Decision at Delphi (28 page)

“Not to the police,” he said. “There are others—”

“Counter-intelligence? Military intelligence? My aunt would be branded as a traitor. Our family is too much hated already. Would you never have our name free of that?”

“You could free it.”

“By being a traitor to my aunt? No. All I have done is to try to save the life of Stefanos Kladas. That is all I will do.”

“And you do not care if other people lose their lives?”

“Who?” She was angry, defiant.

“You know quite well,” he told her sharply. In English, he added, “You know what a political conspiracy means to ordinary people, the people you saw in the street today when you came to Athens, the people in your village. You were only four, you said, when your village was burned. By whom? Did the people rejoice? Or was it only a few men, like your father, who were glad? Surely, even someone four years old could remember flames and screams of terror and, afterward—yes, afterward, what did you hear? Or were the survivors scattered in the hills so you couldn’t hear them weep?”

My God, he thought, taking a deep breath, where did that all come from?

She stared at the ground and said nothing. But, at least, the anger and defiance had gone.

He said, very quietly, “Money is like all weapons: it can be used for good or for evil. I could think of a hundred ways in which your aunt’s fortune could be spent to bring good to Greece. Instead, she spends it in the one way that is bound to bring suffering. Does she hate Greece so much?”

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes dilated.

“No one is forcing her to spend her money this way. She made her own choice, didn’t she?”

“She has suffered—you don’t know what she has suffered. You hear
their
side of the story,” she gestured to the others. “She has her story, too, just as terrible as theirs.”

“I know,” he said. “Every side in politics has its own reasons. But we are not arguing about rights and wrongs in politics. We are talking of something more honest than that. We are talking of suffering.”

“Suffering changes people. It makes them different,” she said haltingly. “My aunt has suffered much.”

“It doesn’t change. It strips them down to what they really are. It only shows them naked. It shows what lay hidden inside them.” He paused. “For God’s sake, can’t you see that?”

The Cretan and his family were standing quite still, listening intently, although only Petros and perhaps the boy could have understood anything that had been said. The old man hadn’t even blustered for an immediate translation, as if the emotion in the two voices demanded the respect of silence.

Strang made his last appeal to the girl. “These people here have no reason to like you, yet they’ve offered you shelter. Your aunt loves you, yet what does she offer you now? There’s a difference in the kind of people they are and the kind of woman your aunt is. If you think she is as human as they are, why don’t you walk out of that door and put your little hand right into the Bulgarian’s? Ask him to take you back to all those dear sweet people who are only twisted by what they’ve suffered?”

The girl flinched, then became angry with herself for the instinctive gesture, and, in turn, translated the anger on to
him. “What do Americans know about suffering?” she demanded, facing him.

Strang’s lips closed tightly, stopped his quick comment that her time might have been better spent in reading some American history than on choosing the minks for her coats, if only to keep herself from being as stupid as she sounded. He said, very quietly, making his sarcasm twice as bitter, “That’s right: we fought our civil war with rose petals.”

She turned away from him. She turned away from the others, too, as if she didn’t want to be reminded that people could suffer and still remain human beings. She looked at Cecilia.

Cecilia’s voice was gentle. “Who killed your father and brother, Katherini?”

Katherini stared at her. “It was not my aunt. She was angry when she heard.”

“But she knew their murderer.”

“Yes.”

“Did she have him arrested?”

“No.” For a moment, the girl seemed almost scornful at the American’s naïveté about police. As if
they
could solve anything like this!

“She never saw him again—she cut him out of her life—she said how evil he was—” Cecilia ran out of suggestions. But she had given enough, it seemed.

“No,” the girl said slowly;

“So, if she was angry, it wasn’t with him.”

“But—” the girl began, and fell silent.

“Perhaps she was angry because the murders were badly planned. Perhaps they did not look like suicide or an accident?”

The girl stared at her.

“After all,” Cecilia said, getting up from the table, “who pays the murderer? I mean—what does he live on? How does he earn his money for food and clothes? Someone employs him. Or has he been discharged? Is he out of favour?”

The girl’s eyes widened still more.

Cecilia took her arm. “Then what are we arguing about?”

Katherini Roilos didn’t pull her arm away. Instead, her hand suddenly gripped Cecilia’s. It was still ice-cold. “If only,” Cecilia said to Strang, “we could get a good hot meal inside her, put her in a comfortable bed, let her sleep, with friends sitting near.”

Strang nodded. But where could they find all that? Not only food and a bed, but complete safety, too. Where? And then he knew. He said to the girl, “Will you come with us?”

“You want me to tell—everything?” Katherini Roilos asked.

“I think you ought to. But it’s your choice.”

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “perhaps it is the only choice.” She looked at Cecilia. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll go with you. But how?” She looked at the door to the street. “How?”

“Petros,” Strang called over to the group of talking men, “we need your help.”

“Good night,” the boy said solemnly, smoothing the folded napkin over his arm, ducking his small round head in a little bow. Overhead, the naked bulb shone down from the edge of the rippled roof and cast a net of light over the boy and the two men beside him.

“Good night,” said the Cretan. He was a massive and imposing figure, standing erect before the doorway of his house, his feet planted securely on the earth road, his wide breeches tucked into his long heavy boots, his waistcoat now buttoned and a handkerchief twisted around his head, low on his brow, against the night air.

“Good night,” said one of the stepsons, and flashed a smile.

“Good night,” said Cecilia and Strang, and turned from the little group to walk down Erinna Street. Halfway, Cecilia turned to wave back to them: three still figures under the roof’s hard light; to one side of them, the tree with its spread
of shadow; behind them, the steep face of rough rock.

“At least,” she said lightly, “I did get one view of the Acropolis tonight.” She was more tired than she would allow, though. Her weight was beginning to rest on Strang’s arm.

“We don’t have much chance of finding a taxi at this hour. Not here,” he said worriedly, as they reached the corner and found the street deserted. “Can you walk three or four blocks?”

I’ll have to, she thought. “Of course.” She dropped her voice. “Did you see the Bulgarian anywhere?”

“He was under the tree as I opened the door. He drew behind its trunk.”

“What’s the plan?” she asked. “You were all talking Greek so busily that no one had time to translate anything.”

“Petros will smuggle Katherini out by the yard, and through some other yards that stretch along under the Acropolis wall. He is borrowing a light truck he almost shares with one of his neighbours—I couldn’t get that part quite straight; it was all very digressive. Seemingly, he drives a truck in winter, a bus in the summer. In any case, he can get hold of some kind of transportation. He will bring the girl to the corner of Dimocritos Street, and that’s only a block from Pringle’s doorstep.”

“Pringle?”

“An attaché at the embassy. Married. Katherini will be safe there. In the morning, she can see some people. And if she will only tell them what she knows—” He shook his head, remembering his defeat. “Without you, she would have told nothing. Or as little as possible. Or much too late to do any good.”

“I hate to admit it, but logic and sweet reason are often lost on a woman. We’re more personal and practical in our arguments. You’d have won, though; it would just have taken longer.”

“I doubt it.”

“But she had already made her choice when she came to Erinna Street. And that’s another thing about women: we decide somewhere deep inside us, and then we want to be persuaded that what we have decided is right. We can argue ourselves back into a corner where we can’t do what we decided to do, in the first place, before we started being persuaded that what we had wanted to do was the only thing possible. See what I mean?”

“No.”

“But it’s quite simple. Women are really very simple.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed that.”

How many women has he known? she wondered suddenly, inexplicably. What were they like? No—what
are
they like?

“Cheer up,” he said, “we’ve only one block to go. The restaurant should be just around the corner.”

“We’re going back to the gypsies?” They were, she thought, the most-dressed-gypsies she ever had seen.

“There are bound to be some taxis around there. Besides, I’d like to telephone Pringle.”

“Ask his wife to have some soup heated for Katherini. That’s about all she can digest, right now, poor dear. Funny thing, you know...” She lapsed into silence.

“What’s so funny?”

“Everything you said—about suffering and its effects—was being proved by her, right there; and she never knew it. I mean, she’s been through her own private little agony for weeks, and what came to the surface? An attempt to save a life.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “No,” he said, “I just don’t understand women.”

“You aren’t supposed to.” She was equally serious.

He looked at her in surprise. Perhaps that has always been my trouble, he thought. He said, “Here’s the restaurant.”

The headwaiter remembered them with one glance. “Certainly,” he told Strang, pointed to a telephone in the small lobby, and found a chair for Cecilia.

“It won’t take long,” Strang reassured her, searching through the telephone directory, privately cursing the deeply shaded light. He found the number, got through, and then— as he waited for someone to pick up the receiver—wondered if Pringle was out, if Pringle was asleep, if Pringle was in the arms of his loving wife, if Pringle was allergic to phone calls at ten minutes after one in the morning and never answered on principle. But Pringle was neither out nor asleep nor et cetera. His voice was hearty, if a little surprised. In the background, there were other voices, distant laughter.

“I hear you’re in the middle of a party. I’m sorry—” Strang said. He was more than sorry.

“Oh, they’re just about to leave. But why don’t you come along and I’ll get them to stay? It’s only the Ottways, and a couple of fellows who wanted to talk about Cyprus, and Alexander Christophorou. He dropped in to see me and stayed for a drink.” The good humour left Pringle’s voice. “He’s a little depressed. So am I, frankly. Come along, and we can have a quiet five minutes together.”

“Not tonight. Miss Hillard is with me.”

“Bring her along. Why not?”

“With Aleco around?”

Pringle laughed and spoke to someone beside him. “He is out
on the town with la Hillard, but won’t bring her around. Seems to think you would make heavy competition.” Then Pringle spoke into the telephone again. “Aleco says you overestimate him.” There was a short pause. “Anything else?” It was a reminder that telephone calls usually meant something.

“I called you,” Strang said slowly, thinking quickly, “to ask for Beaumont’s address.”

That obviously surprised Pringle. “You’ll always find Beaumont through the School.”

“I know that. But where can Lee Preston be sure of reaching him, definitely?”

“Oh,
Perspective,”
Pringle said. “Just a moment. I have his phone number and address somewhere here.” He gave them, carefully. He still sounded a little puzzled.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour. Miss Hillard and I thought we’d call Preston in New York. It’s a good time to reach him. He will just be mixing his first batch of Martinis.”

“Lucky fellow,” Pringle said with a laugh and a touch of nostalgia. “They never taste the same anywhere else.”

“It’s the ice,” Strang said. “See you later,” he added very softly.

“See you—” Pringle repeated automatically, and then stopped. “Soon,” he ended. He sounded thoughtful.

“Slight change in plans,” Strang told Cecilia, as he helped her rise. He tried to look unconcerned. He pulled her coat properly on to her shoulders, and began buttoning it for her. “You are one tired girl,” he said, worriedly.

“I’ve another hour in me. Provided no one puts me into a comfortable chair again. What’s wrong?”

“Pringle’s place is filled with people.”

“Oh? Then what?”

“We’ll think of something. In the taxi.”

“We’ll think...” That was a sweet inclusion.
“You
will,” she murmured. All she could think of, at this moment, was something simple and practical, like taking Katherini Roilos back to the hotel with her. What was there against that?

“Hi!” an American voice said, and a hand gripped Strang’s arm. “Shipmate ahoy! And how are the barbarians?”

Strang stared at the handsome face.

“We came over on the same boat,” its owner was explaining to Cecilia, without waiting for the introduction. “Come on, let’s have a drink together. I’m with a bunch of stuffed shirts. Very lovely people, but definitely overweight. We’ll ditch them and go on our merry way.” He managed to get his eyes off Cecilia. “You know, old boy, that was a very neat toast you pulled out of your cuff. Damned good exit line.
Down with all barbarians!
I’ve been using it, I don’t mind telling you. Say, this place is quite something.” His eyes were back to Cecilia again, and looked as if they’d stay there permanently. “There’s nothing like seeing the real people, is there? Interesting types.”