A Man Called Alexias
He unpacked his bag and then washed and shaved and put on a clean shirt. He was pulling on his jacket when the knock came at the door and a small, balding man entered.
He carried a stiff-backed ledger under one arm and smiled ingratiatingly, exposing bad teeth.
"Excuse me. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
Lomax took an instant dislike to him, but he managed a smile. "Not at all. Come right in."
"I am the proprietor, George Papas," the little man, said. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. Mornings J work in my olive grove."
"That's all right. Your daughter looked after me fine."
"She is a good girl," Papas said complacently. He placed the ledger oa the table by the window, opened it and produced a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. "If you wouldn't mind signing the register. A legal requirement, you understand? The local police sergeant is fussy about such matters."
Lomax examined the book with interest. The last entry had been made almost a year before. He took the pen and entered his name, address and nationality in the appropriate columns.
"You don't seem to get many visitors here."
Papas shrugged. "Kyros is a quiet place with nothing much to attract the tourists-especially Americans."
"As it happens, I'm English," Lomax said. "Perhaps my tastes are simpler."
'ùEnglish!" Papas frowned. "But my daughter assured ane you were an American."
"A mistake the young boy who brought me here from the boat made," Lomax said. "I only live there. Does it matter?"
"No, of course not." Papas looked distinctly uncomfortable as he swivelled the register to examine the entry.
"Hugh Lomax-California," he mumbled. "Nationality English," and then his whole body seemed to be racked by a violent spasm.
For a moment, Lomax thought the man was about to throw a fit. He took his arm to lead him to a chair and Papas jerked it away as if he had been stung.
His face had turned a sickly yellow colour and his eyes were staring as he backed to the door.
"For God's sake, man," Lomax demanded. "What is it?'.
Papas managed to open the door with one hand and crossed himself mechanically with the other. "Holy Mother of God," he breathed and stumbled into the corridor.
Lomax stood there for a moment, a frown on his face, and then picked up the register and followed him.
When he went into the bar, Anna was polishing glasses. She looked up and smiled. "Can I get you anything?"
He shook his head and placed the register on the bar. "Your father left that in my room by mistake. I'd like to have a word with him if I may."
"I'm afraid he's just gone out," she said. "I saw bin. crossing the square a moment ago."
"It can wait till later. Tell me, is there still a tavern on the waterfront called The Little Ship? It used to be owned by a man called Alexias Pavlo."
"It still is," she said. "Everyone knows Alexias. This year he is mayor of Kyros." She frowned in bewilderment. "But how could you know of Alexias and The Little Ship?"
"Remind me to tell you some time," he said, and went out into the bright sunshine.
2 17
As he crossed the square towards the street that led down to the harbour, Yanni emerged from it and ran towards him, the dog yapping at his heels He was wearing a scarlet shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of white rubber shoes.
He halted a few paces away, held out Ms arms and pirouetted. "Don't I look beautiful?"
"What's the idea?" Lomax said
Yanni spread his hands "If I'm working for such a rich and important man I must look the part These are my best clothes."
"That makes sense," Lomax said. "Where did you steal them from?"
"I didn't steal them," Yanni cried indignantly. "They were a present from a very good friend of mine The best friend I've got."
"All right," Lomax said. "Have it your way."
He moved down the cobbled streets towards the harbour and Yanni trotted beside him "Where do you want to go first?"
"A place called The Little Ship "
The boy's eyes widened. "You don't want to go there. That's a bad place. Not for tourists. For fishermen."
"Where would you suggest?" Lomax said.
"Lots of places. There's a Roman temple on the other side of the island, but we'd have to hire a boat. It's a long walk."
"Anything else?"
"Sure-the Tomb of Achilles, for instance."
"They buried him here, did they?"
Yanni nodded. "Everyone knows that."
"It must have been a long haul from Troy."
The boy ignored the remark. "We could always visit the monastery of St. Anthony or what's left of it. They blew it up during the war."
"So I'd heard," Lomax said, and his face darkened.
"Of course that would mean climbing the mountain. You'd probably find it too hot."
"That being so, I think we'll make it The Little Ship for the tune being."
"Suit yourself." Yanni shrugged despondently and led the way along the waterfront.
The Little Ship was on the corner of a narrow alley and when they reached it, he hesitated at the entrance and turned appealingly. "Let me take you somewhere else, mister."
Lomax ruffled the boy's hair with one hand. "Don't look so worried." He grinned. "Shall I let you into a little secret? I've been here before. A long time ago. Before you were even thought of."
He turned from the boy's astonished gaze and went down the stone steps into the cool darkness of The Little Ship.
Just inside the entrance a young man sprawled in a chair against the wall and sang in a low voice, his fingers gently stroking the strings of a bouzouki.
He wore a red and green checked shirt, the sleeves rolled back carefully to display his bulging biceps to better advantage, and his hair curled thickly over the back of his collar.
He made no effort to move out of the way. Lomax stared do\vn at him for a moment, anonymous in his dark glasses, and then stepped carefully over the outstretched legs and moved inside.
The first person he saw was Captain Papademos sitting by himself in a corner drinking red wine. Lomax raised a hand in greeting and Papademos deliberately looked away.
It was then that he became aware of a curious fact. There were six people in the room including Papademos, four of them sitting together and yet no one was talking.
The man behind the bar was small and wiry, his skin tanned the colour of Spanish leather. The right side of his face was disfigured by an ugly scar and the eye was covered by a black patch.
He leaned on the bar holding a newspaper and completely ignored Lomax. The strange thing was that his hands trembled slightly as if he laboured under some terrible strain.
Lomax removed his sunglasses. "Is Alexias Pavlo about?"
"Who wants to know?" the man demanded in a hoarse voice.
"An old friend," Lomax said. "Someone from his past." Behind him, the bouzouki player struck a final, dramatic chord. Lomax turned slowly and saw that everyone was watching him, even Papademos, and Yanni's white, frightened face peered round the edge of the door. In the heavy silence, the whole world seemed to stop breathing and then a man stepped through the bead curtain that masked the door at the side of the bar.
In his time, he must have been a giant, but now the white suit hung loosely on his great frame. He moved forward slowly with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a walking stick, and the heavy moustache was kon grey. "Alexias," Lomax said. "Alexias Pavlo." Pavlo shook his head slowly from side to side as if fte couldn't believe the evidence of his own eyes. "It is you," he whispered. "After all these years you've come back. When Papas told me, I thought he was insane. The Germans said you were dead."
The bead curtains parted again and George Papzls moved out. There was sweat on his face and he looked frightened to death.
"It's me, Alexias," Lomax said, holding out his hand. "Hugh Lornax-don't you remember?"
Pavlo ignored the outstretched hand. "I remember you, Englishman." A muscle twitched at the side of his jaw. "How could I forget you? How could anyone on this island forget you?"
Suddenly, his face was suffused with passion. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but the words refused to come and he raised his stick blindly.
Lomax managed to ward the blow off and moved in close, pinning Pavlo's arms to his sides. Behind him, a chair went over with a crash and Yanni screamed a warning from the door.
As he released Pavlo and started to turn, a brawny arm slid around his neck, half-choking him. He tried to raise his arms, but they were seized and he was dragged backwards.
The four men who had been sitting together held him in a vice half-way across thek table. Papademos got to his feet and started for the door, but the man who had been playing the bouzouki shook his head gently and the captain sat down again.
The bouzouki player propped his instrument carefully against the wall and came forward. He looked down at Lomax for a moment, his expression perfectly calm, and then slapped him heavily in the face.
Lomax tried to struggle, but it was no use, and Pavlo pushed the bouzouki player out of the way. "No, Dimitri, he is mine. Lift up his head so that I can look at him properly.
Dimitri grabbed Lomax by the hair, pulling him upright and Pavlo looked into his face and nodded. "The years have treated you kindly, Captain Lomax. You look well-very well."
The little man with the scarred face and eye-patch had come from behind the bar and stood beside Pavlo and looked down at Lomax. Suddenly, he leaned forward and spat on him.
Lomax felt the cold slime on his face and anger boiled inside him. "For God's sake, Alexias. What's all this about?"
"It's really quite simple," Pavlo said. "It's about my crippled leg and Nikoli's face here. If you prefer it, there's always Dimitri's father and twenty-three other men and women who died in the concentration camp at Fonchi."
And then it all began to make some kind of crazy sense. "You think I was responsible for that?" Lomax said incredulously.
"You were judged and condemned a long time ago," Pavlo told him. "It only remains for the sentence to be carried out."
He looked at the bouzouki player, his face like stone. "Give me your gutting knife, Dimitri."
Dimitri took a large clasp-knife from his hip pocket and passed it across. Pavlo pressed a button at one end and a six-inch blade, honed like a razor, sprang into view.
Lomax kicked out wildly, panic rising inside him. He made a last desperate effort and managed to tear one arm free. He swung round, dashing his fist into the nearest face, but in a moment, he was pinioned again.
The hand that held the knife trembled a little, but there was cold purpose in Pavlo's eyes. He took one pace forward, the knife coming up, and a voice said from the doorway, "Drop it, Alexias!"
Everyone turned and Lomax felt the grasp on his arms slacken. Standing just inside the door was a police sergeant in shabby sun-bleached khaki uniform, and Yanni peered under his arm.
"Stay out of this, Kytros," Pavlo said.
"I believe I told you to drop the knife," Kytros replied calmly. "I would not like to have to ask you again."
"But you don't understand," Pavlo told him. "This is the Englishman who was here during the war. The one who betrayed us to the Germans."
"So you would murder him now and in cold blood?" Kytros said.
Little Nikoli made an impassioned gesture with both hands. "It is not murder-it is justice."
"We obviously have different points of view." Kytros looked straight at Lomax. "Mr. Lomax, please come with me."
Lomax took a step forward and Dimitri grabbed his arm. "No, he stays here!" he said harshly.
Kytros unbuttoned the flap of his holster and took out his automatic. When he spoke there was iron in his voice. "Mr. Lomax is leaving with me now. I would be obliged, Alexias, if you would not make it necessary for me to shoot one of your friends."
Pavlo's face was contorted in anger and he half turned and drove the blade of the knife into the wooden table in a single violent gesture.
"All right, Kytros. Have it your way, but make sure he's on the boat when it leaves at four o'clock. If he-isn't, I can't be responsible for what might happen."
Lomax stumbled past the sergeant and climbed the steps into the bright sunlight. For a moment, reaction set in and he leaned against the wallj his chest heaving as he struggled for breath.
