understand, for Isabella and Mark the course they would follow was clearly demarcated, painful as it was, grief had a familiar path, it was easy to believe in the specificity of one’s grief but in the end it was a universal condition, there was nothing unique about sorrow. Isabella and Mark would return home with their son’s body and they would mourn him, his unnatural death and his too brief life. But what would I do? How and who—husband, ex-husband, lover, deceiver—would I be grieving?

Stefano stepped out of the car, he was wearing a button-down shirt and had not shaved. His expression, as he greeted us, was polite and somewhat sheepish, he looked, in the bright sunlight, entirely innocuous, suddenly my suspicions of the previous day seemed nothing short of absurd. I noticed, for the first time, that he was a small man, shorter and slighter of build than Christopher. The evident intensity of his emotions had built him into a larger figure than he actually was, in reality, Christopher would have easily overpowered him.

Still, as we stood outside the hotel, and I greeted Stefano, I felt Mark tense beside me. This is the kind of man who killed my son, I could see the thought pass through his mind. As Stefano opened the doors for us, Mark’s distaste seemed to increase. I introduced the two men. Stefano’s face grew reserved, it was as if he looked at Mark and saw not simply a bigoted foreigner—although he would have also seen that, Mark shook Stefano’s hand with an expression of both disdain and consternation, impossible to misapprehend—but the father of his rival.

Was there any likeness between the two men, between Mark and Christopher? It was always said that there was not, but the impression the two men made was not dissimilar. The same confidence and ease and entitlement, perhaps all Englishmen would seem that way to Stefano. He shut the door behind us and got into the driver’s seat. As he sat down, he glanced at Mark in the rearview mirror, his expression guarded, as if the father might now steal the affections once possessed by the son.

Mark ignored him, gazing out the window as we drove out of the village with a fixed expression of contempt. Is this from the fires, he asked. I nodded. He shook his head and then stared straight ahead. Once we had gone he would never return to Mani, likely he would never return to Greece. The entire place would be a dead zone for him, contaminated by this single incident, as it had been for Isabella. He looked at the scorched earth, no doubt it was all he could do not to declare this place a hell and be done with it.

That impression could not have changed as we arrived at the police station, which was busier than the day before but had not lost its air of lassitude. There were people in the waiting room who looked as if they had been waiting there for hours if not longer, a man with an open wound to his head was sitting quietly in the corner, he must have been there to report a crime, another mugging perhaps, in different circumstances Christopher might have arrived at the station in a similar condition. Mark stared at the man and his wound, the ghost of his child, he flinched and turned away.

Stefano remained outside with the car. He had insisted on waiting—a gesture of concern on his part, which Mark appeared to interpret as an act of menace or calculation. Stefano stood by the car as Mark walked toward the station in silence. As I passed, Stefano looked at me with an expression of mute pleading and something else I could not identify, it left me unsettled. As we entered the station Mark asked why we couldn’t simply call for a cab once we were done, it would cost a fortune to keep the driver waiting and in any case he wasn’t sure he liked the look of him. I was saved from replying by the appearance of the police chief, a man I had not seen before, he quickened his pace when he saw Mark, Isabella had been right.

He introduced himself—speaking to both of us but addressing Mark—and offered his condolences, which Mark impatiently waved away. With a sweep of the hand and a politely enunciated Please , the police chief escorted us to his office. Mark sat down without being asked, the police chief asked if we would care for a coffee, a glass of water. Mark shook his head, brushing invisible dust from his trousers, a small gesture indicating dissatisfaction. At the same time, his hands were trembling, soon his fingers were compulsively tracing and retracing the seam in his trousers.

The police chief sat down behind his desk and clasped his hands together. His eyes were on Mark’s trembling fingers.

We will release the body today. I assume you will be bringing the body to London?

Mark nodded.

It will need to be embalmed before it can be taken out of the country. This is required by the airlines. There is a funeral home in Areopoli— He wrote a name and number on a piece of paper and slid it across the table. Kostas should be able to help you.

Kostas—

The concierge at your hotel.

Mark took the paper, stared at it a moment and then folded it in half.

I’ve already informed the British Embassy. There will be an inquest.

Of course. There generally is, in such cases.

What can you tell me about the investigation?

The police chief leaned back into his chair, he looked at me briefly before looking back at Mark.

We have faced some terrible budget cuts in recent years. Matters with the central government are nearing a state of emergency, I’m sure you have read about it in the newspapers.

I don’t see what that has to do with Christopher’s death.

The police chief nodded.

It has nothing to do with your son’s death. But it has a great deal to do with the investigation into your son’s death, that is to say, our chances of apprehending the person—we assume man, but of course it could also be a woman, and indeed it could be persons, more than one—who killed your son.

He sighed and leaned forward.

People go missing, people are even killed, and many times the culprit is never found. This office— He gestured at the metal cabinets against the wall. It is full of unsolved cases. Investigations that are closed without a satisfactory solution. I’m afraid we do not have the best record.

This cannot be the case with Christopher’s death.

I wish I had arrived at the crime scene earlier than I did, but unfortunately I was in Athens, I was visiting my family. At this point we don’t even have a suspect, usually with a dead husband you look at the wife, but in this case—

He nodded in my direction, then continued.

Of course, not very much time has passed since your son’s death, in many ways this conversation is premature. We will do our best. It is in our own interest. You can imagine, a wealthy foreigner found dead in the street, it makes people feel unsafe. There were rumors that there was a woman involved—

Mark half rose in his seat. He grew flushed as I turned to look at him, I realized it was not only the outrage of the police chief having raised Christopher’s infidelity before me, the betrayed. In the idea of Christopher’s faithlessness there must have been a reminder of Isabella’s own lack of fidelity, as if the trait were inherited, and therefore in some way both inevitable and fated—not simply Christopher’s infidelity but this situation, and by extension his death.

—but we discovered nothing, the rumors remained unsubstantiated, although we interviewed all the likely candidates, a jealous husband would have solved the case for us. Unfortunately, this did not come to pass, it does not seem as if there was any relationship between the killer and your son.