The Scapegoat

by Sophia Nikolaidou

  The civil war between the public and private sectors had been simmering for years. Now that belts were being tightened all over, the situation had erupted into open conflict. These days it was each man for himself, all against all. The first in the crosshairs were the teachers and the university professors. Furious parents and journalists who thought they had the truth in their pockets made sarcastic remarks about the easy hours and long vacations. None of those people really knew what it meant to be a teacher. They just found a scapegoat and loaded it up.

  A few days earlier one mother had come to the school to try and get her child’s absences excused. She had on a T-shirt printed with the words, THREE REASONS I WANT TO BE A TEACHER: JUNE, JULY, AND AUGUST. While this fine specimen of motherhood had her back turned, Soukiouroglou said, loud enough that she would hear:

  —Some parents are as uncultured as their children. They have plenty of time to paint their nails, but never manage to make it to parent-teacher night. They think the school is there to babysit their children. Meanwhile, they settle in at the hair salon and boast about how they could do the job better. But if you threw them into a classroom for even five minutes, they’d put down their revolutionary banners and run the other way as fast as they could. They can’t even manage their own kids, so how could they ever control an entire class of them?

  The mother blushed and turned to leave. The previous year, when her child had been in Soukiouroglou’s class, he asked her to come to the school eight separate times. She was always busy. Her child’s situation was discussed at faculty meetings, and they even ordered an external review of the case, but no solution was ever settled upon. The mother was always absent, never had time to talk to the school psychologist, kept offering excuses and putting up obstacles. At the end of the day, she just wanted the experts to deal with her child. People with degrees who were paid for their time and effort. People whose job it was to shape children’s souls.

  In other words, the mother palmed her problem off on the child’s teachers. She expected a solution to drop down from the sky, without her lifting a finger. Her attitude was understandable—even excusable. Most teachers were used to listening patiently to despairing parents singing sad songs about their lot. Soukiouroglou went a step further: he tackled the problem. He tried to move forward toward a solution.

  A good civil servant. It wasn’t ironic, and it wasn’t an insult. What it meant was, a person who assumed responsibility. Who finished the job on time. Who gave for free what others sold at a high price. Who taught his class with intellectual propriety and sound pedagogical methods. Students at the school—or rather, their parents—paid out the nose to evening cram schools for services the school provided for free during the day. Soukiouroglou tried to make his students realize how nonsensical that was. Some of them were convinced. They stopped going to cram schools, quit their private lessons, and studied under his tutelage. And in the end they got into university, just like the rest. They saved time and money. Their brains didn’t rot from too many worksheets and mnemonic devices.

  The principal never found out what Soukiouroglou said to the German tourist on that fateful first day of the sit-in. The foreigner smiled, jotted down some notes, and headed off with a clearly marked map, courtesy of Soukiouroglou, who went back to the teachers’ office, and to the task of tallying student absences.

  Everyone came to the concert. Spiros greeted them at the main entrance, handing out a photocopied program along with a little slip of paper printed with slogans. They had spent all afternoon trying to decide what to write, since they wanted their school to make a good impression. At some point Spiros realized that talking wasn’t going to get them anywhere, threw democratic procedure out the window, and just wrote what he wanted.

  The band was tuning up in the schoolyard, testing the distortion. The neighbors were in despair, since they could tell it was gearing up to be a long night. None of the fifty-somethings sitting on the surrounding balconies had any desire to listen to the songs of enraged adolescents late into the night—after all, music had died with their youth. The real revolution had taken place decades ago—or so they believed, these adults who had dedicated years of their lives to demonstrations and occupations. The political activities of their children struck them as a washed-out repetition of an earlier era, which they themselves had lived through in its full glory: the era when they had been building a world, which they’d now cut and sown to their measurements.

  Of course they recognized these students’ need to raise fists and banners, to blow off some steam with a slogan or two. But they also thought these underage revolutionaries required supervision and guidance—that it was their responsibility to impart their knowledge and experience, to instruct their children in the ways of civil disobedience.

  And then there were other parents whose lives revolved primarily around the workplace, where they tried to be as tractable as they could, and who shuddered at their opponents’ views. Thus parents and students alike split into two camps: those who believed that an occupation could teach an important political lesson, and those who considered the loss of class hours a serious obstacle to the students’ progress.

  A school has a duty to remain open regardless of circumstances; its job is to weave a protective cocoon of knowledge and understanding, particularly in difficult times, proclaimed those who supported the rule of law. Whereas experienced revolutionaries and unionists of various stripes laughed in the face of such arguments and gave their all to the struggle.

  The students tried their hand at the rhetoric of occupation. Some parents disparaged it as empty jabbering, but their kids didn’t care. They were just glad to have broken the deadly routine of classes. They felt they had assumed an important role, and a kind of power, particularly those who were making decisions on behalf of others—Spiros, for instance. He blurted out whatever he was thinking without taking the time to find the proper words. He loved the applause, fed off of his classmates’ approval. He suddenly felt that he wasn’t the school pariah anymore, the awful speller, diagnosed with dyslexia by the school psychologist. Now he was Spiros from the occupation. The one who’d made the Facebook page for the concert.

  Evelina couldn’t stand seeing that moron prancing around as if he were running the show. Taking initiative, making plans. Bringing others over to his side with the worst kind of demagoguery, and to top it all off with arguments articulated in terrible Greek. In her mind, it was high time he learned his lesson. So she shamed him publicly, in front of everyone, even the teachers. Meanwhile, she covered her bases by sabotaging him behind his back, too, with phone calls and secret agreements. It took time, but it worked: the occupation came to a peaceful end.

  She had decided that she should definitely show up at the concert. She didn’t want to give way to her opponent so easily. She pulled on a pair of ripped jeans that showed some thigh and a black T-shirt. The outfit seemed simple, but it took her forty-five minutes in front of a mirror to settle on the details that would make the difference. What color bra she should wear, for instance, since it was an off-the-shoulder shirt that revealed one strap. The string on her thong needed to be discrete, a color that wouldn’t show even if she bent over. Clear lip gloss and mascara applied with a special brush, to make each eyelash stand out separately. Then she straightened her hair with a hair iron and set out, ready for battle.

  Things in the schoolyard were in full swing. Spiros was running around, making sure everyone saw him. He was looking for Minas. He found him lying on a low wall, all alone. He had headphones on and was nodding to the rhythm; he seemed perfectly in tune with himself. Spiros was jealous of his indifference. He didn’t seem to care what other people thought, he wasn’t trying to make anyone like him.

  Evelina didn’t understand that at all: she wanted everyone to love her. Whenever she picked up on even a whiff of dislike, it threw her off completely. She may have seemed strong, but it was just her protective shell. And it shattered easily—or so her mother thought, who wo
rried constantly about her daughter. Minas was of a different opinion. In his view, Evelina had surrounded herself with barbed wire, and wouldn’t let just anyone in. The other girls at school were always going on about lifelong friendships and nights out and summer vacations. Evelina went along with it all, yet remained encased in her coat of armor. She seemed outgoing and friendly, but she was made of steel.

  She’d been class president four years in a row. Her father was proud that his daughter was such a fighter. She was that rare combination: an excellent student who also managed to be popular. She shared her essays with the lazier kids, covered up their absences, stood up for her fellow students. Minas was the only one who made fun of her. Usually it enraged her, particularly when she knew he had a point, or if others were listening. She had a great sense of humor, but not about herself, as Minas was continually discovering.

  Evelina admired his brain. She’d never admit it in public, even under the most terrible torture. Minas was sloppy and chaotic. But he knew things the others didn’t. His train of thought was always taking some bizarre turn, he never gave the answer you were expecting. He liked to make his mind work, he liked to solve riddles, to pose questions. He was good at whatever he tried. But he always abandoned things in the middle. His favorite word was ennui. Seventeen years old and he spoke like a veteran of life. He observed everything, but rarely acted.

  Evelina stood over him and pulled off his headphones.

  —Everything okay, fool?

  She sat down beside him. Her hair tickled his shoulder. From a distance they looked like a couple. Her girlfriends gossiped that the Evelina they knew wouldn’t deign to be seen with Minas.

  The band started with Miles Davis. How pretentious, thought Minas. Nikolas Dokos was on saxophone, and he was obviously driving the music. He had a clean sound and perfect rhythm. They were good, which annoyed Minas even more. Nikolas—with a tattoo on the nape of his neck, a smile on his face, and a ratty T-shirt—was talking into the microphone. His body was loose, he was obviously enjoying himself. He wasn’t dogged by second thoughts, backtracking, or inner dilemmas.

  In other words, he was way too cool.

  Shortly before he came out onto the stage he’d shut himself in the bathroom with his friends. They pushed the door closed, it smelled of cigarettes, not the normal kind, but the kind that made Fani lose her shit the one time she found the stuff in the house. He promised he would quit and she believed him, but he just got more careful. Fani tried to tell him that she knew all about those kinds of things, she wasn’t like other mothers. She said something about the guys in the band, how they’d destroyed their brain cells. Nikolas wasn’t even listening, he wasn’t like them, he could stop whenever he wanted. They’ve all got one foot in the grave, he shouted at her and stormed out of the room. And you’ve got both hands on a blunt, she wanted to shout back, but fortunately she held it in.

  —He’s good, huh?

  Evelina was moving to the rhythm. Her hips swayed gently.

  —Must be hard, being his mother’s son, Minas couldn’t keep from saying.

  —What do you mean?

  —What I said. The mother’s a singer, so the son gets to be a musician. Life’s all laid out for him, a ready-made career. He’s got nothing to worry about.

  —Maybe you’re just jealous?

  —Why would I be jealous?

  She rolled her eyes, and made a face like Souk in class, when his students pushed him to a point of absolute despair with their idiocy and ignorance.

  —Besides, you’re one to talk, the son of a big, fancy editor-in-chief.

  His father had gone to great pains to make sure Minas never felt like the son of anyone important, and her insinuation upset him.

  —Nice, real nice.

  That was all he could come up with. He was angry at Spiros for organizing the concert behind their backs, and for bringing in a bunch of private school kids from Athens to take over their school.

  Minas tapped his foot nervously. The habit had first appeared when he was in grade school. It kept up for years. It annoyed his mother, who would slap his knee to make him stop, sometimes gently, with tender admonition, and other times with overflowing irritation. Soukiouroglou had been the first to notice it. The kid was stressed out about school. And that was something he could use to his advantage.

  Evelina watched the tremor in his knee, his thigh quivering at a hummingbird’s pace. When she was in a good mood, she would imitate him. When it annoyed her, she would kick his leg to make it stop.

  Tonight she’d had a beer and felt the bubbles rising to her head, so she laid her palm on his knee. It was a gesture that could be read either as a more sophisticated version of kicking his leg, or as a caress.

  He covered her hand with his. All kinds of thoughts sliced through his brain, emotions seethed in his chest, his body was at full boil. It was dark, and their classmates couldn’t be sure they were seeing properly.

  1948 AND MUCH LATER

  “A PARANOID IS SOMEONE WHO KNOWS A LITTLE OF WHAT’S GOING ON”

  FROSO DINOPOULOS, WIFE OF GRANDPA DINOPOULOS

  My mother-in-law—may she rest lightly in the earth’s embrace—called me Frosoula. She was the one who played matchmaker. We knew nothing of love in those days, those were things we only read about later, in romance novels. She taught me how to make a bed the way she liked: pillows under the covers, top sheet tight at the corners. Not the slightest bit of extra fabric, so the lace at the edge wouldn’t crinkle. During those first months she would come and stay at our house for hours on end, teaching me how to wash clothes and iron, how to make all the dishes Nikiforos liked. We boiled water for the wash and I scrubbed the stains with a brush, careful not to tear the fabric. Soon my hands were swollen and peeling from the hot washwater. Other women painted their nails, and had servants and seamstresses to do the work. It didn’t bother me. His mother was pleased with my progress.

  A stingy woman, that’s what everyone said. She wore a blue dress to our wedding, with pleats at the waist and a collar. I sewed it for your husband’s baptism, she told me, proud of how long it had lasted.

  It seemed harsh to me, yet I acted the same way with my child. I didn’t spend on luxuries, didn’t waste hard-earned money on insubstantial things. I ruled my house, never let things slide.

  The night there was that knock on the door, I leapt out of bed in my nightgown. Nikiforos was still up working. I wrapped myself in a robe and went out. Those were difficult times, no one knew what dawn might bring to the doorstep. I had a red robe, the color of tomato paste, I wore it for thirty years until it finally fell apart. In those days it still hadn’t faded from the wash, its buttons still shone. Nikiforos asked me to open the door, and as I reached for the doorknob, I thought, I’m wearing the wrong color, whoever it is didn’t come to do us good, and here I am in bright red, a communist color.

  The man came in without apologizing for the lateness of the hour, without any kind of explanation. I’d seen him once before, he’d been walking on the sidewalk across the street from us and Nikiforos whispered in my ear, That man is an excellent lawyer.

  There was no way not to overhear what they said.

  The district attorney hadn’t slept in days. His notes on the case recorded irregularities, unexplained events, suspicious lapses in logic, naïve reasoning, legal contortions, and arbitrary legal constructions. He had gotten hold of a telegraph in which the ministry asked Tzitzilis whether or not the man in custody was likely to break in the coming days. Tzitzilis wasn’t making any promises. He left a window of fifteen days to close the case.

  Unjust, inappropriate, outside the bounds of law. I still remember the words.

  The evidence is fabricated, unsubstantiated, unacceptable.

  Of course the men also felt a sense of professional solidarity. They were honest and thoughtful. They wanted to sleep easily. Not to be tormented by the pillow under their heads.

  But it wasn’t a time for grand gestures. If they ste
pped down, others would come to take their places. They needed at least to make sure that Gris lived.

  Prison was the least of the disasters that could befall him.

  If they could just let the dust settle, they’d find a solution.

  —So, guilty?

  —Guilty.

  Panayiotis lived in the neighborhood. Everyone knew him, and knew he was up to his ears in filth. He always looked at your chest, never in your eyes. He had a dirty mouth and no fear of God. He pinched me one day right in the middle of Agia Sophia. His fingers left a bruise on my backside. I rubbed it with rubbing alcohol ten times a day until it faded.

  I’d seen him coming home early in the morning, dragging two oars and a bundled-up canvas sail. I was polishing the railing on the veranda with soapy water. Cleanliness shows in the details, that’s how my mother-in-law taught me. No woman kept a cleaner house than I did. I scrubbed the floors with lye, started at dawn to get it all done.

  Later I heard him boasting at the market. He said he’d killed a man with his own two hands. There was a circle of lowlifes around him, laughing. You weren’t alive in those days, you don’t know how it was. We all just looked to our own business and prayed that when evil came, it would knock on someone else’s door.

  The communists had bombed us, just imagine, they’d turned their cannons on our houses. Tzitzilis had tracked them down and killed them, so we trusted his abilities, he was our protector. People said lots of things about him, that he was a skirt chaser, that he smoked hashish, went with whores, God save him. For us what mattered was that he got the job done. He held the whole city under his wing.

  I told my mother-in-law about Panayiotis, what he’d said and done. Not about my backside, I was ashamed. But I told her about the other thing, how he had blood on his hands. Nikiforos was a lawyer, he needed to know.

  My mother-in-law told me to confess to the priest, but not to get her son mixed up in other people’s business, he had a lot on his mind as it was. I listened to her, it was good advice. I scattered that shame under the priest’s robes and forgot about it.