Cadaver Driver

“You never met him,” George said, squinting out the windshield of his Mercedes at the inky Friday night on the way to Larnaka airport. “Old man Iannakis died about thirty years ago. But every morning I would see him reading the newspaper outside Markiello’s taxi office, a small bottle of zivania in front of him, and a cheesepie. He would be reading the obituaries, and saying ‘We ate this one. We ate that one. That one we left behind.’”

“In those days, see, we didn’t have ambulances, or hearses. So whenever someone needed to move a corpse for burial, they would call our taxi office, and we would call Iannakis. “I’m arriving,” the old man would shout happily, and there he’d be, ready for work.

“Iannakis drove corpses all over the island. He’d pick them up from the hospital morgue, all dressed up in their Sunday finest, slide them into the front passenger seat, and off he’d go.

“This one day, he was told to drive a corpse to Pafos from Lefkosia, clean across the island. It was a good 4 hour drive back then, what with the bad roads. He put the corpse in the front seat, fastened its seat belt, slid an unlit cigarette between its lips, just for effect, and set off. It was a £ 30 fare: serious money back then.

“A little way outside Lefkosia, on the highway, he runs into a little old man, a gerontakos, at the side of the road, standing there with his hand out. ‘Can you take be to Geroskipou?’ asks the little old man? ‘Sure,’ answers Iannakis, ‘but you have to sit in the back seat. My passenger’s sleeping.’

‘He’s sleeping?’ asked the old man. ‘But why does he have a cigarette in his mouth?’ ‘He told me he’s trying to quit.’ answered Iannakis. ‘What do I know?’

“And so they passed the four hours drive to Pafos, listening to a bit of radio, talking politics, sport, women. It was really a long way back then, before the new highway. You went through Lemessos, through the fruit orchards, and along the coast.

“When they finally got to Geroskipou, just outside Pafos, Iannakis dropped the little gerontakos at that old bakery that used to make loukoumia. ‘Thanks’, says the gerontakos to Iannakis, paying his £ 8 fare. ‘We made it.’

‘We made it, echoed Iannakis. ‘Goodbye,’ said the gerontakos. ‘I hope your passenger wakes up.’ ‘How can he wake up?’ exclaimed Iannakis, who had been waiting for this moment the whole drive. ‘He’s dead!’

“The gerontakos was so shocked he fell down in the middle of the street. He just spent four hours in the back of a taxi with a corpse in the front seat!” George cackled, dissolving both of us into paroxysms of laughter.

The rest of the short ride to the airport passed quickly, another hard week over, and home and the weekend in sight. On the way, we passed one ambulance and one taxi, but the passenger was really smoking.

The Hash Stash

This story was recounted to me by George, my Cypriot driver friend, whom I’ve known for 6 years now, nearly half my life in the units of time measured by taxi drivers. It’s rare to find someone you can trust. George trusts me not to take another taxi and pay the right price. I trust George to be honest and on time. It’s worked well for both of us. These are his stories, recounted at the wheel of his Mercedes, usually between Larnaka Airport and my hotel. They’re infinitely better in the original Greek: the obscure slang, the scatological adjectives, the shared hilarity of Homer’s language. This doesn’t come through in this English translation: hopefully I’ll get better.
_________________________________

“I’ve never done drugs in my life,” George said, stabbing me in the forearm, his eyes narrowed to slits in his leathery face as they often did when he wanted to make an important point. “And I suggest you do the same. Stay away from them, they’re a curse. I’ve never taken them, never sold them, never wanted them, never had anything to do with them. Except once.

“We had just taken a container ship from Saudi, when Apostolis, St. Apostolis, a Greek officer, ran up to me and pressed a thick joint of fragrant Arab hash into my palm. A really fine piece of work, velvet, thicker than your finger, top quality. What was he doing with it? He liked to smoke it in the gulf, the open sea, to pass the time. What else was he to do? Each person has his own loves and miseries.

“George”, he said “quick, take this. The Captain’s doing an inspection of my cabin.” He pressed it into my hand, and rushed on. There are at least 259 places to stash contraband on a container ship, and where do I go to hide it? In my cabin, of course. I went to my dresser, opened the drawer, and you know how you put one sock in the other to roll them up? That’s where I put the hash. Just rolled it up in my socks and forgot about.

The next morning I get off the boat with my suitcase, ready to ship out. All fresh and happy, I walked up to the customs officer at Pireaus, who asked me, “Anything to declare?” I was fresh, happy and had forgotten all about it. I said “What would I have to declare? I’m just a poor beaten-down seafaring man. All I have is this suitcase with my old clothes”. Without being asked, I slammed it down on the bench in front of him, started to unzip, and a strange smell came out but I really didn’t place it. The officer said “Don’t worry, on you go.” So I zipped it up and walked out.

I checked in to the Atlantis Hotel in Piraeus, waiting for my next boat. I unpack my clothes, go to put on a fresh pair of socks, and smack, the joint hits the floor. Suddenly, I could place that smell! It was the joint! I was so shocked, if you had stabbed me with a knife, I wouldn’t have bled. Apostolos had gone out last night, slept in late, hung over, and forgot to tell me anything. And because it wasn’t my joint, I had forgotten all about it. My God, what was I going to do? If they catch you with that thing, you go to prison straight away.

So I picked it up, snapped it into three pieces, that fragrant morsel, and flushed it down the toilet. Flush, down it went. Then I went out to the Star Club, owned by my friend Michalis. I walk up to the barman, tell him what happens. “You son of a bitch,” he cried, “why would you want to waste a beautiful thing like that? Don’t you know I could have sold it to 12 ruffians here?”

And that’s the end of this story. Don’t go near the stuff. In Mexico, we could buy a kilo of it for $ 300, and sell it in America for $ 3,000. But you’re dealing with death. Stay away from that stuff.

Twelve months later I ran into Apostolos again, waiting to crew some ship in Piraeus. I was walking on the harbour at Mikrolimano, the place full of sailors, a real panic. “George, hey George” I heard someone shouting for me. I turn around, and who do I see but Apostolos. “Apostolos, how are you, what’s new, let’s go for a drink”. “Never mind the drink, Apostolos shouts, “where’s my joint?”

That son of a bitch. He nearly got me put in prison for something I didn’t do, and one year later he’s still worried about his joint!