Blood on the junta’s poster

The evening air in Kaisariani was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of motorbikes. Myrto Zervou leaned on her balcony railing, her sharp eyes scanning the street below. At sixty-plus, dressed head-to-toe in black like a storm cloud, she missed nothing, not the furtive glances of the young couple across the way, not the way old Manolis at the kiosk stiffened whenever the police van rolled by.

And certainly not the man in the dark coat tearing down the pro-junta poster plastered on the wall of the abandoned bakery.

Rrrrip.

The sound was sharp, deliberate. The man, young, lean, with the calloused hands of a laborer, glanced around before stuffing the shredded paper into his pocket.

"Eh, maláka," Myrto muttered under her breath. "You think no one sees?"

Her son, Aris, poked his head out from the kitchen, sawdust still clinging to his shirt. "Who are you cursing now, Mamá?"

"Some fool tearing down those cursed posters again," she said, waving a hand toward the street. "Like a mouse nibbling at a lion’s tail."

Aris sighed. "Leave it alone. Not our business."

"Óchi!" Myrto snapped. "When a man tears at the past, the past tears back. You’ll see."

*    *    * *    *    *

The scream came just after dawn. Myrto, already stirring a pot of hilopites, heard it through the open window. She didn’t run, grandmothers never run but she moved with purpose, her black dress swishing like a shadow.

In the alley behind the bakery, a small crowd had gathered. A woman clutched her chest, pointing at the crumpled form on the ground. Blood seeped from a wound in the man’s back. His face, turned to the side, was pale but Myrto recognized him.

The same man from last night. The one who tore the poster.

Police sirens wailed in the distance.

"Panagía mou," whispered old Mrs. Doukas, crossing herself.

Myrto bent down, ignoring the gasps of the onlookers, and plucked something from the dead man’s clenched fist. A tiny scrap of paper, the corner of the junta poster.

*    *    * *    *    *

Back in her apartment, Myrto spread the evidence on the kitchen table: the scrap of paper, a cigarette butt (not the dead man’s brand), and a button she’d found near the body.

Aris groaned. "Mamá, the police will handle this."

"Bah! The police here couldn’t find their own noses if they weren’t attached." She tapped the scrap of paper. "This is about more than a poster. This is about fear. About old ghosts."

Her daughter, Mary, called just then, worried. "Mama, don’t get involved!"

"Ach, korítsi mou, when have I ever listened?" Myrto hung up and turned to Aris. "We’re going to see Manolis."

*    *    * *    *    *

Manolis, the kiosk owner, was sweating despite the cool morning. His hands shook as he handed Myrto her newspaper.

"You saw something," she said, not a question.

Manolis licked his lips. "I... I didn’t see who did it. But last night, after the poster was torn… Colonel Raptis’ son was here. Drunk. Angry."

Colonel Raptis. A name that still carried weight and fear. A relic of the junta days.

Myrto’s eyes gleamed. "Aha. So the lion’s cub still has claws."

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Myrto marched; grandmothers never stalk, to the Raptis family’s old villa. The son, Nikos Raptis, a bloated man with cold eyes, answered the door.

"Kyria Zervou," he sneered. "Here to beg for something?"

"Here to ask why a man died over a piece of paper," she said.

Nikos’ face darkened. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"O kókkoros krázei, alla i alépoú pernáei," she recited, the rooster crows, but the fox passes. "You think because your father was powerful, you still are? The dead man was writing a book. About the junta. About your family."

Nikos lunged. Myrto sidestepped slowly, but with precision and he stumbled.

Aris, waiting in the shadows, grabbed him.

*    *    * *    *    *

The police arrived, reluctantly, but with evidence (and Myrto’s loud proverbs) shoved in their faces, they had no choice. Nikos Raptis was arrested.

Back home, Myrto sipped her tsípouro, satisfied.

Aris shook his head. "You’re impossible."

She grinned. "God helps the one who helps himself."

And outside, a new poster went up, this one for the dead man’s book.

Myrto nodded. Justice, at last, had a voice.

THE END

Black widow, sharp tongue

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, watching the neighborhood below. Her son, Aris, was hammering away in his workshop downstairs, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud mixing with the cicadas’ buzz.

Then, the shouting started.

"Thieves! Crooks!" Old Man Dimitris, the retired accountant from the corner kiosk, was waving his cane at a sleek black Mercedes parked outside the new shipping office down the street. Two men in suits stepped out, unfazed.

Myrto’s ears perked up. Trouble.

She shuffled downstairs, her black dress swishing, and found Dimitris red-faced, sputtering.

"Ti symvainei, Dimitri?" (What’s happening, Dimitri?)

"Those malakes," he hissed, pointing. "They’re stealing from all of us! The whole block!"

Myrto squinted. The sign above the office read "Nereus Logistics." Fancy. Too fancy for Kaisariani.

That evening, over fasolada, Aris mentioned the new business.

"Mama, they hired me to build shelves. But something’s off. The boss, Pavlos, kept getting calls about ‘transfers’ and ‘offshore.’ And he paled when I knocked over a ledger."

Myrto’s spoon froze mid-air. "Ledger?"

Aris shrugged. "Full of numbers. And names. Like… the mayor’s."

A slow grin spread across Myrto’s face. "Ah, koroido…" (Ah, fool…)

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched into the shipping office, her handbag swinging like a weapon. A young receptionist blinked at her.

"Kalimera! I’m here about the charity donation."

The girl frowned. "What donation?"

"For the church!" Myrto thumped the desk. "You think God doesn’t see you hiding money?"

Pavlos, a greasy man in a too-tight suit, emerged. "Madam, please..."

"Ela, Pavlo," Myrto crooned. "I hear you like numbers. But do you know the best number?" She leaned in. "The one the tax office has for whistleblowers."

Pavlos’s face drained.

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, Myrto and Aris snuck into the office (Aris picked the lock—"For justice, Mama!"). The ledger was there; stuffed with fake invoices, shell companies, and bribes.

"They’re stealing millions," Aris whispered.

"And the mayor’s in it," Myrto muttered. She snapped photos with Aris’s phone.

The next day, she mailed copies to the tax office, the newspapers, and, just in case, her cousin in the police.

*    *    * *    *    *

A week later, Pavlos’s office was raided. The mayor resigned. And Dimitris bought Myrto the biggest bougatsa in Athens.

Over coffee, Aris grinned. "How’d you know, Mama?"

She sipped, smug. "A fish rots from the head down, pedi mou."

The neighborhood slept easier that night.

THE END.

Blood on the projector glass

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with yesterday’s newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the neighborhood simmer. Below, her son Aris sanded a wooden chair, his muscles taut under a film of sawdust.

“Mama, you’re staring like a cat at a mousehole,” he said without looking up.

“And you’re sawing like a man with debts,” she shot back. “What’s biting you?”

Aris sighed. “The Olympia Cinema was vandalized last night. The police say it’s anarchists.”

Myrto’s black dress absorbed the sun’s glare as she leaned forward. “What were they showing?”

“Some old political film. The junta called it ‘subversive.’”

She snorted. “Subversive? Bah. When men fear art, they break things.”

*    *    * *    *    *

The cinema’s owner, Stavros, a round man with sweat-stained armpits, met them at the shattered box office. Glass crunched underfoot.

“They smashed the projector, the posters ...even the candy counter!” he wailed.

Myrto poked at a spray-painted slogan: “ART IS A WEAPON.” “Anarchists don’t write in perfect grammar,” she muttered.

A young usher, Lena, chewed her nails nearby. “I saw a man lurking before closing. Not a punk ...older. Wore a suit.”

“A suit?” Myrto’s eyes gleamed. “In this heat? Only politicians and criminals wear suits in August.”

*    *    * *    *    *

They tracked the suit to a café near Syntagma, where a nervous journalist, Nikos, sipped ouzo.

“You wrote about the film,” Myrto accused.

“It’s history!” Nikos hissed. “But some people want it buried. The junta’s old guard still has friends.”

Aris cracked his knuckles. “Who?”

“Ask the colonel.”

*    *    * *    *    *

The colonel, a relic with a waxed mustache, lived in a sterile apartment smelling of gun oil.

“You meddle in things you don’t understand, old woman,” he sneered.

“I understand broken glass and scared men,” Myrto said. “You had the cinema attacked to scare people. But why?”

The colonel’s hand twitched toward a drawer. Aris blocked him.

“The film proves you executed protesters in ’73,” Myrto pressed. “You couldn’t burn the reels, so you made it look like vandals did it.”

The colonel lunged straight into Aris’ fist.

*    *    * *    *    *

Back in Kaisariani, Myrto stirred a pot of lentil soup while the radio announced the colonel’s arrest.

“Another proverb proved right,” she mused. “The louder the dog barks, the weaker its bite.”

Aris grinned. “Next time, Mama, let’s solve a quieter crime.”

“Quiet crimes are boring,” she said, handing him a bowl. “Now eat. Even heroes need lentils.”

THE END

Oil, Smoke, and Broken Hearts

Myrto Zervou adjusted her black shawl and peered out of her third-floor balcony in Kaisariani, her sharp eyes scanning the narrow streets below. The morning was warm, the scent of fried dough and exhaust mingling in the air. Across the street, young Dimitris was pacing in front of his mechanic’s shop, his face twisted in distress.

“Aris!” Myrto called over her shoulder. “Something’s wrong with Dimitris. His scooter is missing.”

Her son, a broad-shouldered carpenter with sawdust perpetually clinging to his clothes, appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “Maybe he loaned it to someone.”

“Bah!” Myrto scoffed. “You lend your tools?”

Aris grinned. “Never.”

“Exactly. A man’s scooter is like his right arm. Come.”

*    *    * *    *    *

Dimitris nearly collapsed in relief when he saw Myrto approaching. “Thee mou, Yiayia Myrto! They stole it! Right from under my nose!”

“Who?” Myrto demanded.

“I don’t know! I left it here last night, chained up, and this morning poof! Gone!”

Aris crouched, examining the broken chain. “Bolt cutters. Professional.”

Myrto hummed, scanning the street. A few doors down, old Manolis sat outside his kafenio, nursing a coffee. His eyes flicked away when she looked at him.

“Manoli,” Myrto called sweetly. “You see anything last night?”

The old man shrugged. “I was asleep.”

“At eight o’clock?”

He shifted. “Maybe I heard a van.”

“A van?” Aris pressed.

Manolis sighed. “A white one. Stopped near Dimitris’ shop. Two men. One had a tattoo, like a snake, here.” He tapped his forearm.

Myrto’s eyes gleamed. “A snake, eh? Aris, remember Spiros ‘the Viper’ Kontos?”

Aris frowned. “The guy who used to steal car parts in Neos Kosmos?”

“The very one.” She turned to Dimitris. “Don’t worry agori mou. We’ll find your scooter.”

*    *    * *    *    *

By afternoon, Myrto had bullied half the neighbourhood into giving information. The widow Toula swore she saw Spiros drinking at a shady bar near Vyronas. Myrto and Aris went, her clutching her handbag like a weapon, him cracking his knuckles.

The bar was dim, the air thick with smoke and ouzo. Spiros sat in the corner, his snake tattoo coiled menacingly on his arm.

“Spiro,” Myrto said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Long time.”

He smirked. “Yiayia Myrto. Here to scold me?”

“Here to ask nicely. Where’s Dimitris’ scooter?”

Spiros’ grin faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aris leaned in. “We know it was you.”

Spiros glanced at the door. “Look, even if I did, it’s already sold. Gone to Albania by now.”

Myrto sighed. “O kleftis vriskei ton klefti.” (The thief finds the thief.) She reached into her bag and pulled out an old flip phone. “Should I call your parole officer?”

Spiros palmed. “Wait! There’s a warehouse in Eleonas. Some bikes are still there.”

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, under the flickering light of a streetlamp, Myrto and Aris watched as police raided the warehouse. Among the stolen scooters was Dimitris’, slightly scratched but intact.

Back in Kaisariani, Dimitris hugged Myrto fiercely. “Yiayia, you’re a miracle!”

She patted his cheek. “O theos voithos ton voithon.” (God helps those who help themselves.) Then, eyeing the celebrating neighbours spilling into the street, she added, “Now someone get me a coffee before I collapse.”

Aris laughed, draping an arm around her shoulders as they walked home, the hum of Athens alive around them.

The End