The Oracle (5 page)

‘Open up, for the love of God, we’re students. One of us is wounded.’ Ari opened the door and several youths tumbled in: three boys, one of them carrying a girl who was unconscious and seemed seriously wounded.

‘Ari, is that you?’ said Michel. ‘What luck. I thought you were at Parga with Harvatis.’

‘Michel? I was in Parga, I just . . . I just arrived. But why have you come here? This girl has to be brought to the hospital immediately.’

Claudio approached him, clutching Heleni to his chest. She seemed to have regained consciousness; a low moan came from her mouth. ‘She’s been shot. If we take her to a hospital we’ll all be arrested. You have to help us find a doctor . . . or a clinic that we can trust.’

Ari led them forward: ‘Follow me, quickly.’ They crossed the room with the Cycladic sculptures, reached the service stairs and descended into the basement. He opened the door of the storeroom. ‘No one will come to look for you here,’ he said. ‘Wait for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stop the bleeding, if you can. She mustn’t lose any more blood.’ He left, pulling the iron door shut behind him.

‘We should stretch her out,’ said Claudio. They rearranged Ari’s sawdust bed and lay Heleni down gently. Claudio carefully took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, baring her shoulder.

Michel was close by: ‘The wound is very high, the bullet may not have hit any vital organs. We have to staunch it.’

Claudio pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘This is clean; we can use this.’

Norman looked around. ‘This is a restoration lab. There must be some alcohol somewhere.’ He went through the cabinets and shelves, opening bottles of solvent and sniffing at them: ‘Here, this is alcohol.’

Claudio soaked the handkerchief and cleaned the wound carefully. The girl trembled and cried out in pain. She opened her eyes and looked around bewildered: ‘Claudio . . . Claudio . . . where are we?’

‘We’re safe, my love. Stay calm, you must be still. You’ve been wounded. We’re going to take care of you. Now stay calm, try to rest.’ Heleni closed her eyes.

Claudio ripped his shirt into strips and bandaged the wound as best he could. It had stopped bleeding.

‘We have to keep her warm. We need a blanket.’

Michel started to take off his down jacket.

‘Wait, there’s a blanket,’ said Norman, pointing to a large bundle under a table. He untied the corners and backed up in shock. ‘My God! Look at this!’ Claudio and Michel turned and saw the embossed golden vase, the figure of a warrior with an oar on his shoulder, the ram and the bull and the boar with its long tusks. The last bell of the revolt tolled its dying peal into the sky of Athens, full of stars and desperation.

Michel seemed stunned by the vision of the vase. He had stood up and was staring at the wonder which had so suddenly appeared out of nowhere. ‘What is that? My God, I can’t believe it. Claudio, what is it?’

Claudio was bent over Heleni and was holding her hand as if he could pass his warmth and his vigour into her still body. He turned slightly and saw the vase. For long moments, everything else seemed to fade away. The little book that had fallen at his feet at the archaeological school library flashed into his mind: ‘Hypothesis on the necromantic rite in the
Odyssey
, Book XI.’ He turned immediately back to Heleni.

‘A fake if I ever saw one. Inspired by some verses from the
Odyssey
, maybe; the Nekya, the journey into the land of the dead . . .’

‘But it’s made of gold!’ Michel stuttered.

‘Good fakes are always made of the best materials . . . makes them more credible. It looks like an imitation of the Ugarit cups, same style. It can’t be authentic. Give me the blanket.’

Norman lifted the vase and Michel slipped off the blanket, handing it to Claudio who arranged it around Heleni.

‘What do we do with this?’ asked Norman, setting the vase back on the table.

‘Hide it,’ said Claudio. ‘It was hidden when we found it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Norman. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Looks like it was just unearthed. There are still traces of dust and mud on it.’

Michel ran his finger over the surface of the vase, rubbing a little of the sediment between his thumb and index finger.

‘Blood.’

Norman started: ‘What are you saying, Michel?’

‘It’s not mud. It’s blood. Centuries old. Millennia old, maybe. It’s so old it’s turned to humus. I’ve seen it before in a sacrificial trench in the Plutonium of Hierapolis in Turkey. This vase was immersed in the blood of a great number of victims. It certainly comes from one of the great sanctuaries.’

Claudio shivered. ‘Hide it,’ he said, without taking his eyes off Heleni’s face. Norman and Michel obeyed. They put it into an old cabinet in the corner of the room.

Ari came in shortly thereafter. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘The police are checking all the hospitals. Anyone going in with wounds or bruises is being arrested.’

Claudio turned towards him: ‘Heleni needs help right away,’ he said. ‘I’ve staunched the wound, but she’s feverish. She needs blood, and antibiotics. The bullet is probably still in her body.’

‘In five minutes a taxi will come to the rear entrance; it will take you to a surgeon’s office. He’s a friend, he won’t ask questions. But he’ll need some medicine and supplies for the transfusion. Michel, you take your car and go buy the things on this list at the night pharmacy in Dimitriou Square, and bring them to the address I’ve written at the bottom. Does anyone know what blood type the girl is?’

‘A-positive,’ said Claudio. ‘She’s wearing a blood-donor medal.’

‘Like me,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll give her my blood.’

‘Good. Let’s not waste any more time. Come on, let’s bring her outside.’ He noticed the blanket that Heleni was wrapped in, looked under the table where the vase had been and then back at the boys.

‘We couldn’t find anything else,’ blurted Michel.

Ari hesitated a moment, then said, ‘You did the right thing. What did you do with it?’

Michel nodded towards the cabinet.

‘Please don’t speak with anyone about this. Please. It was discovered by Professor Harvatis. It was his . . . last discovery. He’s dead now. Swear to me that you won’t mention it to anyone.’

The boys all nodded.

‘Let’s go now,’ said Ari, ‘we have to take care of your friend.’

Norman and Claudio crossed their hands to form a makeshift seat and carried her to the taxi, which was already waiting with its engine running. Ari murmured the address to the taxi driver and the car sped off. Norman sat in front and Claudio, huddled into a corner of the back seat, held Heleni’s head on his lap. He touched her forehead: it was ice cold.

Michel in the meantime was speeding in his little Deux-Chevaux down streets that were beginning to fill up with early morning traffic.

It seemed as if the pharmacist were expecting him: they gave him the things he asked for without a word. Michel paid and took off again immediately. He was careful to avoid the streets in the centre and not draw attention to himself. When he was sure he was out of danger he stepped on the accelerator. The address was not far now.

Just as he was about to turn left, a police car emerged unexpectedly from a side street, siren on and lights flashing. Michel thought he would die. The car passed him and signalled for him to pull over to the right. Michel did so and tried to stay calm.

The policeman took a look at the vehicle’s French plates and approached the driver’s side with his hand to the peak of his cap.

‘
Tò diavatirio, parakalò
.
’

Michel took out his driver’s licence and passport.

‘Oh, so you know Greek,’ said the policeman.

‘Yes,’ said Michel. ‘I speak your language a little. I’m at the French archaeological school in Athens.’

‘A student, then. Well, well. Don’t you know there is a fifty-kilometre speed limit here?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was going to pick up my professor at the station and I’m late. I didn’t hear the alarm clock go off.’

The other policeman, the patrol car’s driver, had got out and was walking around the Deux-Chevaux, looking inside. He suddenly approached his partner and whispered something into his ear. Michel was sweating, but tried to maintain a nonchalant air.

‘Get out, please,’ said the officer, suddenly quite serious.

‘Listen, give me a break, I’m really late.’ He put his hand on his wallet. ‘If you can tell me how much I owe you for the fine . . . See, if my professor gets here and he doesn’t see me I’ll be in a lot of trouble . . .’

‘Please. Get out.’

Michel got out of the car and stood in the middle of the street, wallet in hand.

One of the policemen took out a flashlight and started to search the car interior. He directed the beam of light at the back seat. A large bloodstain. Heleni’s blood. Then he opened the pharmacy bag: bandages, a transfusion needle, xylocain, catgut, antibiotics.

‘I’m afraid your professor will have to get a taxi,’ he said with a sneer. ‘You’ll have to explain a few things to us, Mr Charrier.’

They took him to a large grey building nearby and led him down into the basement, locking him into an empty room. He waited, trying to make sense of what was going on, the muffled shouts, moaning, footsteps, doors slamming, comings and goings. When a man came to interrogate him, he told him that he would not say a word unless a representative of the French consulate were present.

But he did speak, almost immediately. Very few withstand the
falanga
. When the first blows hit the bare soles of his feet, he gritted his teeth, drawing on all the courage he had and all his affection for his friends, but the pain penetrated cruelly all the way to his brain, severing his will.

He shouted, he cried and he swore, and then wept disconsolately. The cramps that tore through every fibre of his being and every centimetre of his skin did not prevent him from realizing what he had done. He was conscious that he had already broken down, had already betrayed. And this knowledge was even more painful than the torture.

His persecutor struck calmly and precisely, as if he heard nothing. It seemed a job like any other, and he continued for a while, even after Michel had told everything he knew . . . everything. He seemed to want to punish him for allowing him to finish up so quickly.

The interrogator wiped his forehead, and then his hairy, sweaty chest, with a handkerchief. He said something into an intercom hanging from the ceiling and a plain-clothes policeman came to accompany Michel to an adjacent room. He stood at the threshold for a moment while they brought another young boy in, handcuffed, his face bruised, mouth full of blood and eyes terrified.

Michel tried to get up, but as soon as his feet touched the floor he collapsed, screaming with pain. Two policemen tied the other boy to the torture bed and removed his shoes and socks. They then picked Michel up bodily and took him out.

The door closed behind them with a sharp click. As Michel was dragged down the hall behind an officer, he could hear prolonged, suffocated moans, almost animal-like, coming from behind the closed door. He lowered his eyes as he stumbled and tripped to his destiny. They threw him on to an iron chair.

‘Well,’ said the officer, whose name tag identified him as ‘Capt. Karamanlis’. ‘Suppose you tell me all over again: who were you transporting in your car and where were you taking the medical supplies you had?’

‘A friend of mine who was wounded at the Polytechnic last night. We were trying to help her.’

The man shook his head: ‘How stupid of you. You should have brought her to a hospital. Or were you trying to hide something?’

‘We had nothing to hide. We didn’t want her to have to suffer what you just did to me. Or to that poor boy back there.’

‘They are subversives; they deserve no compassion. They are the ruin of our country. You’re a foreigner. You shouldn’t have got mixed up in this. Now. You tell me everything you know, and we’ll pretend we never saw you. No one will ever know who was here tonight. No report will be made. What was that girl’s name?’

‘Her name’s . . . Heleni Kaloudis.’

‘Kaloudis, you said? All right. And now tell me where she is. Come on, I give you my word as an officer that no harm will be done to her. We’ll take care of her. Then we’ll see. When she’s better, she’ll have to answer some questions, naturally, but believe me, we don’t hurt women. I’m a man of honour.’

Michel told him and the officer’s face lit up in satisfaction. ‘Finally, finally: the voice on the radio. That damned voice on the radio. Good boy, good work, you have no idea how helpful you’ve been. The girl you were trying to help is a dangerous criminal, a threat to the security of the nation. Naturally, you’re a foreigner, you couldn’t imagine . . .’

Michel’s eyes widened: ‘What are you saying? What are you saying, God damn it? What’s this business about the radio? What dangerous criminal? I don’t believe a word of what you’ve said. You bastard!’

Karamanlis chuckled. Throw him into a cell,’ he said to his men. ‘We don’t need him any more.’ He left the room and disappeared up the stairs. Michel was dragged out into the hall. The man with the hairy chest was leaning against the door jamb of the interrogation room, smoking a cigarette. No sound came from the room, not even a whimper.