The Madness of Grief by Panayotis Cacoyannis

Author:Panayotis Cacoyannis [Cacoyannis, Panayotis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

11

Questions

When eventually he joined us in the kitchen, Inspector Cambridge also joined auntie Ada and Jack in a small glass of whisky. But when already I was refilling theirs, he politely refused a second by placing his hand over his glass.

‘Let’s get it over with, Inspector,’ I said. ‘Auntie Ada is my closest relative, in case you still needed to ask me some questions.’

‘I think you may have gathered for yourself that the circumstances have now changed. It’s now more a matter of whether there’s something you’d like to tell me.’

‘You should,’ Jack egged me on.

‘There’s nothing to tell. Nothing happened.’

‘I would hardly call it that,’ said Jack.

‘I was there and it was nothing. Just a silliness that went too far.’

‘And would’ve gone further, if you hadn’t…’

‘Please, Jack. I know Karl, and I’m sure that he’s already learned his lesson.’

‘He’s learned it so well that he accused you of assault.’

‘It was his mother who accused me, not Karl.’

‘But what was it, this silliness that went too far and would’ve gone further – if you hadn’t done what?’ auntie Ada demanded.

‘I think we’re more or less clear about what Jane did,’ said the Inspector. ‘What we’re not so clear about is how far the silliness had gone before Jane had to do what she did.’

‘Far enough,’ said Jack.

‘Oh, dear God!’ said auntie Ada.

‘Not very far at all,’ I said. ‘I’ve already told you, Karl’s a little boy, he probably thought we were playing a game, and that was how we were supposed to play it. But all he really cares about is playing the piano, it was probably Mami who told him it was time he started playing with little girls.’

‘Mami?’

‘His mother, Inspector,’ I said.

‘The Reichian therapist,’ said auntie Ada.

‘Is that like a chiropractor?’ asked the Inspector.

‘A chiropractor for the soul,’ said Jack.

‘A charlatan,’ remembered auntie Ada.

‘Ah, like a Freudian,’ said the Inspector.

‘But different,’ I said. ‘Karl says his mother has no time for Freud.’

Our muffled, semi-droll conversation was proving an inadequate distraction from the strained and jarring sounds that were coming from the stairs and the hallway. They would stop and then start again, as though pausing every now and again as a mark of respect. One minute the atmosphere was heavy and funereal, and in the next we would carry on jabbering nonsense. Then another noise would remind us that my father’s cold body, probably on a stretcher, probably encased in a black body bag, was making its way to an ambulance that wouldn’t need to turn its siren on as it drove him on his journey to the morgue. And my mind would run ahead and I’d try to imagine as faithfully as I could what kind of funeral Mr Magikoo might have asked for if the subject had ever come up.

‘Would anyone mind if I smoked?’ The Inspector had taken a packet of cigarettes out of one pocket and was hesitating before digging into another, probably to take out his matches.

‘Go ahead, Inspector,’ said auntie Ada. ‘If you don’t mind killing yourself, why should the rest of us mind, we don’t even know you.

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