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
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