The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi Read Free Book Online

said. ‘How did they take it, kori mou ? All credit to the poet, after all! He had a sense of humour I never saw.’
    â€˜He was never a humorous man, in truth,’ said Maria. ‘He was always very earnest, from being a boy.’
    â€˜Sounds to me as if he earnestly doesn’t want them to have his money,’ laughed her mother. ‘Well, they won’t be liking that, I shouldn’t think. And I don’t suppose you like it either, kori mou . Four years till you get your little legacy! Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of his book, and keep you waiting the same way!’
    â€˜There’s no point in that when you’ve nothing to leave,’ said Maria, sourly. ‘What legacy are you going to will to me?’
    â€˜Only wisdom and memories,’ said Roula. ‘Wisdom and memories, kori mou . For which you should be grateful. Mine’s a legacy you won’t wait years for; and what better gifts could a mother possibly leave?’

Six
    The island of Seftos was no siren, no draw for crowds of visitors. Long, flat and featureless, its unremarkable landscape had an undistinguished history, with no mention in the myths of ancient times nor any references in the guidebooks of today. Set on a wide and sweeping bay which gave no shelter, its town was ranged like a battalion, with tradesmen’s premises and stores all at the centre, and commonplace houses on either flank. Behind the town grew acres of medlar orchards, whose old trees blossomed, at the appropriate season, into an attractive pink; but the market for medlars was never better than slow, and despite the growers’ co-operative’s ardent efforts at promotion, the fame of the Isle of Medlars had never spread beyond the boundaries of its own prefecture.
    A few days before the poet’s exhumation, the weekly boat to Athens – a vast vessel, whose long-serving captain was always apprehensive of Seftos’s shallow waters – docked hours late alongside the island’s own small ferry, which had no sailing scheduled for that day. Anxious to make up time and press on to the next port on their route, the crew handled the offloading with efficiency, lowering the ramp as the ship-to-shore lines were being secured, ushering off the disembarking foot passengers as they beckoned forward those waiting to board.
    The arriving passengers were hurried away by relatives complaining of the delay, or disappeared down alleyways to back-street homes. But a figure watching from the ramp-head – an overweight man in an overcoat, with white tennis shoes on his feet – seemed undecided whether to leave the boat or not: he stepped on to the ramp, then back on to the deck; he checked his watch, and bit his lip, and stepped forward and back again.
    The freight was light, and soon claimed and carted off, in trucks, on motorbikes, by hand. The ferry’s hefty ropes were already cast off, and a crewman’s hand was on the lever to raise the ramp, when the watching man called out to him to wait and stepped forward a third time.
    The engines were powering up, and the crewman shouted over the water’s churning.
    â€˜Run, friend!’
    The fat man ran down the ramp, a hand raised in thanks to the crewman. The ferry moved away from the quay, whilst on the harbour-side, the fat man seemed to be doubting his decision. But as the foghorn gave a short blast of farewell, and the boat disappeared round the northern headland, he shrugged, picked up his bag and walked away from the dock towards the town’s heart.
    Along the quayside, boats hauled from the sea in autumn were still waiting for spring painting. Pigeons sheltered beside a chimney stack on the bakery roof; the tattered flag at the war memorial fluttered on its pole. An old man limped slowly by, a seaman’s cap pulled down over his ears; as he passed the fat man, he gave a nod of greeting, and muttered, Krio – cold.
    Over the doorway of the general