(4) Crucia

"Beauty is one of those concepts which is entirely subjective," remarked Tragos at the patio dining table that evening. "Like colors and smells, it exists only in our thoughts. Would you agree?" he asked Sanguineus.

The fried cod with a puree of potato, garlic, and olive oil, and the barley husk salad with feta cheese and olives, had been sampled, and so it was time to introduce a subject of discussion while one cleaned the palate with one's glass of cabernet.

"Colors and smells are interpretations of frequencies and molecules," Sanguineus said, "and are not subjective interpretations, apparently, since we all associate certain physical phenomena with certain colors and smells. But beauty, yes, entirely subjective."

Ambrosia, in her Greek goddess gown of white, smiled at her former foster father. "Who better than a horticulturist," she said gaily, "to lecture on colors, smells, and beauty?"

Tragos was suddenly aware of clutching his beard. He released it and returned the smile of she whom he still considered his daughter (his beloved daughter, his only daughter, thought Sanguineus with a twinge of regret).

"And is beauty good or evil?" continued Tragos. "Is a particular color pretty or drab? Is a particular smell aromatic or nauseating? Each person decides for himself. A beautiful woman. Is she good or evil because of her beauty? If I say, Ambrosia, that you are beautiful, am I also saying that you are good? Or am I saying you are evil?"

She laughed. "You would be saying something flattering or... insulting, depending on how I see good and evil. I like one, but not the other."

Sanguineus was intrigued by her brief hesitation in saying 'insulting,' when 'incorrect' was what he had expected her to say. One can not be insulted by a statement of truth about oneself, but only embarrassed or alarmed or pleased. But what intrigued him even more was the question Tragos had posed, a question about Ambrosia's moral bearing that had him, Sanguineus, wondering if the hermit of Patmos knew as much about the woman's guilt as he, or if the client was simply expressing a tantalizing possibility.

Tragos changed the direction of his subject. "Beauty, in its objective form, is a spirit seeking a host. This concept of beauty must necessarily include the idea of Good. We don't call beauty an evil thing. Concepts are independent of their creator. You paint a picture, something that evolves from your own being, and once finished it exists independently of you. And so here is this non-actual concept, Beauty, this thing that we apply to our fancies. It is a spirit that inspires us; but a spirit, a mental entity, that is free of any master. It goes where it will. It overpowers no one. It favors no one. It is just there, seeking acceptance, going wherever it is appreciated. Some people absorb it, and some mock it."

The wash of the surf was surprisingly loud.

"You're not talking about physical beauty," Ambrosia said, her smile gone. "You're talking about the spirit of conscience, or morality. Mr Cruor, what do you think of that? Are there angels in our midst, seeking acceptance? Aren't angels supposed to be beautiful? And good?"

Sanguineus considered. It was not his opinion that he mulled over, but the wisdom, or the mistake, of expressing it in this touchy circumstance.

"So is the devil, a fallen angel, the most beautiful of creatures," he said. "And the most evil."

He was remembering his period of instruction, twenty-six years in the past, at one of the outbuildings on the ranch in Wyoming. On the blackboard was a poster of the subject's logo, or symbol, a robed and hooded angel with a sword and black wings.

The instructor of this particular class was a moral philosopher of the most practical sort. The subject was Good vs Evil. He had said, "The one thing that human beings in general are most passionate about is justice. It isn't sex or money or career advancement. It's righting a wrong, whether we're disciplining our children, dealing with callous neighbors, arresting a criminal, or cleaning up political corruption. Unfortunately most people are unable to do anything about injustice except bitch about it. Well, that's a good start. It points out the problem in need of fixing. But too often it goes no further than that. The legal arm of justice is too short, too weak, too apathetic, too frightened, too stupid. In these cases we have an alternative. The polite term is 'meta-legalism.' Legality is a lesser form of Good. It can in fact be morally reprehensible. The highest form of Good is morality. Or is it? Is there something greater than moral goodness?"

The instructor had paused, looking over the small number of trainees, a half dozen men and three women, whose faces were more expectant than informative.

Sanguineus had spoken up, saying, "Depends if moral goodness is allowed to have teeth."

It was this comment that endeared him to the instructor, Fredrico Rolgo, and was the beginning of their frequent partnership.

In response to the comment, Rolgo said, "Evil respects only power, and power, in its active and psychological forms, is the only thing that can destroy an evil that has not yet destroyed itself. Evil is destructive and self-destructive, whereas Good is self-sufficient and creative. But justice is not about waiting for an evil to destroy itself, for the reason that destruction, if left to its own manner of terminus, is the first step in developing a clone of itself. Not a creative process in any absolute sense, but a reincarnation, a further evolving, of a particular evil idea. No, it isn't justice to stand on the sidelines. But the power that destroys an evil before it ripens is not in the repertoire of Good. Goodness has no teeth, very true; only a tongue. So, to answer the question of whether there is something greater than moral goodness, we look to 'necessity.' The Law of Necessity transcends all considerations of goodness, except this: when something is necessary to do, the only bad thing is not to do it. If the legal arm of justice can not, or will not, do it, then the Law of Necessity kicks in, and we turn to meta-legalism. And that is 'goodness with teeth,' a predator as ruthless as it needs to be. In short, Good is not a housemaid. Evil must clean its own house."

Ambrosia seemed quite at ease with Tragos on the subject of beauty, and as the conversation continued Sanguineus determined that Tragos had as little clue to Ambrosia's guilt as he had of the horticulturist's true identity. Tragos, apparently, saw them as what they appeared to be: 'beauty' and an adequate 'good.'

Earlier that evening Ambrosia had given Sanguineus a tour of the villa.

The first thing that struck him was the wallpaper in the den, where Ambrosia had her office. It was a dull red wallpaper with a design of Greek crosses in gold. Behind her desk, flanking a window that presented a view of the lower vineyard, were lithographs of Pegasus superimposed by photos of her favorite horse. It was an image, from two different perspectives, of the real horse emerging from the mythological one. She had waved at the furnishings, saying simply, "My workplace," and then ushered him into the library.

Here he saw a black-and-white photo of a young girl, its frame propped on a desk, against a stack of books. The picture showed the girl sitting astride Pegasus, the sunlit waters of the gulf behind her. It had been signed in big looping handwriting, 'Va Crucia apo Fabienne, mi agapi.'

To Crucia from Fabienne, with love.

There had never been much doubt that Crucia was Ambrosia, but now there was none. Sanguineus, at that moment, began to plan the details of the death of Crucia; not, he reminded himself, of Ambrosia Kastri.

After dinner, in the sitting room with her and Tragos and a local wine seller and his wife, Sanguineus tried to widen the divide between her two personas. She was giving him unmistakable signs that he was to spend the night with her, in the upstairs bedroom that would make do as a Mt Olympus. Here Perseus was to tame the flying horse of her nature.

Christofer Agape adjusted his tie, smoothed it under his buttoned coat, and sat on the back porch swing beside Fabienne.

He didn't look at her, though the young girl was staring at him intently, at his square, grey, brutish profile, at his white clipped mustache.

He was gazing out over the ragged rows of pruned grapevines at the Chora vineyard. They looked like ranks of defeated soldiers in the moonlight. But then, maybe not. He needed glasses. He refused to believe that his eyesight was deficient. There was nothing deficient about Christofer Agape.

"Your mother is in the car," he said.

"May I see her?"

"I do not recommend it, if you are going to be with Crucia on the night of your healing. How is your breathing? Have you been all right?"

"Mostly," said Fabienne. "When am I to bless the cross?"

"The cross of Berenice, your mother? Or of Grigoris Markos?"

"Who?" she said, puzzled.

"I meant Tragos."

"Oh the Goat!" she said, laughing. "Who comes first?"

"They will both be sent to the sky, to the corral of Pegasus, on the same night. Four more days. So, you will be blessing two crosses, soon. I will be seeing Crucia tomorrow. Will you come with me?"

"Tomorrow? I have school."

"Tomorrow afternoon, I meant. Your foster parents will not object. I have spoken to them. They understand," whispered the retired mobster, patting her knee and smiling to himself.

"I will wait outside the school," Fabienne said, and staring up at the stars she added, "with my teacher."

Christofer Agape sat perfectly still for a long moment, keeping the swing from rocking, though Fabienne was pumping her legs.

"Good," he said, nodding. He let the swing go forwards and back. "Three crosses would be even better."