—You’re the one who voted for them, Evthalia accused, though she knew it was no time to bickering, to weigh all the mistakes that had been made over the years, from the ancient to the current-day, and try to determine which had tipped the scales. All together they had brought the country down.
Tasos tried not to take sides on the issue of foreigners coming in to help them clean up their act—a blessing or a scourge, depending on what side of the political spectrum you were on. There were endless statements and articles, commentary from all sides, pretty words to disguise dirty deeds. Meanwhile, off stage, behind the cameras, hard bargains were being driven: I’ll give you this if you give me that.
That’s how it had always been, from the creation of the world. Someone was always making the decisions, while others were left holding the bag. In the Garden of Eden, God was boss. In the European Union it was the Central Bank.
Minas heard it all, since these days the television was always on in the house. His father even managed to put his favorite on the front page of the paper: the caption WHEN ELEPHANTS DANCE beneath a cartoon showing all-powerful presidents, unfazed prime ministers, bankers and industrialists, all with elephant trunks—give them elephant trunks and thick legs, Tasos had told the cartoonist, like the trunks of palm trees, but make sure you can still tell who’s who—and in the cartoon these huge pachyderms were prancing around with the country under their feet, raising a cloud of dust, with citizens like tiny ants, so small you couldn’t make out any faces, they were all just smushed ants. The economists all had theories of their own, and most sounded logical enough—the only thing was, they all contradicted one another, so people quickly gave up trying to understand. The biggest problem wasn’t their specialized vocabulary, which every hairdresser and kiosk guy now parroted all day at work—it was that their theories were only theories, empty words that shed light on things for an instant, with a flash, but fizzled just as quickly. So the wise simply kept their mouths shut, particularly the intellectuals, who watched the developments from their homes, discussed the situation with friends, but refrained from making predictions. The few who did mostly just stated the obvious. And so the TV stations and the blogs shouted, Where are the intellectuals to come and save us?
Tasos didn’t believe in national saviors. He believed in hardworking people. In people who knew how to divide wheat between two donkeys, who understood what was at stake, who saw solutions to problems and had the endurance and fortitude to work toward them. Intellectuals and academics were all fine and well, some were even willing to put their hands in the fire, and they certainly knew how to dress up their ideas in pretty words. But just because you write about cancer, doesn’t mean you know how to treat it, he commented to Evthalia. We need a doctor here. A surgeon who knows what he’s doing.
She agreed, in part. But she also believed a little theorizing never hurt. Theories offer a frame, she reminded him, without a theory, you’re just shooting into the air. Sure, a hatchet would do the job, and a scalpel would be even better, but you still had to know where to cut. Injustice has become an institution, Tasos said, shaking his head, perhaps the only institution that actually functions in this fucking country. Enough already with the violence. Institutionalized injustice is a form of violence, too, he would shout, and Evthalia knew he was right. So they would launch into one of their endless conversations, about representational democracy and rhetoric and philosophy. And when the comb finally reached the knot, Tasos would run out of quotes to borrow, and she would, too. The conversation would end abruptly and they’d turn back to the television. It was somehow less painful to speak to the screen.
MINAS
Minas felt all-powerful. Indefatigable. Triumphant. That was how Evelina made him feel. He swallowed entire pages, memorized the exceptions that proved the rule, read and took notes the way his grandmother had taught him.
He listened, watched, and didn’t speak. Only once, walking past the television as some panel of experts ran on about the national good and how much was at stake now that the situation had become so critical, did he let out a pfff. When his mother asked him to move over so he wouldn’t be blocking her view, he nodded but stayed right where he was.
—Sure, we have to save the nation, he said in a voice dripping with irony, quoting the phrase they kept throwing around on the screen. I’m so sick of hearing that. It’s just what they said when they threw Gris to the dogs. Fifty years of the same stupidity. From people who are perfectly willing to watch as other people sacrifice everything. We’ve hit bottom, great, we got it. But it’s the same old shit all over again. Ideas above lives, the country above its people. As if that could solve the problem. Who do they think they’re kidding?
He has his Dictionary of Irregular Verbs under his arm. For now, all he cared about was his exams and Evelina, studying and making his next move. And the time had come for both those things. Enough with the flirting and kisses.
—Why aren’t we going to Agia Sophia tonight?
She wasn’t asking, she was teasing. Her eyelashes fluttered.
—Because I said so, Minas responded.
—Oh, really? And what are you, the man?
Minas grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the air. He carried her all the way to the statue of Venizelos. It was late spring and the grass smelled sweet, even here, a few steps from the cars on the street. There was a padlock on the fence around the ancient agora, the museum had been closed for months, there was no money at the ministry to pay a guard. They hopped the fence. Minas pulled her by the hand to the little theater, then backstage. Darkness, stones, everything deserted.
Evelina was used to cosmopolitan coffee shops, trendy bars, fancy restaurants. The law students she went out with, all top students with a family practice waiting for them, took her home at night in their cars, faithful protectors of female virtue. She sampled their kisses and then hopped out of their cars, leaving them with the sense that they’d been used, which was strange, since she was the girl—but perhaps it was her smile, or the look on her face, like a lion or tiger taking pity on a herbivore.
Minas took off his T-shirt and spread it out on a low wall. Evelina lay down on top of it, the shirt with the poem by Catullus on it protecting her back—Odi et amo, that’s the kind of thing Minas wore, and he would recite the lines in the back alleys around Navarino Square, and she would shout, Show-off, pretending to know Latin! A soft spring breeze was blowing, and brought smells to their noses, lifting up soil, and the hairs stood up on the nape of her neck as he fumbled with the button on her jeans and finally managed to pull them off, together with her underwear, in a movement that seemed planned but was actually just luck. He bent down and paid homage to her belly-button, licked its hollow as if seeking water. With anyone else the girl would have pulled away, but with him she liked it. When he lifted her legs onto his shoulders as if it were the most natural thing—which in fact it was, as Evelina only at that moment understood—she didn’t close her eyes. He didn’t, either.
Her back counted the stones beneath it.
—Jesus, the sky smells like pussy! Minas shouted.
Evelina laughed, her nipples hard and cold, and only then did Minas realize that he hadn’t even touched her, just rushed straight there like a glutton. And now there was no way he was coming out.
Evelina thought about all the stupid pickup lines she’d heard, and all the dirty talk and insistent I-love-yous designed to coax a girl right into bed, but Minas’s words made her dizzy. As did his body—particularly from the waist down.
And because she was a girl who respected words but judged according to actions, and who didn’t like to leave anything half done, she pulled him toward her again and squeezed her calves against his back. Minas felt her legs, reached out his hands and grabbed her ankles, wrapped them around his neck and surged forward.
—Fuck it, I like you, he said.
Evelina bit his ear.
—I bet we’ll do great on our exams, she whispered.
—Those are not the words I want to hear while I’m fucking you.
—Oh! I thought you were done, she teased.
She flicked her eyelashes against his chest.
—When I’m done, you’ll know, he said, and gave her a hickey, where it would show.
The night before the Panhellenic Exams, Evelina went out. Her mother started to say something but her husband gestured from the sofa, so she buttoned her lip again. Evelina took the stairs, high heels clacking—she was too impatient to wait for the elevator. She found Minas waiting for her in the churchyard. The bitter orange trees smelled wonderful, spring got under everyone’s skin, made the stray dogs go wild. Minas had been dying to see her but didn’t say anything, just let her decide. Finally she sent him a text: Downstairs in 5. She didn’t need to explain and didn’t need to ask twice, he just ran down the stairs to meet her.
They kissed before they even looked at one another.
—Where are we going? he asked.
Evelina shrugged. They didn’t have much time, she wanted to go over her notes one last time, she knew that would calm her down. But Minas would calm her even more, with his talent for turning everything into a joke, particularly the things everyone else took so seriously.
—To the sea, he decided.
They headed toward the waterfront at a run, laughing like crazy people, two university hopefuls who should have been studying, or at least sitting with a book open on their laps, now that the seconds were ticking backwards.
Darkness. The sea, a diamond blue, stretched before them like freshly ironed fabric. The lights of the city shone like lanterns, and those in the distance like broken mirrors. Minas grabbed her from behind and wrapped his arms around her, and they walked like that together, or perhaps they were dancing. His breath was warm on her neck. And when he dropped her off at the door to her building, he said:
—Tomorrow. Tomorrow, together.
GRIS
Grandpa Dinopoulos had a habit of falling asleep in his armchair. Elena would fluff the pillows on his untouched bed, and dutifully changed the sheets, but he always greeted the dawn from his spot in the living room. During the early years of his marriage with Froso he would lie down and wrap his arms around his wife, listen to her heart beating in the silence of the night. Then he would turn onto his stomach, burrow under the covers, and bury his face in the pillows. His sleep was a lonely affair. Froso would search out his feet in the night, tangle her legs in his. He, meanwhile, would be solving cases and resolving loose ends in his dreams, and sometimes he would leap out of bed to jot down some note to himself, and Froso would complain, You never relax.
When the Gris case fell to him, his sleep became even more troubled. Particularly after the night when the district attorney knocked on his door. He knew that taking the case was the right thing to do, that he was saving a man from the firing squad. That was the bitter truth. He believed time would take care of things, that the storm would pass, the political situation would settle down, and a retrial might then yield a better result. It was perfectly clear that the confession was false, the evidence fabricated; everything about the case was an insult to the intelligence, particularly to that of the lawyers. Even if they had expressed the opinion that Gris (the defendant, as the legal documents had it) knowingly and purposefully collaborated with those who committed the crime, both before, during, and after its execution.
The deviations from procedure were obvious, the professional negligence of the lawyers and judges was impossible to miss, and yet the district attorney’s office saw nothing, heard nothing, understood nothing.
And when Gris was sentenced to life in prison—an indication to those in power that the country had managed to avoid the worst, had punished the wrongdoer, had put its best face forward and acted properly—rather than transferring the prisoner to the jail, they kept him in the holding cells of the General Security Police, under Tzitzilis’s keen eye. There, many prisoners, momentarily escaping the notice of their guards, rush to the window and hurl themselves out. Others, shouting and shrieking, cause bruises and cuts on their own persons, with the aim of exposing the defenders of our nation to calumny.
Whether in prison or in a holding cell, the years passed. Gris served his sentence and was released. Appeals for a retrial were constantly being filed. Lawyers introduced new evidence in attempts to prove the obvious. 1977, 1999, 2002, and 2006: four appeals, all rejected. The judges demonstrated evident solidarity with their colleagues. The new arguments were sent back and the verdict stood, as did the flawed documentation, written in katharevousa or in demotic Greek—but though the language changed, no one dared touch the content. Those who disagreed, who felt the case damaged the country’s reputation and offended the sense of justice they held so dear, distanced themselves, sometimes silently and sometimes with a fuss, from the committees, resigned from the bodies that made the relevant decisions. It didn’t matter: they were the minority, their opinion never determined the outcome.
Over the years Dinopoulos realized that good intentions are worth nothing, actions are what matter. Gris was released and Dinopoulos went to see him. The man’s emotions seemed raw, tears came easily to his eyes, he spoke with his soul in his mouth from the very first phrase. After twelve years behind bars, he wouldn’t rest unless his name was cleared. He could forgive the suffering, but not the injustice.
The lawyer, who knew that justice is won and lost in first impressions and that words matter only when they’re written, shaped the appeal with mastery and patience, yet it didn’t have the result they had hoped for.
Gris died without finding justice. And Dinopoulos was no longer sure whether he’d acted rightly back when he made his decision. What he did know was that he couldn’t have acted otherwise.
What’s done is done. One man was sacrificed to save a country. All that nonsense about the pursuit of justice was better left to a student essay. The machinery in place was all-powerful. Whoever believed otherwise probably hadn’t lived long enough to know better.
FANI
—Fine, I understand your not being on Facebook, you think it’s childish. But Skype is totally different, I’ll be able to see you when we talk. I don’t understand why you’re so resistant, I’d even find someone to set it up for you. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You’re acting like a crotchety old man, you know that, right?
Fani had been trying to convince Marino to join the present moment for a while. The stone age had ended, he couldn’t just ignore advances in technology. At least not the ones that made life easier and more enjoyable. Marinos dug his heels in like a mule. I don’t have time, was his excuse, I don’t have time to waste on things like that. And when she, who wasn’t one to beat around the bush, asked him straight out, You mean you don’t want to see me when we talk?, he answered, in a tight voice but sure of his response, No. And while he could still hear her breathing on the other end of the line, he hurried to add:
—It’s not enough for me. Screens aren’t real, Fani. Don’t mess with things. Leave them how they are.
Fani let it go.
She sent him a plastic yellow duck, by courier in a bubble envelope. It was the duck Nikolas used to have in the bathtub when he was little. It had a big round belly, so it wasn’t easy to balance on a flat surface, it would rock back and forth, you kept thinking it would tip over but eventually it found its footing and settled down. The right wing had collapsed, you could still see where the baby’s thumb had squeezed out the water. She didn’t know why she’d held on to it, she was a person who threw things out, or at least gave them away, she didn’t fill cupboards with memories. But the duck had stayed, and if you’d asked her she couldn’t have said why, just that whenever she tried to get rid of it, her hand wouldn’t obey. She kept it in a desk drawer with a pile of old demos and photographs. It lay there forgotten, gathering dust. Though sometimes when she was worried about her son, an unbridled foal who ignored her prohibitions and her advice, she would open the desk drawe
r and pull out the plastic duck. She would let it wobble on the surface of the desk until it found a spot it liked, where it would balance for a few seconds and then fall.
As she was putting it in the envelope, she stopped for a minute and almost changed her mind. The duck was her good luck charm. If her mother had known what she was doing she would have stopped her, there are things you just don’t do. But Fani did whatever she pleased; she never saw the signs that stopped others in their tracks.
And so she sent it, and Marinos opened the door to an envelope with an odd bulge: usually she sent him CDs, sometimes books, the occasional postcard when she was on tour. He saw the duck and smiled, remembered Nikolas squeezing it with all his might in the old home videos. And his mother standing over him, trying to rein him in but just getting soaked for her trouble. There was nothing else in the envelope, and he liked that, not even a word to accompany the gift. Then he noticed some tiny, glistening slivers of ivory, and remembered that when Fani was on tour in Africa, she had described the beach beside a lake called Kivu, or something like that. Strewn with ivory, she had told him, you’ve never seen anything like it, it cries out for you to walk on it in bare feet. Marinos spread the ivory out in his palm and watched as the duck rocked back and forth on the table. That day he didn’t crack a book, not once. It was something he never did, not even on New Year’s, and certainly not on his birthday.
ONE TEST IS ENOUGH
Teta had planned to camp out at the entrance to the school with the rest of the mothers, but Evthalia dissuaded her.
—All you’ll do is annoy him, she warned. Can’t you just wait it out? Go out on the balcony and wait.
Some students had brought pens that the bishop himself had blessed. Others were wearing their baptism crosses, while the more extreme carried icons of saints. Minas, meanwhile, had on his lucky underwear, blue with Japanese manga characters. His grandmother had secretly splashed a drop of sainted water into his glass of orange juice that morning; you never know what might help, and it was no time to be closing any doors.
The Scapegoat Page 21