I fell silent again. Why not? “I don’t know,” I said. “But the main thing is no one knows anything about this but us. So if anyone asks, we don’t know anything. That’s the main thing. They can’t—oh fuck!” I just then remembered. “Peter! You fucken went and told Peter! Fucken shit!”
“He’s not gonna tell anyone.”
“Are you joking? You can’t trust him.”
“He’s not gonna . . . ”
Tony was staring past my shoulder and I turned and saw a police car coming down the street. We kept our eyes on it, and I felt my insides turn as it slowed down and then, rolling past us, pulled into the parking space in front of Dimitraki’s house.
“Holy fuck, Tony,” I whimpered. “What are we gonna do?”
We watched silently as two cops got out of the car and gazed up at the house. After exchanging some words, they started up the stairs.
I glanced up and down the street and saw Joe Fuentes and Toto Sansotta approaching from the other direction, Toto bouncing a volleyball. I could see them spot the police car, and as they stopped before us, Toto held the ball by his side and said, “What’s going on?”
“They just got here,” Tony replied. “They went up to Dimitraki’s place.”
I wanted to sock him one. Why did he always provide information no one asked for?
“Listen, we’re meeting Rui and Pants in the lane for dodgeball,” Toto said. “Wanna come?”
I looked over at Tony. “Not me,” I said.
“Maybe later,” said Tony. “How long you gonna be there?”
“I dunno.”
“What are you doing later?”
Toto looked at Joe and they shrugged. “No plans.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Joe said grabbing the ball.
“See you later,” Toto said, running after him.
Tony and I sat in silence, but it wasn’t long before the cops came back out. We could only see them when they got near the bottom of the stairs because of the tree. When they reached the sidewalk, they turned and went into the French lady’s yard.
Tony looked at me. “Should we stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I’m gonna go home.”
“That might look suspicious.”
“So let’s go to the lane.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“But let’s not stay here. I don’t wanna have to talk to them.”
“I’m just worried that it’s gonna look suspicious if we suddenly disappear.”
“I don’t wanna have to talk to them.”
The look on Tony’s face worried me. If he looked like that with the cops, we would be in trouble.
“Look,” I said, “whatever happens, we don’t know anything. We don’t know about any note. We don’t know what they’re talking about. They have no way of putting this on us.”
The cops came back out and stood by their car and talked. I couldn’t help noticing their guns, or the envelope one of them was holding.
“Don’t stare at them,” I said. “Tony, look at me. Let’s talk.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything. Act like we don’t care they’re there.”
I saw one of the cops glance at us.
“What are they doing?” Tony said.
I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just act like we’re joking around.”
Tony continued to stare at me grimly. Past his shoulder, I could see the cops walk around their car and then cross the street to the synagogue.
“I don’t believe this,” I said. “They’re actually going over to the Jews. Do they really believe they sent that letter?”
The Jews were what we called the Hasids. They were a large presence in the neighbourhood, and for us, in those days, they were not just “the Jews” but the image of Jews generally. I don’t remember exactly when I learned that not all Jews resembled these aloof bat-like men, but it hadn’t happened yet.
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered as the cops climbed the steps of the synagogue and knocked on the door. Without waiting, they opened the door and went inside.
Tony got up. “I’m going home.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer, and I watched silently as he headed down the street. I remained on my steps, staring at the synagogue. After about ten minutes, I couldn’t bear it any longer and got up. What were they doing in there? What could they possibly be talking about?
I went down the street, and as I passed the synagogue, I made sure not to look in its direction in case I could be seen from inside. When I reached the corner, I took a quick glance back at it but the cops hadn’t reappeared. What could they be doing in there?
Turning into the lane, I could see everyone up near Joe’s house. Besides Joe and Toto, there was Rui Garcia and Frank Pantalone, as well as Rui’s sister Fatima. And, of course, there was Peter Liakos. The little prick. He’d probably heard them from inside his house and of course had immediately gone and joined them. I wondered if he knew nobody liked him. My suspicion was not only that he knew but that it was what motivated some of his obnoxious behaviour. Sometimes I had the impression that he got some perverse satisfaction from flouting and annoying everyone.
They were already in the middle of a game, and I found a patch of pavement free of dogshit and broken glass and sat down, my back against a plank fence.
“Where’s Tony?” Joe asked.
“He went home.”
When the game ended, Toto asked whether someone wanted to sit the next one out so I could play, but I said I wasn’t in the mood. Rui volunteered and tried to get me to change my mind, but I wouldn’t. After the next game, he insisted he needed to take a break, so to keep the teams even, I agreed to play.
After that, people took turns sitting out, so I played a couple of games. Chasing down the ball near the end of the third, I glanced up to see a figure shuffling toward us. Only after a closer look did I realize it was Peter’s father. He was in his plastic house slippers and had on a white undershirt and a pair of loose ill-fitting grey trousers. Stopping a few feet away from us, he motioned to Peter and called him by his English name, presumably in some kind of nod to the rest of us. As Peter went by me, his father pointed at me and said, in Greek, “You too.”
“Me?” I said, and he nodded wearily. As he turned down the alley, I saw that one side of his undershirt was snagged in the waistband of his boxers, sitting well above his trousers. Peter was ahead of me, and catching up with him, I whispered, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said, the look on his face offering no reassurance.
We crossed the backyard of Peter’s house, and his father stood by the open door of the stairwell to let us go in ahead of him. Peter went in first and we both kept our heads down as we passed by his father. I heard the door shut behind us, and we climbed up the dank dark narrow stairwell, which smelled of sodden wood and earth and rot. The whole structure creaked, and some of the steps were weak and flexed under our feet. Peter’s apartment was on the third floor and it was a long unnerving climb.
Inside the shed, Peter stopped and I waited beside him as his father shut the door. He went ahead of us and we followed him into the kitchen, where he motioned to us to sit down. Peter sat facing the refrigerator and I sat adjacent to him, my back to the balcony. The balcony door was open and I could hear Toto and the others in the alley. The table had a cream-coloured tablecloth with a pattern of red and yellow flowers, and over the tablecloth was a clear plastic covering. At the other end of the table stood a fluted sugar jar and an ashtray with some butts in it. Above the sink was the same Stavridis Brothers Supermarket calendar that hung on our own wall. For some reason, I was surprised by how clean and tidy the Liakoses’ kitchen was, as was, from what I could see through the doorway behind Peter, the living room.
Peter’s father opened the fridge and, pulling out a Labatt 50, said to me, “You want one?” I assumed he was joking and didn’t respond. His tone was so deadpan, though, I wasn’t sure how to take it. “Or do you just stick to glue,” he said as he sat down opposite Peter and poured the beer into a glass. This too he said in a serious tone. Did he really think his son’s friends were glue-sniffers? Why would he let him hang out with us?
He pulled over the ashtray and lit a cigarette. My heart leapt at his next remark.
“So I got a call from Mrs. Gataki half an hour ago,” he said, looking only at Peter. “She’d just spoken with her Italian neighbour, your friend Tony’s mother, and she told me what happened this morning. You want to give me your version?”
I glanced over at Peter, who managed to hold his father’s gaze, though he remained silent.
“Panayoti had nothing to do with this,” I said.
Peter’s father had just picked up his glass. His hand pausing midair, he slowly turned toward me. “You’ll get your chance to speak,” he said. “I’m talking to Panayoti now.” He turned back to Peter and gulped down some beer. “Go on,” he said.
“I only heard about it later from them,” Peter said, pointing at me diffidently.
“Heard about what?” Peter’s father said, licking foam from his lips.
“What they did to Dimitraki.”
“And what was that?”
There was a long silence.
“I only know what I heard from them,” Peter said.
His father stared at him while fingering the small gold crucifix at this chest. His face and arms glistened with sweat. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“So, I don’t know exactly what happened . . . because I was inside the house, and . . . when I went out, he and Tony, they were sitting on the stairs, and they told me they’d put a letter in Dimitraki’s door and the letter said it was from the Jews and that they were angry at Dimitraki and that his mother better watch out because they were going to go after him.”
Peter’s father made a short wet sound, as though sucking on the inside of his cheek. He lifted a corner of his mouth, flashing a gold tooth. “Go on,” he said.
“That’s all I know.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Peter’s father adjusted himself in his chair and crossed his legs. “You’re sure,” he said, taking a haul on his cigarette. “There’s no details you’re leaving out?”
“Oh . . . ” Peter gazed down at his lap. “They also put some other things in the envelope.”
“What things?”
“They put in some pictures of naked women.”
“What was that?”
Peter lifted his head and said louder, “They put in some pictures of naked women.”
His father raised his eyebrows, as though impressed by this detail. “And where did you get these pictures?”
“I don’t know where they got them. I only came out after—”
“Mr. Liako,” I interrupted, “Panayoti had nothing to do with any of this. The pictures were Tony’s.”
Peter’s father again revolved his head slowly and gave me a cold stare. “I told you. You’ll have your turn.”
“But Panayoti only came out later. He didn’t—”
“Panayoti can speak for himself.”
I gazed down at the table, and he turned back to Peter.
“What else?” he said.
Peter remained silent a while. “What else what?”
“What happened next?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know what you did the rest of the day? After you sent the letter?”
“I didn’t send the letter.”
“How did you spend the rest of the day?”
“I came back up and had lunch with yayá and Maria. You were still sleeping. And I watched some TV. And then I could hear the kids playing in the lane and I went out with them. And then you came.”
Peter’s father made that sound again with his cheek. He gazed at the burning butt in his hand and, after taking one last drag, stubbed it out in the ashtray. Straightening up in his chair, he stared at Peter silently. Then he seemed to say, “Go and undress.”
Certain that I’d misheard, I glanced at Peter for clues as to what was going on. To my dismay, he got up and left the kitchen.
“Mr. Liako,” I said, “you told me I would have my chance to speak.”
“Yes. You will speak to your parents. They are responsible for you. I am only responsible for my own children.”
“But what Panayoti told you is true. He didn’t know anything about this. He was in the house and only came out after.”
“He knew enough. He knew what you did, and he didn’t say anything. He went along. That’s the same as doing it.” He paused to take a sip of his beer. “Ee synenokhí eínai enokhí,” he said, which I had to look up later. It didn’t have the same ring in English as it didn’t rhyme. It meant “complicity is guilt.”
