The car doors opened okay, but there the Mirafiori’s willingness came to an end. When Koula tried to start it up, it rumbled slightly and then stopped. At the fourth attempt, it lurched so violently that it almost catapulted us through the windscreen, before starting up with a wheezing sound.
The offices of Domitis Construction were in Timoleontos Street, close to the First Cemetary. I was glad it wasn’t far from my home so we wouldn’t have to overwork the Mirafiori after it had been stationary for two months. Turning into Vassileos Konstantinou Avenue, we hit a wall of traffic. Because of the Olympics, Athens had turned into a ploughed-up field and the drivers who hadn’t got themselves a tractor in time were now seeking safety on roads that had still not been dug up, with the result that the traffic had come to a standstill. A policeman at the junction between Vassileos Konstantinou Avenue and Rizari Street gestured at us abusively, not because we would move any quicker like that, but because his eyes had tired of seeing us. Then just as I was breathing a sigh of relief at the fact that the Mirafiori was managing bravely with all the stopping and starting, it gave up the ghost at the red light in Diakou Street. The engine gave out and, when the lights turned to green, it wouldn’t start up no matter what. Those behind honked their horns like people possessed, Koula was getting more and more exasperated because with each new attempt, she drowned the engine even more, while those cars that managed to slip out and pass us stuck their fingers up at us just to boost our morale.
‘Let me get it started,’ I said
While I was trying various tricks to get the thing moving, a convertible pulled up beside us. Sitting behind the wheel was a youngster with a crocodile on his T-shirt and spiked hair. In the past we used to starch our collars, now it seems we starch our hair.
‘Eh, you old fogey. What are you doing with the chick in that pile of scrap?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Get yourself a convertible like us, birdbrain. Look at the face on the old fogey!’ And stepping on the accelerator, he smothered us in exhaust fumes to get his own back. In my consternation, I had forgotten that the Mirafiori was stuck at the lights. I cast a sideways glance at Koula, who was trying to remain composed, but failed, and broke into loud peals of laughter.
‘At times like these, the bad copper comes out in me and I want to arrest whoever I see in front of me,’ I told her.
‘Come on, show a little understanding.’
‘Understanding?’
‘Don’t you get it? His girl has dumped him and he’s taking it out on you.’
That’s one explanation that hadn’t occurred to me at all and it filled me with such delight that I turned the key as though caressing it and the Mirafiori started up at the first attempt.
12
I was expecting to find myself before a modern office block of dark concrete and one-way windows, but what I found was a three-storey neoclassical building, recently renovated. The modern office block was behind it. At first, I thought they were two separate buildings, but when I looked from the side, I discovered that there was a small bridge, rather like a glass tube, connecting the two buildings. The same social disguise employed by Favieros could be seen even in his business. At first sight, he didn’t want to live in the same neighbourhood with the moneybags in Ekali; his house in Porto Rafti, however, was the house of a moneybag. At first sight, he preferred neoclassical buildings to the modern office blocks; behind the neoclassical building, however, was the modern block. He wore Armani suits, but crumpled and without a tie. Of course, to blame for this might have been the prudishness that leftists feel about their wealth and so they cover it up with a fig leaf, not to stop other people seeing it, but so as not to see it themselves. But perhaps equally to blame is the outlaw syndrome that leftists suffer from and that makes them persist with the disguise, albeit pointlessly, out of an acquired momentum.
Dominating the spacious hallway, facing the entrance, was a portrait of Favieros, draped in black out of mourning. Beneath it was a pile of floral bouquets. The receptionist was a pleasant-looking fifty-year-old woman, simply dressed and without make-up.
‘Good morning. How might I help you?’ she asked us politely.
‘Inspector Haritos. This is Officer Koula…’ I suddenly realised that I didn’t know Koula’s surname and I got stuck. Fortunately, she understood and cut in.
‘… Kalafati. Koula Kalafati.’
‘We’d like to see whoever’s in charge,’ I added politely.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked worriedly. She had just been through one tragic event and now, fatalistically, she was waiting for the next one.
‘Nothing at all. It’s purely routine. I’m sure you can imagine that when such a well-known figure commits suicide, and publicly as well, the police are obliged to carry out a routine investigation so as not to be accused of not looking into it.’
Privately, I was hoping that she would go for my little spiel and not suddenly decide to phone the police to verify it.
‘Take a seat for just a moment,’ she said, picking up the phone.
We sat down in the two metal chairs facing her desk. The hallway had been meticulously renovated. Wooden panelling halfway up the wall, with the rest of the wall painted a light pink colour. The carvings on the ceiling had been restored to their original form and they made you nostalgic for the old light fittings with candles or bulbs. The furnishings were the usual design as in all offices: metal chairs, desks of metal and wood, computers. But it didn’t jar; perhaps because it was all so neutral and was absorbed by the neoclassical restoration, rendering it inconspicuous.
The woman put down the receiver. ‘Our General Manager, Mr Zamanis, will see you. Please follow Mr Aristopoulos,’ she said, motioning to a young man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie, who had come and was waiting for us.
We went up to the third floor, over the bridge of sighs and entered the modern block. Here, the decoration was minimalist, not at all recalling the period of the first Bavarian Kings of Greece. Chipboard cubicles, like a line of theatre sets. Sitting inside were men and women either typing away at the keys on their computers or talking on their mobile phones.
Aristopoulos led us to a door at the end, the only door on the whole floor. In olden times, the rich lived in neoclassical houses and the servants in hovels. Now only a door divides them. The actors up front and the impresario behind the door. That was all there was to it.
The second fifty-year-old woman that we encountered had her hair tied back, was wearing white linen slacks and blouse, but like the first woman had no make-up on. I suddenly realised that this was their way of showing they were in mourning for Favieros, and I quite liked it.
‘Do go in. Mr Zamanis is waiting for you,’ she said, immediately adding: ‘Can we get you anything?’
I politely declined and Koula was quick to comply.
Zamanis must have been around the same age as Favieros, but that’s where the similarities ended. Favieros was of average height and was ostentatiously unkempt; Zamanis was tall and wearing a smart suit. Favieros had thick hair and was always unshaven; Zamanis was clean-shaven and starting to go bald. He got to his feet to receive us and held out his hand. Then he also shook Koula’s hand, but mechanically, without looking at her, because his eyes were fixed on me.
‘I have to admit that your visit surprises me somewhat.’ He stressed the words one by one as if to underline them. ‘Why this sudden interest on the part of the police in the tragedy that’s befallen us?’
‘It’s hardly sudden,’ I replied. ‘We simply waited for the first few difficult days to pass before bothering you. Besides it’s not something urgent. It’s purely a formality.’
‘Let’s get on with the formality, then.’ He waited for us to sit down and then shooting his words out at us in a sharp, categorical tone: ‘So what do you want to know? Whether I expected Jason to commit suicide? The answer is “no”. Whether he had any reason to commit suicide? No, everything was going just fine for him. Whether he was forced into suicide by those fascist idiots? Again no, they simply used it as an opportunity to do their own thing. Whether I expected Jason to make a spectacle of his suicide? Again, the answer is “no” for a fourth time. And now that I’ve answered all your questions, please allow me to get back to my work. Time is pressing and all the work has fallen on my shoulders.’