Che Committed Suicide

by Petros Markaris

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Since the night Inspector Haritos had the brilliant idea to offer his chest as a shield in order to save Elena Kousta from a bullet fired by her stepson, his life has changed radically. Haritos' long convalescence has given his wife the opportunity to take control and, now, subdued and tamed, he witnesses a shocking suicide captured live on TV. The victim, Iason Favieros, a former revolutionary activist who had been jailed during the dictatorship of the Colonels, had built up a sprawling business empire in a surprisingly short period of time, including Olympic contracts. This tragedy is quickly followed by the suicides of a well-known Greek MP and a national journalist - at his own party. With the police and the press left groping in the dark, Inspector Haritos is under pressure to solve the mystery that is lurking behind this series of public suicides, unveiling the secrets buried in the victims' past.

Release date: April 1, 2011

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 220

Sample

The cat sat opposite me on the park bench staring at me. I always found it there in the afternoon straddled over the back of the bench. The first few days, it stared at me suspiciously, ready to take to its legs if I made any move towards it. When it was sure that I couldn’t care less about it, it stopped paying any attention to me and no longer bothered to disturb itself on my account. In this way, we implemented a policy of good neighbourly relations. It never occupied my bench and, on the few occasions that I was the one to arrive first, I always respected its bench and would leave it free. It was an alley cat, but not the usual orange colour of pedigree alley cats. Its fur was a kind of pinstripe greyish black, like the suits worn at police balls or at funerals. Black ones are invariably reserved for weddings.

Adriani was sitting beside me, knitting away. Since that fatal evening when I had had the bright idea to save Elena Koustas, using my chest to stop the bullet fired by Makis, her adopted son, my life had changed radically. First I had spent eight hours in the operating theatre, then a month and a half in the hospital and now I still had two thirds of my three-month sick leave before me. My dealings with the Homicide Department had been suspended until further notice. I hadn’t been in to see them even once since I came home. My two assistants, Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis, came round every other day at first, then they stopped the visits and limited themselves to phone calls, till in the end they ceased all contact. Ghikas came only once to the hospital, together with the Secretary General from the Ministry, who can’t stomach me, but on that day he was all smiles and praise for my bravery. In the end, to dragging my steps from the house to the park and from the bedroom to the sitting room, like a Palestinian placed under house arrest by the Israelis.

‘What’s for dinner tonight?’

Not that I was particularly bothered. I still hadn’t got my appetite back and every mouthful stuck in my throat. But I made a thing about it because it helped me to break the monotony.

‘I’ve boiled you a nice bit of chicken and I’ve made a noodle soup.’

‘Chicken again? I had chicken the other day.’

‘It’s good for you.’

‘And why exactly is it good for me, Adriani? I had a perforating wound in the chest, not a punctured stomach.’

‘It’ll build up your strength. I know what I’m talking about,’ she said definitively, without even lifting her eyes from her knitting.

I heaved a sigh and recalled with nostalgia my days in intensive care, when my loved ones came by to pay their respects for one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening and in-between left me in peace. For the nine days I was in there, surrounded by a white ceiling and two white curtains, I experienced the same ritual twice each day. Fist Adriani would come in.

‘How are you feeling today, Costas dear?’ she would ask with a smile like a flickering candle-flame.

I would try to react to this current of distress that penetrated my cubicle and I pretended to be in better spirits that I actually was. ‘Just fine. Waste of their time keeping me in here, there’s nothing wrong with me,’ I would reply, even though I felt much safer in intensive care.

A restrained sorrowful smile and a slight nod of her head convinced me once again that no one can escape their fate. Then she would sit on the only chair, take my hand and fix her gaze on me. When she went, as soon as the half-hour was up, she left me with my hand numb through lack of movement and with the conviction that I was going to kick the bucket some time in the next twelve hours.

If Adriani led me to make out that I was fine, Katerina, my daughter, had me going in the opposite direction. She would breeze in smiling all over her face. ‘Good for you, you’ll soon be up and about,’ she’d say. ‘You’re looking better each day.’

‘Looking better!’ I’d answer her indignantly. ‘I’m a wreck. I’m hurting, I’m worn out and all I want to do is sleep.’

Her reply was a warm kiss on the cheek and a tight hug that made my wound hurt even more.

The last to come in was Eleni, my sister-in-law. She’d almost swum from the island where she lived when Adriani had told her that they’d brought me to the hospital half-dead.

Eleni belonged to that category of people who cheer you up by relating the sorry plight of others to you. So she’d begin by counting out one by one all those who were sick in her family, starting with her daughter, who suffered from an allergy and had to be careful of what she ate and how she dressed, then moving on to her husband, who had high blood pressure and who went around with bottles of pills in his pocket. Then there was her mother-in-law, who was confined to bed because she had broken her hip and whom she had to clean and change every day, taking it in turns with her sister-in-law. She even threw in a distant cousin, who had come off his motorbike and had been three months in hospital and it was touch and go whether he’d live. Finally, she came out with the moral of it all: ‘So you should be grateful and thank God each day,’ she said as she left.

When, however, Adriani’s half-hour and Katerina’a and Eleni’s quarter of an hour were over, I had all the time to myself until the evening. In the ward, total silence reigned; the nurses were exceedingly discreet and, in general, no one bothered me.

The cat opened its cavernous mouth and yawned majestically. As though it were bored with my presence. I didn’t take offence, I’m equally bored with myself.

‘Shall we be going?’ I said to Adriani, while inside I asked myself why, it would be just as miserable at home.

‘Just a bit longer. The fresh air is good for you.’

‘I meant in case Fanis comes …’

‘Don’t expect him today. From what I recall, he’s on duty.’

It wasn’t that I was anxious to see the doctor, but quite simply I get on well with my daughter’s boyfriend, Fanis Ouzounidis. My relationship with Fanis was in inverse proportion to the course of the Athens Stock Exchange. Whereas it reached a peak and then began to fall, our relationship first reached a low and then began to climb. I’d met him as the cardiologist on duty when I had ended up one night at the General Infirmary with acute ischaemia. I immediately liked him because he was always smiling and full of wisecracks. Until I discovered that he was seeing my daughter and I was furious. In the end, for Katerina’s sake, I reconciled myself more with the idea that he was her boyfriend than with him personally. I felt that he had betrayed my confidence, and when you have come up through the Police Force, the idea of betrayal clings to you like a leech. It was in intensive care that I first felt close to him, and that had nothing to do with medicine. He’d pop in at around twelve, just before lunch, and always with a smile on his face. And every time, he called me something different. From ‘And how are we today, Inspector’ to ‘How’s my future father-in-law, then’ and the ironically intoned ‘Dad!’ This was repeated three or four times a day, and also at night, when he was on duty, and it was combined with discreet questions about how I was getting on, whether I needed anything. I found out about this indirectly, from the nurses, who every so often came out with things like ‘We have to take good care of you, otherwise we’ll have Doctor Ouzounidis after us.’

Things began to turn sour from the moment that they took me out of intensive care. That same day, Adriani moved into my room on a twenty-four basis and began to take charge of everything. Partly the fact that I was a police officer who had been wounded on duty and partly the relationship between my daughter and Fanis meant that the doctors thought they had to give a daily report to her on the course of my recovery, on the medicines that they were administering to me and on the minor problems I faced from the effects of the operation. From the third day, she would stay in the visiting room and strike up a conversation with the doctors on every matter you could think of. If I were to dare venture an opinion of my own, for example, that I was in pain or that I felt the wound tugging, she would cut me short at once. ‘Leave it to me, Costas. You don’t know about these things.’ The doctors kept their anger in check because of Fanis, I was too weak to react, while the nurses hated her but didn’t dare to show it. In the end, it was Katerina who got up the courage to talk to her. Adriani burst out sobbing. ‘All right, Katerina,’ she said through her tears, ‘if I’m not the right person to take care of my husband, then hire a private nurse and I’ll go home.’ Her sobbing took the wind out of Katerina’s sails and sealed my fate as a hostage.

‘It’s chilly, put your cardigan on.’ She took the cardigan that she had knitted for me out of her bag and handed it to me.

‘I don’t need it, I’m not cold.’

‘You are cold, Costas dear, I know what I’m talking about.’

The cat got up from its place, stretched and jumped lightly down to the ground. It cast one last look at me, then it turned and went off with its tail erect, like a patrol car aerial.

I have no relationship at all with animals, neither a friendly nor an unfriendly one. But that cat’s arrogance got on my nerves.

I took the cardigan and put it on.

Fanis proved Adriani wrong. He showed up at around seven, just as I was reading the evening newspaper. This was another novelty of my post-hospital life: in the past it was dictionaries that monopolised my reading interests. Now I had moved on to newspapers, as an antidote for my boredom. I started with the morning paper, brought to me by Adriani, then I thumbed through my dictionaries; when I go out for my afternoon stroll, I buy the evening paper and read once again, in carbon copy, the morning news and, finally, I hear the same news for a third time on television just in case I’ve missed anything. The doctors kept talking of post-operative side effects, but they were nothing compared to the side effects of convalescence: unbearable boredom and inactivity to the point of paralysis.

Fanis found me reading the minor pieces on the finance pages with the absorption of an autistic. I was still wearing the cardigan that Adriani had had me wear in the park, not because I was feeling cold, but because I had reached such a state of apathy that I could no longer distinguish cold and heat. I was quite capable of going to bed wearing the cardigan if Adriani didn’t take it off me.

Fanis stood before me and smiled.

‘Are you up for a drive?’

‘How come you’re not on duty?’ I asked him, lifting my eyes from the newspaper.

‘I swapped with a colleague. It suited him to do his shift today.’

I put down the newspaper and got to my feet.

‘Just don’t be late for dinner!’ Adriani shouted from the kitchen. ‘Costas has to eat at nine.’

‘Why, what will to happen to him if he eats at ten?’ asked Fanis with a laugh.

Adriani appeared from the kitchen. ‘Fanis, you’re the doctor. Do you think it’s good for him to sleep on a full stomach while he’s convalescing?’

‘Yes, but you’re the one cooking for him. Even if he eats at midnight, he’ll still sleep like a baby.’

‘Let’s be off, it’s getting late,’ I said to Fanis, because I saw she was about to counter him with all her quack remedies and I’d end up missing my outing.

In the past, whenever she saw Fanis, she’d leave whatever she was doing in order to be sociable. Now she opened the door for him and then disappeared into the kitchen. In general, she didn’t look kindly on anyone coming to the house because she thought that it took me away from her complete control. With Fanis, she was reserved and a little suspicious because he was a doctor and she didn’t know what it might come to.

‘Why are you wearing a cardigan? Are you feeling cold?’ Fanis asked me.

‘No.’

‘Take it off, it’s warm outside and it’ll make you sweat.’

I took it off. My wife tells me to wear it, my doctor tells me to take it off, I just obey.

‘Let’s go along the coast road and get a bit of sea air,’ Fanis said, turning from Hymettou Avenue into Vouliagmenis Avenue.

The traffic was light and no one was in a rush. Since the airport was moved to Spata, Vouliagmenis Avenue is not so busy. Fanis drove down Alimou Avenue and turned into Poseidonos Avenue. Crowds of people were squashed into the four feet in front of the stone wall overlooking the sea. The rest of the pavement had been taken over by various Indians, Pakistanis, Egyptians and Sudanese, who had spread out tablecloths and were selling women’s handbags, wallets, euro converters, purses for the new euro coins, binoculars, watches, alarm clocks and plastic flowers. They themselves were squatting next to the tablecloths and chatting to each other, given that the passers-by didn’t seem to care a fig for their merchandise.

It was June. The really hot days hadn’t arrived yet and I could feel the breeze from the Saronic Gulf on my face. There were many people still in the sea or playing rackets on the beach, while some of those fake sailboats that keep sinking and then righting themselves were skidding back and forth in the bay of Faliron. I shut my eyes and emptied my mind of the thought of chicken with noodle soup that made me feel sick, of two months more of autism in the form of convalescence, of the cat that would be waiting for me the following evening in the usual place in the park … I tried to think of something else, but I could find nothing.

‘You have to get yourself out of that vicious circle of convalescence.’

Fanis’s voice woke me up and I opened my eyes. We had left Kalamaki behind and were heading towards Elliniko. Fanis went on talking, with his eyes fixed on the road.

‘You know how at first we were always at loggerheads. You had me down as a cold and conceited young doctor and I saw you as a crabby old copper, who thought I had seduced his daughter. Well, I still preferred you even like that to the sop you are now.’

In his attempt to bring me to my senses, Fanis had become distracted and had to swerve suddenly to avoid bumping into the back of a Ford cabriolet with a couple inside. The driver had spiked hair, like almost everyone today, as if they had all just had a run-in with Count Dracula. The young girl had a ring through her nostrils.

The fellow with the spiked hair caught up to us at the next red light. He sped up close to let Fanis have a piece of his mind, but then he caught sight of the doctor’s sticker on the windscreen.

‘Doctor, eh? I should have known!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘With driving like that, you’ve either got to be a doctor or a woman.’

‘Why, what’s wrong with women, Yannis?’ the young girl next to him chipped in angrily.

‘Nothing, honey. It’s just that when you women get behind the wheel you turn into lace murderers.’

‘Oh, so your mother’s a lace murderer, is she? So why are you calling her every five minutes to hear her darling little voice?’

The girl was so furious that the ring in her nostril was shaking. She opened the car door, got out and slammed it behind her.

‘Come back here, Maggie! Where are you going? All right, I’m a fuckhead!’

It was as if she hadn’t heard him. She dodged between the cars and stepped onto the opposite pavement.

‘It’s your fault, you surgeon-butcher!’ the fellow yelled to Fanis.

‘I’m no surgeon,’ Fanis replied, laughing. ‘I’m a cardiologist, and if you go on like that you’ll be needing my services.’

The fellow didn’t hear him, however. The lights had changed to green and he edged forward, honking his horn like a madman to get the girl to come back, while the cars behind him were honking their horns to get him to move on so they could pass.

Fanis was splitting himself laughing. I watched the whole scene impassively and Fanis noticed.

‘You see, in the past you’d have blown your top with the fellow and with me for laughing. Now you just let it pass you by indifferently. That’s a feather in the cap for Mrs Haritos. I didn’t think her capable of wrapping you round her finger.’

He pulled up in front of the sports facilities at Aghios Kosmas. By the time he’d found somewhere to park, he had become serious. He turned and looked at me. It was almost dark and we could barely make each other out in the car.

‘Katerina is thinking of giving up on her doctorate and coming back to Athens,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘To do some restoration work on you. She’s afraid that before long we’ll be spooning you up off the floor.’ He paused a moment, while still facing me. ‘I told her it’s not necessary. You’re a person with a lot of inner strength, all you have to do is get the system up and running.’

‘Is that why you wanted us to go for a drive? To tell me about Katerina?’

‘Because of that, and also because there’s no point in swapping one babysitter for another, for your daughter to take your wife’s place. The point is that you have to do something for yourself.’ He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing up what it was he wanted to say. ‘If you go on like this, there’s no question of your returning to the service. You’ll need more convalescence.’

‘Keep your tongue in your mouth!’ It was the first time my voice hadn’t come out lifeless.

‘Katerina is at the most crucial point in her thesis.’ Again, he halted. He was worried in case he went too far and I took it the wrong way. ‘It’s not the right time to put it on hold. And I can’t stop her. Only you …’

He saw that I wasn’t going to reply and was about to turn the key in the ignition.

‘You’re all of you very kind,’ I said, and he left his hand on the key. ‘My wife, who caters to my every whim, and you, who are always trying to cheer me up, and my daughter, who’s willing to give up her doctorate to come and pamper me. So why do I feel so lousy?’

‘Because you don’t send us all packing and do what you feel like. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.’

This time he turned the key and the engine started up. He waved goodbye to me in front of the apartment block. I didn’t ask him up because I knew it was time for his evening call to Katerina.

The kitchen table was laid and waiting for me.

‘How was the drive?’ Adriani asked me.

‘Fine. We went along the coast as far as Aghios Kosmas.’

‘In summer, the coastal road is full of life. As soon as you’re well,

I’ll take you for a drive down there in the mornings.’ The message was crystal clear. She would be the one to decide when I was well and she would be the one to take me for a drive. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you your soup.’

‘I don’t want soup. It’s sizzling outside, people are in the sea and I’m eating noodle soup.’

‘Because you have to get better, Costas dear. It’ll help you to get better.’

‘Which damn quack says that?’ I knew that there was no medical truth behind it – the treatment was her own.

Instead of replying, Adriani took the bowl, filled it with soup and tossed a chicken leg into it. She brought it over and put it in front of me.

‘If you want, eat it, if not, don’t. I’m simply doing my duty,’ she said, going out and leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I clutched at the two corners of the table to pull myself up and let out a few choice words, when suddenly my legs went from under me. My anger deflated like a manometer; all the strength went out of my body and I felt paralysed. I sat down again, took a piece of bread, broke it into pieces and tossed it into the soup. I started to eat the soaked bread like an old man. At the third mouthful, I left the spoon in the bowl and went out of the kitchen.

I was sitting on the couch beside Adriani and watching the Aquarium. The Aquarium in question is not inhabited by tropical fish, but by the well-known TV hostess, Aspasia Komi, who every week invites various politicians, businessmen, sometimes a footballer or weightlifter, makes accusations, uncovers scandals and, in the end, sends her guests away smiling. In the past, I would turn my nose up at such programmes and leave the room. Now I turn my nose up and watch them, just like nine out of ten other Greeks today.

Komi was sitting in a comfortable armchair facing Jason Favieros, a well-kept fifty-year-old, who was sitting in the other comfortable armchair. If it wasn’t widely known that he had made bags of money in the last twenty years, you would have taken him for a rocker from the seventies who had forgotten to shave and change his jeans. He was the owner of a huge construction company with projects throughout the Balkans, was building a large part of the works for the Olympics, but was wearing faded jeans and a crumpled jacket.

Komi had him with his back to the wall and was questioning him about the accusations that the Olympic works would not be ready in time, but Favieros did not appear to be the slightest bit worried.

‘Put it all down to unfounded rumours, Mrs Komi,’ he said. ‘In undertakings of this kind, a great deal of money is involved, there’s a lot of interest generated and Greece is a small country in business terms. Even if we disagree, it’s only natural that competitors often resort to trying to discredit their opponents or even eliminating them.’

‘So are you telling me that the building projects will be ready on time for the Olympics?’

‘No,’ he replied with a self-confident smile, ‘I’m telling you that they’ll be ready much earlier.’

‘You realise that you have just made a commitment to our viewers, Mr Favieros.’ Komi turned to the camera and was beaming with satisfaction.

‘Of course,’ replied Favieros completely at ease.

‘Yes, I’d just like to see you when we’ve made fools of ourselves before the entire world,’ commented Adriani, who thinks all assurances are fraudulent.

Perhaps she is right, but Favieros had brought the discussion to an end with his commitment and Komi was looking for some other ground to do battle.

‘Nevertheless, there’s still an unanswered question in business circles, Mr Favieros,’ she said. ‘How did you manage to create that – albeit by Greek standards – colossal business empire of yours from absolutely nothing in the space of fifteen years?’

‘Because very early on I understood two simple things,’ answered Favieros immediately. ‘First, if I confined myself to Greece, my businesses would be condemned to stagnation. And that’s why I opened up in the Balkans. Today, either directly or through my subsidiaries, I’m engaged in projects throughout the Balkans, even in Kosovo. And apart from that, I exploited the traditionally friendly relations that Greece has with a number of Arab countries.’

‘And what was the second thing?’

‘That a businessman shouldn’t have any complexes. A large part of our work is carried out in partnership with other European companies, much bigger than mine. I can assure you, Mrs Komi, that I have never been afraid that they would swallow us up.’

‘It seems that you discovered the secrets of globalisation very early, Mr Favieros.’

Favieros broke into laughter. ‘I knew the secrets of globalisation long before globalisation.’

‘How about that, a pioneer then! And how did you come to discover them?’

Komi came out with a cute little smile as a kind of down-payment for the amusing reply she was about to hear.

‘From leftist internationalism, Mrs Komi. Globalisation is the last stage of internationalism. Read the Communist Manifesto.’

Whereas, until now, he had been completely open and informal, I suddenly discerned in his voice something like pride and provocation at the same time. The smile on Komi’s lips had turned into a smile of perplexity. She had no idea what either internationalism or the Communist Manifesto was, much less what they had to say. But she was experienced and quickly recovered her composure. She leaned forward to fix him better with her gaze.

‘You might call it internationalism and the Communist Manifesto, but others would call it connections with the governing party, Mr Favieros,’ she said in a bland tone. ‘And they also talk of your dealings with ministers.’

‘Not only with the governing party but with all the parties. Do you know any businessman who doesn’t have contacts with the parties, Mrs Komi?’

‘But we’re not talking just about contacts here. We’re talking about close personal relations. Only the other day, you were seen eating with a government minister at a well-known and very fashionable restaurant.’

‘What are you implying? That the Minister and I were plotting in public and in a restaurant of all places?’ said Favieros laughing. Then he suddenly grew serious. ‘Don’t forget that I am acquainted with many of the ministers in the government since the time of the military Junta, when we were students together.’

‘Nevertheless, there are more than a few who claim that the rapid growth of your businesses is due to the fact that you have the favour of the government,’ said Komi. ‘Perhaps because you were once comrades-in-arms,’ she added caustically.

‘My business success is due to proper planning, the right investments and sheer hard work, Mrs Komi,’ said Favieros gravely. ‘And that will be proven beyond a shadow of doubt, and very soon too.’ He stressed the last phrase, as if it were about to happen.

Komi opened a folder lying in her lap, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Favieros.

‘Do you recognise this letter?’ she asked him. ‘It is a letter of protest from five construction consortiums to the Minister of Town Planning and Public Works. They are protesting because the contract for the construction of three junctions was not awarded and will be re-advertised simply to allow your company, which wasn’t ready, to take part.’

Favieros glanced at the letter and slowly lifted his head

‘Yes, I had heard something, but it hadn’t been brought to my attention.’

‘As you can see, here we’re dealing with very specific accusations. Is there any basis to them?’

‘Let me answer you,’ said Favieros calmly.

Slowly, his hand went to the inside pocket of his jacket. Komi clutched hold of the armchair, fixed her gaze on Favieros and waited. Through her body language, she was trying to transmit the electrified atmosphere to the viewers, but the staging stank from here to Mesoghia, where the channel was located.

Favieros withdrew his hand from his pocket, but he wasn’t holding a paper or even a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. In his hand was a small Beretta pistol, which he turned towards Komi.

‘Heavens above, he’s going to shoot her!’ shouted Adriani, jumping to her feet.

Komi stared at the pistol as if mesmerised. I don’t know if it was her terror that had paralysed her or the fascination that the murder weapon has for the victim, something I’ve noticed on numerous occasions. At any rate, when she came out of her momentary torpor, she started to get to her feet terrified, except that her legs didn’t obey her and she collapsed back into the armchair. She opened her mouth to say something, but her tongue had entered into an alliance with her legs and refused to obey.

‘Mr Favieros,’ said a voice off set, trying to pacify him, yet trembling with fear. ‘Mr Favieros, put the gun away … Please … We’re on the air, Mr Favieros.’

Favieros paid no attention. He went on holding the pistol and staring at Komi.

‘Switch to the adverts, switch to the adverts,’ the same voice cried.

‘No adverts!’ The voice heard now was categorical, allowing no room for objection. ‘Stay with it. I’m the boss here!’

‘Mr Valsamakis!’ shouted the first voice. ‘We’ll end up in prison!’

‘How often do you think you’ll get an opportunity like this, you dimwit. Do you want to spend all your life on news bulletins and game shows or do you want CNN to fall at your feet and beg you? Well, do you or don’t you!’

‘Patroklos, give me a close-up of Favieros! I want a close-up of Favieros!’ shouted the director.

‘Aspasia, say something to him! You’re on the air, talk to him!’ Again the voice of the boss was heard.

Komi made no effort to hide her panic.

‘Mr Favieros,’ she mumbled. ‘Don’t … please …’

As Patroklos was zooming in, Favieros made three lightning-quick moves: he turned the gun on himself, pushed the barrel into his mouth and squeezed the trigger. The shot was heard together with Komi’s scream. A red fountain gushed from Favieros’s head, while his brains splattered onto the scenery, which depicted a huge aquarium with variously coloured tropical fish. Favieros’s body slumped forward as if he had suddenly fallen asleep in the armchair.

Komi had leapt to her feet and was retreating almost mechanically towards the exit on set, but the voice of the boss stopped her in her tracks.

‘Stay where you are, Aspasia!’ he shouted to her. ‘Just think that at this very moment we’re writing history! The first live suicide on TV!’ Komi hesitated for a moment, then turned to the camera, so as to allow a close-up of her face and also to avoid seeing Favieros.

Beside me, Adriani had put her hands over her eyes and, swaying to and fro as if keening, whispered:

‘No, dear God, no … No, dear God, no …’

‘Aspasia, talk to the camera!’ Ag