The Oracle (3 page)

The girl shook her head and her hair shaded her eyes, tossed lightly on her cheeks and neck. ‘I’ve got a more exciting idea. Let’s go to my house. Maria’s at the movies with her boyfriend, they won’t be back till after midnight. Let’s make love, Claudio, and then you’ll take me to the University. I can’t miss tomorrow. It will be a great day, all the young people of this country rising up together. And I know our people are behind us; I haven’t lost hope.’

They walked out on to the street and Heleni raised her eyes to the starry sky: ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow.’

S
HE STRIPPED IN
front of him without hesitation and with none of the innate modesty she’d always shown. She let him look at her and desire her, proud of her beauty and her courage, sitting on the edge of the bed, illuminated by the soft light of the table lamp. Claudio knelt, nude and trembling, at her feet. He kissed her knees and lay his head on her lap as he caressed her hips. He leaned her back on to the bed and wrapped his arms around her, covered her with his broad chest and wide shoulders as if he wanted to make her part of his own body. But he felt the darkness of the night weighing on his back, crushing as a boulder, cold as a knife.

And he heard a distant sound like thunder, and the pealing of a bell.

His heart felt as though it would burst, and Heleni’s heart beat against his, between her superb breasts, beautiful Heleni, amazing and gentle, more precious to him than life and as warm as the sun. No one could dissolve their embrace, no one could hurt her. She would always be his, no matter what happened.

They dressed sitting on opposite sides of the bed and then embraced again as if they could not bear to leave one another.

‘Now take me,’ said the girl. She had already prepared a bag with some clothes and a little food. Claudio helped her on with her jacket.

T
HE ENORMOUS VEHICLE
surged forward, tracks biting into the asphalt, spewing out a dense cloud of black smoke from its exhaust pipes. It headed off roaring and clattering down the dark streets. From the wide gate of the barracks other tanks followed the first, turrets bristling with machine guns. They were dark and gleaming and they reflected the street lights. Behind the tanks were trucks loaded with soldiers in fighting order. They hunched silently on the benches, their helmets down over their eyes and guns on their laps. The officers wore taut expressions as they mutely inspected their soldiers’ uniforms and equipment, eyes on their watches. Orders crackled over the radio, to be answered in monosyllables. They were setting out for a mission without glory.

They passed Eleusis and Piraeus and headed towards the city in two groups: one would arrive from the south, from Odòs Pirèos and Omonia Square, the other from the north, turning down Leofòros Patissìon at full speed and passing in front of the National Museum. A gust of wind blew the pages of a newspaper over the white stairs, between the tall Doric columns.

The last tank hauled up sideways at the Leofòros Alexandras intersection to block off traffic. The tank commander opened the turret and stretched out to take stock of the situation. His radio headset hung around his neck and his hands were stuck in his belt. Suddenly a car sped around the corner, headlights high and blinding. He pulled out his handgun in a split second and took aim. The car stopped just a few steps from the tank and a man got out, unshaven and haggard. He looked around, bewildered.

‘Stop! Go no further!’ shouted the officer. ‘The centre of the city is blocked off. Turn back immediately.’

The man held his ground. ‘Please,’ he shouted back, ‘let us pass. I have a very sick man in the car, I have to take him to the hospital.’

‘Not this way. Take him to Abelokipi or Kifissìa.’

‘But what’s happening? What are you doing here?’

‘I told you to get out of here. Don’t make me repeat it,’ the officer shouted irritably.

The man went back to his car and opened the back door: ‘Professor . . . Professor, we can’t get by. Soldiers are blocking off the whole area. Professor Harvatis, can you hear me? Answer me, please.’

Periklis Harvatis was lying on the back seat, his face half hidden by the collar of his jacket. He seemed to be in a deep sleep. Ari took his hand: it was icy cold.

‘Professor, we can’t go any further. It’s all been useless. Oh my God . . . I’ll take you to the hospital.’

He got back into the car and set off towards Kifissìa at full speed. He pulled up in front of the hospital there and ran over to the night-duty attendant’s station. ‘Hurry, hurry! For the love of God, there’s a man in my car who is sick, very sick. Hurry, please, he may be dying.’

Two nurses followed him with a stretcher and they loaded the apparently lifeless professor on to it.

‘It was no use coming to Athens,’ Ari muttered disconsolately. ‘Why did I listen to you?’ But the old man could no longer hear him.

Ari went back to the car, took the letter out of his pocket and read the address: it was inside the area blocked off by the military, but he suddenly knew he couldn’t hold on to it another minute. His watch said 2 a.m.; he was worn out with exhaustion and devastated by the futility of their journey through the night. But he had to see this through to the end.

He turned down Acharnòn Street in an attempt to proceed parallel to Patissìon Street where the tank garrison was. He had to get as close as possible without getting noticed. He parked in a little square and continued on foot, hiding in a doorway or behind the corner of a house when he saw a search patrol approaching. He couldn’t understand what was happening. He finally got to the address written on the letter: 17 Dionysìou Street. It was an old building with chipped plaster and green blinds, but there didn’t seem to be a living soul there. The shutter was completely lowered and padlocked at the bottom. The name of a print shop was displayed on the sign above. He felt like he was dreaming.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ A deep, hoarse voice behind him made him jump. He spun around and found a man of about fifty in a grey coat with a felt hat worn low over his eyes. He tried to make out the man’s features, but the halo of a street light behind him made that impossible.

‘I’m . . . looking for a man named Stàvros Kouras. I have to give him a letter. I thought he lived here, but all I can see is this closed shutter . . . it seems to be a print shop. Maybe you know . . .’

The man watched him silently, hands deep in his pockets. Ari felt his blood run cold.

‘Stàvros Kouras doesn’t exist, sir.’ He took his right hand from his pocket and stretched it out. ‘If you like, you can give me that letter.’

Ari backed up and banged against the shutter, shaking his head, then started to run as fast as he could, without once looking back. He reached his car and jumped in, switching on the ignition, but the car wouldn’t start. He turned around to look at the street he’d come from but it was empty. He tried the key again and flooded the engine. The smell of gasoline was strong; he’d have to let it evaporate. He waited a couple of minutes and tried again. On his third try the engine finally spurted to life. He took a look at the rear-view mirror as he was backing up to turn into the street: just at that moment, far off down the road, the stranger he had spoken to turned the corner. He was walking slowly, his hands in his pockets.

C
LAUDIO HUGGED
H
ELENI
again, then stepped back and looked her in the eye: ‘There’s nothing I can say to change your mind, is there? I have no influence over you at all.’

Heleni smiled and her eyes seemed to light up the night: ‘Silly, you’re the only one I care about.’

‘And the revolution.’

‘We’ve already discussed this whole thing and I’ve demonstrated that your objections don’t hold water. Go home, honey, and go to sleep. Don’t worry about me. If everything goes well, I’ll come out again tomorrow night and we’ll have an ouzo together at Nikos’s.’

Claudio scowled: ‘And what if things don’t go well?’

‘I’ll find you, don’t worry. You’ll never be able to get away from me, for the rest of your days . . . you know that a Greek girl from a good family only gives herself to the man of her life.’

‘I’ve made a decision. I’m coming in with you.’

‘Claudio, stop that! Tomorrow you’ve got to turn in your paper. And this isn’t your place anyway – you’re not enrolled in this university, and you’re not even Greek. Really, you should go now. I promise you that nothing will happen. I’ll be careful. I won’t do anything foolish. We’ll have security people posted at the gates. I’ll be inside with the committee working on our proclamation for the press.’

‘Swear to me that you’ll take care of yourself and that tomorrow night you’ll be at Nikos’s.’

‘Promise. I swear.’ She gave him a last kiss.

‘And listen, I’ll be at the Institute, right near the phone. Call me once in a while, if you can.’

‘If they don’t cut us off.’

‘Right.’

‘
Ghià sou, krisèmou.
’

‘Ciao, my love.’

Heleni ran towards the University gates. Two boys and a girl were on guard duty near a little bivouac. They opened the gates to let her in. Heleni turned to wave and the fire lit up her excited face. She looked as if she were going to a party.

Claudio pulled up the collar of his jacket to ward off the cold wind blowing light and sharp from the north, and walked straight down Patissìon Street. The sky was clear and full of stars and it was already Saturday morning. Heleni was right: what could happen on such a beautiful night, just a day before Sunday?

He didn’t feel like sleeping, and thought he’d walk over to Omonia Square where there was always a café open. Find a freshly printed newspaper and drink a good cup of Turkish coffee. Maybe he’d even find an Italian newspaper, like
La Stampa
– they’d been covering the student uprising on the front page, while
Il Corriere
hadn’t even made mention of it yet.

He took a new pack of Rigas from his pocket and stopped behind a street lamp to light a cigarette. When he raised his eyes, the quiet night air was suddenly rent by a roar, and a monstrous tank erupted rumbling from a side street, blinding him with its headlights. It made a complete turn, digging at the asphalt with its heavy tracks, and headed off roaring towards the University, followed by two trucks. Another tank was advancing fast from the other direction; a minute later it stopped in front of the Polytechnic, revolving the gun on its turret towards the colonnade of the atrium.

Claudio fell against the lamp-post, beating his fist against the icy metal, again and again until it hurt. Heleni was their prisoner.

He started running until his heart was close to bursting, racing down the maze of streets at the foot of Mount Licavittòs. He stopped, gasping for breath, and then started running again, aimlessly, until he found himself in the huge deserted space of Sintàgmatos Square. The Greek parliament: two
evzones
guards marched back and forth before the tomb of the unknown soldier. The gold and black of their jackets shone in the night and their white skirts fluttered in the wind. From this distance they seemed like puppets, like the toys crowding the tourist stalls in the Plaka. Behind them, the great marble warrior slept, naked, the sleep of death, and the words of a great man from the past engraved on the stone above him seemed blasphemous on that wretched night.

Athens, Municipal Hospital of Kifissìa, 17 November, 3 a.m.

‘I’
M THE DOCTOR
on duty. Who is it that you’re looking for?’

‘My name’s Aristotelis Malidis. I’d like to know how the man I brought in an hour ago is doing. His name is Periklis Harvatis.’

The doctor picked up the phone and called up to the ward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told him a short time later, ‘the patient has passed away.’

Ari bowed his head and made the triple sign of the cross in the Greek Orthodox manner. ‘May I speak with the doctor who admitted him? The professor had no relatives; I’m his assistant. He didn’t have anyone else in the world.’

The doctor called up again. ‘Yes, go on up. Ask for Dr Psarros, second floor.’

Ari took the elevator. He glanced at himself in the mirror inside: the bright light of the bulb rained on him from above, deeply carving his tired face and making him look very much older than he was. The door opened on to a long, neon-lit corridor. Two nurses were playing cards in a smoke-filled glass room, in front of an ashtray overflowing with butts. Ari asked for Dr Psarros and was brought to his office. On the doctor’s desk was a radio playing classical music.

‘My name is Malidis. I was the one who brought Professor Harvatis here an hour ago. I know he’s . . . dead.’

‘We did everything we could. But it was too late, he was too far gone. Why didn’t you bring him sooner?’

Ari hesitated. ‘What did he die of?’

‘Cardiac arrest. Probably a heart attack.’

‘Why do you say “probably”? Weren’t the symptoms clear?’

‘The cause of death was not entirely clear, no. Perhaps you can help us. Tell me how it happened.’

‘I’ll tell you what I know. Can I see him first?’

‘Yes, certainly. The body is still in room number nine.’