Free When the Devil's Idle by Leta Serafim Page A

perhaps it hadn’t seemed important to her, or maybe
she’d wanted to preserve the illusion that all was going well for
them on Patmos. The victim had been opposed to the trip, the little
boy had said. Perhaps her husband had been opposed, too.
    There was a
puzzling formality about the whole family. Save for a few moments
with Gunther Bechtel, they had all been deeply courteous, and in
spite of their pain, endeavored to answer his questions. Their
words had been thoughtful and precise. They hadn’t wanted to
discuss the war, but who could blame them?
    How strange it
all was.
     
     

Chapter Six
He who has no brains at twenty should not
expect them at thirty.
—Greek Proverb
     
    E vangelos Demos was waiting for Patronas in the square,
and they spoke briefly to the owner of the taverna. The man
volunteered that the two tavli players had gone home earlier
that day but would return the following morning. “They’re my wife’s
cousins. They spend every day here.”
    A stout man with
a mouthful of crooked teeth, he was cheerful and good natured. He
and his wife were working behind the counter, ladling up food and
handing it to the waiters while they talked to the two policemen.
“Come back tomorrow, Chief Officer,” the owner said. “I’ll round up
the men you want. We can all have breakfast together.”
    Patronas
reluctantly agreed, and they arranged to meet the next
day.
    “ Food’s good here,” Evangelos Demos said, eyeing the steaming
dishes on the counter. “Let’s take a break and eat.”
    They took a table
in the corner. The taverna was bustling, full of foreigners. They
were the only Greeks. The sun had gone down and the whitewashed
buildings of Chora were luminous in the gathering darkness. A man
was going from table to table with an accordion. Patronas
recognized the tune he was playing. “ Pame mia volta sto
feggari, ”—Come Walk with Me in the Moonlight—by Hatzidakis. He
had courted Dimitra to that song.
    “ Problem with songs like that is they lead you astray,” he told
Evangelos. “They never tell you what comes after those walks in the
moonlight, when the sun rises and you and your beloved see each
other in the light of day.”
    “ You’re right,” Evangelos said. “In my experience, a woman acts
one way before you get married and another way after. Worse, far
worse.”
    A string of light
bulbs were strung up overhead, lending the square a festive air. A
group of boys were chasing each other in a nearby alley, full of
bravado as they played a game of their own devising. From the looks
of it, it was a war game, Patronas decided, watching them, full of
shooting and falling down, dramatic dyings, the real Patmos showing
itself in their laughing faces. Alive with people and noise, Chora
felt like an island of light in the encroaching night.
    The death of the
old man, Walter Bechtel, seemed very far away.
    Evangelos, a
prodigious eater, rejoiced when he saw kokoretsi on the
menu—intestines stuffed with offal—and ordered a plateful. His
wife, Sophia, had forbidden him to eat kokoretsi , he told
Patronas. “Says it’s full of cholesterol and bad for me. Cheese,
too. Everything I like.”
    In addition to
the kokoretsi, he requested loukaniko —pork
sausage—cheese pies, fried cheese, and cheese croquettes. Away from
Sophia, he was having a free-for-all—a kilo of lamb and a mountain
of fried potatoes.
    “ My
wife wants me to lose weight,” he said. “It’s always salads with
her. Six months now, only salads. Maybe a slice of watermelon or a
fistful of grapes. She counts them, the grapes—only seventeen I
get. I can’t sleep at night, I’m so hungry.”
    Picking up a lamb
chop, he chewed contentedly. “She made a graph and put it up on the
refrigerator to chart my progress. She bought me a scale, too, so I
could weigh everything that goes in my mouth.”
    Patronas watched
him eat for a few minutes. Not a bad idea, the diet, as Evangelos
was the size of a sofa and had been puffing