My office is on Gamvetta Street. I got it at a low rent since the previous tenant, a Jewish tailor, had to leave in a hurry, bundling up all his worldly goods as best he could and departing on a ship to Morocco. I met him the day he came to hand over the keys to the landlord, Mr Menagias. He\u2019d tried to haggle at the last minute, hoping to get the value of some bits of furniture which he hadn\u2019t had time to sell and was leaving behind deducted from the rent he owed: there was a battered chest of drawers, a little desk with drawers and a standing lamp with a yellowed parchment shade. Menagias wouldn\u2019t hear of it: \u201cGet that stuff out of here, you nincompoop, get my premises emptied. Mr Angel\u201d (meaning me) \u201cdoesn\u2019t have a square inch left for his own things that he\u2019ll be bringing over tomorrow.\u201d The tailor swore his chest of drawers only needed a lick of polish and it would look really good. It was part of his wife\u2019s dowry, they hadn\u2019t had room for it at home which was why he\u2019d had it temporarily in his shop. They shouldn\u2019t mistreat such a fine piece; \u201cIt\u2019s genuine walnut, Mr Angel, almost too heavy to lift!\u201d<\/p>\n\u201cToo heavy to lift is it, well I\u2019ll soon find someone who\u2019ll pick it up and chuck it out of here,\u201d replied the landlord coolly, putting his hand out to the tailor once more. \u201cCome along, let\u2019s get finished\u2026\u201d I\u2019m perfectly sure Mr Menagias fancied the furniture himself but wanted to get hold of it without paying.\n\nThe other man was almost in tears. He turned to me. \u201cIt\u2019s a sin, Mr Angel\u2014my Sarah\u2019s dowry\u2026\u201d He choked, got a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily. \u201cIt\u2019s a sin\u2026\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t throw your furniture out,\u201d I told him, \u201cdon\u2019t worry. And if I decide to keep it, drop me a line with your address and I\u2019ll send you something for it\u2026\u201d\n\nThe man brightened up, a smile creasing his face and he grabbed my hand with the hand in which he was still holding the handkerchief. \u201cAngel by name and angel by nature, Mr Angel, sir! Go ahead and keep the fur-niture\u2014it\u2019s all yours! And whenever you can\u2026 though I haven\u2019t a clue where we\u2019ll end up\u2026 My brother-in-law Ariko was going to give me ten thousand for it, ten whole thousand! Just give me whatever you see fit! It\u2019s a sin! I\u2019ll let you have it for five, five thousand to you because you\u2019re a good man, an angel! That\u2019s not too much, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s far too much. Anyway, it\u2019s not walnut, it\u2019s only a veneer. I might be able to manage three at some point though I haven\u2019t got it right now. Like I said, send me your address.\u201d\n\nHe looked at me, trying to work out if I was intending to cheat him. But what could he do? Time wasn\u2019t on his side. It was the beginning of April \u201941. The Germans had already entered Salonica, the omens looked ugly, flocks of Jews were arriving from the north like birds driven before the storm, some by one means, some by another, each managing as best he could. In Piraeus people were knifing each other for a place on one of the few foreign packet-boats. The other ships had been commandeered by the Government and, from what we heard, were transporting God only knows what to Crete.\n\nSo the tailor departed and I was left with the chest of drawers, the little desk and the lamp, to the chagrin of my landlord; from that day on he considered me \u201ca smooth operator\u201d who\u2019d succeeded in wresting these pieces from his incipient grasp in return for nothing more than a promise. The tailor\u2014whose name I\u2019d noted in an old diary\u2014never did write to me asking for his money.\n\nThese three pieces of furniture served me well. The chest of drawers was intended to hold the files that I never acquired, the lamp stood beside my desk and saved me from having to switch on the ceiling light very often, and the desk I put behind the glass partition, in the anteroom, for the secretary I no longer had.\n\nWhen I first opened my detective agency in an old building at number 44 Panepistimiou Street, on the corner where it joins Harilaou Trikoupi Street, I\u2019d hired Vanda. That wasn\u2019t long after I arrived in Athens and I still had some of the money I\u2019d brought with me. Vanda taught me to drink Turkish coffee which she had a really wonderful way of making. She used to go out and buy it in the Hafteia area, at frequent intervals so that it would always be fresh. The aroma of this coffee invariably reminds me of those early happy and carefree days, when I believed that I was all set to do well. Athens was a virgin market for my profession, so far unexploited. Until I got going properly I\u2019d spend the money I had. I never did get going though.\n\nIt was Christmas \u201937 when the ship docked at Piraeus and disgorged me and my trunk onto the quay of the commercial harbor, for I\u2019d travelled on a freighter under the Argentinian flag. I was now just like the immigrants you\u2019d sometimes see on Ellis Island, back in my own country.\n\nAfter the U.S. Consulate in Athens\u2014my first port of call\u2014I made my way to a hotel on Ermou Street for a few days. The guys at the Embassy\u2019s Information Bureau, alerted by Freddy Lamera and their pals in the FBI, had come up with three different apartments in the center of town for me to choose from. But right from the word go they made it perfectly plain that my profession didn\u2019t have any future in this country. Unless I was incredibly lucky, that is. I didn\u2019t believe them.\n\nThe office was cheap to rent (but then everything was cheap here for someone who earned a half-way decent wage): I took it at once. As for a place to live, I chose the first apartment on the list they\u2019d drawn up for me. It was five easy minutes away from the office. You turned left on the corner of Harilaou Trikoupi and Fidiou then twenty yards further on you came to Georgiou Gennadiou, a narrow little street on your right. Ten more yards and you were there. The apartment had three main rooms, two looking onto the street in front and the bedroom looking onto the yard at the back. The owner, an engineer by the name of Balomenos, was a thug from the Peloponnese who maintained good relations with the cream of society and, if what people said was true, was a personal friend of Lulu, the daughter of the dictator Metaxas. He let me have the apartment without too much haggling because the previous tenants, a couple called Kanellis, had been months behind with the rent, hadn\u2019t wanted to hear a word about increasing it, and, as he himself said, had wrecked the place. What he wanted was a professional gentleman and bachelor, like me. What\u2019s more, he liked the idea of my job: I\u2019d most probably be a right-wing patriot, not a communist as they were. After relentless pressure on the part of Balomenos, culminating in threats, the Kanellis family (husband and wife both lawyers and a servant-girl from the island of Paros) had taken a smaller apartment on the second floor.\n\nOur apartment block had been built less than ten years earlier; on the other side of the narrow street were some fine old buildings, on the corner an abandoned mansion standing in a garden (\u201cChristomanos\u2019 place\u201d as people called it), a little further on the Varvitsiotis house, while on the corner at the top of the street was another little garden surrounding the church of Zoodochos Pigi. Being something of a beginner as regards both the language and the ways of this country, it took me quite a while to realize that this wasn\u2019t the name of some saint but meant \u201cthe life-giving source\u201d\u2014or anyway something of the sort.\n\n \n
Jobs never did materialize, in spite of the fact that the guys at the Embassy helped as much as they could. I wasn\u2019t making any money and my savings were running out fast. The rents for office and apartment and Vanda\u2019s salary (not to mention the coffee, which we went through at the speed of light) were eating up my money. So I decided to let the office go. Either because he noticed it or because someone told him that I rarely left the house early in the morning, Balomenos got wind of the fact that I\u2019d begun receiving clients at home. One fine morning he knocked at the door and after asking me for the rent\u2014it was the time of month that it was due\u2014he announced that the sum we\u2019d agreed on was for a residence. If I wanted to use the place as my office too we\u2019d have to discuss new terms. \u201cIt causes wear and tear,\u201d he said. Or something of the kind.<\/p>\nI\u2019d dismissed Vanda when I let the office go, but all the same at the beginning she\u2019d often come over unofficially \u201cto see how I was getting on\u201d and to tidy up my mess. I resorted to Zisis\u2019 caf\u00e9 across the street and for a while received clients there; however, a caf\u00e9 doesn\u2019t really make a very good impression. And the clients who would visit a private detective agency in those days weren\u2019t poor wretches but people with money and social standing. People who required both a proper office and a secretary.\n\nThe worst was yet to come. It wasn\u2019t long in coming. The worst was the war. It may have made it easier for me to find a new office on Gamvetta Street for a very low rent, but it put an end to my last hopes of establishing a clientele and a name for myself. People now had more important things to worry about.\n\n \n
Vanda was Jewish. But either she didn\u2019t want to go or she hadn\u2019t managed to leave with all the other Jews who were hastily trampling over each other to escape. For something like a year she\u2019d been involved with an officer in the Fascist Youth and seemed to think this would be enough to keep her safe from any trouble.<\/p>\nHer boyfriend was a young man about the same age as her, Nikiforos Velentzas by name, who knew Lieutenant Pylarinos in the Security Police. Pylarinos knew me well: it was he who\u2019d stamped my stay permit and recom-mended that I acquire a Greek passport as fast as possible if I wanted to open a detective agency. He\u2019d been to America and had contacts in our embassy here. For some reason he liked me. My paperwork was sorted out rapidly and I found myself in possession of a passport and a permit from the Security Police to open my agency. Velentzas was sent to me by Pylarinos. Probably in order to impress me, he was wearing his Falangist uniform\u2014the forage cap with its white braid, a white tie and spats\u2014and had slicked his hair down with ample brilliantine. After questioning me about detectives and America, whether it really was the way the movies showed it, he asked if I needed an assistant. At first I thought he was looking for a position for himself. But in fact he was trying to find a job for his girlfriend. I\u2019ve no idea what conclusions he came to about me as a result of this visit (certainly he didn\u2019t know the most important thing and never would), but he considered that the job was a secure one and the boss a gentleman through and through. He brought Vanda along a few days later.\n\nShe was a cheerful and good-hearted kid. She learned the work fast and from the very first week began to help me do nothing. What this means is that I was free to wander around town while she answered the phone and made appointments and so on. The office immediately began to take on a different appearance; a woman\u2019s touch was obvious everywhere, and I don\u2019t just mean that the place was cleaner. Everything was orderly and in its place. If I\u2019d had work, her salary would have seemed less of a problem to me. When the German attack began, Velentzas disappeared as if the earth had gaped open and swallowed him. A little while later Vanda disappeared too.\n\n \n
In Athens at that time you couldn\u2019t practice my profession except in the most demeaning way. The business that most frequently came in my direction was nosing out illicit couples in some hotel room or bachelor pad and, with the help of a photographer\u2014I used Pelopidas Lebesopoulos, who had a ground-floor studio on Gamvetta Street\u2014bundling them up and taking them naked to the nearest police station for a criminal charge of adultery to follow. You needed a heart of stone for this kind of work. But my heart had already grown fairly hard and I did it without a second thought\u2014dragging them off to the station, pale and distressed, stark naked beneath a rough and ready sheet or blanket, trembling and weeping or cursing us and promising the sun and moon if we\u2019d only let them go.<\/p>\nTwice, when the money was good and the social position of the man offering it seemed to promise future favors or protection if the need arose, I did just this. I let the little birds fly and told my clients that the information they\u2019d given me had been wrong. But this happened only twice. A third time, much later, I almost paid very dearly. However, the war got me off the hook then.\n\nI\u2019d been obliged to take the plunge and leave New York, where I\u2019d inherited Freddy Lamera\u2019s agency\u2014an old agency with traditions and an established clientele. Freddy was a Greek, born in Astoria, from one of the oldest immigrant families: his parents had been among the first to arrive, at a time when you rarely came across any Greeks in America. My father sent me to work as Freddy\u2019s assistant and when he died Freddy had more or less adopted me; being unmarried and without any financial obligations, he left the agency in my hands when he decided to retire.\n\nNot far from Astoria, in Corona, Don Guzman and his lieutenants held power in those days. The \u201cSicilian,\u201d whom the Americans also knew as \u201cDon Gasman,\u201d never got on too well with Freddy. However, he\u2019d taken a shine to me\u2014perhaps because I\u2019d helped his consigliere come out clean from a nasty adventure, and I\u2019d done it so swiftly and effectively that everyone was left open-mouthed. Freddy grumbled. \u201cDon\u2019t get mixed up with that shit,\u201d he kept on saying. But it\u2019s a wonderful feeling being high in the esteem of Don Guzman and I wouldn\u2019t listen. \u201cHe\u2019ll become legal,\u201d I said. \u201cIt won\u2019t be long, Jos\u2019ll manage it, he\u2019s half-way there already. And then just think of the favors we\u2019ll get.\u201d\n\nDon Guzman never did become legal, nor did I ever see any favors from him. And\u2014fool that I was\u2014in spite of old Freddy\u2019s imprecations I got involved with the mafia boss\u2019s youngest daughter, Laura. I was rash enough to do what I did without any attempt at concealment. I was secure in the knowledge that the Sicilian had a soft spot for me. The result was that Laurina disappeared overnight\u2014I couldn\u2019t even get her on the phone\u2014I destroyed Freddy\u2019s old age (the Italian\u2019s thugs used to call him La Merda in mockery) and the agency closed down.\n\nOne night I heard the sirens of the fire engines. I didn\u2019t pay any attention until someone telephoned me. \u201cYour office is on fire,\u201d he said. I pulled on a pair of pants and a raincoat over my pajamas and went out into the street. Three blocks further down I could see the glow. I pushed through the police cordon and ran up the stairs. The outer office with the files was burnt to ashes. You couldn\u2019t advance a step further\u2014the place had gone up like a torch. The smoke was suffocating and I collapsed unconscious. When I came to, I was on a stretcher with a male nurse bending over me. \u201cYou were lucky,\u201d he said.\n\nLucky indeed! A couple of days later, as I was coming back from visiting Lamera, two of the Sicilian\u2019s men cornered me in a narrow alley. Beppo, his chief henchman, had always liked me. But what has liking got to do with it? No one quibbles when Don Guzman has given his command. \u201cMy orders are to do you some grievous damage, Angey boy,\u201d he told me. \u201cSorry, but you were asking for it.\u201d\n\nI don\u2019t want to remember that night. Beppo himself severed the tendon of my left leg (this was the Sicilian\u2019s favorite punishment\u2014since the early 1930s, when the bastard was at the height of his power, Astoria had become full of men who limped.) However, the worst damage he left to a mute they\u2019d recently brought over from their own country, a numbskull who didn\u2019t understand a thing. He did it just as if he were slicing vegetables for dinner\u2026\n\nI was in the University Hospital on Staten Island for two months, in strict isolation. Police Officer Hendry came over twice a week from Astoria to see how I was doing. Instead of pressing me to make a statement about who\u2019d done these things to me (something that in any case everyone knew), the first time he came he told me, \u201cIn your place I\u2019d count myself darn lucky to be alive. In your place I\u2019d be thinking very seriously of taking a trip to see my relatives in Greece.\u201d When I told him I didn\u2019t have any relatives in Greece, he smiled: \u201cIn your place I\u2019d find some.\u201d Don Guzman or Jos Gasman was sending me a message via Hendry to get out of there fast.\n\nAt the beginning I was obstinate. At night I dreamed of finding him and doing to him what he\u2019d done to me. Of cleansing the town of that bastard and his gang. Of being decorated for it at the Town Hall and of being taken on by the Force\u2014with the prospect of becoming its Chief. Old Freddy, who in the meantime had had a heart attack, brought me back to earth. \u201cHendry was right, you\u2019ve been lucky. Get out, don\u2019t stay here. There\u2019s no future for you as long as Guzman\u2019s alive. You\u2019re finished.\u201d\n\nWhen, about a week before I left, I ran into Beppo in the street, he stopped to have a word with me. He was all smiles, glad to see me alive. \u201cSicilians,\u201d he said with a grimace (he was from Venice, a northerner), \u201clike to hurt you where you hurt them.\u201d It was as if he were apologizing. \u201cWhy did you sever the tendon in my leg?\u201d I asked. \u201cJos loves you, buddy,\u201d he answered, \u201cso he did it to save your face\u2026\u201d \u201cBy making me lame?\u201d I asked. \u201cExactly,\u201d he replied. \u201cThe whole world needs to know that the man who dared raise his eyes to the Don\u2019s daughter has been punished. That\u2019s why he lamed you. The other thing\u2026 only you and he know about the other thing. And Lauretta.\u201d\n\n \n
This, put briefly, was my story. I could write a whole separate book about it but it no longer interests me. Other things interest me and it\u2019s of these I want to speak. I left my life behind me, the place where I\u2019d grown up, the woman I loved, old Freddy, my mother\u2019s and father\u2019s graves. I was now making the reverse journey of all the shiploads of immigrants who come to America to seek their fortune. I was returning to Piraeus by steamship, to the land of my origins whose language I thought I knew fairly well (I still used to speak Greek with Freddy in the evenings\u2014he spoke it perfectly as if he\u2019d only just arrived from Greece the other day), a land, however, which I\u2019d only set eyes on once when I was four years old and never since. I was more familiar with Mexico than with Greece. I went to the U.S. consulate, they received me pleasantly, forewarned by Lamera and their contacts at Head Office; they gave my papers to be translated and then were kind enough to talk to the Security Police. The Greek police weren\u2019t quite sure what a \u201cprivate detective\u201d was. One or two high-ranking officers had opened agencies after retiring but\u2014what with the lack of work and what with their advancing age\u2014these had soon closed down. My profession hadn\u2019t managed to make a name for itself in the market.<\/p>\nAnd I was living in limbo. I did a few jobs for some Americans at the embassy, for some elderly English women who lived here. Of my Greek clients during that first period, someone wanted me to follow his daughter and her boyfriend. He put the photographs I gave him into his pocket with an enthusiastic smile, as if I\u2019d just handed him the most valuable gift. He paid me and disappeared. For weeks I used to scan the newspapers in case something about them caught my eye, some drama, some row, but it was a waste of time. Total silence. I ran into them, father and daughter, sitting at Zacharatos\u2019 caf\u00e9 in Syntagma Square, and they both looked perfectly happy. Just how exactly they\u2019d sorted matters out between them I never did understand.\n\nIn the building on Gamvetta Street most of the offices were occupied by lawyers, notaries, some mysterious dealers on the windy side of the law, house agents and jacks of all trades, who gradually faded away as business dried up, electricians, radio repair shops, plumbers and other similar folk. Everyone wondered how I managed to make ends meet and what I lived on. The only person I spoke to much was the photographer, Pelopidas, whom we called Pelos, and his wife Fotini, a slim dark-haired woman with an ample bosom, who kept the shop while her husband was out and about. It was Pelos, enjoying the best of memories of our profitable collaboration, who informed me in April \u201941 that the tailor\u2019s shop was for rent.\n","rendered":"
My office is on Gamvetta Street. I got it at a low rent since the previous tenant, a Jewish tailor, had to leave in a hurry, bundling up all his worldly goods as best he could and departing on a ship to Morocco. I met him the day he came to hand over the keys to the landlord, Mr Menagias. He\u2019d tried to haggle at the last minute, hoping to get the value of some bits of furniture which he hadn\u2019t had time to sell and was leaving behind deducted from the rent he owed: there was a battered chest of drawers, a little desk with drawers and a standing lamp with a yellowed parchment shade. Menagias wouldn\u2019t hear of it: \u201cGet that stuff out of here, you nincompoop, get my premises emptied. Mr Angel\u201d (meaning me) \u201cdoesn\u2019t have a square inch left for his own things that he\u2019ll be bringing over tomorrow.\u201d The tailor swore his chest of drawers only needed a lick of polish and it would look really good. It was part of his wife\u2019s dowry, they hadn\u2019t had room for it at home which was why he\u2019d had it temporarily in his shop. They shouldn\u2019t mistreat such a fine piece; \u201cIt\u2019s genuine walnut, Mr Angel, almost too heavy to lift!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cToo heavy to lift is it, well I\u2019ll soon find someone who\u2019ll pick it up and chuck it out of here,\u201d replied the landlord coolly, putting his hand out to the tailor once more. \u201cCome along, let\u2019s get finished\u2026\u201d I\u2019m perfectly sure Mr Menagias fancied the furniture himself but wanted to get hold of it without paying.<\/p>\n
The other man was almost in tears. He turned to me. \u201cIt\u2019s a sin, Mr Angel\u2014my Sarah\u2019s dowry\u2026\u201d He choked, got a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily. \u201cIt\u2019s a sin\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t throw your furniture out,\u201d I told him, \u201cdon\u2019t worry. And if I decide to keep it, drop me a line with your address and I\u2019ll send you something for it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
The man brightened up, a smile creasing his face and he grabbed my hand with the hand in which he was still holding the handkerchief. \u201cAngel by name and angel by nature, Mr Angel, sir! Go ahead and keep the fur-niture\u2014it\u2019s all yours! And whenever you can\u2026 though I haven\u2019t a clue where we\u2019ll end up\u2026 My brother-in-law Ariko was going to give me ten thousand for it, ten whole thousand! Just give me whatever you see fit! It\u2019s a sin! I\u2019ll let you have it for five, five thousand to you because you\u2019re a good man, an angel! That\u2019s not too much, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s far too much. Anyway, it\u2019s not walnut, it\u2019s only a veneer. I might be able to manage three at some point though I haven\u2019t got it right now. Like I said, send me your address.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me, trying to work out if I was intending to cheat him. But what could he do? Time wasn\u2019t on his side. It was the beginning of April \u201941. The Germans had already entered Salonica, the omens looked ugly, flocks of Jews were arriving from the north like birds driven before the storm, some by one means, some by another, each managing as best he could. In Piraeus people were knifing each other for a place on one of the few foreign packet-boats. The other ships had been commandeered by the Government and, from what we heard, were transporting God only knows what to Crete.<\/p>\n
So the tailor departed and I was left with the chest of drawers, the little desk and the lamp, to the chagrin of my landlord; from that day on he considered me \u201ca smooth operator\u201d who\u2019d succeeded in wresting these pieces from his incipient grasp in return for nothing more than a promise. The tailor\u2014whose name I\u2019d noted in an old diary\u2014never did write to me asking for his money.<\/p>\n
These three pieces of furniture served me well. The chest of drawers was intended to hold the files that I never acquired, the lamp stood beside my desk and saved me from having to switch on the ceiling light very often, and the desk I put behind the glass partition, in the anteroom, for the secretary I no longer had.<\/p>\n
When I first opened my detective agency in an old building at number 44 Panepistimiou Street, on the corner where it joins Harilaou Trikoupi Street, I\u2019d hired Vanda. That wasn\u2019t long after I arrived in Athens and I still had some of the money I\u2019d brought with me. Vanda taught me to drink Turkish coffee which she had a really wonderful way of making. She used to go out and buy it in the Hafteia area, at frequent intervals so that it would always be fresh. The aroma of this coffee invariably reminds me of those early happy and carefree days, when I believed that I was all set to do well. Athens was a virgin market for my profession, so far unexploited. Until I got going properly I\u2019d spend the money I had. I never did get going though.<\/p>\n
It was Christmas \u201937 when the ship docked at Piraeus and disgorged me and my trunk onto the quay of the commercial harbor, for I\u2019d travelled on a freighter under the Argentinian flag. I was now just like the immigrants you\u2019d sometimes see on Ellis Island, back in my own country.<\/p>\n
After the U.S. Consulate in Athens\u2014my first port of call\u2014I made my way to a hotel on Ermou Street for a few days. The guys at the Embassy\u2019s Information Bureau, alerted by Freddy Lamera and their pals in the FBI, had come up with three different apartments in the center of town for me to choose from. But right from the word go they made it perfectly plain that my profession didn\u2019t have any future in this country. Unless I was incredibly lucky, that is. I didn\u2019t believe them.<\/p>\n
The office was cheap to rent (but then everything was cheap here for someone who earned a half-way decent wage): I took it at once. As for a place to live, I chose the first apartment on the list they\u2019d drawn up for me. It was five easy minutes away from the office. You turned left on the corner of Harilaou Trikoupi and Fidiou then twenty yards further on you came to Georgiou Gennadiou, a narrow little street on your right. Ten more yards and you were there. The apartment had three main rooms, two looking onto the street in front and the bedroom looking onto the yard at the back. The owner, an engineer by the name of Balomenos, was a thug from the Peloponnese who maintained good relations with the cream of society and, if what people said was true, was a personal friend of Lulu, the daughter of the dictator Metaxas. He let me have the apartment without too much haggling because the previous tenants, a couple called Kanellis, had been months behind with the rent, hadn\u2019t wanted to hear a word about increasing it, and, as he himself said, had wrecked the place. What he wanted was a professional gentleman and bachelor, like me. What\u2019s more, he liked the idea of my job: I\u2019d most probably be a right-wing patriot, not a communist as they were. After relentless pressure on the part of Balomenos, culminating in threats, the Kanellis family (husband and wife both lawyers and a servant-girl from the island of Paros) had taken a smaller apartment on the second floor.<\/p>\n
Our apartment block had been built less than ten years earlier; on the other side of the narrow street were some fine old buildings, on the corner an abandoned mansion standing in a garden (\u201cChristomanos\u2019 place\u201d as people called it), a little further on the Varvitsiotis house, while on the corner at the top of the street was another little garden surrounding the church of Zoodochos Pigi. Being something of a beginner as regards both the language and the ways of this country, it took me quite a while to realize that this wasn\u2019t the name of some saint but meant \u201cthe life-giving source\u201d\u2014or anyway something of the sort.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jobs never did materialize, in spite of the fact that the guys at the Embassy helped as much as they could. I wasn\u2019t making any money and my savings were running out fast. The rents for office and apartment and Vanda\u2019s salary (not to mention the coffee, which we went through at the speed of light) were eating up my money. So I decided to let the office go. Either because he noticed it or because someone told him that I rarely left the house early in the morning, Balomenos got wind of the fact that I\u2019d begun receiving clients at home. One fine morning he knocked at the door and after asking me for the rent\u2014it was the time of month that it was due\u2014he announced that the sum we\u2019d agreed on was for a residence. If I wanted to use the place as my office too we\u2019d have to discuss new terms. \u201cIt causes wear and tear,\u201d he said. Or something of the kind.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d dismissed Vanda when I let the office go, but all the same at the beginning she\u2019d often come over unofficially \u201cto see how I was getting on\u201d and to tidy up my mess. I resorted to Zisis\u2019 caf\u00e9 across the street and for a while received clients there; however, a caf\u00e9 doesn\u2019t really make a very good impression. And the clients who would visit a private detective agency in those days weren\u2019t poor wretches but people with money and social standing. People who required both a proper office and a secretary.<\/p>\n
The worst was yet to come. It wasn\u2019t long in coming. The worst was the war. It may have made it easier for me to find a new office on Gamvetta Street for a very low rent, but it put an end to my last hopes of establishing a clientele and a name for myself. People now had more important things to worry about.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Vanda was Jewish. But either she didn\u2019t want to go or she hadn\u2019t managed to leave with all the other Jews who were hastily trampling over each other to escape. For something like a year she\u2019d been involved with an officer in the Fascist Youth and seemed to think this would be enough to keep her safe from any trouble.<\/p>\n
Her boyfriend was a young man about the same age as her, Nikiforos Velentzas by name, who knew Lieutenant Pylarinos in the Security Police. Pylarinos knew me well: it was he who\u2019d stamped my stay permit and recom-mended that I acquire a Greek passport as fast as possible if I wanted to open a detective agency. He\u2019d been to America and had contacts in our embassy here. For some reason he liked me. My paperwork was sorted out rapidly and I found myself in possession of a passport and a permit from the Security Police to open my agency. Velentzas was sent to me by Pylarinos. Probably in order to impress me, he was wearing his Falangist uniform\u2014the forage cap with its white braid, a white tie and spats\u2014and had slicked his hair down with ample brilliantine. After questioning me about detectives and America, whether it really was the way the movies showed it, he asked if I needed an assistant. At first I thought he was looking for a position for himself. But in fact he was trying to find a job for his girlfriend. I\u2019ve no idea what conclusions he came to about me as a result of this visit (certainly he didn\u2019t know the most important thing and never would), but he considered that the job was a secure one and the boss a gentleman through and through. He brought Vanda along a few days later.<\/p>\n
She was a cheerful and good-hearted kid. She learned the work fast and from the very first week began to help me do nothing. What this means is that I was free to wander around town while she answered the phone and made appointments and so on. The office immediately began to take on a different appearance; a woman\u2019s touch was obvious everywhere, and I don\u2019t just mean that the place was cleaner. Everything was orderly and in its place. If I\u2019d had work, her salary would have seemed less of a problem to me. When the German attack began, Velentzas disappeared as if the earth had gaped open and swallowed him. A little while later Vanda disappeared too.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In Athens at that time you couldn\u2019t practice my profession except in the most demeaning way. The business that most frequently came in my direction was nosing out illicit couples in some hotel room or bachelor pad and, with the help of a photographer\u2014I used Pelopidas Lebesopoulos, who had a ground-floor studio on Gamvetta Street\u2014bundling them up and taking them naked to the nearest police station for a criminal charge of adultery to follow. You needed a heart of stone for this kind of work. But my heart had already grown fairly hard and I did it without a second thought\u2014dragging them off to the station, pale and distressed, stark naked beneath a rough and ready sheet or blanket, trembling and weeping or cursing us and promising the sun and moon if we\u2019d only let them go.<\/p>\n
Twice, when the money was good and the social position of the man offering it seemed to promise future favors or protection if the need arose, I did just this. I let the little birds fly and told my clients that the information they\u2019d given me had been wrong. But this happened only twice. A third time, much later, I almost paid very dearly. However, the war got me off the hook then.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d been obliged to take the plunge and leave New York, where I\u2019d inherited Freddy Lamera\u2019s agency\u2014an old agency with traditions and an established clientele. Freddy was a Greek, born in Astoria, from one of the oldest immigrant families: his parents had been among the first to arrive, at a time when you rarely came across any Greeks in America. My father sent me to work as Freddy\u2019s assistant and when he died Freddy had more or less adopted me; being unmarried and without any financial obligations, he left the agency in my hands when he decided to retire.<\/p>\n
Not far from Astoria, in Corona, Don Guzman and his lieutenants held power in those days. The \u201cSicilian,\u201d whom the Americans also knew as \u201cDon Gasman,\u201d never got on too well with Freddy. However, he\u2019d taken a shine to me\u2014perhaps because I\u2019d helped his consigliere come out clean from a nasty adventure, and I\u2019d done it so swiftly and effectively that everyone was left open-mouthed. Freddy grumbled. \u201cDon\u2019t get mixed up with that shit,\u201d he kept on saying. But it\u2019s a wonderful feeling being high in the esteem of Don Guzman and I wouldn\u2019t listen. \u201cHe\u2019ll become legal,\u201d I said. \u201cIt won\u2019t be long, Jos\u2019ll manage it, he\u2019s half-way there already. And then just think of the favors we\u2019ll get.\u201d<\/p>\n
Don Guzman never did become legal, nor did I ever see any favors from him. And\u2014fool that I was\u2014in spite of old Freddy\u2019s imprecations I got involved with the mafia boss\u2019s youngest daughter, Laura. I was rash enough to do what I did without any attempt at concealment. I was secure in the knowledge that the Sicilian had a soft spot for me. The result was that Laurina disappeared overnight\u2014I couldn\u2019t even get her on the phone\u2014I destroyed Freddy\u2019s old age (the Italian\u2019s thugs used to call him La Merda in mockery) and the agency closed down.<\/p>\n
One night I heard the sirens of the fire engines. I didn\u2019t pay any attention until someone telephoned me. \u201cYour office is on fire,\u201d he said. I pulled on a pair of pants and a raincoat over my pajamas and went out into the street. Three blocks further down I could see the glow. I pushed through the police cordon and ran up the stairs. The outer office with the files was burnt to ashes. You couldn\u2019t advance a step further\u2014the place had gone up like a torch. The smoke was suffocating and I collapsed unconscious. When I came to, I was on a stretcher with a male nurse bending over me. \u201cYou were lucky,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Lucky indeed! A couple of days later, as I was coming back from visiting Lamera, two of the Sicilian\u2019s men cornered me in a narrow alley. Beppo, his chief henchman, had always liked me. But what has liking got to do with it? No one quibbles when Don Guzman has given his command. \u201cMy orders are to do you some grievous damage, Angey boy,\u201d he told me. \u201cSorry, but you were asking for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t want to remember that night. Beppo himself severed the tendon of my left leg (this was the Sicilian\u2019s favorite punishment\u2014since the early 1930s, when the bastard was at the height of his power, Astoria had become full of men who limped.) However, the worst damage he left to a mute they\u2019d recently brought over from their own country, a numbskull who didn\u2019t understand a thing. He did it just as if he were slicing vegetables for dinner\u2026<\/p>\n
I was in the University Hospital on Staten Island for two months, in strict isolation. Police Officer Hendry came over twice a week from Astoria to see how I was doing. Instead of pressing me to make a statement about who\u2019d done these things to me (something that in any case everyone knew), the first time he came he told me, \u201cIn your place I\u2019d count myself darn lucky to be alive. In your place I\u2019d be thinking very seriously of taking a trip to see my relatives in Greece.\u201d When I told him I didn\u2019t have any relatives in Greece, he smiled: \u201cIn your place I\u2019d find some.\u201d Don Guzman or Jos Gasman was sending me a message via Hendry to get out of there fast.<\/p>\n
At the beginning I was obstinate. At night I dreamed of finding him and doing to him what he\u2019d done to me. Of cleansing the town of that bastard and his gang. Of being decorated for it at the Town Hall and of being taken on by the Force\u2014with the prospect of becoming its Chief. Old Freddy, who in the meantime had had a heart attack, brought me back to earth. \u201cHendry was right, you\u2019ve been lucky. Get out, don\u2019t stay here. There\u2019s no future for you as long as Guzman\u2019s alive. You\u2019re finished.\u201d<\/p>\n
When, about a week before I left, I ran into Beppo in the street, he stopped to have a word with me. He was all smiles, glad to see me alive. \u201cSicilians,\u201d he said with a grimace (he was from Venice, a northerner), \u201clike to hurt you where you hurt them.\u201d It was as if he were apologizing. \u201cWhy did you sever the tendon in my leg?\u201d I asked. \u201cJos loves you, buddy,\u201d he answered, \u201cso he did it to save your face\u2026\u201d \u201cBy making me lame?\u201d I asked. \u201cExactly,\u201d he replied. \u201cThe whole world needs to know that the man who dared raise his eyes to the Don\u2019s daughter has been punished. That\u2019s why he lamed you. The other thing\u2026 only you and he know about the other thing. And Lauretta.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
This, put briefly, was my story. I could write a whole separate book about it but it no longer interests me. Other things interest me and it\u2019s of these I want to speak. I left my life behind me, the place where I\u2019d grown up, the woman I loved, old Freddy, my mother\u2019s and father\u2019s graves. I was now making the reverse journey of all the shiploads of immigrants who come to America to seek their fortune. I was returning to Piraeus by steamship, to the land of my origins whose language I thought I knew fairly well (I still used to speak Greek with Freddy in the evenings\u2014he spoke it perfectly as if he\u2019d only just arrived from Greece the other day), a land, however, which I\u2019d only set eyes on once when I was four years old and never since. I was more familiar with Mexico than with Greece. I went to the U.S. consulate, they received me pleasantly, forewarned by Lamera and their contacts at Head Office; they gave my papers to be translated and then were kind enough to talk to the Security Police. The Greek police weren\u2019t quite sure what a \u201cprivate detective\u201d was. One or two high-ranking officers had opened agencies after retiring but\u2014what with the lack of work and what with their advancing age\u2014these had soon closed down. My profession hadn\u2019t managed to make a name for itself in the market.<\/p>\n
And I was living in limbo. I did a few jobs for some Americans at the embassy, for some elderly English women who lived here. Of my Greek clients during that first period, someone wanted me to follow his daughter and her boyfriend. He put the photographs I gave him into his pocket with an enthusiastic smile, as if I\u2019d just handed him the most valuable gift. He paid me and disappeared. For weeks I used to scan the newspapers in case something about them caught my eye, some drama, some row, but it was a waste of time. Total silence. I ran into them, father and daughter, sitting at Zacharatos\u2019 caf\u00e9 in Syntagma Square, and they both looked perfectly happy. Just how exactly they\u2019d sorted matters out between them I never did understand.<\/p>\n
In the building on Gamvetta Street most of the offices were occupied by lawyers, notaries, some mysterious dealers on the windy side of the law, house agents and jacks of all trades, who gradually faded away as business dried up, electricians, radio repair shops, plumbers and other similar folk. Everyone wondered how I managed to make ends meet and what I lived on. The only person I spoke to much was the photographer, Pelopidas, whom we called Pelos, and his wife Fotini, a slim dark-haired woman with an ample bosom, who kept the shop while her husband was out and about. It was Pelos, enjoying the best of memories of our profitable collaboration, who informed me in April \u201941 that the tailor\u2019s shop was for rent.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":291,"menu_order":1,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-29","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-standard"],"part":28,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/29","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/291"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/29\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":76,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/29\/revisions\/76"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/28"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/29\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=29"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=29"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/integrations.pressbooks.network\/testxmlimportwithunavailablemedia\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=29"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}