Α SCREAM IN THE NIGHT - ΚΡΑΥΓΗ ΜΕΣΑ ΣΤΗ ΝΥΧΤΑ - Τ. ΚΑΛΟΥΤΣΑΣ

ΓΙΑ­ΤΙ ΤΟ Ε­ΚΑ­ΝΕΣ ΑΥΤΟ; Τά­σος Κα­λού­τσας Μάρ­τυ­ρες δὲν ὑ­πάρ­χουν πιά, γιὰ τί­πο­τε Γι­ῶρ­γος Σε­φέ­ρης,  («Τρί­α κρυ­φὰ ποι­ή­μα­τα»)  BΟΗΘΕΙΑ! ΒΟΗΘΕΙΑ! Ἡ κραυ­γὴ ἔ­φτα­νε στ’ αὐ­τιά τους ἱ­κε­τευ­τι­κή, σχε­δὸν σπα­ρα­χτι­κή. Τὸ δί­χως ἄλ­λο ὁ ἄν­θρω­πος ποὺ κραύ­γα­ζε βρι­σκό­ταν σὲ με­γά­λο κίν­δυ­νο.         «Βο­ή­θεια! Βο­ή­θεια!»         Ρά­γι­ζε τὴ σι­ω­πὴ τῆς νύ­χτας. Ἔ­ρι­ξε μιὰ λο­ξὴ μα­τιὰ στὸ ρο­λό­ι του: πε­ρα­σμέ­νες τρει­σή­μι­σι!         Ἡ σύν­τρο­φός του πε­τά­χτη­κε ξαφ­νι­κὰ πρὸς τὸ πα­ρά­θυ­ρο. Κα­τέ­βα­σε τὶς γρί­λι­ες.         «Τί κά­νεις ἐ­κεῖ;»         «Σσς» τοῦ ψι­θύ­ρι­σε. «Μὴν κου­νη­θεῖς καὶ μὴν ἀ­νά­ψεις φῶ­τα!»       Ἡ φω­νὴ τρε­μά­με­νη, φα­νέ­ρω­νε τὴν ἀ­γω­νί­α της.         Ὑ­πῆρ­χε ἕ­να κη­πά­ριο μὲ γρα­σί­δι μπρο­στὰ στὸ πα­ρά­θυ­ρό τους, τὰ κάγ­κε­λα τῆς αὐ­λῆς κι ὁ δρό­μος, σκο­τει­νὸς τὶς δυ­ὸ τε­λευ­ταῖ­ες μέ­ρες. Τὰ φῶ­τα στὶς κο­λό­νες ὁ­λό­γυ­ρα σβη­στά. Μά­λι­στα θυ­μό­ταν ποὺ τοῦ εἶ­χε γκρι­νιά­ξει: «Τί στὸν δι­ά­βο­λο, οἰ­κο­νο­μί­α κά­νουν καὶ σ’ αὐ­τό; Κο­τζὰμ θέ­ρε­τρο… μὲ τὰ σκο­τά­δια θὰ τρα­βή­ξουν τοὺς του­ρί­στες;»         «Βο­ή­θεια! Βο­ή­θεια!»         Ἀ­κου­γό­ταν τώ­ρα πιὸ κον­τά.         Ἀ­κο­λού­θη­σε ἕ­να βα­ρὺ τρε­χα­λη­τὸ κα­τὰ μῆ­κος τοῦ δρό­μου. Με­τὰ ἔ­γι­νε ἀ­πό­λυ­τη σι­ω­πή. Στὸ δι­ά­δρο­μο ἔ­και­γε ἕ­να ἀ­σθε­νι­κὸ φω­τά­κι νύ­χτας. Ἡ νε­α­ρὴ γυ­ναί­κα στε­κό­ταν ἀ­σά­λευ­τη ἀ­νά­με­σα σ’ αὐ­τόν, ποὺ μι­σο­κα­θό­ταν στὸ στρῶ­μα του, καὶ τὸ πα­ρά­θυ­ρο, λὲς κι ἤ­θε­λε νὰ ἐ­λέγ­χει τὶς κι­νή­σεις του. Με­τὰ ἔ­σκυ­ψε σὰ φύ­λα­κας ἄγ­γε­λος πά­νω στὸ κρε­βα­τά­κι τοῦ μω­ροῦ της καὶ ἀ­φουγ­κρά­στη­κε τὴν ἀ­νά­σα του.         «Τί φο­βᾶ­σαι… Σι­γὰ μὴ χω­θεῖ κι ἐ­δῶ μέ­σα!»         Ἐ­κεί­νη, ἀν­τὶ γι’ ἀ­πάν­τη­ση σκέ­πα­σε μὲ τὸ σεν­το­νά­κι του τὸ παι­δί, ποὺ κοι­μό­ταν ἤ­ρε­μα.         Ὅ­ταν πιὰ δὲν ἀ­κου­γό­ταν τί­πο­τα, ὁ ἄν­τρας πλη­σί­α­σε στὸ πα­ρά­θυ­ρο κι ἀ­νέ­βα­σε τὸ στό­ρι στὴν ἀρ­χι­κή του θέ­ση. Πρό­σε­ξε πὼς στὸ με­τα­ξὺ ἀρ­κε­τὰ φῶ­τα εἶ­χαν ἀ­νά­ψει —κα­τό­πιν ἑ­ορ­τῆς, βέ­βαι­α— στὸ ἀ­πέ­ναν­τι συγ­κρό­τη­μα.         «Τό­σο πο­λὺ τρό­μα­ξες;» τὴν ρώ­τη­σε. «Κα­τέ­βα­σες καὶ τὶς γρί­λι­ες… Για­τί τὸ ἔ­κα­νες αὐ­τό;»         Ἤ­θε­λε πο­λὺ νὰ συμ­πλη­ρώ­σει πὼς κα­νο­νι­κὰ θὰ ἔ­πρε­πε ἴ­σως νὰ τρέ­ξουν ὅ­λοι νὰ δοῦν ἂν μπο­ροῦ­σαν νὰ βο­η­θή­σουν σὲ κά­τι, τὴν ἔ­βλε­πε ὅ­μως τό­σο τα­ραγ­μέ­νη ποὺ δὲν τόλ­μη­σε.         «Ἐ­νῶ ἐ­σὺ ὄ­χι;» τοῦ ἀ­πάν­τη­σε δύ­σπι­στα. * * * Λί­γο πα­ρά­με­ρα, στὴν ἄ­κρη τῆς πλα­τεί­ας, ὑ­πῆρ­χε ἕ­να μι­κρὸ συν­τρι­βά­νι. Κά­θε βρά­δυ ἕ­νας πί­δα­κας νε­ροῦ ἀ­να­πη­δοῦ­σε ἀ­πὸ τὸ κέν­τρο του, μὲ αὐ­ξο­μει­ού­με­νη ἔν­τα­ση, σκορ­πί­ζον­τας πο­λύ­χρω­μες ἀν­ταύ­γει­ες, μὲ τὴ βο­ή­θεια κα­τάλ­λη­λων προ­βο­λέ­ων. Δι­ά­φο­ροι του­ρί­στες, ζευ­γά­ρια ἢ οἰ­κο­γέ­νει­ες μὲ μι­κρὰ παι­διὰ ποὺ τι­τί­βι­ζαν χα­ρού­με­να, φω­το­γρα­φί­ζον­ταν μὲ φόν­το αὐ­τὸ τὸ σκη­νι­κό, ὄρ­θιοι ἢ κα­θι­στοὶ στὸ χα­μη­λὸ πε­ζου­λά­κι τῆς στέρ­νας. Πρὶν λί­γες μέ­ρες εἶ­χε πο­ζά­ρει ἐ­κεῖ κι ὁ ἴ­διος μὲ τοὺς δι­κούς του, τὴ σύν­τρο­φό του καὶ τὸ πι­τσι­ρί­κι. Σή­με­ρα, ἀ­πὸ τ’ ἄ­γρια χα­ρά­μα­τα, μπρου­μυ­τι­σμέ­νο,  μὲ τὰ χέ­ρια ἁ­πλω­μέ­να μέ­σα στὸ νε­ρό, ἐ­πέ­πλε­ε ἐ­κεῖ μέ­σα τὸ πτῶ­μα ἑ­νὸς νε­α­ροῦ ἄν­τρα.         Οἱ πρῶ­τες φῆ­μες λέ­γαν πὼς ἐ­πρό­κει­το γιὰ τὸν σύν­δε­σμο ἑ­νὸς πα­ρά­νο­μου δι­ε­θνοῦς κυ­κλώ­μα­τος δι­α­κί­νη­σης ναρ­κω­τι­κῶν (καὶ λα­θραί­ων) στὴν πε­ρι­ο­χὴ καὶ ὅ­τι τὸν ἔ­φα­γε ἕ­νας Ρου­μά­νος τοῦ ἴ­διου σι­να­φιοῦ. Ἀλ­λὰ δὲν εἶ­χαν βρε­θεῖ ἀ­κό­μη τὰ ἀ­πα­ραί­τη­τα τεκ­μή­ρια οὔ­τε ὁ ἀ­κρι­βὴς τό­πος δι­α­μο­νῆς του. Ἄλ­λοι μι­λοῦ­σαν γιὰ ξε­κα­θά­ρι­σμα λο­γα­ρια­σμῶν με­τα­ξὺ ὑ­πο­κει­μέ­νων τοῦ ὑ­πο­κό­σμου, ὅ­που ὡς γνω­στόν, δύ­σκο­λα γλι­τώ­νει κα­νεὶς ὅ­ταν μπεῖ στὸ στό­χα­στρο. Κά­ποι­οι δι­α­τεί­νον­ταν ὅ­τι ἦ­ταν ἁ­πλῶς τὸ θύ­μα μιᾶς ἀ­πρό­βλε­πτης νυ­χτε­ρι­νῆς λη­στεί­ας· ξέ­φυ­γε πι­θα­νό­τα­τα πρὸς στιγ­μὴν ἀ­πὸ τὰ νύ­χια τοῦ δρά­στη κι ἐ­κεῖ­νος τὸν κυ­νή­γη­σε καὶ τὸν σκό­τω­σε, συγ­κε­κρι­μέ­να τὸν στραγ­γά­λι­σε. Οἱ ἐκ­δο­χὲς ἦ­ταν τό­σες πολ­λὲς ὅ­σοι κι ἐ­κεῖ­νοι (φαν­τα­σι­ό­πλη­κτοι καὶ μὴ) ποὺ τὶς ξε­στό­μι­ζαν. Μέ­χρι καὶ γιὰ ἄ­γριο σε­ξου­α­λι­κὸ ἔγ­κλη­μα ἔ­κα­ναν λό­γο με­ρι­κοί, ἐ­πει­δή, λέ­ει, ὁ δο­λο­φο­νη­μέ­νος ἦ­ταν νέ­ος ἐκ­πά­γλου καλ­λο­νῆς.  Ἡ το­πι­κὴ Ἀ­στυ­νο­μί­α ἔ­στελ­νε ἀ­π’ τὸ πρω­ῒ ἐ­πεί­γον­τα φὰξ καὶ ἰ­μέ­ιλ πρὸς ὅ­λες τὶς ἁρ­μό­δι­ες (ντό­πι­ες καὶ ξέ­νες) ἀρ­χές, ἀλ­λὰ τί πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρο νὰ σοῦ κά­νει μιὰ ὑ­πη­ρε­σί­α, μὲ ὀ­λι­γο­με­λὲς προ­σω­πι­κό, στὴν ἄ­κρη αὐ­τῆς τῆς ἀ­πο­μο­νω­μέ­νης του­ρι­στι­κῆς πε­ρι­ο­χῆς;         Τὸ κρί­σι­μο ἐ­ρώ­τη­μα ποὺ τέ­θη­κε ἐ­ξαρ­χῆς ἦ­ταν ἂν ἐ­πρό­κει­το τε­λι­κὰ γιὰ τὸ ἴ­διο ἄ­το­μο πού, πε­ρα­σμέ­να με­σά­νυ­χτα, κα­λοῦ­σε ἀ­πελ­πι­σμέ­να σὲ βο­ή­θεια. Πά­νω σ’ αὐ­τὸ μᾶλ­λον δὲν ὑ­πῆρ­χε ἀμ­φι­βο­λί­α για­τὶ βρέ­θη­καν ἀρ­κε­τοὶ —γεί­το­νες τους ἀλ­λὰ καὶ ἄλ­λοι— πού, ἂν καὶ δὲν εἶ­χαν δεῖ μὲ τὰ μά­τια τους οὔ­τε τὸ θύ­τη οὔ­τε τὸ θύ­μα του, εἶ­χαν ὡ­στό­σο ἀ­κού­σει (σὰν μέ­σα σὲ ὄ­νει­ρο) τὶς φω­νὲς καὶ τὰ τρε­χα­λη­τά τους, μπο­ροῦ­σαν λοι­πὸν νὰ κα­θο­ρί­σουν μὲ ἀ­κρί­βεια τὶς κι­νή­σεις τῆς δι­α­δρο­μῆς τους, μέ­σα ἀ­πὸ στε­νὰ κι ἐ­ρη­μι­κὰ σο­κά­κια, μέ­χρι τὸ συν­τρι­βά­νι, ποὺ ὑ­πῆρ­ξε προ­φα­νῶς καὶ ὁ τε­λι­κὸς προ­ο­ρι­σμός τους. Ἐ­πει­δὴ ἀ­κρι­βῶς ὑ­πῆρ­χαν αὐ­τὲς οἱ λε­πτο­με­ρεῖς ἀ­κου­στι­κὲς μαρ­τυ­ρί­ες, ἀ­πο­κλεί­στη­κε καὶ τὸ ἐν­δε­χό­με­νο νὰ πρό­κει­ται γιὰ ἑ­νὸς εἴ­δους τρο­μο­κρα­τι­κὴ ἐ­πί­θε­ση κά­ποι­ου μο­να­χι­κοῦ λύ­κου, ἀ­φοῦ δὲν ἀ­κού­στη­κε κα­μιὰ σχε­τι­κὴ κραυ­γὴ ποὺ νὰ ἐ­πι­κα­λεῖ­ται τὸν Θε­ὸ (Ἀλ­λά­χου Ἄκ­μπαρ!). Στὴν ἀ­μη­χα­νί­α ποὺ ἐ­πέ­δει­ξε ὁ ἀ­στυ­νο­μι­κὸς δι­ευ­θυν­τὴς γιὰ τὸ γε­γο­νὸς ὅ­τι δὲν ὑ­πῆρ­χαν αὐ­τό­πτες μάρ­τυ­ρες (ἔ­στω ἕ­νας!) ποὺ νὰ ἔ­χουν βι­ώ­σει δηλ. ἐκ τοῦ σύ­νεγ­γυς τὸ πε­ρι­στα­τι­κὸ (πα­ρὰ μο­νά­χα δι­ά­φο­ροι ἐξ ἀ­πο­στά­σε­ως ὠ­τα­κου­στές), κά­ποι­ος ἔ­δω­σε τὴ δι­κή του ἐκ­δο­χή:         «Ἑ­τοι­μα­ζό­μουν νὰ μπῶ στὸ μπά­νιο, ὅ­ταν ἄ­κου­σα τὶς κραυ­γὲς καὶ σκέ­φτη­κα νὰ βγῶ ἔ­ξω νὰ δῶ τί συμ­βαί­νει, ἀλ­λὰ φο­βή­θη­κα…». Πρό­σθε­σε ὅ­τι μιὰ ἄλ­λη φο­ρὰ ποὺ τοῦ εἶ­χε τύ­χει νὰ βρε­θεῖ ἀν­τι­μέ­τω­πος (ἢ μᾶλ­λον συ­να­παν­τή­θη­κε τυ­χαῖ­α) μὲ ἄ­το­μο τοῦ ἴ­διου φυ­ρά­μα­τος μὲ αὐ­τὸν ποὺ ἔ­ψα­χναν, τὸν εἶ­δε στὸ δρό­μο νὰ δι­α­βαί­νει κρα­δαί­νον­τας ἀ­πει­λη­τι­κὰ μιὰ αἰχ­μη­ρὴ μα­τσέ­τα, μὲ ἀ­τσά­λι­νη λά­μα πά­νω ἀ­πὸ τριά­ντα ἑ­κα­το­στά… Ὁ ἀ­στυ­νό­μος θε­ώ­ρη­σε τὴν ἀ­πάν­τη­σή του εἰ­λι­κρι­νῆ, ἀ­φοῦ πί­στευ­ε πὼς τὸ συ­ναί­σθη­μα ποὺ ἔ­νι­ω­σε —κά­τι σὰν πα­νι­κό— ἦ­ταν ἱ­κα­νὸ νὰ πα­ρα­λύ­σει τὶς σκέ­ψεις ἑ­νὸς ἀν­θρώ­που καὶ νὰ μπλο­κά­ρει τὶς πρά­ξεις του, καὶ δὲν ἐ­πέ­μει­νε ἄλ­λο στὸ θέ­μα. * * * Κά­ποι­α στιγ­μὴ τὸ ἴ­διο βρά­δυ τὰ μά­τια τοῦ ἄν­τρα, λὲς καὶ ἦ­ταν προ­γραμ­μα­τι­σμέ­να, ἄ­νοι­ξαν ἀ­πὸ μό­να τους. Κοί­τα­ξε λο­ξὰ τὸ ρο­λό­ι του: πε­ρα­σμέ­νες τρει­σή­μι­σι!… Ση­κώ­θη­κε ἀρ­γὰ καὶ πλη­σί­α­σε τὸ μι­σο­κα­τε­βα­σμέ­νο στό­ρι τοῦ πα­ρά­θυ­ρου. Ἔ­ξω στὸ δρό­μο σκο­τει­νιὰ καὶ πά­λι —ἀ­φοῦ τὰ φῶ­τα στὶς κο­λό­νες πα­ρέ­με­ναν σβη­στά— καὶ ἄ­κρα σι­γή.         Ξε­ρο­κα­τά­πι­ε, σὰ νὰ ἔ­παιρ­νε φό­ρα καὶ με­τά, βά­ζον­τας τὶς πα­λά­μες χω­νὶ γύ­ρω στὸ στό­μα του  πά­τη­σε μιὰ δυ­να­τὴ κραυ­γή:         «Βο­ή­θεια! Βο­ή­θεια!»         Ἡ σύν­τρο­φός του τι­νά­χτη­κε, πα­νι­κο­βλη­μέ­νη.       «Μὰ τί κά­νεις; Τρε­λά­θη­κες;»       Ἀ­πὸ ἔν­στι­κτο εἶ­χε σκύ­ψει ἀ­μέ­σως πά­νω ἀ­π’ τὸ κρε­βα­τά­κι τοῦ παι­διοῦ της, πού, λα­χτα­ρι­σμέ­νο, ξέ­σπα­σε σὲ κλά­μα­τα στὸ ὕ­πνο του.         Ἐ­κεῖ­νος στε­κό­ταν ὄρ­θιος μπρο­στά της, σι­ω­πη­λὸς καὶ αἰ­νιγ­μα­τι­κός. Στὴ σκέ­ψη ὅ­τι μᾶλ­λον τὰ εἶ­χε κα­τα­φέ­ρει νὰ τὸν ἀ­κού­σουν ὅ­λοι, τοῦ ἐρ­χό­ταν νὰ γε­λά­σει, ἀ­φοῦ αὐ­τὸ ἀ­κρι­βῶς ἤ­θε­λε: νὰ τοὺς ξυ­πνή­σει, νὰ τα­ρά­ξει τὸν μα­κά­ριο ὕ­πνο τους, νὰ τοὺς αἰ­σθαν­θεῖ πά­λι, ἔ­στω γιὰ λί­γες μό­νο στιγ­μὲς —σκέ­φτη­κε μ’ ἕ­ναν κά­πως χαι­ρέ­κα­κο τρό­πο— νὰ πα­ρα­μο­νεύ­ουν πί­σω ἀ­πὸ τὶς κα­τε­βα­σμέ­νες γρί­λι­ες τῶν σπι­τι­ῶν τους, ἐγ­κλω­βι­σμέ­νοι στὸ φό­βο τους.         Πε­ρί­με­νε μέ­χρι ν’ ἀ­νά­ψουν τὰ πρῶ­τα φῶ­τα ἀ­πέ­ναν­τι καὶ με­τὰ ξα­νά­πε­σε στὸ κρε­βά­τι του. Πη­γή: Ἀ­πὸ τὴ συλ­λο­γὴ δι­η­γη­μά­των Ὑ­πὸ τὸ κρά­τος τοῦ τρό­μου (ἐκδ. Με­ταίχ­μιο, Ἀ­θή­να, 2018). Τά­σος Κα­λού­τσας (Θεσ­σα­λο­νί­κη, 1948).  Σπού­δα­σε στὴν Φι­λο­σο­φι­κὴ Σχο­λὴ τοῦ ΑΠΘ καὶ ἐρ­γά­στη­κε ὡς κα­θη­γη­τὴς στὴ Μέ­ση Ἐκ­παί­δευ­ση. Πρω­το­εμ­φα­νί­στη­κε στὰ γράμ­μα­τα τὸ 1983 μὲ δι­ή­γη­μά του στὸ πε­ρι­ο­δι­κὸ Δι­α­γώ­νιος. Πρῶ­το του βι­βλί­ο ἡ συλ­λο­γὴ Τὸ κε­λε­πού­ρι καὶ ἄλ­λα δι­η­γή­μα­τα (ἐκδ. Δι­α­γω­νί­ου, Θεσ­σα­λο­νί­κη, 1987. Πιὸ πρό­σφα­το: Ἡ ὡ­ραι­ό­τε­ρη μέ­ρα της (δι­η­γή­μα­τα, ἐκδ. Με­ταίχ­μιο, Ἀ­θή­να, 2010)

WHY DID YOU DO IT? Tassos Kaloutsas There are no witnesses now, to anything George Seferis (“Three Secret Poems”) https://books.google.gr › books HELP! HELP! The cry reached their ears in a pleading, almost heartbreaking scream. Undoubtedly, the one who uttered it was in great danger. “Help! Help!” The sound ripped the silence of the night. He looked askance at his watch: past three-thirty! His life-partner suddenly jumped out of bed and made for the window. She put down the blind. “What are you doing there?” “Ssh,” she whispered to him. “Don’t move and don’t turn on the lights, either!” Her shaky voice betrayed her fear. There was a strip of grass in front of their window; the railings of the yard and the street had been dark the last two days. The post lamps all around were out. She even remembered grumbling to him: “What the hell? Do they save on electricity? Such a resort…in darkness and they hope to attract tourists?” “Help! Help!” The voice was heard closer now. It was followed by heavy, scurrying footfalls along the street. Then complete silence fell. In the hall a dim light burned. The young woman stood quite still between the man, who was half sitting on his side of the bed, and the window as if she wanted to check his movements. Then she bent over the baby’s cradle, like a guardian angel, and listened to his breathing. “What are you afraid of…like he’s going to barge in here!” The woman, instead of an answer, covered the baby, who kept on sleeping calmly, with his small bedcover. When nothing more was heard, the man approached the window and put up the blind to its former position. Meanwhile he noticed that several lights were turned on – too late of course – in the condominium across the street. “So you were scared to death, weren’t you?” he asked her. “You even put the blind down…why did you do it?” He so much wanted to add that normally they all should have run to see if they could help in something, but he could see she was so disturbed that he did not dare to. “You mean you weren’t scared?” she responded incredulously. * * * A little way off, at the end of the square there was a small fountain. Each night a jet of water gushed out of its center in fluctuating intensity, scattering a kaleidoscope of luminous colors through the use of proper projectors. Different tourists, couples or families twittered merrily, taking pictures of themselves, against this scenic setting, standing by or sitting on the low stone wall of the pool. A few days before he, with his life-partner and their little one, had posed to be photographed. Today, since the ungodly hour of dawn, the dead body of a young man had been floating in the water with outstretched arms and face down. The first rumors went around that it had to do with someone involved in drug and contraband trafficking in the area and done in by a Rumanian belonging to the same gang. However, no necessary evidence had been found yet, nor the victim’s exact residence. Everybody talked of a sort of payback between scoundrels of the underworld, where, it is generally known, none is easily getting away when one is being targeted. Some argued that the man had been a victim of an unexpected nocturnal robbery; he might momentarily have gotten away from his killer’s claws and was chased and killed, in particular he was strangled. There were so many versions as those (with vivid imagination or not) who spread them. Some went even so far as to hint to a heinous sexual crime as the victim had been dazzlingly handsome. The local police had been faxing and emailing messages to all authorities in charge (both local and foreign), but what more could a police service be expected to do when it is understaffed and situated in the far end of this isolated tourist area? The crucial question that was originally asked was whether the incident finally concerned the person who had called for help the night before. There was no doubt about this; for there were many – neighbors and others – who though they had not seen either the killer or the victim, they had heard, however, (distantly as in a dream) their voices and their scuttle, and they could precisely determine the route they had moved along, through narrow and deserted alleys until they reached the fountain – their destination. Because of such detailed hearsay evidence, the possibility of a terrorist attack by a lonely wolf – since no relevant cry Allahu akbar! was heard – was excluded. To the perplexity exhibited by the police chief before the fact that there were no eye-witnesses (not even one! Only the ones that had heard the shout from a distance) who could have experienced the incident closely someone had given his own version: “I was about to get into the bathroom when I heard the shouts and thought of going out to see what was going on but then I was scared…” He added that once when he happened to encounter (or rather to come across) a person cut of the same mould as the one they were looking for, he saw him in the street brandishing a sharp, thirty centimeter long steel machete… The police officer assumed the man’s answer to be sincere, as he believed that what the man had felt – something like panic – could paralyze one’s right thinking and prevent one from taking action; therefore, he no longer pursued the matter. * * * In the same evening, at some moment, the man’s eyes opened by themselves in his sleep as if they had been scheduled to. He looked at his watch askance: past three- thirty in the morning!... He slowly got out of bed and approached to the half-closed window blind. Outside the street was dark again, since the post lamps were out; deafening silence. He swallowed nervously as if he was going all out for something and then funneling his palms around his mouth he shouted at the top of his voice: “Help! Help!” His partner was taken aback by panic. “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?” She had at once bent over her baby’s cradle led by instinct; the child, startled in fright, began weeping in its sleep. The man stood in front of her, still and mystifying. The thought that he had probably managed to be heard by all made him laugh since that was what he exactly wanted: to disturb everybody by rousing them from their blissful slumber, to sense them again, even for a few moments – he thought maliciously – lurking behind the closed blinds of their homes, penned in their fear. He waited for the first lights to be turned on across the street and then went back to bed.   Source: From the Anthology Under the Power of Terror (Metaichmio Publishers, Athens, 2018). Tassos Kaloutsas (Born in Thessaloniki, 1948). He studied at the Philosophy Faculty of the Aristotelian University of Thessaloniki and taught in secondary schools.  He made his debut in the literary circles in 1983 with a short story in the magazine Diagonios. His first book The Windfall and Other Stories, a collection of short stories, was published by Diagonios Publishers, Thessaloniki, 1987. Her Best Day (Metaichmio Publishers, Athens, 2010) is the most recent .