"They're okay," I said half-heartedly and went back to Dimitrakos.
"Okay? Is that all you have to say about them?"
"What else do you want me to say? When all's said and done, they're boots just like all the others."
"No, not like all the others. These are from Petrides."
"Okay. So Petrides's boots are different. That's why you paid thirtyfive thousand for them, when anywhere else they'd only be twenty."
"What do you mean? That I squander money just for the label?"
"No, I'm not saying that. Anyway, they suit you fine."
The compliment didn't satisfy her at all. "You're always putting a damper on other people's pleasure," she said bitterly. "You're really good at that."
"Don't be ungrateful!" I shouted, and Dimitrakos flew to the foot of the bed. "I paid thirty-five thousand for your pleasure! Isn't that enough?"
"It most certainly is and thank you very much. But you know what my mother used to say? `Don't give with one hand what you take back with the other!"' She stormed out of the room before I had time to answer.
I needed to relax but all I'd succeeded in doing was getting myself worked up. I reached for Dimitrakos again. I took hold of it clumsily and some pages got crumpled. As I tried to straighten them, my eye fell on the word sucker. I thought that it summed me up perfectly, and I began to read, to discover my roots. Sucker = fool, idiot, (sl.) moron. Definitely. A fool for giving Adriani the thirty-five thousand and for letting myself be taken to task by her into the bargain. An idiot for wanting at all costs to find out why Karayoryi was dropping hints about kids when she had it all worked out already. And a moron for getting Thanassis involved so that I could find out what I wanted. Being a sucker would be the least of my problems if Ghikas were to find out about Thanassis. I'd be in the doghouse, no question. My father used to call me a whelp, though I didn't know what it meant then and I didn't dare ask, because whenever he used it, he was always furious with me. He'd have thought I was trying to be clever and he'd have hit me upside my head. It was the first word I looked up when I got hold of a dictionary. Whelp (n). = 1. a young offspring of certain animals, esp. of a wolf or dog. 2. disparaging; a young man or youth. 3. jocular; a young child. So, the young dog was heading for the doghouse. I wasn't complaining. It was the way of the world.
The voices on the TV brought me back to reality and I remembered that I'd wanted to watch the news. I looked at my watch. I had two minutes. I was certain that Karayoryi would be the main story. I left Dimitrakos on the bed and rushed into the living room. Adriani was in the armchair, in her usual position. Her eyes were glued to the screen and she made a show of ignoring me to emphasize her wounded pride.
I'd just managed to get comfortable on the sofa when the first of the main stories was announced: "An investigation by Hellas Channel reveals unknown aspects of Yanna Karayoryi's brutal murder." It was as well that I had been expecting something, and I accepted it calmly. Grief was oozing from the features of the newscaster, like snot from a runny nose. If he didn't get out his handkerchief to wipe his tears now, he never would. But he didn't. I guess he sensed that even hypocrisy has its limits.
"Mystery continues to surround the killing of Yanna Karayoryi. The determination of the police not to reveal any information has caused an unprecedented uproar. The channel's telephone lines have been busy all day. Viewers have been desperately seeking information and expressing their indignation at the police's indifference to public opinion. Over and above anything else, one vital question remains to be answered: What was the story that Yanna Karayoryi had intended to break on our late-night news bulletin? Let's hear what Martha Kostarakou has to say."
Martha Kostarakou appeared and spoke about the telephone call Karayoryi had made to her. She gave the bare bones, without any trimmings. Perhaps that's why she seemed so bland alongside the newscaster.
"Why did Yanna Karayoryi phone Martha Kostarakou? And why did she ask her to carry on the investigation should anything happen to her? Who was Yanna Karayoryi afraid of?" The newscaster looked penetratingly into the camera, as though waiting for the viewers to solve the mystery. "Our own reporters have been working to find an answer to this question and have come up with a sensational discovery." He paused for a moment, then fixed his gaze, as though looking at each of us individually, and asked: "Ladies and gentlemen, do you remember this man?"
The scene changed and we were in the grounds of the law courts in Evelpidon Street. The camera came to rest on a short, thin man. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, and looked like a bank official or some bureaucrat. But this first impression was immediately undermined because the man was in handcuffs and was being escorted by two plainclothes policemen, who were pushing him through a crowd of reporters. I recognized him immediately. It was Petros Kolakoglou.
The scene changed again. A girl was speaking with her back to the camera so she couldn't be identified. The voice asking the questions belonged to Karayoryi.
"And then what did he do to you?"
"He fondled me," said the girl with her face hidden.
"Where did he fondle you?"
There was a pause. Then the girl broke into tears.
"What we've shown you today, ladies and gentlemen, requires no comment. It speaks for itself." The newscaster was there again. His expression had changed, and he was all smiles. Self-satisfaction had replaced the mask of mourning. We'd wept for our aunt, now it was time for the inheritance and we were rubbing our hands with glee.
Back to Evelpidon Street. Kolakoglou, the two policemen at his sides, was walking toward the police van. His head was bowed, and he kept his gaze focused on the ground. As he was approaching the van, a crowd of reporters swarmed around him, their microphones held out like bayonets. Karayoryi was in the vanguard.
"What do you have to say about the court's decision, Mr. Kolakoglou?" she asked him.
Kolakoglou suddenly raised his head and fixed his gaze on her. "You're the one who got me sent down, you bitch!" he screamed in fury. "But you'll pay for it! You'll pay big-time!" The policemen broke through the ring of reporters and bundled him into the back of the van. The camera remained on Karayoryi, who followed Kolakoglou with her eyes, smiling her satisfaction.
The newscaster appeared once more. "Ladies and gentlemen, Petros Kolakoglou was released on parole just one month ago for good conduct. The Kolakoglou case was one that Yanna Karayoryi took intensely seriously. She regarded Kolakoglou as a dangerous individual. She had already published a book on the subject, but we have reason to believe that she was continuing her investigations and that's why she had reason to fear for her life." He stared into the camera with a grave expression, leaving open every possibility. "We have searched for Kolakoglou, but we have not yet been able to locate him. No one knows where he is, or, at least, no one is willing to talk."
I stopped following what was happening on the screen. The scenes flashed before me, but I didn't see them. Now all of Greece would believe that Karayoryi's murderer was Petros Kolakoglou. Tomorrow, reporters from every channel would rush out to find him. And whoever found him first would be the channel's plat du jour.
Not a minute had passed before my thoughts were confirmed, at least as to the first part. "It's a good thing that there are reporters to bring certain things to light. Because if we waited for the police…"
I heard Adriani's disdainful commentary, and I felt doubly infuriated. The police force fed us, clothed us, paid for our child's education, and yet she was having a go at it. You don't bite the hand that feeds you. And second, because she was doing it expressly because I hadn't gone overboard in my enthusiasm for her new boots.