My Brother Michael Page 9

  Simon said slowly: ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Only,’ said Stephanos, ‘that Michael was not killed by the Germans. He was killed by a Greek.’

  ‘By a Greek?’ Simon echoed it almost blankly.

  The old man made a gesture that might have come straight from Oedipus Rex. To me, still not understanding anything except that the men’s talk had an overtone of tragedy, it conveyed a curiously powerful impression of resignation and shame.

  ‘By a man from Arachova,’ he said.

  It was at this moment that the light chose to go out.

  The Greeks were obviously accustomed to the whims of the electric system. With scarcely a moment’s delay the old woman had found and lit an oil-lamp, and placed it on the table in the middle of the room. It was a frightful-looking lamp of some cheap bright metal, but it burned with a soft apricot light and the sweet smell of olive-oil. With the heavy shadows cast on his face, Stephanos looked more than ever like a tragic actor. Niko had rolled over on his stomach and was watching the two other men bright-eyed, as if it were indeed a play. I supposed that for him his father’s death was so remote that this talk of it was no more than a breath from an exciting past.

  Simon was saying: ‘I … see. That makes a lot of things a lot plainer. And of course you don’t know who it was.’

  ‘Indeed we do.’

  Simon’s brows shot up. The old man smiled sourly. ‘You are wondering why we have not killed him, kyrie, when we called Michael our son?’

  From the bed Niko said in a smooth voice that was certainly malicious: ‘That is not the way the English work, Grandfather.’

  Simon flicked him a look but said, mildly, to Stephanos: ‘Not exactly. I was wondering what had happened to him. I gather he’s alive.’

  ‘I’ll explain. I should tell you first of all that the man’s name was Dragoumis. Angelos Dragoumis.’

  ‘Angelos?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Yes. You know of him, of course. I told you in the letter the papa wrote for me that Michael had worked with him. But I should never have told you this of Angelos, if you had not come. Now that you are here, these things cannot be hidden. It is your right to know.’

  Simon was carefully extinguishing his cigarette in the lid of a match-box. His face was still and shuttered, his eyes hidden. I saw the boy Niko roll over again on the bed and grin to himself.

  ‘You know that Angelos was the leader of the ELAS troop that Michael was working with,’ said Stephanos. ‘When Michael left here he went up, I think, with the intention of rejoining them. They had scattered when the big German search operation started in the hills, and most of them had moved north, Angelos with them. What brought Angelos back in this direction I don’t know, but certain it is that he fetched up against Michael over on Parnassus and murdered him there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know. Except that such murders were not rare in those days. It may be that Michael and Angelos had had some quarrel over the action of Angelos’ troops. Perhaps Michael was putting too much pressure on him; we know now that Angelos was anxious to save his men and his supplies for a different battle later – after the Germans had gone.’

  I saw Simon look up sharply, those light-grey eyes vividly intent. ‘Angelos was one of them? Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. He played for high stakes, did Angelos Dragoumis. He was in Athens soon after the Germans had left Greece, and we knew he was active in the massacre at Kalamai. Oh yes, you may be sure that he was betraying the Allies all the time.’

  He smiled thinly. ‘I do not think that Michael can have known. No, this was some other quarrel. It may simply have been that two such men could never come together, and agree. Angelos was bad, bad from the heart, and Michael … he did not like having to work with such a one. They had quarrelled before. He told me so. Angelos was an arrogant man, and a bully, and Michael – well, Michael could not be driven either.’

  ‘True enough.’ Simon was selecting another cigarette. ‘But you said he was “murdered”. If two men quarrel and there’s a fight, that isn’t murder, Stephanos.’

  ‘It was murder. It was a fight, but not a fair one. Michael had been wounded, remember.’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘He was struck from behind first, with a stone or with the butt of a gun. There was a great mark there, and the skin was broken. It is a miracle that the blow didn’t kill him, or stun him at least. But he must have heard Angelos behind him, and turned, because in spite of the traitor’s blow from behind, and Michael’s wounded shoulder, there was a fight. Michael was – a good deal marked.’

  ‘I see.’ Simon was lighting his cigarette. ‘How did Angelos kill him? I take it he wasn’t using a gun. A knife?’

  ‘His neck was broken.’

  The lighter paused, an inch from Simon’s cigarette. The grey eyes lifted to the old man’s. I couldn’t see their expression from where I sat, but I saw Stephanos nod, once, as Zeus might have nodded. Niko’s eyes narrowed suddenly and glinted between their long lashes. The lighter made contact. ‘It must have been quite a scrap,’ said Simon.

  ‘He wouldn’t be easy to kill,’ said the old man. ‘But with the wounded shoulder, and the blow on the head …’

  His voice trailed off. He wasn’t looking at Simon now; he seemed to be seeing something beyond the lamplit walls of the room, something remote in place and time.

  There was a pause. Then Simon blew out a long cloud of tobacco-smoke. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well. And the man Angelos … what happened to him?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. He has not been back to Arachova, naturally. It was said that he went with many of his kind into Yugoslavia, when their bid for power failed. In fourteen years nobody has heard of him, and it is probable that he is dead. He had only one relative, a cousin Dimitrios Dragoumis, who has had no news of him.’

  ‘A cousin? Here?’

  ‘Dragoumis lives now at Itea. He also fought in Angelos’ troop, but he was not a leader, and – well, some things are best forgotten.’ The old man’s voice roughened. ‘But the things that Angelos did to his own people, these are not forgotten. He was at Kalamai; it is said he was also at Pyrgos, where many hundred Greeks died, and among them my own cousin Panos, an old man.’ The gnarled hands moved convulsively on his knees. ‘No matter of that … But I do not speak merely of his politics, Kyrie Simon, or even of what such as he do in war. He was evil, kyrie, he was a man who delighted in evil. He liked the sight of pain. He liked best to hurt children and old women, and he boasted like Ares of how many he himself had killed. He would put a man’s eyes out – or a woman’s – and smile while he did it. Always that smile. He was an evil man, and he betrayed Michael and murdered him.’

  ‘And if he has not been seen here since my brother died, how can you be sure he murdered him?’

  ‘I saw him,’ said the old man simply.

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes. It was he beyond doubt. When I came on them he turned and ran. But I couldn’t follow him.’ He paused again, one of those heavy terrible little pauses. ‘You see, Michael was still alive.’

  I saw Simon’s eyes jerk up again to meet his. The old man nodded. ‘Yes. He lived only a minute or so. But it was enough to hold me there beside him and let Angelos get away.’

  ‘Angelos made no attempt to attack you?’

  ‘None. He, too, had been badly mauled.’ There was satisfaction in the old shepherd’s eyes. ‘Michael died hard, even with that traitor’s bash on the back of the head. Angelos might have shot at me, but later I found his revolver lying under a boulder, as if it had been flung there in the struggle. The countryside was full of Germans, you see, and he must have counted on killing Michael quietly, after he’d stunned him, but he wasn’t quick or clever enough, and Michael managed to turn on him. When I came to the head of the cliff and saw them below me, Angelos was just getting to his feet. He turned to look for his gun then, but my dog attacked him, and it was all he could do to get
clear away. Without his gun, he could have done nothing.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of a knotted brown hand. ‘I took Michael down to Delphi. It was the nearest. That’s all.’

  ‘He didn’t speak?’

  Stephanos hesitated, and Simon’s glance sharpened. Stephanos shook his head. ‘It was nothing, kyrie. If there had been anything I would have put it in the letter.’

  ‘But he did speak?’

  ‘Two words. He said: “the Charioteer”.’

  The words were ‘o eniochos’, and they were classical, not modern, Greek. They were also familiar to me, as to many visitors to Delphi, because they refer to the famous bronze statue that stands in the Delphi Museum. It is the statue of a youth, the Charioteer robed in a stiffly pleated robe, still holding in his hands the reins of his vanished horses. I glanced at Simon, wondering where, in an exchange bristling with the names Angelos, and Michael, the Charioteer could have a place.

  Simon was looking as puzzled as I. ‘“The Charioteer”? Are you sure?’

  ‘I am not quite sure. I had run hard down the path to the foot of the cliff, and I was out of breath and much distressed. He lived only a matter of seconds after I got to him. But he knew me, and I thought that was what he said. It is a classical word, but of course it is familiar because it is used of the statue in the Delphi Museum. But why Michael should have tried to tell me about that I do not know. If indeed that was what he whispered.’ He straightened his back a little. ‘I repeat, I would have told you if I had been sure, or if it had meant anything.’

  ‘Why did you not tell us about Angelos?’

  ‘It was over then, and he had gone, and it was better to let Michael’s father think he had died in battle and not at the hand of a traitor. Besides,’ said Stephanos simply, ‘we were ashamed.’

  ‘It was so much over,’ said Simon, ‘that when Michael’s brother comes to Arachova to find out just how his brother died, the men in Arachova avoid him, and his host won’t shake his hand.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Very well then. It is not over. The shame remains.’

  ‘The shame isn’t yours.’

  ‘It is that of Greece.’

  ‘My country’s done a thing or two lately to balance it, Stephanos.’

  ‘Politics!’ The old man made a gesture highly expressive of what he would wish to see done to all politicians, and Simon laughed. As if at a signal, the old woman got to her feet, pulled back the blue curtain, and brought out a big stone jar. She put glasses on the table and began to pour out the dark sweet wine. Stephanos said: ‘You will drink with us, then?’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ said Simon. The old woman handed him a glass, then Stephanos, Niko, and finally me. She didn’t take one herself, but remained standing, watching me with a sort of shy pleasure. I sipped the wine. It was as dark as mavrodaphne and tasted of cherries. I smiled at her over the glass and said tentatively in Greek: ‘It’s very good.’

  Her face split into a wide smile. She bobbed her head and repeated delightedly: ‘Very good, very good,’ and Niko turned over on the bed and said in American-accented English: ‘You speak Greek, miss?’

  ‘No. Only a few words.’

  He turned to Simon. ‘How come you speak such good Greek, eh?’

  ‘My brother Michael taught me when I was younger than you. I went on learning and reading it afterwards. I knew I would come here one day.’

  ‘Why you not come before?’

  ‘It costs too much, Niko.’

  ‘And now you are rich, eh?’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘Oriste?’

  ‘I mean, I have enough.’

  ‘I see.’ The dark eyes widened in a limpid look. ‘And now you have come. You know about Angelos and your brother. What would you say if I told you something else, kyrie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Angelos is still alive?’

  Simon said slowly. ‘Are you telling me that, Niko?’

  ‘He has been seen near Delphi, on the mountain.’

  ‘What? Recently?’ said Simon sharply.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Niko flashed that beautiful malicious smile up at him. ‘But perhaps it is only a ghost. There are ghosts on Parnassus, kyrie, lights that move and voices that carry across the rocks. There are those who see these things. Myself, no. Is it the old gods, not?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Simon. ‘Is this the truth, Niko? That Angelos was seen?’

  Niko shrugged. ‘How can I tell? It was Janis who saw him, and Janis is—’ he made a significant gesture towards his forehead. ‘Angelos killed his mother when the andartes burned his father’s farm, and ever since then Janis has been queer in the head, and has “seen” Angelos – oh, many times. If ghosts are true, then he still walks on Parnassus. But Dimitrios Dragoumis – that is true enough. He has asked many questions about your coming. All the men here in Arachova know that you are coming, and they talk about it and wonder – but Dragoumis, he has been to Delphi and to Arachova and has asked questions – oh, many questions.’

  ‘What is he like?’

  ‘He is a little like his cousin. Not in the face, but in the – what do you say? – the build. But not in the spirit either.’ His look was innocent. ‘It may be that you will meet Dragoumis. But do not be afraid of him. And do not worry yourself about Angelos, Kyrie Simon.’

  Simon grinned. ‘Do I look as if I was worrying?’

  ‘No,’ said Niko frankly, ‘but then, he is dead.’

  ‘And if Janis is right, and he is not dead?’

  ‘I think,’ said Niko almost insolently, ‘that you are only an Englishman, Kyrie Simon. Not?’

  ‘So what?’

  Niko gave a charming little crack of laughter and rolled over on the bed. Stephanos said suddenly and angrily, in Greek: ‘Niko, behave yourself. What does he say, Kyrie Simon?’

  ‘He thinks I couldn’t deal with Angelos,’ said Simon idly. ‘Here, Niko, catch.’ He threw the boy a cigarette. Niko fielded it with a graceful clawed gesture. He was still laughing. Simon turned to Stephanos: ‘Do you think it’s true that Angelos has been seen hereabouts?’

  The old shepherd slanted a fierce look at his grandson under his white brows. ‘So he has told you that tale, has he? Some rumour started by an idiot who has seen Angelos at least a dozen times since the end of the war. Aye, and Germans, too, a score of times. Don’t pay any attention to that moonshine.’

  Simon laughed. ‘Or to the lights and voices on Parnassus?’

  Stephanos said: ‘If a man goes up into Parnassus after sunset, why should he not see strange things? The gods still walk there, and a man who would not go carefully in the country of the gods is a fool.’ Another of those glowering looks at his grandson. ‘You, Niko, have learned a lot of folly in Athens. And that is a terrible shirt.’

  Niko sat up straight. ‘It is not!’ he protested, stung. ‘It is American!’

  Stephanos snorted and Simon grinned. ‘Aid to Greece?’

  The old man gave a gruff bark of laughter. ‘He is not a bad boy, kyrie, even if Athens has spoiled him. But now he comes home to work, and I will make a man of him. Give Kyrie Simon some more wine.’ This to his wife, who hurried to refill Simon’s glass.

  ‘Thank you.’ Simon added, in a different tone: ‘Is it true that this man Dragoumis has been asking questions about me?’

  ‘Quite true. After it was known that you were coming, he asked many questions – when you came, for how long, what you meant to do, and all that.’ He smiled sourly. ‘I don’t speak much to that one, me.’

  ‘But why? Why should he be interested? Do you suppose he had anything to do with Michael’s death?’

  ‘He had nothing to do with it. That much we found out after the war, before he came back here. Otherwise he would not,’ said Stephanos simply, ‘have dared come back. No, he knew nothing about it. Once before, a year – more – eighteen months ago – he spoke to me and asked me what had happened, and where it was that Michael was killed. He showed a decent sh
ame and he spoke well of Michael; but I do not talk of my sons to every man. I refused to speak of it. And no one else knew the whole truth except the priest at Delphi who is since dead, and my own brother Alkis who was killed in the war.’

  ‘And now me.’

  ‘And now you. I will take you there tomorrow and show you the place. It is your right.’

  He looked up under the white brows at Simon for another considering moment. Then he said slowly, irrelevantly: ‘I think, Kyrie Simon, that you are very like Michael. And Niko – Niko is even more of a fool than I thought …’

  7

  The Oracles are dumb,

  No voice or hideous hum

  Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

  Apollo from his shrine

  Can no more divine …

  MILTON: Nativity Hymn.

  SIMON didn’t speak on the way back to Delphi, so I sat quietly beside him, wondering what had been said in that sombre and somehow very foreign-seeming interview. Nothing that Stephanos – exotically Homeric – had said could have been ordinary, while about Niko’s racy intelligent beauty there was something essentially Greek – a quicksilver quality that is as evident today under the cheaply Americanised trappings of his kind as it was in the black and red of the classical vase-paintings.

  When at length, as we neared Delphi, trees crowded in above the road blocking out the starlight, Simon slowed the car, drove into a wide bay, and stopped. He switched the engine off. Immediately the sound of running water filled the air. He turned out the lights, and the dark trees crowded closer. I could smell the pines, cool and pungent. They loomed thick in the starlight, rank on rank of scented stone-pines crowding up towards the cleft where the water sprang. Beyond the trees reared the immense darkness of rock, the Shining Ones no longer shining, but pinnacles and towers of imminent blackness.