Of course, what Alzheimer had said about the Greeks was unforgivable; I suppose his only excuse was—as I was about to discover for myself—that it was also true.
FIFTEEN
–
From Frankfurt I flew on a DC-6B to Hellenikon Airport in Athens. Including a refueling stop it was a nine-and-a-half-hour journey. It wasn’t hot in Athens, not in March, but it was a lot warmer than Munich. I was met inside the airport building by a fat man carrying a sign for MUNICH RE. He had a drooping mustache and was wearing a well-rendered bow tie that might have looked smart but for the fact that it was green and, even worse, matched his tweed suit—and, very slightly, his teeth—and the overall impression, apart from the one that the suit had been made by a trainee taxidermist, was of a jovial Irishman in some sentimental John Ford film. It was an impression enhanced by the enamel shamrock in his lapel which, he later explained, was due to a lifelong enthusiasm for a local football team called Panathinaikos.
“Did you have a good flight, sir?” asked Achilles Garlopis, MRE’s man in Athens.
“We didn’t crash, if that’s what you mean. After nine hours on a plane I feel like Amy Johnson.”
“It’s not a civilized way to travel,” he said, taking my bag politely. “Nor a natural one. Ships and trains—these are kinder to human beings, gentler. You won’t find a Greek who disagrees with you, Herr Ganz. After all it was a Greek, Icarus, who first dared to conquer the skies and look what happened to him.”
Garlopis managed to make Icarus sound like one of the Wright brothers but there was nothing wrong with his German; it was near perfect.
“The gods dislike aviators as they dislike all blasphemy. Myself, I never disrespect the gods. I am a very pagan sort of man, sir.” He chuckled. “I would sacrifice chickens if the priests did not object to it. For a religion based on bloodshed, Christianity is most peculiar in its attitude to animal sacrifice.”
“It doesn’t keep me awake at night,” I admitted, hardly taking him seriously, yet. “Not much does.”
“How is Mr. Neff, sir? He had a heart attack, did he not?”
“You know Mr. Neff?”
“Yes. He’s been here on several occasions. We’re old friends, Walther and I.”
“I believe he’s recuperating. But for a while back there he wasn’t so good.”
Garlopis crossed himself in the Greek Orthodox way and then kissed his thumb. “I shall pray for him. Send him my regards the next time you see him.”
He walked me out of the airport to his car, a powder-blue Oldsmobile with an accent stripe and whitewall tires. He noted my surprise at seeing the big American car as he placed my bag in the bedroom-sized trunk.
“It’s not my car, sir. I borrowed it from my cousin Poulios, who works at Lefteris Makrinos car hire, on Tziraion Street. He will give you a very good rate on any automobile you like. Including this one.”
“I’d prefer something a little less noticeable. Like a Sherman tank, perhaps.”
“Of course, sir. I perfectly understand. But this was all he could spare me today while my own car is in the workshop. Rest assured, your hotel is much more discreet. The Mega, on Constitution Square. Not as good as the Grande Bretagne, but not nearly as expensive. Many of the rooms, including yours, have their own baths and showers. I have another cousin who works there who has made sure you have the best room and the best rate. You’ll be living on velvet. It’s also very convenient for the post office on Nikis Street, from where you may send telegrams to head office at ten drachmas a word, at all hours and on all days of the week. For anything else, you may contact me at my office on Stadiou Street, number 50, next to the Orpheus Cinema.”
Garlopis handed me a business card and eased his bulk behind the white steering wheel of the Oldsmobile while I lit a cigarette and climbed in beside him, settling onto the matching white leather upholstery. On the blue dashboard was a little silver-framed icon and a small plaster statuette of an owl.
“What’s with the towels on the backseat?”
“Habit, I’m afraid. It gets very hot in the summer, sir. And I do sweat a lot. So it protects the leather.”
He started the engine and smiled. “The new Rocket engine. Alert, eager, power when you need it, thrifty economy when you want it. I must confess to an absurd and rather boyish enthusiasm for this car. Ever since I was young I have loved all things American. What a country that must be to make such cars. Driving this I find it all too easy to imagine myself on a space rocket to the moon.”
“You wouldn’t like the food,” I said, observing his girth. “There isn’t any.”
Garlopis put the car in gear and we moved off smoothly. After a while he pressed a switch to operate the car’s electric
