Others came and took Heleni away. Claudio tried to stop them, but was dragged forcefully to another entrance. When the door opened, he caught a glimpse of Michel sitting between two policemen in an adjacent room.
Their eyes crossed for a moment but Michel seemed not to recognize him. Claudio’s face was all swollen up, his eyes reduced to two slits, his lips puffy and bloody, his dirty hair plastered to his forehead.
Michel couldn’t comprehend how everything could have happened so quickly. Twenty-four hours ago, he was just a boy, lively and full of enthusiasm. Now he was broken and humiliated, deprived of all sentiment and feeling. They carried him out and put him in a car headed towards Faliron.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the airport. You’ve been released. You’re going back to France.’
‘But I have a house in Athens, all my things, my clothes. I can’t just leave.’
‘Yes you can. Your things will be shipped to you. Your plane is leaving in a little over an hour. We’ve even bought you a ticket.’
At the airport, a ground hostess met them with a wheelchair.
‘He’s just been operated on,’ said the policeman. ‘He won’t be able to walk for a week. He’ll need help at his arrival in France as well.’
‘Certainly,’ said the hostess. ‘We’ve already been notified.’ She pushed Michel in the wheelchair past the metal detector and parked him at the gate. He was carried to his seat near the window.
The plane took off and flew low over the city and port before beginning its ascent. A steward started to illustrate emergency procedures and show the passengers how to use the life jackets under their seats if they were forced to make an emergency landing, but Michel wasn’t listening. He looked down at the Acropolis, and from this height it seemed desolate. A field of chalky skeletons.
There was the agora, the archaeological school, emerging from the low houses of the Plaka. He would never see Athens again. Never.
And his memories? Would he ever be able to rid himself of them? His friends: Claudio, Norman. He’d met them two years before, on a mule track between Metsovon and Ioannina. They were hitch-hiking and he brought them to Parga in his Deux-Chevaux. Friends at first sight. An exclusive, fierce, crazy friendship, they had raced through life together, always the best, plotting adventures, studying, arguing, discussing the destiny of the world at the local dives, drinking retsina at the tavern, hitting on girls . . . Heleni, what a beauty. A knock-out. And Heleni had chosen Claudio. He had tried with her as well, but then forgot her, what the hell, your best friend’s girlfriend . . . She had become part of them. Heleni, so beautiful and so sweet, courageous and proud. He had turned her in. He had been unforgivably weak, a coward. That was the thought that tortured him, made him bleed inside. How could he ever forget what he’d done?
What kind of life was left to him? How could he ever find the strength to do anything again? Oh, Athens, Athens. He’d never see her again. Never again.
The stewardess repeated her question: ‘Would you like something to drink, sir?’
Michel didn’t turn but his voice was firm and polite. ‘No thank you. I don’t want anything.’
C LAUDIO WAS LEFT for hours in total isolation in a freezing, windowless cell, without a cot, just an iron door and a single chair, iron as well. They had taken his belt and shoestrings with his wallet and watch. He had no way of calculating how much time had passed.
The light bulb spread a flat, harsh light. The walls didn’t let through any sound and his own footsteps rang out as if he were pacing back and forth in a tin can.
His soul had never been filled with such anguish. He was tormented by his despair and the physical pain that racked his eyes, his mouth, his ribs. It was intolerable. Not a fibre of his being was free of pain. When he heard footsteps outside his cell and the door swung open, he was
Their eyes crossed for a moment but Michel seemed not to recognize him. Claudio’s face was all swollen up, his eyes reduced to two slits, his lips puffy and bloody, his dirty hair plastered to his forehead.
Michel couldn’t comprehend how everything could have happened so quickly. Twenty-four hours ago, he was just a boy, lively and full of enthusiasm. Now he was broken and humiliated, deprived of all sentiment and feeling. They carried him out and put him in a car headed towards Faliron.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the airport. You’ve been released. You’re going back to France.’
‘But I have a house in Athens, all my things, my clothes. I can’t just leave.’
‘Yes you can. Your things will be shipped to you. Your plane is leaving in a little over an hour. We’ve even bought you a ticket.’
At the airport, a ground hostess met them with a wheelchair.
‘He’s just been operated on,’ said the policeman. ‘He won’t be able to walk for a week. He’ll need help at his arrival in France as well.’
‘Certainly,’ said the hostess. ‘We’ve already been notified.’ She pushed Michel in the wheelchair past the metal detector and parked him at the gate. He was carried to his seat near the window.
The plane took off and flew low over the city and port before beginning its ascent. A steward started to illustrate emergency procedures and show the passengers how to use the life jackets under their seats if they were forced to make an emergency landing, but Michel wasn’t listening. He looked down at the Acropolis, and from this height it seemed desolate. A field of chalky skeletons.
There was the agora, the archaeological school, emerging from the low houses of the Plaka. He would never see Athens again. Never.
And his memories? Would he ever be able to rid himself of them? His friends: Claudio, Norman. He’d met them two years before, on a mule track between Metsovon and Ioannina. They were hitch-hiking and he brought them to Parga in his Deux-Chevaux. Friends at first sight. An exclusive, fierce, crazy friendship, they had raced through life together, always the best, plotting adventures, studying, arguing, discussing the destiny of the world at the local dives, drinking retsina at the tavern, hitting on girls . . . Heleni, what a beauty. A knock-out. And Heleni had chosen Claudio. He had tried with her as well, but then forgot her, what the hell, your best friend’s girlfriend . . . She had become part of them. Heleni, so beautiful and so sweet, courageous and proud. He had turned her in. He had been unforgivably weak, a coward. That was the thought that tortured him, made him bleed inside. How could he ever forget what he’d done?
What kind of life was left to him? How could he ever find the strength to do anything again? Oh, Athens, Athens. He’d never see her again. Never again.
The stewardess repeated her question: ‘Would you like something to drink, sir?’
Michel didn’t turn but his voice was firm and polite. ‘No thank you. I don’t want anything.’
C LAUDIO WAS LEFT for hours in total isolation in a freezing, windowless cell, without a cot, just an iron door and a single chair, iron as well. They had taken his belt and shoestrings with his wallet and watch. He had no way of calculating how much time had passed.
The light bulb spread a flat, harsh light. The walls didn’t let through any sound and his own footsteps rang out as if he were pacing back and forth in a tin can.
His soul had never been filled with such anguish. He was tormented by his despair and the physical pain that racked his eyes, his mouth, his ribs. It was intolerable. Not a fibre of his being was free of pain. When he heard footsteps outside his cell and the door swung open, he was
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