The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi

covered two thirds of the distance between the poet’s house and the village that he saw there was someone on the road ahead.
    An old beehive had been abandoned at the roadside, and a man was making use of it as a seat. No archetypal villager, or farmer, the man seemed out of place in this rural spot, where cashmere overcoats were beyond the means of all. His grey suit, though well cut, did not quite disguise his heaviness, and his glasses suggested a role in education or central government. Most striking of all were his shoes, so inappropriate for the season; he wore old-fashioned tennis shoes, whose white canvas was spotted with mud and marked with the wet.
    The man’s demeanour suggested he had been there for some time, and Attis thought he might be waiting for a late-running bus. If so, he seemed untroubled by his wait, his attention on a book open on his lap. He seemed absorbed in his reading; and yet, as Attis appeared in the road, he looked up as if he had sensed Attis’s approach and watched him as he drew close, until Attis was within earshot, when the stranger gave a bright smile, and spoke.
    â€˜ Kali mera ,’ he said.
    â€˜ Kali mera sas ,’ replied Attis.
    Attis was going to walk by; but as he drew level, the stranger closed his book, picked up the navy holdall at his feet and stood, revealing himself to be tall, though even his commanding height could not disguise the fatness of his stomach. He fell in beside Attis, matching his stride.
    Startled by the stranger’s adoption of his company, Attis stopped in the road, intending to let the fat man go on alone; but the fat man stopped alongside him, and before Attis could speak, himself spoke out, declaiming several lines of poetry Attis knew very well.
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    â€˜ Our glories with our passing shall not fade,
    But burn on like the incandescent stars
    Which vanish imperceptibly into dawn
    And yet like souls of men will never die .’
    Attis turned, and faced the fat man, who smiled.
    â€˜It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The work of the incomparable Volakis, of course. Such a marvellous poet; such a tragic and untimely death. I’m here to visit an old friend, but whilst I’m in Vrisi, I thought I’d take the opportunity to pay my respects to the poet, and see something of the place which inspired so much of his work.’ He held up the book he had been reading. ‘ Songs from Silence . I give copies to everyone I know. Have you read it?’
    Attis gave a tight smile.
    â€˜As a matter of fact, yes,’ he said. ‘ Kali mera sas .’
    â€˜Before you go,’ said the fat man, touching his arm, ‘I wonder if you could tell me whether this is the road to Volakis’s house? The climb is steep, and I’m reluctant to go on without confirmation I’m on the right track.’
    â€˜This is the road,’ said Attis. ‘A kilometre or so more, and you’ll find the gate.’
    â€˜I’d like to take a few photographs, if I can,’ said the stranger, as Attis turned away. ‘Pictures always help to sell an article.’
    Attis turned back to the fat man.
    â€˜An article? What article?’
    â€˜I place a few pieces, here and there, on a freelance basis.’ The fat man slipped the book into the holdall. ‘My specialism is the ancient poets. I’m considered something of an expert on Panyassis of Halicarnassus, though interest in him is very limited these days. But I’m a great admirer of our modern poets, too. I’ve published commentaries on several. Seferis, of course. And do you know any of Elytis’s work?’
    He raised his face to the sky, and with closed eyes, recited from memory,
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    I spoke of love, of the rose’s health, of the ray
    That by itself goes straight to the heart,
    Of Greece that steps so surely on the sea
    Greece that carries me always
    Among naked snow-crowned mountains.
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    I admire Dimoula too,