The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi Read Free Book Online Page A

store, the stems of last year’s May Day flowers hung, long dead, as good luck, with a carbon cross from an Easter candle’s smoke marked on the lintel. Tied with old rope to a trestle table lay a long-legged black hound, too dejected to raise his head as the fat man passed. With rain threatening, one of the narrow double doors remained bolted shut, so the fat man was forced to enter the store sideways. Hessian sacks of dried goods – lentils and chickpeas, rice and chicken-feed – obstructed his passage, and he edged between them to reach the counter.
    The shop was lit only by a single bulb, and the daylight was blocked by boxes of stock – biscuits and pasta, canned fruit and shampoo – stacked up in front of the window. There were smells of garlic and onions, of salt anchovies, soap powder and oranges, and of cheese from the humming fridge, above which a caged linnet chirped once, and was silent.
    The shopkeeper had tried to make himself comfortable: an empty coffee cup was at his elbow, a tumbler of spirit was on the till-top, the remains of a ham sandwich lay on a plate. He was past his prime, and had let himself go; his cheeks had four days’ worth of stubble, and his fingers were stained ochre with nicotine. On the shelf behind him, a radio was tuned to a talk show, where two men argued about a basketball team’s performance.
    â€˜They played like spastics, as usual,’ said the shopkeeper to the radio, and switched it off. Rubbing his hands to restore their warmth, he turned to the fat man.
    â€˜ Yassas ,’ he said. ‘ Kalos tou, kalos tou! A winter visitor! You’re a very rare bird, if I may say.’ He looked the fat man up and down, admiring his cashmere overcoat in midnight blue, his grey suit with its subtle stripe, his waistcoat buttoned over a pale shirt. The fat man’s owlish glasses gave him an air of academia, and his greying hair, though in need of cutting, was thick with curls; he placed his bag – a holdall of the type favoured by athletes, not new, but of some vintage, in well cared for navy leather – between his feet, drawing the shopkeeper’s attention, as he did so, to his white shoes. ‘But visitors are a rarity at any time, in this backwater, and I don’t ever recall one turned out like you. No offence, friend, but are you sure you’re in the right place?’
    The fat man smiled, and held out his hand.
    â€˜Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens,’ he said. ‘And I must admit, Seftos wasn’t my intended destination. I disembarked on something of a whim. Many years have gone by since I was on the Isle of Medlars.’
    The shopkeeper laughed as he shook the fat man’s hand.
    â€˜It’s a strange thing to be known for, wouldn’t you say? A fruit too sour to eat until it’s rotten? But if you want medlars, you must come back in the autumn. We’re buried in the damn things, then.’
    â€˜It’s medlars I’ve come for now, if I can get some,’ said the fat man. ‘I know it’s not the season, but I’m hoping to find some spoon sweets, or other preserves. I’m intending to pay a visit to an old friend, and when I heard Seftos announced on the ferry tannoy, I was reminded of her partiality to the fruit. I shall be late, now, where I was going, but that business must wait. Medlars are such a rarity, these days, I thought I should take the opportunity when it presented itself. Did you know medlars were regarded, centuries ago, as an aid to chastity? Men made their women eat them, to stop them straying.’
    â€˜I can shoot holes in that remedy, in a second,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘The women here are medlar-eaters from birth, so by that logic, you’d expect them all to be virtuous as St Agnes, and that, they most certainly are not. I’ve got medlar jam, if you think it would suit.’
    â€˜Since it’s not in my power to change the season, it