Stop for a widow

The Athenian sun hung heavy over the Kaisariani square, a bleached bone in the sky. Myrto Zervou, a compact figure in perpetual black, sat on her usual bench, her fingers working through a knot of wool. Her son, Aris, was at her side, smelling of sawdust and mild exasperation.

“You’ll roast, Mitera,” he muttered, mopping his brow.

“A tree needs the sun, Aris,” she replied, not looking up. “And an old tree knows where to find the shade.” It made little sense, but it felt right.

Their quiet bickering was cut by the scene unfolding near the philodendron-framed kiosk. A florid-faced tourist, camera swinging, was arguing with a sleek young man in a tight polo shirt.

“You dropped it! You grabbed it from my hands!” the tourist, German by the accent, stammered.

“I saved it, kyrie,” the young man crooned, his voice oily. “You fumbled. My reflexes are good. But the lens… listen.” He shook the camera. A sinister rattle answered. “The mechanism is broken. A new lens is five hundred drachmas. A kindness, for my trouble, three hundred.”

Myrto’s needles stopped. “A snake doesn’t save the mouse,” she said, low.

“Mother, not our business,” Aris sighed.

But it was. The young man, Nico, she’d seen him before, loitering, always with a different phone, was a stain on the neighbourhood’s tablecloth. She watched as the tourist, flustered and red, pulled out his wallet. The transaction was quick, shameful. Nico pocketed the cash with a predator’s smile and vanished into the warren of streets.

“Go,” Myrto commanded, rising. “Follow the weasel. See where his hole is.”

“Mitera—”

“Go! Or I’ll tell Mary you let a thief feast on a guest in our own yard.” The threat of his sister’s scolding was potent. Aris went, a grumbling shadow.

Myrto waddled over to the distressed tourist. “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to her bench. “Tell me.”

His name was Klaus. He was certain. He’d been focusing on the little church of Saint George when a helpful voice offered to take his picture. Then a deft hand, a fumble, the grab, the rattling diagnosis.

“He was too helpful,” Klaus concluded.

“A too-helpful stranger is a locked door,” Myrto nodded. She borrowed his camera. It was heavy, professional. She pressed the lens release, twisted. The lens came off smoothly. She peered into the body. With a snort, she upended it. A single, dry pebble fell into her palm.

“The ‘broken mechanism’,” she said. The rattle. A cheap theatre.

Aris returned, slightly breathless. “He went to the kafeneio on Dimitrakopoulou. Met another one. Skinny, with a gold tooth. They’re splitting money and laughing.”

“Good,” Myrto said. Her mind, a ledger of neighbourhood faces, flipped pages. Gold Tooth was Dimitris, a small-time hustler who worked the metro sometimes. A plan, slow and deliberate as her knitting, began to form.

“Klaus,” she said. “You want your three hundred drachmas back? And maybe a story for your friends?”

He nodded, intrigued.

“Aris, fetch Mary. Tell her to bring the boys. And her good camera, the small one. We go to the taverna of Giorgos tonight. We set a table for… justice.”

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Taverna Giorgos was lively. Myrto held court at a large table: Aris, Mary, her two boisterous grandsons, and a now-resolute Klaus. Myrto, still in black, was a queen of shadows.

She spotted Nico and Gold Tooth Dimitris at a corner table, celebrating with ouzo. She gave Mary a barely perceptible nod.

Action.

Mary’s youngest son, a spirited six-year-old, ‘accidentally’ sent his football rolling to the hustlers’ table. As Nico bent to retrieve it with a scowl, Mary, the ‘distracted mother’, sprang up, her expensive compact camera swinging from her wrist. She reached for the ball at the same time Nico did.

“Oh, let me!” she trilled, and with a practised clumsiness, she let her camera slip. It fell towards the stone floor.

Nico’s reflexes were, indeed, excellent. He caught it flawlessly, a smug grin already forming. He shook it. Silence. He shook it again, confused.

“Thank you!” Mary beamed, plucking it from his hands. “You’re a lifesaver! These mechanisms are so delicate, aren’t they?” She turned to Klaus. “Papou, get a picture of us with this kind man!”

As Klaus stood, Nico’s face drained of blood. He was looking at his previous mark, now part of this family tableau. Dimitris, sensing a trap, stood to leave.

“Sit,” Aris commanded, his carpenter’s hand landing heavily on Dimitris’s shoulder.

Myrto rose. The taverna quieted. She walked to their table, a ship in full sail. “A fisherman who uses rotten bait,” she announced, her voice carrying, “cathes only shame.” She held up the pebble Klaus had given her. “You sold this for three hundred drachmas. To a guest of our city. In my neighbourhood.”

Nico spluttered. “This is slander! You have no proof!”

“Proof?” Myrto smiled. She pointed to Mary, who was now reviewing photos on her camera’s screen. Clear as day, the sequence played, Nico catching the camera, his face sharp, the shake, the confused look, the moment he recognized Klaus.

“The modern eye sees more than the ancient,” Myrto said, updating the proverb. “Giorgos!” she called to the taverna owner. “Call Officer Leonidas. Tell him the Kaisariani Committee for Welcoming Tourists has a public nuisance for removal.”

The aftermath was swift and satisfying. Under the threat of the police and a very public shaming, Nico and Dimitris returned the three hundred drachmas to Klaus, plus fifty for his ‘distress’. Officer Leonidas, an old friend of Myrto’s late husband, took them in for questioning, the photo evidence solid in his pocket.

Later, back in her small apartment, Myrto poured a tiny glass of tsipouro for herself and Aris. The adventure was over, the mystery a simple one of greed and shame.

“You were loud tonight, Mitera,” Aris said, but he was smiling.

“Sometimes, the only way to clean a stain is to shout for the soap,” she replied, sipping. “A quiet mouse gets the crumbs, but a loud cat gets the thief.”

Outside, the Athenian night settled over Kaisariani, a little cleaner, a little quieter. Myrto Zervou, widow in black, keeper of proverbs and justice, watched it from her balcony, her work done. Until the next stain appeared.

End