The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create,
to overcome, to endure to transform, to love
and to be greater than our suffering.

Ben Okri

THE PERPLEXING CASE OF SERAPHIM KARALIS

CHAPTER ONE

Island of Pringipos, Late Spring, 1904

With his head kept low and his shoulders raised close to his ears to avoid the downpour, Seraphim hurried towards town, trying to avoid puddles on the dirt road, shivering, his hands wedged firmly in his pockets. ‘It’s just a light drizzle,’ Dr Spiridon had said. ‘It’s bound to stop any minute now. A little water won’t hurt you, my boy!’ Seraphim frowned as he remembered the doctor’s words, and the old man’s smile and quivering moustache flashed in his mind. Each drop that fell proved just how wrong the doctor had been; not only had the rain not stopped, it had intensified. With each step, Seraphim heard the water squelch in his boots and the spring chill slid down his neck, freezing whatever part of him it touched. 

     He hardly noticed the houses along the way; other thoughts were preoccupying his mind, namely, the job he had been ordered to perform by the doctor – the preparation of Kyrios Iosiphidis’ body for the funeral. At the best of times, Seraphim hated being sent on errands on short notice, but what he was about to do filled him with dread. He knew where the deceased’s house was and he made his way there, a little before the road curved and led to the centre of town, to a big, white, pompous house, usually empty throughout the late autumn, winter and early spring months, since the family spent most of their time in Constantinople, in the fashionable Pera district, where the majority of well-to-do Greek families lived. Only now, it wasn’t empty, but was full of relatives coming to mourn and bury old Iosiphidis. Seraphim still wondered why the dead man would want to be laid to rest on the island, but the doctor was right, he probably had his reasons, and no-one would ever know – a benefactor such as Kyrios Iosiphidis had been could decide to be buried anywhere he chose. 

     A sizeable estate surrounded the solid building, full of fecund greenery, a variety of tall trees – pines, mimosas, bitter orange and different-coloured rose bushes – emanating their sweet scent in the rain. Everything that grew there was rich and fertile, vibrant, alive. The large garden was dotted by a number of marble statues, mostly of naked women in graceful yet seductive poses; in the shadowy light they looked too real to Seraphim and he cringed. The black wrought iron curlicues at the top of the imposing gate read 1865, the date the house was built – almost forty years ago, older than Seraphim, probably constructed when his grandfather was still alive. He held onto the cold rough metal, pushed the gate and it opened up with ease, yet he stood staring at the house, unable to take a step in its direction. The rain was driving hard, making him unable to see clearly. 

     Seraphim heard a sound from the entrance at the end of the stone pathway, and saw a light – a figure he couldn’t make out appeared at the front door.

     ‘Who’s there? Can I help you?’ A man’s voice reached his ears; a middle-aged voice. ‘What is your business here?’

     ‘I…I was sent by Dr Spiridon. I’ve come to…er…I’ve come to see Kyrios Iosiphidis. The doctor told you I’d be coming,’ Seraphim said.

     ‘I see. So, you’re the gravedigger.’

     ‘Yes.’

     ‘You’re late,’ the voice said. 

     Seraphim swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

     There was silence for a minute. Seraphim wasn’t sure his voice could be heard through the din the rain made. The drops continued falling on him without remorse, stripping him of any warmth he still had. He was now wet even down to his long johns. Seraphim stepped into the garden and moved closer towards the light spilling out from the open door.

     ‘I’ve come to measure the body,’ Seraphim cried out, raising his voice.

     ‘Yes, very eloquently put,’ the man said, in a clipped voice. The gravedigger thought he cleared his throat but he couldn’t be sure. ‘Come in. No need to delay the process any longer.’

     Seraphim nodded and hurried down the rhododendron-flanked pathway to the entrance of the Iosiphidis residence. He reached the marble steps, faltered for a minute. He shook his head to dispose of some dampness and wiped his face on his wet sleeve. The man who had spoken to him was tall, powerfully built, with a groomed dark beard, greying in places, his eyes a stern cerulean blue were made even more commanding by his gushing eyebrows that seemed to bore into Seraphim’s face. A handsome man with a striking figure. He resembled the dead man, even though he made a more commanding impression than his father. Seraphim had seen him in town on numerous occasions and had no trouble recognising him; it was the deceased’s older son, Stephanos Iosiphidis.

     ‘This way,’ the voice that now had a body to go with it announced, then turned round and started walking off into an unknown direction.

     Seraphim was hesitant to go into the house.

     ‘I…’ he started to say, and saw the man stop in his tracks and swivel round. 

     ‘Yes?’

     ‘I am wet through and through and I don’t want to cover your home in mud.’ 

     ‘I see. Wait here,’ the man replied, and disappeared to the back of the house. Seraphim was left quite alone in the massive entrance. This gave him time to study his surroundings. 

     The entrance was kept clean and well looked after. The white marble floor was so clear and smooth there were hardly any veins in its surface. There was one central staircase rising up then splitting into two staircases, one going towards the left, the other to the right. Seraphim was sure it led to the family’s private quarters and he wondered just how many bedrooms were up there. One grand oval window on the wall directly opposite the front door shed light onto the marble stairs, making their whiteness even more haunting. 

     Seraphim looked about him. If he hadn’t known there’d been a death in the family, he would have realised the minute he stepped into the house: an oversized oval frame to his left, unlike any he’d seen in other houses – most likely a mirror – was covered by a black, thick sheet to make sure the dead man’s soul didn’t get trapped there, and all the paintings were also covered by materials in muted colours. Seraphim counted fifteen in total; a great number for an entrance. There were two armchairs on either side of a large table in the centre of the hall with a silver candelabra resting on top, five white candles casting light in the room. 

     The deceased’s son entered the hall once more.

     ‘The maid will be here shortly with appropriate footwear. Once you have put them on, follow me to the drawing room. That is where my father’s body is.’ Stephanos Iosiphidis pointed towards the open door on the left. He then turned in the direction of the room, leaving Seraphim alone.

     He didn’t have to wait long. Maria, the maid, came hurrying into the hall through a door hidden behind the staircase, a pair of black men’s shoes dangling from her fingers. Seraphim had seen her in town. He’d even spoken to her once, but she made it obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. In fact, most people didn’t, spitting three times to ward off evil when they saw him. He was sure it was because he was a gravedigger; maybe they felt he carried a little of the dead with him, reminding them of their own mortality. Whatever it was, they made sure to cross the street when their paths met. Dr Spiridon insisted Seraphim was imagining things, but he could see it in their eyes, which always avoided him. Perhaps he smelt of death.

     ‘These are the shoes Kyrios Stephanos said you should wear,’ Maria said, without glancing at Seraphim. She bent down and deposited them by his grimy wet boots, then went running off back from where she’d appeared. Seraphim wished she’d stayed a little longer. Even if she didn’t like him, her soft curly hair and plump hips pleased him. 

     He stood looking down at the shoes; they were smart, lacquered, shiny. They looked small. Black socks were sticking out of them. Seraphim bent down and started unfastening his boots. He took them off, as well as his socks, and stuffed them in his pocket – he didn’t want anyone seeing the holes. With his hand, he brushed the soles of his feet, one sole at a time, then put on the socks. They warmed his frozen toes. He placed one foot in the borrowed shoe and squeezed it in. He was right; it was about a size too small. Attempting to tie up the laces was futile, it only constricted his toes more, so he left them undone. He put on the other shoe and stood staring at his feet, which swelled over the top. He took a few steps in the direction of the drawing room, stabbing pains jabbed his toes and his heels. He grimaced. With jerky movements, he found a way of hobbling forwards, resting most of his bodyweight on the outer part of his arches and, slowly, proceeded towards the task he was dreading. Just before entering the drawing room, he swept his hand across his hair, trying to smooth his broom-like fringe down, but didn’t succeed.

     The first thing that Seraphim noticed upon entering was the smell of burning candle wax and too much eau de cologne. His stomach contracted and he was afraid he’d vomit. The room was dark – all windows shuttered, the curtains drawn, and more mirrors or paintings covered up by dark material – and it was hot, stuffy, unaired. Seraphim made out shadowy figures all around him, men and women, perching on the frail settees or leaning against the walls. Nobody spoke. The body of Kyrios Iosiphidis lay on a table in the middle of the room, the other furniture having been moved to the side. He knew the dead man was large, but what he encountered shocked him and he gasped. 

     Kyrios Iosiphidis was not a man. He was a mountain! His belly shot up towards the ceiling and fell about his sides, the way a badly formed halva crumbled when there wasn’t enough butter or semolina in the dessert. The white sheet covering the dead man up to his neck made his shape even more colossal. Two tall candleholders stood either side of his head. His cheeks were puffed-out. Seraphim focused on his moustache, and an image of a strange sea-creature he’d once seen in a book in the doctor’s office came to mind. Yes, that’s what he was – a great white walrus, completely bald, with a waxen, flat complexion that was strangely luminous. The table he was resting on was too narrow to support his girth, and Seraphim was afraid that if anyone so much as touched the deceased, the table legs would collapse under his tremendous weight. The doctor had been right. There was no way this man could fit in the coffin; they would have to build one especially for him. The people in the room were silent and still, shadows lurking all around him. Seraphim heard one of them cough. It was Stephanos Iosiphidis, the dead man’s son.

     ‘Could you proceed with the business?’ he ordered. 

     ‘Yes, yes,’ Seraphim said, taking one step closer towards the body. He fumbled in his pocket for the ruler, notebook and pencil. His hands were clammy, his fingers tensed up. 

     He approached Kyrios Iosiphidis and stared at his face. It looked even more swollen from above. This made his stomach constrict again, and a lump rose in his throat. Fighting back the impulse to be sick, he wiped his forehead with his palm. Sweat started forming on his temples, and he had no feeling in his top lip – numb, completely numb. Biting it brought some sensation back, but not enough.

     ‘What are you waiting for?’ Stephanos Iosiphidis said, his voice gruff, clearly annoyed. ‘Get on with it and be gone. This is most unpleasant and it’s upsetting the ladies. Hurry up, man!’

     Seraphim nodded, but his body was overcome by weakness, he was one step from plummeting to the floor. His breathing grew faster. He swallowed, once more pushing the bitter taste in his throat down, and looked for a place on the table to rest the notebook and pencil, but there wasn’t one centimetre free, so he held them between his teeth. Seraphim unfolded the ruler and, with shaking hand, held it above the dead man. He blinked, then scrunched his eyes shut. He told himself to stay calm. Being the only gravedigger on the island – no-one else wanting to touch the dead – he’d seen bodies before, too often to count. He’d placed them in coffins and carried them out of their homes, accompanied them on their last journey, lowered them into the ground and covered them with dirt. He was accustomed to death. But this, this was different. The mere size of the deceased and the airless room were pressing down on him, becoming hotter, drowning him in his own sweat. And the dead man’s son, glaring at him, hating his very presence, wishing him gone. Everything silent. Not a cough, a rustle of a skirt, or a clock ticking. A whiff of flowers reached his nose. Overpowering. Something rotting. Settling on his skin, in his throat.

     Sweat dripped down his neck and his wet clothes steamed about him. He wiped his face with his sleeve, tried to focus on the measuring. One metre. Two. The dead man was tall. Seraphim’s breathing was laboured. He had to measure again. Yes, a little under two metres. Very tall. There was nowhere he could place the ruler so he could write it down. He turned to his left, turned to his right. Nothing. No-one offered to hold it for him. That acidic, gelatinous bile began to rise again and he swallowed.

     Hang on, Seraphim, don’t let go! he told himself. Don’t let go! Dr Spiridon trusted you with this job. You can’t let him down.

     Breathing deeply revived him a little. What was he doing? Ah, yes, the ruler. He stuffed it under his armpit and, in the process, hit the dead man’s nose.

     ‘Be careful, you fool!’ Stephanos Iosiphidis didn’t speak, he barked. ‘Show some respect!’

     ‘I’m sorry, I….’ Seraphim said. His hands shook. ‘I didn’t m-mean…I…’

     ‘Well, get on with it!’ 

     ‘Yes, y-yes…’

     Hurry up, Seraphim, hurry up! Get the job done quickly, or Kyrios Iosiphidis’ son will kick you out, will humiliate and yell at you. Do it now. 

     Fumbling with the notebook, he found a page that hadn’t been written on and scribbled Two metres on it, his writing shaky, infantile.

     Only once he’d stuffed the notebook in his pocket did he realise that it was the pocket with his dirty soggy socks. A groan escaped him. He took hold of the ruler once more, being careful not to touch the corpse. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears, pulsated behind his closed eyes. He opened them, held the ruler vertically, measured how high the coffin should be. Sixty centimetres. He double-checked. Seraphim thought it would be best to leave a little extra space, so he wrote down Seventy centimetres, just to be sure. 

     Next was the width of the dead man. This proved to be harder than the other two measurements. His fingers twitched. Where could he stand? Ideally, he would need to balance the ruler on Kyrios Iosiphidis’ belly to get a proper measurement. 

     Seraphim held the metre rule above the corpse, saw it wobble in his grip. Drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks and into his ears. The perfume they had sprayed on the dead man was strong, sugary, heavy, vanilla, laudanum, it made his stomach turn. This was too much. He looked at the dead man’s face and, for a moment, thought that his eyelids shuddered. He gasped. Maybe he screamed. He wasn’t sure.

     ‘What on earth is he doing?’ he heard someone say somewhere around him, he could no longer tell where anything was. It was a woman. That much was clear. Whoever she was, she was not trying to muffle her voice.

     ‘Will you get on with it?’ the corpse’s son cried.

     The ground beneath Seraphim receded, his knees betrayed him and the last thing he remembered was falling, collapsing, rolling onto something soft, bulbous, a mound made of hardened dough. 

     Then all was black.

CHAPTER TWO

The waves. The waves roared with such ferocity they hurt his ears, swallowed him in wet silkiness, churned him up, spat him out, tossed him onto his back and carried him towards the beach where their frothy white fingers discarded him from the cobalt and turquoise water. The sun’s rays warm on his skin, he lifted his chin towards the sky, let the heat soak into his face. Where had all the rain gone? Where was the dead man now? The suffocating room and overpowering scent of decay and melting wax had receded into the background, the people had faded, had become even more like shadows. Seraphim felt their presence around him, but they couldn’t touch him now, they had no power, because he was far away yet strangely within the surroundings he’d just been in. What was this place? No land in the distance, only waves, colossal waves, swelling, falling, surging and retreating, in a rhythm that was all their own. 

     Seraphim tried to rise, but even small movements seemed to melt away the sand beneath his weight, dissolving it, making it recede. The more he squirmed, the further he sank, unable to control his body’s desire to become one with the warmth of the beach. He descended lower into the shore, until he was completely sucked within its grainy bowels, his breathing even. He was being pulled by his feet, gently, until water seeped into his nostrils and filled his lungs. Yet, he could still breathe. Seraphim was one with the sand, one with the sea, one with the wind and the sun above. He was the seabed, spreading wide and far, uneven, growing with life, plummeting into yawning underwater crevasses, one dark, endless abyss after the next. He sensed the secret unseen life that lived there within the womb of the sea, saw undreamt of creatures, all tentacles and claws, scurrying around him, running through his veins, in his blood. Corals and sea anemones undulated and breathed as he breathed, he alone witnessing their graceful dance. His hair was the water, his body the sand. All was one with him, he was all. How was this possible? How could this be? Questions disappeared before they’d even formed. This was no time to question. Only to breathe it all in and to breathe it out, to relish, to experience. Seraphim revelled in this overpowering energy that surged through his body; the sea’s currents were his blood, pumping life. 

     In one breath, he was above the water, floating towards a long shoreline stretching as far as the eye could see. Tall cliffs guarded the coast. He was dry, inside and out, not one piece of clothing wet, he could no longer hear his heartbeat drum in his ears or in his throat. Why was he so empty? Why did he feel so light, his body so silent? He must have drowned. Yet, he felt so alive, more alive than he’d ever felt before. His skin bristled with electricity; he had no fear. Surely he was dead. There was no other explanation. Seraphim closed his eyes, smelt the salty freshness surrounding him. If this was death, he was happy. 

     His attention heightened, remained very still. Those waves, again. That’s all he could hear. They were deafening. He listened on, detecting the wind above his head, whistling, huffing, messing his hair. And then some seagulls, the feathery flap of swooping wings, their uncanny human cry as they dove into the water, splashing about to catch fish. His hearing expanded receiving sounds from further afield – small crickets in the bushes behind him, ants as they marched across the beach burying their food in little holes, the grains of sand dispersed by the wind. Even the sun’s beams gave out a noise, the buzzing din of heat. 

     That’s when he heard the voice – high-pitched, airy, light, humming a melancholy tune. Was it the wind? It didn’t sound like the wind. All other noises disappeared. Nothing but this song. It was around him, vibrated in his body, waking up every part of him, making him shiver.

     Seraphim opened his eyes and looked at the swelling waves in front of him. A form developed in the foam, appeared and grew clearer with each moment, fluid and free, moving from side to side, changing constantly, the soft drone of its melody increasing. Blood pumped in his veins once more. He wasn’t dead after all, he was alive, so alive! 

     The amorphous shape gradually materialised. A human figure. A woman. His vision cleared, until it was so sharp, he could see every detail with such clarity it was almost painful. The woman was far into the sea, yet also in front of him, dancing on the surf, waving her arms, her head rolling around in slow circles. She jumped and skipped, bounced on the swell of the water, let the wind carry her on its breath; the sea and the air were her partners, her dancers, her fluid airy lovers. She sang in hushed tones, as her hips swayed from side to side. Seraphim could make out her naked form below the flowing muslin she had draped around her, a thin chain of gold encircling her waist and breasts. She lifted one leg and leapt to the right, her upper torso arching backwards, arms extended above her head. Her dark flowing hair – obsidian fingers sweeping across her face – twisted round her neck; a possessive lover gathering her close. On and on she danced and sang. He wanted her to notice him, wanted to feel her eyes on his face, but she just danced, her movements free and graceful, her toes barely touching the water’s surface, the breeze playing with the transparent gauzy material, caressing her thighs, her belly, her semi-exposed breasts.

     As she hummed, the haunting tune which filled the air spread under Seraphim’s skin and gushed through his blood.