Hashish: A Smuggler's Tale (6 page)

At last I found one who could read and make out the address which the obliging engineer of Port Vendres had given me. He took me to the house of Madame Spiro Smimeo, which was in an outlying suburb.

It was a very trim-looking dwelling, with a door-bell which one pulled. I was received with noisy exclamations of surprise and joy, as if I were an old friend not seen for ages.

Madame Smimeo was a good-looking woman of thirty, as tall and plump and fresh as her husband was little and shrivelled and oily as a black olive. She pushed me into a green rep arm-chair, and for half an hour I stayed stunned, while she shouted remarks at me in Greek, with a vivacity and amiability rather lost on me, since I didn’t understand a single word she was saying.

At last Papamanoli, who had been hastily summoned, arrived all out of breath. He was a ‘pope’, a big, fine-looking fellow with a wonderful beard, and his towering head-dress and flowing robes added to his impressive appearance. He mopped his streaming forehead with a coquettish pink silk handkerchief, and sleeked back his hair, which he wore in a neat ‘bun’. He had a splendid head, like that of an Assyrian monarch on an ancient coin, and his magnificent grey eyes shaded by long lashes were so eloquent that he hardly needed to speak. But I was still confronted with the same difficulty: I spoke no Greek and he spoke nothing else. We had to wait for an interpreter.

Madame Spiro fluttered around, very proud of her distinguished cousin. She suddenly bethought herself of her duties as hostess and trotted off at the double, returning with a tray covered with dishes of rose-petal jam. This frightfully sweet stuff is eaten by the spoonful accompanied by numerous glasses of water to stave off the inevitable sickness as long as possible.

The arrival of the interpreter put an end to our polite becking and bowing. He looked like a smart young man from the Home and Colonial and he spoke Italian. I plunged into exact explanations of what I had come to do.

The hashish was grown in Tripolis in Morea; nothing could be simpler, they assured me, than to go and buy from the growers whatever quantity was desired. It was a railway journey of about eight hours, and we arranged to leave next morning at 5 a.m. I spent the rest of the afternoon settling about the transport of my goods, so as to save time when they should arrive.

When I spoke about a cargo of hashish as casually as I might about a cargo of potatoes, the agent of the Messageries Maritimes was completely taken aback, but once he had got over the first shock he consulted his books of reference, and telephoned to the customs. Then he informed me that I could only ship this merchandise if I had a permit from the
Greek customs, which would be given me on deposit of a guarantee of ten francs per kilogram. Theoretically, this deposit would be refunded when I presented my customs bill at my port of consignment, but even if I had such a certificate. I should have to get my money refunded by the Greek Government. That, I had been told, was a tough job. In any case, if I had to pay such a guarantee, I was completely in the soup, for I hadn’t the money.

At sight of my downcast face, Papamanoli smiled indulgently. He had known from the beginning that all my attempts to conduct the business would end in failure. He now took in hand himself to arrange matters.

We went down to the harbour, and there on the quay was a certain café, the headquarters of those who specialized in arranging for the transport of difficult cargoes. I was amused to note that the majestic, flowing robes of my guide did not seem to cause the slightest stir among the dockers and riff-raff of the port; most of them, indeed, saluted with respect. I wondered if this would be the case in the Vieux Port if I were accompanied by an abbé.

We entered the bar in question. It was full of sailors who had or had not ships, and of all kinds of seafarers, including many captains of the little coasting steamers which ploughed the waters of the archipelago in all directions. They were sitting about in little groups, drinking coffee and plotting their little schemes, for all the smuggling and dodges to cheat the maritime authorities were thought out in this place, and for love of smuggling, the Greeks are the first nation in the world, bar none. If I had come in alone, I should have been looked on with the greatest suspicion, but as I was with Papamanoli everything was all right. He shook hands all round with the familiarity of one who is in a daily haunt, and even the landlord came and greeted him with marked deference.

From his towering height he gazed round over everybody’s head. Finally he seemed to find the person he was looking for and, waving his vast sleeves in greeting, he started to wedge himself through the crowd towards a distant table in a dark corner, at which three men were seated.

I found myself before a lean and swarthy individual with a hooked nose from which seemed to sprout an incredibly black moustache. Never in my life had I seen so scraggy a human being; he was a veritable mummy, seeming to have no flesh at all, but only parchment-like skin stretched directly over his prominent bones. This was the man we were
looking for, this was the
kirios
Caravan, whose very name seemed to predestine him for the career he had chosen. He agreed to take charge of my goods as soon as they arrived at the Piraeus, and transport them on a Greek steamer which was then in the roads, ready to start for Marseilles. Naturally, the captain was a friend of his, which would greatly simplify the formalities, and the transport of the hashish from the station to the boat could easily be undertaken at the modest rate of a drachma per kilo. Caravan spoke Italian, so I could make arrangements without an interpreter. I tried to assume an easy air as if I were a hardened smuggler who found himself quite at home in this strange company. If they could only have guessed that I had never even set eyes on hashish!

I covertly observed the two men who had been with Caravan when we came in. They had the sunburnt appearance of sailors or mountaineers, and were dressed in the same nondescript way as all the workers on the quays. A man dressed in this way did not attract the eye – there were too many others exactly like him; but it was to my interest to act the detective, and not let a single detail escape me. The two men for their part had run a rapid and experienced eye over me, like men accustomed to judge swiftly and not forget. As soon as Papamanoli began to speak, they ignored me entirely, and carelessly got up and strolled towards the quay, where a customs officer was walking up and down.

Was I a pigeon about to be plucked? I wondered. Was this Papamanoli a rascal? No, I didn’t think so. I had staked my all on this venture, and the least hesitation would be fatal. I decided to go through to the bitter end. After all, in such an enterprise there would always be risks, so I might as well get used to it.

Papamanoli now led me through the rich quarters of the town towards the cathedral, which was his church. I could see that he was very well known, and the numerous deferent greetings addressed to him reassured me, confirming the good impression he had made on me from the first. Under the vast porch of the cathedral many ladies, no doubt belonging to his flock, came and devoutly kissed his hands, gazing at him adoringly the while. But he seemed to take very little interest in either his church or his congregation for the moment; he appeared to be waiting for someone. Presently, a lady advanced to greet him with such smiling enthusiasm that I thought she was going to embrace him. But as soon as he caught sight of her, his amiable smile faded, and a cold and dignified hauteur stopped her
effusions like a stone wall. She blushed and seemed a little confused. This was Madame Catherine Dritza, the wife of the First President of the Tribunal. She spoke French fluently, and Papamanoli begged her to be our interpreter. She was a pretty woman of about thirty, dressed with the quiet elegance of a woman of good social standing.

We had only a few yards to go to her house. It was a vast mansion with fretted balconies, and the great bronze knocker on the courtyard gate woke echoes under the vaults. The door was opened by a dainty soubrette, and we entered a hall decorated with hunting trophies. Through it we passed into a provincial-looking drawing-room cluttered with inferior oil-paintings, clocks under glass globes, rubbishy knick-knacks and paper flowers. Papamanoli seemed quite at home and went first through all the doorways, but Madame Dritza seemed to find this quite natural.

Once more flower jams were produced, made from lilies, roses, violets, etc.

I immediately took advantage of the presence of this amiable interpreter to attack the rather delicate question of commission, which I had not dared to mention to the dignified priest. I broached the matter very tentatively, but without the slightest embarrassment Papamanoli put things on a business footing, as calmly as if his sacred office included a commercial department. I was much relieved, and as the lady too found it all quite natural, everything was settled in a very few minutes, and the conversation drifted to the town gossip.

How that woman talked! I thought she would never stop, and I imagined that her husband must be a taciturn old magistrate, who never got a word in edgewise with his voluble young wife. I had only twenty minutes of it, but I was absolutely dazed, and rendered incapable of coherent thought. I did manage, however, to throw one phrase into the gushing stream of her eloquence, knowing that after that she would do the rest.

‘I have just seen a very strange man,’ I said, ‘a sort of desiccated mummy, the mummy of Don Quixote, perhaps.’

‘Ah yes,’ interrupted Madame Dritza, ‘you mean Caravan? What a very odd destiny he has had.’

And off she went into a long story, speaking in French, but throwing a sentence in Greek now and then at Papamanoli out of politeness.
He smiled and gave his head an occasional shake, looking like a well-nourished Christ as he stroked his beard, waiting patiently for her to finish.

It was a most extraordinary story, I had to admit. Caravan, while still a handsome youth, had been accidentally shut up in the Sultan’s harem, and so cherished and caressed by the Sultan’s hundred and fifty wives that he was permanently and prematurely exhausted. I have recounted elsewhere his prodigious adventure, which is worthy of the pen of Boccaccio.

We went back to dinner at Madame Smimeo’s. They dined late, after nine o’clock, as is the Greek custom. It was a very gay meal, under the hanging petrol-lamp; the hostess had done marvels in order to give me a good impression of Greek culinary art. A young man who spoke French had been invited, along with several members of the family, in order to honour my presence with a numerous company. Papamanoli, of course, presided, once more appearing quite at home. It is true that he was a cousin of the hostess.

While we were at dinner, a telegram was handed to the priest. There was a sinister silence while he read the little blue paper, but he smiled to indicate that it contained no bad news, before passing it over to Madame Smirneo. Then they exchanged glances of satisfaction, and he put it calmly in his pocket. I attached not the slightest importance to this very ordinary incident.

It was agreed that the priest should remain for the night, since we had to be off at five next morning. Madame Smirneo seemed quite thrilled at the honour as she got out fine linen sheets from the lavender-scented closet.

I found all these people most kind and friendly, and their simple, cordial manners made me feel as if I had known them for years. They were a pleasant change from the Greeks I had hitherto met – very dubious and unattractive specimens. It is rather a shame that as a general rule one only meets very low-down Greeks abroad, for this has cast a world-wide discredit on this people which at home is sober, hard-working, charitable and hospitable as in the days of old.

My room was exquisitely clean, with its red-lacquered floor, and white starched curtains, and a dim light perpetually burning before the gold icon. On the table by my bed I found saucers of the inevitable flower jams, complete with spoons. Really, it was an obsession.

At dawn the whole house was astir. I was called and went into the kitchen, where I found Papamanoli in shirt-sleeves busy grinding the
coffee, while his cousin, a coloured scarf charmingly arranged on her pretty head, was blowing up a crackling wood fire, which was sending out showers of sparks.

We set off in the greyness of early morning for the station. At last I should know exactly to what district we were going, for I had not understood a word of the explanations given me the day before in the dining-room. The station was situated in a part of the town which was still asleep, and it looked more like a tram station than a railway station. A sort of little toy train of five or six carriages was already waiting, its doors invitingly open. The engine was puffing about on its own in little sidings, as if gathering strength to begin the journey. Each compartment had one very narrow window in the door, and that was all. These old-fashioned wagons reminded me of the third-class carriages on the train to Perpignan in which I had travelled when I was a child.

A bell was rung to warn any belated travellers to hurry, and the station-master ran out to cast a last glance up the deserted street before playing a little tune on his trumpet. The guard blew his whistle, to which the engine replied by a low groan, and off went the train. It strolled familiarly about the streets of the Piraeus for a little while; friends exchanged greetings, women threw parcels to the engine-driver, who also acted as carrier, then it reached the outskirts of the town and rushed wildly off at fifteen miles an hour.

What an enchanting experience is this journey from the Piraeus to Athens at sunrise. The train ran through orchards of pomegranates, and lemon and orange groves. Everywhere there were roses, fields and forests of roses. In the distance the Acropolis stood on its mountain all gilded with the rising sun, and pensive ruins here and there added poesy to the scene. Then suddenly all this vanished, as the train burrowed into the station of Athens, which smelt of smoke, coal-tar and fish.