The Lost Labyrinth

TEN
I

The Island was boisterous and crowded, all the tables taken, the barstools too, with several more people milling around just inside the door, waiting to be seated. The moustached head waiter flinched a little when he saw Gaille and Knox arrive, as though this level of success was too much for him. He looked around, perhaps hoping that some miracle would create space for another table, but there seemed little chance of that. Apart from anything else, it was an awkward shape for a restaurant, all arches and alcoves and sharp corners, and every possible square inch was already pressed into service, the diners packed so close together that the larger ones had their table-edges jammed into their midriffs.

'Here!' yelled Nico, getting to his feet in the far corner, enthusiastically waving them over. They sucked in their stomachs and wended between tables to an alcove that allowed Nico a bench-seat all to himself. 'Wine?' he asked, holding up a half-empty carafe.

'Please,' said Gaille.

'Not for me,' said Knox.

'I took the liberty of ordering,' said Nico, slopping the resinous yellow wine into all three glasses, despite Knox's answer. 'I hope you don't mind.' He put a hand upon his stomach, as if it were days since he'd last eaten.

'I'm sure you know what's best.'

'I've taken another liberty too.' He reached into his jacket pocket, produced some stapled sheets. 'Augustin's speech,' he said, passing them to Knox, the white paper smeared with sticky fingerprints. 'In case you should want to read it through later.'

'Thanks,' said Knox, folding the pages away. 'That's very thoughtful.'

'Don't mention it.' His gaze slid past Knox; his face lit up. 'Ah,' he said. 'What perfect timing.' A waiter and a waitress cleared space upon their table, then began setting down brushed steel platters of succulent seafood, baskets of warm crusty bread and a palette of dips and side-dishes. Nico rested his fingertips upon the edge of the table for a few moments, like a priest about to give a blessing, then reached with surprising grace for the fried taramasalata, scooping a good third of it straight onto his plate, garnishing it with three grilled king prawns, their blackened pink skins glistening with garlic-butter glaze. He picked one up, bit straight through its crisp shell, his lips glossing with juices. 'We have the best seafood in the world here in Greece,' he declared grandly. 'You know our secret?'

'What?'

'Salt!' he exulted, waving his hand. 'The Mediterranean is like a great marinade of salt, preparing these fish all their lives for our tables. And still there are people who don't believe in God!'

Knox smiled. 'Just a shame we're not supposed to eat salt any more.'

'Speak for yourself, my dear boy. Speak for yourself. The great privilege of a condition like mine is that you no longer have to worry about such things.'

'Condition?' asked Gaille. 'What condition?'

'Forgive me,' frowned Nico. 'I assumed you knew. Everyone does. It's hardly a secret. My heart, you see. Too many steroids as a youth. I was a weight-lifter. A good one, though I say so myself. I had the physique, of course: more wide than tall. Not quite as wide as I am now, admittedly. Useless for football, my other great love, but perfect for weights. We always had weights around the house. A family tradition. I started lifting before I started reading. I was something of a prodigy, if you can be a prodigy at something so prosaic. I made the national squad when I was fifteen. My coach started talking about the Olympics. I began dreaming of medals. I began dreaming of gold. I'd have sold my soul for that. Steroids seemed an insignificant price. Now look!' He barked out a laugh. 'And of course I didn't even make it to the Games. My shoulder popped on me!'

'I'm so sorry,' said Gaille.

Nico waved away her concern. 'My own fault. I was a cheat. People keep telling me that I was just a child, too young to make such decisions for myself, that my…my coach must have bullied me into it. But I wasn't that young. I knew full well it was cheating. Why else all those furtive trips to our training camps in East Germany? Why else all the sworn secrecy? I didn't care a jot. In fact, I was more eager than anyone. I insisted on it. I thought I was destined, you see. Besides, I'm still alive, aren't I?' He spoke in short bursts, and out of one side of his mouth, leaving the other free for eating. He reached across the table with a crust of lavishly buttered bread, scooped up a scallop. 'It's my old team-mates I feel sorriest for. They all went long ago. Heart disease from those damned steroids. All but one, at least. He couldn't bear the waiting any longer, so he used painkillers instead. It can be a terrible thing, waiting.' He smiled more brightly, crunched his way through a grilled sardine. 'That's one reason I do these conferences. They give me something to think about. Having a purpose, that's the key. And it seems to work. My doctors keep assuring me I only have a few months left, but then they first told me that seven years ago. So what do they know?' He laughed and waved a hand. 'And once you accept the notion, once you get past the dread, it's strangely liberating. No painkillers for me, that's for sure. I plan to make the most of what I have left.' He reached across the table for the stuffed crab. 'Everyone keeps trying to put me on a regime. "You mustn't smoke," they tell me. "You mustn't drink. You mustn't eat so much." "Why on earth not?" I ask. "I'm doomed anyway, aren't I? Can't I at least enjoy myself while I wait?"' He laughed again, speared some octopus with his fork, chasing the oily coriander sauce around the dish until it glistened and dripped, then chewed hungrily upon it.

'You take it very well,' observed Knox. 'If that had happened to me, I'd have wanted to kill my coach.'

'Yes, well,' shrugged Nico. 'He didn't know the damage steroids would do. No one did back then.'

'You were only a child,' said Gaille angrily. 'He had a responsibility.'

'It's history now.'

'How can you say that? Is he still alive, this coach of yours?'

'Yes.'

'Do you still see him?'

He shook his head, from the look of him wishing he hadn't raised the subject. 'We had a falling out,' he said. 'When Tomas died. My friend Tomas. The one who took the painkillers. My coach…he gave one of the eulogies at his funeral. All those fine words. I don't know, I didn't believe them, I suppose; or perhaps I was just angry that he hadn't paid a price himself. Anyway, I stood up and accused him flat out of murdering Tomas, and of handing me a death sentence too. As you can imagine, that was the last time we spoke.'

'Good for you.'

Nico didn't look so sure. He pulled a mournful face. 'Maybe,' he said. Then he added, by way of explanation: 'He wasn't just my weightlifting coach, you see. He was my father too.'