excavation pit. It was stolen in Nigeria, only to be abandoned that afternoon when the thieves realized the entire backseat had been taken over by a fourteen-inch Hercules Baboon spider.
The professor sat in the car with his foot on the brake pedal while Henry removed the bricks from under the wheels that prevented it from rolling off the cliff.
The car was missing several windows and the sunroof had rusted open in 1986 during an African rainy season.
The professor had converted the trunk of the car into a soft nest of blankets and hammocks—not as a place to sleep, but as a safe haven for whichever artifact he was transporting at the time. The professor boasted of the various artifacts he’d had in the backseat the way a teenager brags about sexual conquests.
They careened down the side of the mountain without talking. Then they trundled through the iron bridge, at which point the professor began to talk and talk. Henry could hear nothing except the engine, and a strange banging that came from underneath whenever Professor Peterson tapped the brake pedal.
At the first traffic light on the edge of the city, Henry was finally able to hear what the professor was saying.
“And did you know I once had an infestation of killer bees in this car?”
Henry replied that he did not know, but suspected a joke. The light turned green.
At the next red light, the professor was suddenly audible again.
“ . . . with several newborns. Newborns!”
When the light changed, the professor pulled across six lanes of traffic to the fury of other drivers, and then turned abruptly down a side street. He was a dangerous driver—which in Athens meant he was safe. Despite being almost eighty years old, he had adopted the Greek custom of ignoring every important red light and only pulling out to overtake a slower car when he spotted a vehicle racing toward them in the opposite direction.
As the professor swung the Renault down an even narrower side street, a figure stepped into the road from behind a parked car. The Renault’s fender clipped him hard and from the corner of his eye Henry saw a body sprawl onto the sidewalk.
The professor skidded to a stop. Henry threw open his door and sprinted back to the motionless body of the man on the ground. He was wearing a crumpled tan suit that was torn under one arm. Henry knelt down and began a routine he’d practiced in his first-aid classes. The man was alive and breathing—but seemed barely conscious. He also appeared to have a black eye and stitches in his face.
“My god, look at him,” the professor said. “What have I done? My god, my god.”
“I won’t know how badly he’s hurt until he comes around and I can talk to him—or we take him to hospital ourselves.”
“My god,” the professor said. “This is unbelievable.”
“I know—his face has taken a bit of a knock.”
But then the man on the ground opened his eyes. He took a long breath and let his gaze fall sullenly upon the two men standing above him.
“Something’s happened to me, hasn’t it?” he said.
Professor Peterson and Henry recoiled at the stench of anise, fennel, and raisins—the ingredients of ouzo.
The professor nudged Henry and mouthed the words, “He’s blind drunk.”
“Yes,” the professor said. “Something has happened to you.”
“You speak English?” Henry said to the man.
“I clipped you with the car,” the professor interrupted. “You stepped out into the road, you understand,” the professor leaned down. “I’m very, very sorry, old chap.”
The man tried to sit up.
“No, no, it’s all my fault,” the man admitted. “Wine.”
“You’re drunk?” Henry said.
The man seemed not to hear.
“Are you in pain?” Henry asked.
“Not any more than usual, I suppose,” the man admitted with a strange smile.
Henry and Professor Peterson helped him to his feet. He introduced himself as George. His pants were also ripped and there were bloodstains around the
The professor sat in the car with his foot on the brake pedal while Henry removed the bricks from under the wheels that prevented it from rolling off the cliff.
The car was missing several windows and the sunroof had rusted open in 1986 during an African rainy season.
The professor had converted the trunk of the car into a soft nest of blankets and hammocks—not as a place to sleep, but as a safe haven for whichever artifact he was transporting at the time. The professor boasted of the various artifacts he’d had in the backseat the way a teenager brags about sexual conquests.
They careened down the side of the mountain without talking. Then they trundled through the iron bridge, at which point the professor began to talk and talk. Henry could hear nothing except the engine, and a strange banging that came from underneath whenever Professor Peterson tapped the brake pedal.
At the first traffic light on the edge of the city, Henry was finally able to hear what the professor was saying.
“And did you know I once had an infestation of killer bees in this car?”
Henry replied that he did not know, but suspected a joke. The light turned green.
At the next red light, the professor was suddenly audible again.
“ . . . with several newborns. Newborns!”
When the light changed, the professor pulled across six lanes of traffic to the fury of other drivers, and then turned abruptly down a side street. He was a dangerous driver—which in Athens meant he was safe. Despite being almost eighty years old, he had adopted the Greek custom of ignoring every important red light and only pulling out to overtake a slower car when he spotted a vehicle racing toward them in the opposite direction.
As the professor swung the Renault down an even narrower side street, a figure stepped into the road from behind a parked car. The Renault’s fender clipped him hard and from the corner of his eye Henry saw a body sprawl onto the sidewalk.
The professor skidded to a stop. Henry threw open his door and sprinted back to the motionless body of the man on the ground. He was wearing a crumpled tan suit that was torn under one arm. Henry knelt down and began a routine he’d practiced in his first-aid classes. The man was alive and breathing—but seemed barely conscious. He also appeared to have a black eye and stitches in his face.
“My god, look at him,” the professor said. “What have I done? My god, my god.”
“I won’t know how badly he’s hurt until he comes around and I can talk to him—or we take him to hospital ourselves.”
“My god,” the professor said. “This is unbelievable.”
“I know—his face has taken a bit of a knock.”
But then the man on the ground opened his eyes. He took a long breath and let his gaze fall sullenly upon the two men standing above him.
“Something’s happened to me, hasn’t it?” he said.
Professor Peterson and Henry recoiled at the stench of anise, fennel, and raisins—the ingredients of ouzo.
The professor nudged Henry and mouthed the words, “He’s blind drunk.”
“Yes,” the professor said. “Something has happened to you.”
“You speak English?” Henry said to the man.
“I clipped you with the car,” the professor interrupted. “You stepped out into the road, you understand,” the professor leaned down. “I’m very, very sorry, old chap.”
The man tried to sit up.
“No, no, it’s all my fault,” the man admitted. “Wine.”
“You’re drunk?” Henry said.
The man seemed not to hear.
“Are you in pain?” Henry asked.
“Not any more than usual, I suppose,” the man admitted with a strange smile.
Henry and Professor Peterson helped him to his feet. He introduced himself as George. His pants were also ripped and there were bloodstains around the
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