Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) Read Free

past, my friend. The old ideologies are dead and buried. No one cares about them any more.’ He looked up at the drowsy wasps in the bottles above and breathed in the scent of grapes that were beginning to rot. ‘Everyone in Greece is too busy making money these days.’
    Shortly afterwards the Fat Man shuffled out, a stained white apron stretched over his swollen midriff, and placed a minute cup and a glass of water on the metal table with incongruous delicacy. ‘Go to the devil, Alex,’ he said, staring belligerently at his only customer. ‘What do you know about this country? You’re not even a real Greek.’
    ‘Don’t start that again,’ Mavros said, taking off his sunglasses and running a hand through the swathes of thick hair that had swung down and obscured his vision. Then he picked up the cup and breathed in the dark, unsweetened liquid’s sublime aroma. Whatever else anyone said about the Fat Man, he made the best coffee in the city.
    ‘Don’t start what again?’ the café owner said, planting his thick legs apart on the gravel floor. ‘Are you or are you not half Greek, half Anglos ?’
    ‘Wrong!’ Mavros shouted. ‘I’m half Greek but not half Anglos . How many times do I have to tell you? Anglos means English. My mother is Scottish.’
    The Fat Man had raised his eyes to what was visible of the fume-choked sky. ‘Screw you, Alex. You know well enough that Anglos means British in the common tongue.’
    ‘Well, it shouldn’t,’ Mavros replied, blowing over his cup. ‘ Anglos is English and
Skotsezos
is Scottish. You know which blood I’ve got in my veins.’
    ‘Anyway, who cares about that half?’ the Fat Man said. ‘They’re all capitalists on that rain-soaked island. Your father was Greek, you’ve lived in Greece most of your life, you did your national service here.’ His brow furrowed. ‘You’ve no right to give up the struggle, you traitor. Your father won’t be resting in the grave, he’ll rise again as a vampire…’
    ‘Come on, my friend, give me some peace,’ Mavros said, glaring at the imposing figure. It always amazed him how difficult it was for even committed communists to free themselves from the superstitions of the Orthodox Church that they had imbibed as children. ‘Vampires? What kind of shit is that?’
    ‘And what kind of shit is that job you do?’ the Fat Man demanded, changing his angle of attack. ‘Private detective? Private nose in other people’s business, I say.’ He leaned over his customer. ‘You’re no better than an underwear-sniffing cop.’
    Mavros had his hand over his eyes. He had woken up with his head throbbing and it was worsening by the minute. ‘Go away, will you, Fat Man? I’ve spent the last week looking for a fifteen-year-old junkie who went walkabout. The parents— remember those boutique owners from Kolonaki?—won’t pay me the balance of my fee because they say he was on his way home anyway. I don’t need this from you, not this morning.’

    The Fat Man was nodding his head. ‘See? What do you expect if you work for bourgeois wankers from the arsehole of Athens.’ Kolonaki, ‘Little Column’, the area to the northeast of the parliament building, was the most upmarket district in the city. By coincidence, and to the delight of people on the left,
kolos
also meant ‘arse’. ‘Oh well,’ the café owner said, his tone softening, ‘everyone has to work, I suppose. Do you want some galaktoboureko ?’
    Mavros looked up. ‘Have you got any left?’ The Fat Man’s mother made a tray of the custard-filled filo pastry every morning, but it had usually been devoured by the early-morning trade and his interlocutor by this time.
    ‘For you, Alex, anything,’ the Fat Man said, the irony less sharp than it could have been.
    ‘Bring me a couple of aspirins as well,’ Mavros called, glancing at the ponderous form in the kitchen and flicking the pale blue worry beads he’d been using to distract himself since he’d given