The Maze Page 2

  The major let his eyes wander from the kettle on the stove to the envelopes strewn across the floor, to the leather belt with the holstered revolver that hung from a crossbar of the roof of the lorry. Brigadier Nestor sneezed.

  ‘The dust is giving me an allergy . . . Naturally, I understand your disappointment – under the circumstances.’ He took a deep breath and summoned the last reserves of his optimism. ‘But rest assured this story is not over. Now we are down – but.’

  The major went back to studying the map.

  ‘Not to mention our Christian brothers here in Anatolia,’ continued his superior. ‘They shall need our help again.’

  The brigadier tapped his boot on the floor. The morphia had unearthed a rare eloquence in him – he felt as if he were not sitting on his cot but standing on a marble plinth. He looked a few inches above the major’s head, to the past.

  ‘Once there was an empire, major.’

  The younger officer arched his eyebrows. ‘An empire?’

  ‘The Byzantine Empire.’

  ‘A long time ago, brigadier.’

  Brigadier Nestor raised his forefinger.

  ‘History is what happens over centuries – not yesterday.’

  He gulped his coffee. The sun was setting and he asked for his greatcoat. Through the open hatch he watched a scudding cloud with a castaway’s expression. He took the cigar out of his pocket, lit it and savoured the mentholated smoke.

  ‘This cigar is not bad. But the coffee tastes like my mother-in-law.’

  He handed over his cup and cracked the joints of his fingers. The drug had afforded him its brief windfall and was now receding – if only he could maintain that feeling a little longer . . . Brigadier Nestor tried to recall the time he had no need of the services of chemistry, but it was like trying to remember how it had once felt being a boy. His subordinate poured the remains of both cups back in the pot. ‘Any orders?’ he asked.

  The miracle of the morphia was evaporating. Brigadier Nestor wrapped himself in his coat and waved the major away. ‘No. Dismiss.’ When Major Porfirio turned to leave the old man spoke again. ‘One moment.’ He gave his subordinate a tender look – there was a hint of honest concern in what he said next.

  ‘Don’t forget, Porfirio. In the aftermath of defeat the firing squad works overtime.’

  The old officer waited until the footsteps had faded away, then buttoned up the flaps of the tarpaulin and found the syringe he had hidden under his cot. A whistle blew outside, and the order to start again travelled down the column. For a quiet moment Brigadier Nestor held the syringe to the light and smiled at it with disaffection.

  ‘A little more,’ requested Father Simeon shyly, holding his mess tin with both hands. His left eye looked straight at the cook, while the other was trained somewhere to the right and above the man’s head.

  That eye was made of glass – Father Simeon had lost the one given to him by God during a barrage of artillery fire in the first year of the expedition when, despite the repeated warnings of the soldiers, he had rushed to administer the last rites to a cavalryman lying in the field. A piece of shrapnel had hit the ground near them, penetrated the belly of the man’s dead horse and caught the padre in the face. For several days Father Simeon had worn an eyepatch with some embarrassment, until the brigade had liberated the next town. There the padre had promptly bought one of the eyes of a stuffed jackal from a local taxidermist.

  Father Simeon held out the tin.

  ‘The day of saints Michael and Gabriel is coming up, friend.’

  The cook looked at him.

  ‘The patron saints of soldiers,’ the padre explained. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you.’

  He was in his fifties, but his skin was resisting the attacks of age with success. Despite the eye wound and the clerical beard, his face was still handsome and lively. For many years he had been the pastor of a small congregation in a village that offered few opportunities for sin. Indeed, boredom was one reason he had volunteered for the campaign despite his age – the other was his sense of not having fulfilled the requirements of his vocation. As a young priest he had toyed with the idea of joining the Orthodox Mission in Africa, but then he had chanced across an illustrated novel which showed an explorer in a boiling cauldron and natives dancing all round him. All at once his ear had turned deaf to his divine calling, a decision that had left him with an eternal sense of guilt.

  The cook puffed with impatience. ‘Not a drop, Father,’ he said and shooed away the flies with his ladle. ‘The mechanic needs it for the lorries.’

  The padre raised his eye to the sky.

  ‘Lord, forgive him. He is betraying the souls of his comrades for some pistons.’

  He refused to go away. A buzzard landed at the nearby rubbish heap and began to walk towards the rotting matter cautiously, keeping an eye on the man with the ladle. Other birds big and small plunged from the sky into the remnants of the afternoon mess, hesitantly at first, more bravely after a while. Father Simeon counted the months that had passed since it had rained: under his feet the sand felt hard and dry. Suddenly he tried to imagine the life of the old Christian hermits, and the old sense of worthlessness came over him. While he struggled with it, the cook picked up a wire brush and started cleaning the stove. Father Simeon rocked on his feet from side to side.

  ‘How about that oil, friend?’ he asked again.

  The cook continued his work.

  ‘Against orders.’

  ‘When we get home I will personally ask the bishop to reward you for your piety.’

  The cook opened the oven door and put his head inside.

  ‘Not even your patron saints know whether we’ll make it.’

  Father Simeon did not contradict him. Instead, his eye fell on the cook’s back and he frowned: the man’s trousers were ripped at the seam. The padre murmured his displeasure.

  ‘What now, Father?’ the cook asked.

  ‘Wider than the Straits of the Dardanelles.’

  Without removing his head from the oven, the cook felt the seat of his trousers, grunted indifferently and resumed his work. Father Simeon walked round to the other side of the stove in order to avoid the spectacle.

  ‘Five,’ he finally murmured.

  The cook took his head out of the oven and grinned.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Seven, sinner.’

  The cook agreed. He wiped his hands on his apron, picked up the burned pan and filled the padre’s tin to the brim. Father Simeon looked searchingly around: on the rubbish heap the scavengers buried their beaks in the trash and flapped their wings – there were no soldiers in sight. He unbuttoned his tunic, took out a manila package and handed it to the cook. The latter passed it under his nose and smelled it with eyes closed.

  ‘Sweet as communion wine.’

  The padre blushed and contemplated the packet with sadness.

  ‘I may burn in Hell on their account – but life is a matter of priorities.’

  The transaction finished, he took hold of the mess tin with both hands and walked away. The air was cool, yet the sand was still hot. On the other side of the camp was a shabby tent, patched up with old uniforms and tablecloths. Above its entrance was a tin inscription that read, HOLY ORTHODOX CHURCH OF THE CAPPADOCIAN FATHERS. Once inside the padre poured the contents of his mess tin through a tea strainer, funnelled the clean oil into an earthen pot and topped up the lamp that hung in front of the altarpiece. Then he sat on the floor with a sigh and poured himself a cup of jasmine tea. He thought: imagine; having to bargain for oil for the lamp. He drank slowly, nodding his head to register his disappointment in human nature.

  The penury of the makeshift temple somehow added to the holiness of the place. Almost everything had been fabricated by the padre’s inventive hand: the broken lectern that was fixed on a machine-gun tripod, the cases of artillery shells now filled with sand and used in place of candelabra, the four doors hinged together to make an altarpiece. He sipped his tea and st
udied his work with pride. Breaking his rest, he searched for something to do, and in a minute he set about sweeping the floor. When he had finished it was almost time for vespers. In the middle of the tent was a large brazier filled with charcoal; he kindled it with a bundle of handbills daubed with methylated spirit. While waiting for the fire to build, he glanced at the little pieces of paper he had found that morning pinned on the entrance to his tent. They were handbills advocating insurgency. Similar pieces of paper had been appearing throughout the campaign under trunks, knapsacks and saddles.

  The first had been distributed the very day of the landing. No sooner had the troopship with the first detachment of the brigade dropped anchor in Anatolian waters, than its decks were swarming with those little paper squares the soldiers would soon grow familiar with. Blown by the wind, they had reached the promenade of Smyrna like a cloud of butterflies, where thousands of Christians had assembled to welcome the liberators. It had been an embarrassing incident that had almost cost Brigadier Nestor his command. Since then a number of inquiries had been undertaken, but none had revealed the culprit. Father Simeon had fulminated against the treasonous handbills from the pulpit on several occasions, but they continued to appear.

  It was time. The padre took his tunic from the hanger and brushed it inside and out. He removed his liturgical cross from his breast pocket and wore it over his uniform, then put his stole about his shoulders. He dressed with slow movements, whistling and taking his time to pluck the loose threads of his old stole. Having lived alone all his life, he had invested his domestic and religious chores with a transcendental quality. Daily tasks had the ability to take his mind off his loneliness – they were the buoy that kept him on the surface of life, whose darkness terrified him. That was the reason why, when he had joined the expedition, he had promised himself that he would carry on as if he still lived in his village.

  When he was ready he stepped out of the tent and shook his handbell. No one came. He knitted his brows and rang the bell louder, but as soon as he stopped silence returned to the camp. He tried a third time. A dog squirmed out from underneath a lorry and came towards him, its ribcage swinging to and fro.

  ‘What’s the matter, Caleb?’ the padre asked.

  Breathing thirstily, the dog raised its head and looked at Father Simeon with dull eyes. The padre rubbed his beard – in truth he was not surprised at what was happening. Once he was convinced that no one was coming to mass, he removed and folded his stole, dropped his cross in his pocket and put on his skullcap – his gaiety had evaporated and he was now upset.

  ‘It’s useless, Caleb. They have offered themselves to the devil.’

  He had been looking forward to vespers. A month ago more than forty soldiers would come to the evening service, but by last week that number had dropped to ten. The evening before he had said mass to a congregation of one deaf bombardier. Father Simeon snapped his fingers and the dog sprang to its feet. Together they walked across the camp. There was a forest of stacked rifles, rows of tents and several fires where coffee pots simmered: the soldiers were resting after another day of continuous marching. The hobbled dromedaries and mules in the corral watched the man and the dog without emotion. The padre wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘A great misfortune, Caleb.’

  He puffed, and looked deep into the dog’s eyes for some sign of sympathy.

  Major Porfirio unfolded the chair outside his tent and searched his pockets for the half-smoked cigar. He struck his lighter and lit it, then crossed his legs and exhaled the smoke. The day was burning out – over the hills an enormous red sun was setting. The officer observed it without thinking, until a voice brought him back from ecstasy. It was his orderly; he was dressed in a pair of oversize breeches and a shirt whose buttoned-up collar almost choked him. A towel hung down from his forearm – he had somewhere seen a waiter once carry one that way. It was not only because of his age, or the bad fit of his clean uniform, but also because of his tormenting clumsiness that he always reminded the major of a play-acting boy. Speaking with discretion, the orderly informed his superior that his meal was ready. Major Porfirio looked at him almost with affection before asking for a glass of wine.

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any, my major.’

  The major frowned. He could remember perfectly well that the last time he checked there were still several bottles left.

  ‘That’s true. But they have gone missing.’

  The boy was a distant relative of his. When he was conscripted his family had implored the major to keep him out of harm’s way; Major Porfirio had interceded with the brigadier and the boy was assigned to be the two officers’ joint aide.

  ‘I kept the bottles under my cot,’ the orderly said. ‘It must have happened the night I was in the infirmary.’

  ‘The brigadier will be very troubled by this news,’ Major Porfirio said.

  He finished his cigar and received the tray with his meal. He lifted the tin covers and inspected every plate: two slices of cornbread, a boiled corn cob and a cup of thick soup whose main ingredient was corn kernels. Major Porfirio’s face assumed a gloomy expression.

  ‘The cook is even less imaginative than our strategists,’ he murmured, before wiping his knife against his sleeve and doing the same with the fork.

  Having eaten everything on both plates he skimmed off the crust of dirt in his cup and drank the lukewarm soup slowly, helping down each sip with a piece of hard tack – it was the fifth day in a row they had had corn. Interrupting his meal to swat the flies, he thought about the thefts of the wine and the sugar. He was intrigued that in the midst of this direst situation the men would concern themselves with profiteering. ‘When the boat is sinking,’ he said by way of an explanation, ‘the rats come up on deck.’ He drank the last of his soup and put down the empty cup with a sigh of relief.

  He caught sight of Father Simeon walking across the camp in the company of his dog, and raised his hand in a greeting. Immediately the distant pair of silhouettes changed course and came towards him. Waiting for them, the major felt the loneliness of the corn in his stomach.

  ‘Lost, Father?’

  The padre nodded. ‘In the labyrinth of sins. I run a church that has no congregation.’

  Major Porfirio pushed a stone with the side of his boot and offered a smile.

  ‘Don’t blame them. They don’t know whether they’ll be alive tomorrow.’

  ‘Even more reason. The Lord can take away the fear.’

  The major called to his orderly to bring the padre a chair. Father Simeon accepted it with thanks. As soon as he sat down the dog crawled under it, and he gave the animal a fatherly glance.

  ‘If dogs could talk,’ he said, ‘they would teach the world humility.’

  The dog beat the dust with its tail a few times. Major Porfirio turned his head and looked at the animal with an expression of disbelief. He could not think of it as a creature in possession of moral superiority, but he did appreciate its instinct to treat evil merely as a natural occurrence – like something that could not be prevented but which one could still run away from. A dog is like a happy madman, he thought. He pushed back his cap and prepared to watch the sunset as if it were a theatrical performance. The air was warm and silent, with a velvet texture. Next to the spectacle of his defeated troops the beauty of the landscape seemed as inhuman as it was absolute. He contemplated with melancholy the sun burying itself in the sand.

  ‘The fact of the matter is, Father, that this world would still be the same whether you and I were above ground or six feet under.’ Night was coming and above their heads the birds hurried away. ‘I would offer you a glass of my wine, if only I knew who had the bottle.’

  ‘Oh.’ The padre twisted a strand of his beard. ‘Stolen?’

  Major Porfirio rubbed his eyes.

  ‘If the brigadier catches the thief he will set him at twelve paces.’

  The padre looked away. ‘We ought not let our personal grudges get in t
he way of our mercy. After all, what are a few bottles of wine . . .’

  ‘You don’t understand the rules of the army, Father.’

  The padre made a face.

  ‘The army would be run better by the Ecumenical Patriarch.’

  Above their heads flies always circled, almost invisible in the dusk. The major clapped his hands and inspected his palms with triumph: a small red smear was on his fingers.

  ‘If you hear anything at confession,’ he said, brushing his hands on his trousers, ‘you will of course let the brigadier know.’

  Father Simeon shook his head in refusal.

  ‘The contents of a confession are not to be disclosed. But I promise to try and dissuade the sinner with all my pastoral powers.’

  The dog whined. Father Simeon stretched his arm and stroked it. Across the camp the fires burned and the mules nickered in the corral. Beyond the hills the moon was rising; it was not long before the bugle would be sounding lights out.

  CHAPTER 2

  The brigadier knelt down with a sigh and looked at his correspondence scattered across the floor of the lorry. The sight of letters and postcards lying in the dirt caused a sadness in him, as if he were looking at a flock of dead doves. He sat on his cot and began to smooth everything piece by piece, with patience, brushing off the dust with his palm. When he finished he raised his eyes and looked out: the landscape was a vast wasteland, littered with ditched lorries and decommissioned artillery guns. Soldiers and animals walked about in silence, seemingly without a purpose, as if still dazed by the overwhelming defeat. But suddenly, in the dusk, small fires began to appear one after another across the camp. A little hope stirred in Brigadier Nestor’s heart – perhaps they stood a chance after all, he thought. He opened a random envelope from the bundle on his lap, read a few of the handwritten words he almost remembered by heart, and at once evoked the memory of his wife.

  They had first met at a Christmas ball thirty-four years earlier, in one of the most fashionable hotels of the capital, when First Lieutenant Nestor had trodden on the lace train of her dress. When his sincerest apologies had been met with her benevolent smile, he immediately knew he had chosen well. Because, in fact, their encounter had been the product of a Byzantine conspiracy perpetrated by a professional matchmaker. Unbeknown to her, the young officer had already noticed the fair maiden months earlier. His enquiries had revealed that although she was indeed available, she was the beneficiary of a European education – a benefit to a man, but to a woman of a marrying age an unmediated anathema. Why, she even condemned the feudal practice of arranged marriage! First Lieutenant Nestor had been all the more fascinated. In his attempts to woo her he applied the principles of modern warfare he had studied at the Academy; finally, his decisiveness and imagination had paid off.