The Messenger of Athens: A Novel by Anne Zouroudi Read Free Book Online

happy, they’d rape your wife or kill your herds or sink your ships. No wonder they were ousted. Only they didn’t go far.”
    “But if they’re here,” she said, “why don’t we see them? There were so many of them. People used to run across them all the time, in ancient times. I’ve never met anyone who’s met a god.”
    “Perhaps you met one,” he said, “in your dream last night. And if you met one in the street, I suppose they’d look ordinary enough. They wouldn’t go in for bright lights and halos and crowds of angels, would they? They leave that to the opposition. They’re more underhand. Discreet. Sly.”
    The church clock struck ten. She closed her eyes and, flexing the cold-rusted joints of her fingers, turned her face to the sky as if the sun would warm it. Outside the hotel, two men were talking to the woman there, and as they spoke, the woman continued to sweep, her hands moving the broom forwards and back, compelled by habit. When the taller man threw back his head, it was a moment before the wind brought his laughter to their table, so that man, and laughter, seemed disconnected; and, though dismissive of her uncle’s odd advocacy for deities long dead, it seemed possible, at least, that someone other than the man she could see might have laughed—someone who stood, invisible, beside her chair.
    She shivered. The two men were on the road, heading towards them.
    “We have company,” he said, squinting his eyes into clearer focus. “Our respected constabulary, hard at work.”
    “I must go,” she said, rising.
    “Irini.” He grasped her hand and held it between his own. His skin was pale between the bones, and molded over every vein. “A favor, my dear. Go for me to the cemetery, and take your aunt some flowers. I can’t go myself. My old legs won’t walk that far.” He released her hand,and delved into his trouser pockets. “Yellow. Yellow was her favorite color.”
    “Last time, you said pink.”
    “Did I? Well. As you say, we all like a change.” He offered her a banknote of low value.
    “You should go yourself, sometimes,” she said. She looked at the banknote. Her mother said he kept a fortune hidden in the chimney. “You could take a taxi.”
    “Pah.” He pinched at his tongue as if pulling at a swallowed hair, then turned in his chair and spat. “Waste of hard-earned money. The walk will do you good. And call your mother. Don’t forget. Say hello from me.”
    “Why don’t you call her?” She pushed her chair beneath the table, and pocketed the banknote. “She’d like to hear from you, too.”
    “I would if I could,” he said. “You know I would, but I’ve been waiting a month for them to come and repair the phone.”
    P anayiotis Zafiridis, recently installed as Chief of Police, believed in the power of first impressions. He was keen to impress the ladies; the new leather jacket, the sharp creases in his trousers, his close-cut, slicked-down hair all said so. Stellios Lizardis, his constable, believed in the power of advertising. He belted his trousers high on his waist, to lift and plump his genitalia. As they passed close by Irini on the road, they spoke respectfully—
Yassas
—but, a few paces on, the Chief of Police stopped and turned to make a full assessment.
    The comb which held her hair in place had slipped, and lustrous, black hair coquettishly hid one dark eye. He scanned the slow switch of her wide hips, and ran his tongue across his thin lips.
    “Look at that,” he said. “Couldn’t you just—”
    Lizardis held up his hand.
    “Don’t say that here. She’s the old man’s niece.” He inclined his head towards Nikos’s house, where, with a carrying wind and the amplifying power of water, Nikos might catch their words.
    They had reached the boatyard. Inside the workshop, all was silent.
    “He might make an introduction,” said the Chief of Police.
    “She’s married.”
    “I like them married. They demand less time.”
    Lizardis was