Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (29 page)

With the
exception of the immediate family and those guests selected to sit on the long
top table by the side of the dance floor, there were, in fact, very few people
George had ever set eyes on before.

George took his
place at the center of the top table, with Isabella on his right and Alexis on
his left. Once they were all seated, course after course of overladen dishes
was set before his guests, and the wine flowed as if it were a Bacchanalian
orgy rather than a small island wedding.

But then
Bacchus–the god of wine–was a Greek.

When, in the
distance, the cathedral clock chimed eleven times, George hinted to the best
man that perhaps the time had come for him to make his speech.

Unlike George,
he
was
drunk, and certainly wouldn’t
be able to recall his words the following morning. The groom followed, and when
he tried to express how fortunate he was to have married such a wonderful girl,
once again his young friends leaped onto the dance floor and fired their
pistols in the air.

George was the
final speaker. Aware of the late hour, the pleading look in his guests’ eyes,
and the half-empty bottles littering the tables around him, he satisfied
himself with wishing the bride and groom a blessed life, a euphemism for lots
of children. He then invited those who still could to rise and toast the health
of the bride and groom. Isabella and Alexis, they all cried, if not in unison.

Once the
applause had died down, the band struck up. The groom immediately rose from his
place, and, turning to his bride, asked her for the first dance.

The newly
married couple stepped onto the dance floor, accompanied by another volley of
gunfire. The groom’s parents followed next, and a few minutes later George and
Christina joined them.

Once George had
danced with his wife, the bride and the groom’s mother, he made his way back to
his place in the center seat of the top table, shaking hands along the way with
the many guests who wished to thank him.

George was
pouring himself a glass of red wine–after
all,
he had
performed all his official duties–when the old man appeared.

George leaped
to his feet the moment he saw him standing alone at the entrance to the garden.
He placed his glass back on the table and walked quickly across the lawn to
welcome the unexpected guest.

Andreas
Nikolaides
leaned heavily on his two walking sticks. George
didn’t like to think how long it must have taken the old man to climb up the
path from his little cottage, halfway down the mountain. George bowed low and
greeted a man who was a legend on the island of Cephalonia as well as in the
streets of Athens, despite the fact that he had never once left his native
soil. Whenever Andreas was asked why, he simply replied, “Why would anyone
leave Paradise?”

In 1942, when
the island of Cephalonia had been overrun by the Germans, Andreas
Nikolaides
escaped to the hills and, at the age of
twenty-three, became the leader of the resistance movement.

He never left
those hills during the long occupation of his homeland and, despite a handsome
bounty being placed on his head, did not return to his people until, like Alexander,
he had driven the intruders back into the sea.

Once peace was
declared in 1945,

Andreas
returned in triumph. He was elected mayor of Cephalonia, a position which he
held, unopposed, for the next thirty years. Now that he was well into his
eighties, there wasn’t a family on Cephalonia who did not feel in debt to him,
and few who didn’t claim to be a relative.

“Good evening,
sir,” said George stepping forward to greet the old man.

“We are honored
by your presence at my niece’s wedding.”

“It is I who should
be honored,” replied Andreas, returning the bow.

“Your niece’s
grandfather fought and died by my side. In any case,” he added with a wink,
“it’s an old man’s prerogative to kiss every new bride on the island.”

George guided
his distinguished guest slowly round the outside of the dance floor and on
toward the top table.

Guests stopped
dancing and applauded as the old man passed by. George insisted that Andreas
take his place in the center of the top table, so that he could be seated
between the bride and groom.

Andreas
reluctantly took his host’s place of honor. When Isabella turned to see who had
been placed next to her, she burst into tears and threw her arms around the old
man. “Your presence has made the wedding complete,” she said.

Andreas smiled and,
looking up at George, whispered, “I only wish I’d had that effect on women when
I was younger.”

George left
Andreas seated in his place at the center of the top table, chatting happily to
the bride and groom. He picked up a plate and walked slowly down a table laden
with food. George took his time selecting only the most delicate morsels that
he felt the old man would find easy to digest. Finally he chose a bottle of
vintage wine from a case that his own father had presented to him on the day of
his wedding. George turned back to take the offering to his honored guest just
as the chimes on the cathedral clock struck twelve, hailing the dawn of a new
day.

Once more, the
young men of the island charged onto the dance floor and fired their pistols
into the air, to the cheers of the assembled guests. George frowned, but then
for a moment recalled his own youth. Carrying the plate in one hand and a
bottle of wine in the other, he continued walking back toward his place in the
center of the table, now occupied by Andreas
Nikolaides
.

Suddenly,
without warning, one of the young bandoliers, who’d had a little too much to
drink, ran forward and tripped on the edge of the dance floor, just as he was
discharging his last shot.

George froze in
horror when he saw the old man slump forward in his chair, his head falling
onto the table. George dropped the bottle of wine and the plate of food onto
the grass as the bride screamed. He ran quickly to the center of the table, but
it was too late. Andreas
Nikolaides
was already dead.

The large,
exuberant gathering was suddenly in turmoil, some screaming, some weeping,
while others fell to their knees, but the
majority were
hushed into a shocked, somber silence, unable to grasp what had taken place.

George bent
down over the body and lifted the old man into his arms. He carried him slowly
across the lawn, the guests forming a corridor of bowed heads, as he walked
toward the house.

George had just
bid five thousand pounds for two seats at a West End musical that had already
closed when he told me the story of Andreas
Nikolaides
.

“They say of
Andreas that he saved the life of everyone on that island,” George remarked as
he raised his glass in memory of the old man. He paused before adding, “Mine
included.”

“
W
hy
does he want to see
me?”
asked
the Commissioner.

“He says it’s a
personal matter.”

“How long has
he been out of prison?”

The
Commissioner’s secretary glanced down at Raj Malik’s file. “He was released six
weeks ago.”

Naresh
Kumar stood up, pushed back his chair and began
pacing around the room; something he always did whenever he needed to think a
problem through.

He had
convinced himself–well, almost–that by regularly walking round the office he
was carrying out some form of exercise. Long gone were the days when he could
play a game of hockey in the afternoon, three games of squash the same evening
and then jog back to police headquarters. With each new promotion, more silver
braid had been sewn on his epaulet and more inches appeared around his waist.

“Once I’ve
retired and have more time, I’ll start training again,” he told his number two,
Anil Khan. Neither of them believed it.

The
Commissioner stopped to stare out of the window and look down on the teeming
streets of Mumbai some fourteen floors below him: ten million inhabitants who
ranged from some of the poorest to some of the wealthiest people on earth. From
beggars to billionaires, and it was his responsibility to police all of them.
His predecessor had left him with the words: “At best, you can hope to keep the
lid on the kettle.” In less than a year, when he passed on the responsibility
to his deputy, he would be proffering the same advice.

Naresh
Kumar had been a policeman all his life, like his
father before him, and what he most enjoyed about the job was its sheer
unpredictability. Today was no different, although a great deal had changed
since the time when you could clip a child across the ear if you caught him
stealing a mango. If you tried that today, the parents would sue you for
assault and the child would claim he needed counseling. But, fortunately, his
deputy Anil Khan had come to accept that guns on the street, drug dealers and
the war against terrorism were all part of a modern policeman’s lot.

The
Commissioner’s thoughts returned to Raj Malik, a man he’d been responsible for
sending to prison on three occasions in the past thirty years. Why did the old
con want to see him? There was only one way he was going to find out. He turned
to face his secretary.

“Make an
appointment for me to see Malik, but only allocate him fifteen minutes.”

The
Commissioner had forgotten that he’d agreed to see Malik until his secretary
placed the file on his desk a few minutes before he was due to arrive.

“If he’s one minute
late,” said the Commissioner, “
cancel
the
appointment.”

“He’s already
waiting in the lobby, sir,” she replied.

Kumar frowned,
and flicked open the file. He began to familiarize himself with Malik’s
criminal record, most of which he was able to recall because on two
occasions–one when he had been a detective sergeant, and the second, a newly
promoted inspector–he had been the arresting officer.