The Messenger of Athens: A Novel by Anne Zouroudi Page B

Andreas was a port of last resort for her?”
    Nikos studied the back of his hand; behind his knuckles was a dark, oval bruise whose origin he couldn’t remember. He rubbed at the bruise with his thumb.
    “You didn’t know Irini,” he said at last, “so it’s understandable you might think that. But Irini believed that life as a spinster—and you and I both know what stigma that role carries—was preferable to life with Johnny Anybody. My sister had a man in mind for her—from a good family, wealthy and well thought of—and Irini refused to look at him. She turned him down. My sister was mortified. It caused her great embarrassment, and created a rift between her and Irini that never properly healed.” He stopped, and looked into the fat man’s face. “This is private business,” he said. “I’m telling you this because I trust you to do the best you can for my Irini.”
    “You have my word on it,” said the fat man. “And you may count absolutely on my discretion.”
    Nikos took a sip from his glass.
    “Things got difficult,” he said. “To save face, the intended man’s family put it about that it was they who’d turned Irini down, rather than the other way around. People made up their minds she’d been putting it about. My sister blamed Irini for destroying the whole family’s reputation. And, when the rumors started flying, needless to say no other candidates stepped forward for her hand.”
    “Except Andreas.”
    Nikos bowed his head.
    “Except Andreas. He was prepared to take my word that there was no history a man wouldn’t want in a wife. They met; they liked each other. It was hard for her at home, I know; but no, Andreas wasn’t a port of last resort. They got along. He’s straightforward, he’s uncomplicated, and very skilled in his work, and she admired that. They could have been happy ever after.”
    “So if she was happy at first, what changed?”
    “I really couldn’t say,” said Nikos, wearily. “Maybe nothing. That’s common enough ground for growing unhappiness, isn’t it—nothing changing?”
    “Could she have been unhappy enough to commit suicide?” asked the fat man.
    Nikos considered.
    “I don’t think so. But what do I know? What can anybody know about another’s state of mind if they choose to hide it? But a suicidal state of mind is a hard thing to conceal. Especially here.”
    “Is it true she was having an affair?”
    Nikos laughed. “Well, well,” he said. “The grass hasn’t been growing under your feet.”
    He picked up the whisky bottle and poured another measure into each glass.
    “So is it true, Nikos?” persisted the fat man.
    “There’re only two people who could ever know the answer to that question. One of them’s dead. Better ask the other.
Yammas
.”
    The fat man picked up his glass and echoed the toast.
    “
Yammas
. But will the other tell me the truth?”
    “In his place, I wouldn’t.”
    The fat man smiled, and sipped his whisky.
    “What’s he like, this Theo Hatzistratis?”
    “You’ve got a name, then?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well done. Quiet fellow. Not a womanizer. But then, what do mothers say to their daughters? Never trust the quiet ones.”
    “Do you think there was anything between them?”
    “Maybe. She was bored, and the Devil finds work for idle hands. And other body parts. But if she was screwing him, she did wrong. She married Andreas in good faith, promised him fidelity. Then she sees something she likes the look of and she’s off, making a fool of him. Worst thing a woman can do to a man, cuckold him. If she’d been my wife, I’d have killed her.”
    The fat man raised his eyebrows.
    “Figure of speech,” said Nikos.
    “What about the lover? Is he married?”
    “Yes, lovely wife, a good girl. They’ve got a daughter. But men get bored, don’t they? You can’t blame him. It’s different, for men.”
    “Are you married, Nikos?”
    “Widowed.”
    “Were you faithful to your wife?”
    Nikos laughed.