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he was wholly committed to his work. His career was going from strength to strength; his new collection of poems came out very recently, and we were looking forward to excellent sales. Santos’s life was no tragedy. It was a celebration of language, and of the literary arts. Excuse us.’
    â€˜A moment more, please,’ said the reporter, turning to a clean page to complete his record of Yorgas’s remarks. Attis loosened the knot of his black tie. At the graveside, a gathering of women remained. Frona, Leda and Maria, the housekeeper, were weeping; others entreated them to leave.
    â€˜Local people say he never recovered from losing his wife,’ said the reporter, his attention still, apparently, on the page. ‘She left him, didn’t she? Is it true she ran off with another man? Is she here, today?’
    He looked back towards the grave, searching amongst the women for one who might be the poet’s wife. A trickle of water ran down his forehead from his wet hair, and he brushed it away with his cuff.
    â€˜She’s not here, no,’ said Attis. ‘ Kyria Volakis lives abroad now, in the United States. She couldn’t possibly have got to Vrisi in time for the funeral.’
    â€˜But there’s a daughter, isn’t there? What’s her name?’ He scanned the earlier pages of his notes. ‘Leda. I had the pleasure, the other night; a pretty girl, and unmarried, I believe. Who’ll be taking care of her, now she’s an orphan? Deserted by her mother, and now her father dead in his prime – her future’ll be uncertain, I suppose.’
    â€˜She’ll be well cared for by the family, as she’s always been,’ said Attis. ‘And what do you mean, you had the pleasure?’
    The reporter looked at him.
    â€˜May I ask your name, kyrie ?’ he asked, his pencil ready at the start of a new line.
    â€˜My name is on the press release I’m sure you’ve already received,’ said Attis. ‘I knew Santos for many years. They call me Attis Danas, and I am – I was – his literary agent. I built Santos’s career; I nurtured him and guided him in his work. Above all else, I like to think that he and I were friends.’
    The reporter looked from Attis to Yorgas, and again at Attis.
    â€˜That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘So we have here two men who have lost both a dear friend and a valuable source of income. Truly, it’s a sad day for you both.’
    On the path behind them, a babble of women’s voices was growing closer, as Frona, Leda and Maria were guided from the grave under an assembly of umbrellas. The reporter’s eyes brightened.
    â€˜Gentlemen, I thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘May I offer you my card? I’d welcome a call, if you’ve anything that might be of interest.’
    â€˜Scum,’ said Attis, when he was certain the reporter was out of earshot. He reached into his raincoat, and producing two small cigars, gave one to Yorgas, and lit both with a petrol lighter. ‘Time for a drink, I think.’
    They moved on, keeping ahead of the women, whom the reporter was delaying. Rain drummed on the umbrella, and dripped from its spokes.
    â€˜Poor Santos,’ said Yorgas, as they reached the cemetery gates. ‘It’s a sobering thought that any one of us might be gone, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.
    â€˜And yet,’ said Attis, thoughtfully, ‘as I was saying to you the other night, even what seems black may bring opportunity. We must look for the good in this disaster.’ He pointed to his temple. ‘We have to use our brains, and take care of our own interests. And of Frona’s and Leda’s, of course.’
    â€˜The truth is, we’ve had more orders for Santos’s books in the last two days than we’ve had in his whole career,’ said Yorgas. ‘I’ve been thinking we might do another print