Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 17

8

Day drove back to Filoti for a late lunch with Helen and gave her an account of the interview with Cristopoulos. After lunch he picked up his laptop and headed to his room, saying he was going for a nap, though Helen thought he meant to delve into Michael Moralis and his possible connection with Naxos.

She moved to the balcony and looked out. The mule was back from its work and was now tethered by a long rope to graze in the shade of a solitary tree. The breeze had dropped, and subdued voices from houses on the far side of the valley could occasionally be heard. The locals had put up their shutters in every sense and retired for their afternoon rest. At this time of day in Greece everyone knew not to telephone, visit or otherwise disturb their neighbours and friends. Everyone, except possibly some keen construction workers and those in the tourist trade, respected the rest period. The May heat was nothing compared to what was to come, but the siesta was an enduring tradition.

Helen considered a rest too, but thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She settled with a book on the sun lounger, and was rudely awoken from a light slumber when Day strode in from his part of the house. He seemed more lively now.

“Did you get a sleep? I did. I didn’t expect to, but I got a good two hours. Wonderfully restorative.”

“It seems I slept a little. At any rate, I just woke up,” said Helen drily.

“I think a little work on the laptop for me now. Let’s see what I can find out for the poor Inspector. Would you like a glass of water?”

He fetched two glasses of water from the kitchen. As they sat together with their laptops at the table, Helen saw that Day was sending many emails. She herself had to be content with making a few notes for the novel, observations on the sights and sounds from the balcony, the smell of the breeze, the quality of the heat. Her thoughts were interrupted when Day announced he was going to make a call.

“Aristo? Martin here. Can I have a word? Great. Look, I’m calling about the American who’s been killed in Chora. He and I worked together a year or so ago in New York, so when I read about his death in the paper I went to talk to the police. They need to know why Michael was on Naxos, and anybody he might have met here. I thought I’d start with you, because there’s some idea he might have been looking for antiquities. Any thoughts?”

“I’m sorry, Martin,” said Aristos after a short pause, “all I know of Michael Moralis is his brilliant book on the Mycenaean sites in the Cyclades. If I’d known he was here, I would probably have invited him to the museum and laid on a glass of wine. However, I didn’t. The first I knew was the bad news in the paper.”

“It’s a terrible loss. There’s one piece of hearsay you might find interesting: an overheard phone conversation in which Michael spoke of an undiscovered sanctuary here on Naxos. That took me by surprise, of course, because Michael wasn’t a field archaeologist. Have you heard of any rumour about any unexcavated sites here?”

“No, nothing credible. I suppose there’s always a chance of some major discovery still to be made, but I’m not aware of any big excitement, rumour, anything. It’s almost impossible to keep these things completely quiet. If you get any more information, come over and we’ll talk it through together, OK?”

***

Not until that evening, when Day and Helen were sitting at their usual table at Thanasis’s taverna, was Day ready to talk about Michael Moralis. He gave her the details of his interview with the police, before sharing his frustration.

“I haven’t come up with anything useful about Michael, or his supposed sanctuary. I spoke to my friend Aristos, the museum curator, but he couldn’t help. Michael doesn’t seem to have published anything, or been mentioned in journals, for over a year. He spent most of his professional life - he was under fifty - studying other people’s discoveries from Mycenaean excavations around Greece, and he published a superb book on Mycenaean settlements in the Cyclades a couple of years ago. Even though that’s a link with this area, there’s no obvious reason why he should be on Naxos now.”

“Couldn’t he simply have been on vacation?” asked Helen.

“Maybe. But don’t forget that conversation overheard by the hotel receptionist. If she heard what she thinks she heard, Michael was interested in some ‘sanctuary’ here.”

“Wasn’t Michael a specialist on the Mycenaean period? I thought Naxos is famous for the Cycladic figurines.”

“Cycladic is just the name for the Aegean Bronze Age in the Cyclades. The period is divided into sections, so Early Cycladic 1 is the early Bronze Age in the Cyclades, when the Cycladic figurines were made. In fact, Naxos was inhabited from pre-history onwards. It was occupied throughout all the Bronze Age eras, including the later time when the Mycenaean peoples came and settled here. That’s Michael’s period, the Middle Bronze Age. But Michael would be more likely to stay in the library and do research than come and look for some sanctuary. That period on Naxos is very well excavated and documented, and there aren’t any plans to excavate further that I can discover. I don’t understand why he came in person.”

“So how do you explain what the receptionist heard?”

“I can’t, but I have one idea. Have you heard of a tholos tomb? They’re huge, beehive-shaped things, absolutely stunning. There’s one on Naxos, in the hills near the village of Koronida, or Komiaki as some people call it. It’s very remote. It was looted way back, so we don’t know much about it, but Michael did a lot of work on the tholos tombs of mainland Greece. The tholos tomb at Komiaki might have brought him here, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound convinced, Martin. Anyway, that tomb couldn’t be called undiscovered, and it isn’t a sanctuary. It doesn’t match what Michael was overheard to say.”

“Right, it’s just the only thing I can think of, but it doesn’t fit the facts. I’ve written to some of Michael’s colleagues in the States to see if they have any ideas. Actually, it won’t do me any harm to re-establish contact with them.”

***

A waiter they didn’t recognise brought their red wine and told them that the specials were lamb chops on the grill, stuffed tomatoes, or pastitsio. Helen’s gesture told Day she had no preference.

“One portion of lamb chops, please,” he said, cheering up at the prospect. “Some fried zucchini. And what’s that dish on the table over there?”

“That’s pantzaria,” said the waiter, not knowing the English word. “It’s fresh today from the local grower.”

Day grinned and supplied the translation for Helen. “It’s beetroot. That’s quite unusual, at least I haven’t had it in Greece yet. Shall we try some? A portion of pantzaria too, please, and what else do we need, Helen?”

They decided they had ordered enough and the waiter moved off to the kitchen, where the voices of Thanasis’s wife and daughter were raised in an enthusiastic culinary dispute. Day poured two glasses from the jug of wine, lifted his with some relief, and raised his eyes to her.

“Well, here’s to poor Michael Moralis,” he said.

“To Michael.”