She’s trying to plan her life. Which she’ll live once everything is in order. When she’ll have free time.
She just doesn’t get it.
Life doesn’t sign contracts. It doesn’t make treaties. You’ll never get back the blood you spit. And you can’t store it up in some piggy-bank, either.
What you end up with is a big fat nothing.
Zero, zip, zilch.
As for me, the dribbling, the passes, the excuses, the procrastination, it’s all over. It’s time for me to face the music.
THROUGH OTHER EYES
The news wasn’t good.
—The worst is yet to come, Evthalia prophesied when Teta told her what had been going on. Things at the newspaper had been bad for months. Tasos was having insomnia, his acid reflux had flared up, and his palpitations, and the shouting in the shower. No matter how you looked at it, the situation was fucked.
There was no way he could avoid firing people, it was now clear. As for voluntary redundancy, which once struck him as a professional indecency and an insult to his co-workers, it now seemed like a dream solution, no longer an option.
When Teta pressed him to tell her what was happening, he lashed out.
—What do you want to hear from me, Teta? Don’t you get it? It’s like we’ve got the dead man’s coffin sitting there in the living room. It’s like that every day at work. It’s too much.
And it was. Georgiou had gotten used to winning the war, to calling the shots, to being flexible, when circumstances required. But now his hands were tied behind his back.
—You should resign, his mentor bellowed over the phone. An old-school reporter from the Pleistocene age, he had supported Georgiou more than a few times when the going got tough. Editors-in-chief are chosen for how they’ll respond in a crisis, he continued. They should know how to run a paper, and they should know how to step down, too.
Georgiou hung up the phone in a poisonous mood.
—When you have a child, you’re willing to swallow your pride, Teta murmured. We don’t have the luxury of abandoning good jobs when the world around us is burning.
Tasos wanted to shout that it would be easier for him to support his staffers if Teta had some job of her own that brought in a steady wage. He knew it wasn’t fair, the two of them had made that decision together, having a family means being present, a child doesn’t just grow on its own, like a cactus. At the time it had seemed like a logical decision, one that supported him in his career and soothed his guilty feelings. Now it felt like a noose around his neck, at a time when the foundations of his world were being shaken.
The able and the incompetent were all in the same boat, they could all lose their jobs: the numbers simply didn’t add up. Friendships that blossomed during happier times withered overnight. Even smiles suddenly became suspicious, since anyone who smiled surely had a protector somewhere. They all slept and woke in the same haze of anxiety.
For a while the adults in his life left Minas to his own devices. They had other worries on their minds, more important problems to solve. Salary cutbacks, the unpleasant task of firing friends, taxes that were bringing everyone to their knees. At first Minas was taken aback by this sudden lack of interest, particularly on the part of his mother, who stopped keeping track of his lost study time and glued herself to the TV. She’s more interested in floating-rate bonds than in gerunds, he told his grandmother.
Evthalia was the only one who kept her cool in the chaos. She was infuriated by how the administration was handling the situation, and discussed their royal mess of a country with Teta over the phone and over morning tea with her girlfriends at Terkenlis. And then she would shake off these unpleasant thoughts with a this too shall pass—she wasn’t going to lose sleep over it, she had seen plenty of catastrophes in her day, wars, people killed, and she certainly wasn’t going to take too seriously this game of Monopoly unfolding before her eyes.
—It’s money, dear, it’s only money, she kept telling Teta.
—I don’t think you really understand, her daughter would shriek, on the verge of hanging up the phone.
Evthalia had learned to ignore Teta’s hysterics, which were only exacerbated by the news coverage, the front-page articles, and the confidential information Tasos brought home from work. She circled the date carefully on the calendar. On February 25, a Tuesday, Minas would present his research paper. Her grandchild took priority.
Evthalia put on her favorite knit suit, bordeaux colored, and painted her nails a pearly white. She’d had her hair done at the salon and was carrying a purse Minas had given her, though it wasn’t her style. Her grandson was the only person who gave her gifts. Modern bags with removable pouches, colorful bead necklaces that hung down to her navel, or more rarely an asymmetrical shirt or pareo. Teta had settled years ago on simply giving her money, which she considered more practical.
Tasos was fretting about being late for a meeting at the paper, but Teta shut him up with a look. In the elevator she grabbed his cell phone, put it on silent, and tossed it in her purse. Without his phone Tasos had no idea what to do with his hands. When they got out to the street, he put his arm around her.
Grandpa Dinopoulos came in his wheelchair. Elena had trouble getting him into the building, since there was no ramp, but the guard was friendly and the old man as light as a feather. They managed to get him into the lecture hall in plenty of time. Evelina had never seen her grandfather wearing a suit—even when they went to see him on New Year’s he always had on pajamas. He looked good in dark blue, with a handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. His heavy glasses kept sliding down his nose and his right shoulder looked slightly hunched where there was too much fabric. But a good close shave had done wonders, and you could smell his cologne from a distance. Elena waved at Minas, who hurried to introduce Mr. Dinopoulos to his teacher.
Soukiouroglou had put up the announcement, but none of the other teachers had come. It was no time for experimentation, there was too much material to get through. The principal was preoccupied by the recent developments, and the guidance counselor couldn’t find a way to make Soukiouroglou’s initiative count in her file. The teacher’s proposal that students from other sections be invited was rejected. No one had any desire to babysit a bunch of teenagers outside of class.
The auditorium, the crown jewel of this old, palatial building, was an amphitheater designed by some enlightened architect eighty years earlier, before the task of building schools was turned over to contractors. Soukiouroglou led Minas’s parents into the higher of the two sections, to have a complete view of the events. Then he steered Evthalia to a seat in the front row beside Dinopoulos, who had been smiling at her from a distance. Evthalia gave a coquettish wave as she neared. A spark glinted under her eyelashes—the same spark that flashed in Minas’s eyes when he was misbehaving, when he was consciously disobeying the rules.
Evelina distributed the handouts and Minas plugged his thumb drive into the school computer. Soukiouroglou sat down in the audience and signaled for his student to begin.
Nineteen minutes and thirty-five seconds, timed on his cell phone. Minas’s classmates burst into applause. Some out of boredom, others out of interest, most because they considered it part of the process.
—You’re now free to ask questions, Soukiouroglou opened the floor.
Utter silence. The students had been trained to listen. Their years of schooling had taught them all kinds of useful things, but how to formulate questions was not one of them.
Soukiouroglou turned to Dinopoulos.
—As one of the individuals immediately involved in the case, might you want to ask something?
Evthalia nudged the old man, who licked his chapped lips.
—If you want to discuss the case of Manolis Gris, Dinopoulos answered, keeping his voice as steady as he could, by all rights you should acknowledge that making sure justice was served wasn’t the primary consideration. Or rather, while it may have been a concern for those individuals immediately involved, i
t certainly was not for the country as a whole. As with all vital decisions that affect large groups of people, you do the best thing for the greatest number. We did something for the sake of something else. It may be complicated to explain, but it’s self-evident in the moment of action. Which is why a neutral assessment of the events is the safest and most honorable approach. I agree with the young man’s method. It’s wise to present events as objectively as possible. No one can verify exactly what happened on the day of the murder, if you want my opinion, he concluded.
Soukiouroglou caught fire.
—In my class students are taught to take a position. Neutrality is a myth.
Dinopoulos shook his head. He’d never had much respect for high school teachers. They were all talk and no action. They lived at a remove from the tumult of the real world, in an alternate universe built of words and ideas. Evthalia with her practical mind was, of course, an exception. Be that as it may, the lawyer was tired of arguing the self-evident, as he’d been for doing decades.
—Neutrality, my dear sir, has existed since the creation of the world, he answered.
—Neutrality is a dangerous ideology. Pontius Pilate’s washing of his hands led a man to the cross, Souk said, unwilling to let it go.
—A man? You mean God incarnate, Dinopoulos corrected.
—Still.
Tasos, who had first-hand knowledge of Soukiouroglou’s back story, how and why he’d been expelled from the Faculty of Philosophy, checked the watch of the student sitting in front of him. There was no way they’d be out of there anytime soon.
He had spent an entire afternoon explaining to Teta why their child’s teacher had been kicked out of graduate school. Some people said his stance was full of integrity, but most called it idiotic and incomprehensible. If you roll around in the chaff, you’re sure to be pecked at by hens. The young scholar took on the lions—and got devoured.
And now old Dinopoulos was praising the virtue of neutrality before this man of all people. He was willing to admit that a conspiracy of good intentions, as he called it, had ruined the life of an innocent man. But he refused to lay the blame at anyone’s feet, and refused to try and identify the guilty party.
To Soukiouroglou it was clear as day that the old goat was in league with the government back then, and with Minas now. The boy had chosen the easy path of simple description. He refused to risk any commentary, evaluation, or interpretation. He just sang his song and waited for the applause.
The teacher weighed the circumstances. He glanced at Teta in the upper section of seats, then at Evthalia. In the seat next to hers Dinopoulos was trying to control the Parkinson’s in his hands and head.
—I’d like to ask a question, too, he finally said. Mr. Georgiou, have you in the course of your research, he continued, addressing himself to Minas with the utmost formality, settled on a version of the story you might consider the most plausible, in light of your findings? If your ten-year-old brother were to ask you exactly what happened, could you answer him in just a sentence or two?
—I don’t have a brother, Minas answered, and the audience laughed.
Spiros had requested special permission from the religion teacher to come and watch Minas’s presentation. Evelina didn’t even deign to acknowledge him when she saw him entering the auditorium. Spiros had heard a lot about Soukiouroglou, particularly from Minas, and wanted to see him in action. He didn’t understand how that scrawny man could bring an entire class to its knees with a single glance. How such incredible awkwardness could elicit such love and respect. From his seat at the top of the auditorium he felt as if he could hear Minas’s heart pounding. Why was everyone just sitting there, why didn’t anyone intervene?
He raised his hand bravely.
—Yes, in the back, Soukiouroglou said.
—I don’t get it, Spiros said, getting off to a sloppy start. I mean, why do we necessarily have to decide? It’s not like this is a courtroom or anything.
Evelina rolled her eyes. Sure, the moron had a point, but the words he chose were all wrong, weak tools in the hands of an incapable rhetorician.
—What he means, she spoke up, trying to correct the situation, is that perhaps the precise description of events that Minas attempted is enough. The search for the perpetrator and the attribution of guilt are the responsibility of the justice system. Pointing out contradictions in the evidence is enough to indicate the problem. An interpretation of the events and indication of the guilty party is far more than you can expect from a student paper.
—Ms. Dinopoulou believes you capable of description but not of interpretation, Soukiouroglou commented, still sticking with his ironic formality. It remains to be seen whether or not her evaluation is correct.
Tasos clenched his fist under the desk. The process, mutatis mutandis, was familiar to him. Soukiouroglou was a carbon copy of Asteriou, his dissertation supervisor. That’s who he’d reminded Tasos of from the very start, and the impression had only gotten stronger. Soukiouroglou’s famous professor, the one who had sent him packing from Aristotle University to go and teach at a high school, had a corrosive effect on his students. Tasos had sniffed it out from his very first semester as a student, which is why he’d made sure never to enroll in Asteriou’s classes.
The biting irony, the pressure, the pursuit of that one perfect word that would bring a smile to the professor’s lips. The metaphorical flogging of first-year students for supposedly pedagogical purposes. The perversion of the obvious. The incredible joy of discovery, and the high price it carried.
Tasos had endured the teaching of the most famous professor in the Faculty of Philosophy for precisely one week. During the second lecture, Asteriou addressed him directly. He called Tasos wily Odysseus and Teta Elpinor, after Tasos had dared to answer some convoluted question that made simple things appear more complicated than they really were. He, unaware of the danger and with a false sense of security, had answered correctly. And that set Asteriou off.
Whatever Asteriou said was God-given truth. His witticisms burst like bombs in the lecture hall, his insightful observations left students dumbstruck. His arguments weren’t watertight, of course. Nor were his ideas original, as you found if you actually went and dusted off the bibliography. But certain turns of phrase stuck in the minds of his listeners. He used their emotions to his advantage, knew how to handle his audience, had inimitable technique as a lecturer. He was a consummate performer, a silent wave roiling under a smooth surface, and he pulled students into his undertow. He was precisely what he spoke so vehemently against: an iron-fisted ruler, an oppressor. He was quick to anger, rarely listened, mostly just spoke and led the entranced crowd to whatever point he had decided on ahead of time.
Tasos figured all that out during the first week of lectures, and never set foot in the class again. The power games the professor played with his students were obvious, try as he might to hide behind rhetoric and provocations. Tasos talked Teta into dropping the class and taking it with him the following semester, with a different professor. He managed to graduate without ever crossing paths with Asteriou again.
Asteriou consumed whatever got close to him. No grass sprouted where he stepped: his students ended up carbon copies of him, none with a strong personality, even the ones who were supposedly at the top of their field. Soukiouroglou was a perfect example. Tasos had to admit, Soukiouroglou had dared to go head to head with his professor. He raised his voice, stood tall, and paid dearly for his decision. But here in this high school auditorium—a step down on the educational ladder from the ambitious Faculty of Philosophy, with its inscription, in ancient Greek, Sacrifice to the muses and graces—Soukiouroglou wielded the power of his position just as Asteriou had: a Scottish shower, hot and cold, biting irony, and an abruptness that left no room for discussion.
—Well? Soukiouroglou repeated the question. Will you attempt to offer an interpretation of the events? Or will you limit yourself to safe, painless description?
Tasos counted
the seconds on the inside. He was on the verge of getting up and tearing the guy to shreds. Teta pinched him.
—I don’t understand.
Minas had spoken almost in a whisper. Soukiouroglou gestured for him to speak up.
—I don’t understand why I have to present my paper the way you want me to, and not how I’ve decided. Description is a form of interpretation, too, he added, his voice gaining strength.
—An interpretation that doesn’t take many risks, Soukiouroglou shot back.
Evelina couldn’t contain herself anymore. Enough was enough.
—Sir, you’re the one holding the grade book, she said. You make the rules, and you demand obedience. If that’s a critical appraisal, I must be missing something.
Tasos smiled for the first time since he walked in the door. The girl had balls. He leaned back more comfortably in his chair. Well then. It was time for him to practice what he often preached: he would put his trust in the younger generation.
Before Soukiouroglou could respond to Evelina, Minas spoke up in a clear, steady, confident voice, running once more over the possible scenarios. An English secret agent, irregularities committed by the right-wing parastate, the collusion of dark forces who had something to gain from the tumult the country was experiencing. The murderers may have been right-wing extremists trying to prevent the reporter from meeting the General. Or British agents seeking to undermine American hegemony over the country. Or, as Tzitzilis had argued, communists trying to make the administration look ridiculous and convince the Americans to pack up and get out of Greece.
Grandpa Dinopoulos nodded from his wheelchair. Once the kid got going, there was no stopping him. It was clear as day, a career in law would suit him perfectly. Grandma Evthalia was proud. She had raised that child. And he had managed on his own, without anyone’s help.
—Here you go, sir.
Minas handed Soukiouroglou a typed version of his paper.
—Certainly, was all the teacher deigned to reply.
The Scapegoat Page 18