... and Dreams Are Dreams

by Vassilis Vassilikos

  “And indeed, he convinced the American government to buy a frigate for Greece. All this happened incredibly quickly, within only ten days. As Kontostavlos put it, ‘The committees concerned made the decisions and Congress voted on them.’ At last, Greece acquired a frigate, which was named, naturally, Hellas. It arrived in Nafplion in 1826, and there was much celebrating. But in August 1831, exasperated by the antics of the killer, Captain Cochrane, Miaoulis blew it up in the port of Póros.”

  On deck, the discussion between these “Greek residues,” as the captain thought of Elias’s friends, continued. But the captain was deep in his own thoughts. From the time when he was a grandson himself and he would ask questions of his own grandfather, an old sea wolf from Hydra, he came back to his present body, now the age his grandfather had been and with grandchildren of his own. The yacht pulled up anchor, leaving behind it the smoke-filled sky. One could guess at the fires raging behind the mountains of Argolis. Again this year, as it happened every summer, Greece was in flames. Fires everywhere, singing the praises of its pyromaniac God. “I imagine a modem Kontostavlos,” said the captain to himself, “going to America to negotiate the position of American military bases. Where could he find the courage to hope that by sending away the bases something would change in this world governed by a network of superpowers, where the departure of one only means the penetration of another? Where is freedom today? Which independence is guaranteed and by whom? The nonaligned countries? The socialists? Nowadays the only ones brave enough for these heroics are the desperate. Those who have nothing to lose but their lives. And these are the kinds of people who fought the War of Independence. ‘Better one hour of freedom . . .’ But nowadays, when we know that no one in power will concede anything without getting something in return, informed as we are about what is happening everywhere on our planet, and given the complexity of the contrasting interests of east-west, north-south, metropolis-periphery, what else counts besides the struggle, the myth of Sisyphus? And yet that poor old Greek, Kontostavlos, kept hoping and fighting with beautiful illusions. That was his grandeur. That was his beauty.

  “And afterwards? There is no afterwards. Along comes Capodistrias. A competent diplomat of international acclaim. He contributes money from his own pocket, ‘from his very modest fortune,’ so that he will not be accused of holding office just to make a bundle. But he too comes from Geneva. Just like that outrageous general and ‘master builder’ of the disaster of Asia Minor, Hatzianestis, who had come frorri Geneva. In general, the saviors of the nation always come from abroad. Usually from Paris or London. We’re talking about the democratic saviors, because the others, the royalists, were all German. Starting with King Otto. But the democratic ones (Venizelos, Karamarilis) came from France or francophone Switzerland, which is where they return when the Greeks send them away, as in the case of Plastiras. But what is the connection between Switzerland and what the young people were talking about on deck a moment ago—Greeks and their Swiss bank accounts? Was it perhaps the philhellene Swiss banker Eynard who started it? Is it perhaps the banks that govern? The cash register, as the captain’s old boss, the arms dealer Bodossakis used to say? And what about posthumous fame? Could money buy that also? If you’re smart, you’ll grease the palm of those who form public opinion. That way, when Bodossakis (who had made his first crisp dollar bills selling bullets to Franco) kicked the bucket, nobody said a word, the almighty pens laid low, and they passed him into history as an archetype, ‘the man behind the scenes.’

  “But there was not a single one among the mighty pens who had not received something extra. These tips were sent, even to those who did not want them, by the deceased, may he be happy where he is now, in the next world, in the company of Capodistrias, who was sent there before his time by the bullets of Petrobey Mavromichalis and his men.

  “No, from the beginning, this land was not meant to progress. It was written in its cells.” As he stood, the captain thought of a time in the past, of frigates and schooners, in this lake, which is enclosed by Hydra, Porto Heli, and the mountains of Argolis in flames. It was on a night like this, “a night full of wonders, a night strewn with magic,” when the fate of the war was decided, at the navalbattle of Navarino. Because it is we who make history go forward, not history that makes us go forward history is a wheel in the universe that man has to set in forward motion. Otherwise, it just stays a wheel, an eternal wheel, and everything moves backward.

  “I wouldn’t know what to say,” the old captain thinks, “but even if I did, I wouldn’t say anything more than the everyday things I say, because wisdom is keeping your mouth shut, putting a lid on a lot of facts, because you know that providing information is not always a good thing. It can become a weapon in the hands of the enemy and you, remember this, are nothing but a little bug in the wheel of time.”

  The group on deck was now disagreeing about where they’d moor for the night. Finally, they agreed on Spetses.

  “Is there a fire there?” asked Elias.

  “Not that I can tell,” answered the young captain.

  But then they remembered that the steward had taken the dinghy to go visit his mother and wouldn’t be back until daybreak, so they did not weigh anchor after all.

  Irini and Fiberglass were still discussing ways of losing weight. Plasterboard was still arguing with Aristotle. The doctor, Persephone, the American, and Elias had started playing cards. And only Arion’s guitar accompanied the sleepless moon.

  Again the captain went back in time. He put his ear to infinity. Alone on the bridge, he was being chased by a ghost, that of Capodistrias. He would not have been angry with the governor had he not put his compatriots under quarantine at that precise moment, using the pretext of the plague that had spread on his island of Hydra, brought by Ibrāhīm’s army, just like the English liberators after the German occupation had brought syphilis with their colonial soldiers. “The English,” he thought to himself, “the English fought us more than the Turks.” Because, in his mind, his great-grandfather was connected to the figure of the governor, but in a negative way.

  -3-

  The Narrator

  The narrator, this person who is outside our story, outside the cruise, but thanks to whom we are informed about what was going on on the yacht and in the mind of the captain, was reading page fifty-seven of The Political History of Modem Greece by Spyros Markezinis. “Since they [the government] were unable to deal with this difficult situation by soliciting loans from abroad—because, after the failure of the revolutionary loans, without a guarantee, neither could a compromise be reached concerning the previous loans, nor a new loan procured—and because naturally there was never any question of a national loan, there were only two other ancient solutions left: economizing (austerity) and an increase in state revenue (taxation). The former would have to be achieved without restricting military expenses, even after the battle of Navarino, because the danger of an attack by Ottoman troops was not out of the question, and also because immediate demobilization would create social problems (unemployment). The demobilized troops would become legends.”

  He shut his book and went out. He wanted to go to a certain address he had been given where he could get his dose from a dealer called Elpiniki. Number 11 Maison Street. On the way he wondered, still influenced by the book he had been reading, who this Maison was. A man, a woman, or a house? The name sounded vaguely familiar from high school. But he had forgotten practically everything he had learned in high school. As for the taxi driver, not only did he also not know who Maison was (a man, a woman, or a house), he had no idea where the street was.

  “It’s parallel to Fabvier Street,” the narrator enlightened him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  It didn’t mean a thing to the cab driver, because he came from a village and had not learned the streets of Athens. He was in the middle of dreaming about the fish his brother-in-law was going to bring him.

  “Well, at least let’s get to Canning Square, and then
we can ask.”

  But even Canning Square was unknown to the driver. The narrator was indignant.

  “But don’t you know the history of the place where you were born?”

  “History knows me,” replied the driver cockily, in that way neo-Hellenes have of turning their ignorance into a virtue and throwing the ball back at you. “I make history in bed.”

  The narrator, who was going into withdrawal and could hardly wait to get to Elpiniki’s house, began to lose his temper. Meanwhile, the cab driver continued his monologue.

  “All these people in power are in it to amass wealth. Nobody’s in it for the masses, for the people. That’s why I say: all these ministers can go stuff themselves.”

  Finally, they asked another cab driver, an obliging old man, who solved their problem: they would take Eynard Street, behind the statue of Kolokotronis, go down Miaoulis Street, across Canning Square to Kassomoulis Street, and that’s where they’d find Maison Street.

  And suddenly, inside the passenger/narrator’s mind, which was clouded from withdrawal, there was light. Kassomoulis! Of course! He mentions Marshall Maison, General Maison, Commander in Chief Maison, liberator of Greece. He cleaned up the Peloponnese of Ibrāhīm’s Turko-Egyptians, the ones who brought the plague. With a regular army of fourteen thousand, he brought the border of Greece up to the Isthmus of Corinth. Yes, that was Maison, the great warrior. Maison of Maison Street.

  At last they found it.

  “What number did you say?”

  “Number 11.”

  The driver stopped at number 9.

  “Never mind, I’ll get out here,” said the narrator and paid. They were watering the plants on the balconies and the streets were soaking. Or maybe it was raining. You could never tell in this city.

  -4-

  The Captain, Suite:

  The Reception

  “And so what happened to Kontostavlos, Grandfather?”

  “He came back to Greece, where a few years later he gave a reception at his home, ‘the most beautiful in Athens,’at the foot of the Acropolis, ‘to honor the departure of Commander Mai-son.’ In fact, he had invitations printed (the first to be printed in Greece, according to historians): ‘Mr. and Mrs. Kontostavlos request... to attend a soiree at their home on the evening of April 27th, which the illustrious Marshall Maison will honor with his presence.’ Everybody came, from Capodistrias to the lowliest secretary. All the foreign powers. The only ones absent were the leaders of the rebel troops. They didn’t show up because they were tired of having to dance syrtaki for the foreigners. Given the way the revolution had developed, that’s all anyone wanted them for. They were tired of being objects of folklore. The foreigners had burst upon the scene; as early on as that, they would go to Kesariani every Sunday to watch the locals dance. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But what did these soldiers have to do with dancing?

  “Said Grivas to Chief Hatzipetros: ‘If Maison wants to see Greek dancing, we’ll prepare him a military dinner out in the countryside, and we’ll invite him to go there. The governor can go too. If you want to attend this reception, you are free to do so. I refuse to go and be laughed at.’ The man felt he was an evzone, a tourist attraction. But wasn’t Capodistrias also a foreigner? ‘If the governor wishes to entertain the French commander by presenting us, that is to say by inviting us and our wives, he may do so, but we, the men, will not dance on one side, while the others are threatening our honor and laughing at us dancing bears. N’est-ce pas can take a walk.’ They called Capodistrias N’est-ce pas because up until the Fourth National Assembly he spoke in French. Even translated into official Greek, he was still incomprehensible to the soldiers. N’est-ce pas was buying the drinks and N’est-ce pas was drinking them. Of course, Grivas was married to a young and attractive woman, and to see her surrounded by those foreign dandies while he was dancing zeibekiko made him furious. Vayas, Hatzipetros, and the other agreed with him. Nobody was going to go to Kontostavlos’s reception. N’est-ce pas wanted to show them off to his foreign friends like cattle at a county fair. The chiefs would dance to entertain the foreign guests. But who was this Capodistrias, after all? He would call the leaders of the revolution ‘chief brigands,’ the erudite Phanariots like Korais ‘sons of Satan,’ and the notables ‘Christian Turks.’ So who else lived in this country?”

  “It’s the same nowadays,” thought the captain. “When ship owners bring Greek dancing trios to London, to add an element of folklore to their dinner parties, nobody bothers to find out what’s behind these people. What broken dreams, what betrayed longings, what defeats—their own or their fathers’—led them to do this kind of work, to become syrtaki professionals, out of a deep-seated sorrow, in order to survive without being anybody’s employees, without slavishly bowing their heads to anyone. And they do not sell their manliness, because it is their very essence. It was the same with those brave men in the past . . . ”

  “And so, Grandfather?”

  “And so, Kontostavlos was happy that so many people came to his party. But he was concerned when he saw that the chiefs weren’t coming. In his opinion, everyone who had shown up had taken advantage of the courage and the bravery of these fighters, had built on their blood. And now the blood was absent.

  “The music began. Maison looked around for the chiefs of war promised by the governor, but he did not see them. Next came the waltzes, one, two, three. Then the cadrilles. Two hours had gone by. Maison asked the governor why the leaders hadn’t appeared. The governor, not knowing the reason, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Let us wait.’ Meanwhile, he sent somebody to find out why they hadn’t come. ‘They’re sleeping.’ So, in order to make excuses to his guest, he mentioned something about ‘uncouthness and ignorance.’ But Maison didn’t buy it. He had seen these men fight with him like lions, and they had always been civil and polite to him. Therefore, something else was going on, something they weren’t telling him, but which he could sense, military man that he was.

  “And so, my boy, those soldiers gave one of the first lessons of national independence and pride. They refused to dance syrtaki and zeibekiko for the foreign locusts, for the Western Eurotrash. They demanded a constitution. Free elections and a constitution. A Parliament and a constitution. But the governor did not want to put a razor in an infant’s hands, as he said. That’s how he viewed a people who had fought for liberty and won: as infants.

  “‘I would give the razor to the infant, ’ said the English admiral, Lyons, ‘and then I would take its right hand and guide it so it could shave without cutting itself.’

  “‘Admiral,’ replied Capodistrias, ‘I did not come to Greece to end up the laughing stock of Europe. I will continue to shave in front of the infant in order for it to learn how to use a razor safely.’

  “Capodistrias wasn’t especially liked by his host, Kontostavlos. His friend Korais had written to Kontostavlos that he found the governor very haughty. Korais was not wrong. But that year was a particularly important one for the land. (‘Although, of course, which year wasn’t important for this land?’ the captain thought to himself. ‘Every year was as important as a day in the life of a dying man, because this infant was born half dead, and for the past 180 years everybody has been trying to bring it to life. But let’s just say that that year, 1829, counted more than the others.’)

  “It was the year during which the borders of the new Greece were being widely discussed. The French insisted that if ‘it were limited to the Peloponnese, it would be too weak to drfend itself.’ The Russians ‘are in favor of imposing a solution, even if it is done by them unilaterally,’ and, having guaranteed the neutrality of Austria, they started the Russo-Turkish War to help Greece grow larger. But the English did not agree. They were afraid that if Greece grew larger, it would pass under the influence of the Russians, and then the English would lose their domination of the Ionian Islands. (One hundred ten years later, Churchill, fearing that Greece would be taken over by the Soviet Union, provoked
the repression of December 1944.) ‘Thank God,’cried Wellington in London. ‘It (the liberation of Greece) had never costa shilling and never shall.’ Besides, his orders the previous year (on October 21, 1828), to his envoy in Nafplion had been clear: ‘On the subject of Greece, I would limit its borders to the Peloponnese if possible, and if not, as close to the Isthmus of Corinth as possible.’

  “It was in such an atmosphere that the Kontostavlos’s reception was held, and the host was circumspect in his actions.”

  The captain was lost in thought again. The figure of the governor had caused him problems since his great-grandfather went into a depression because among the iron laws imposed by N’est-ce pas was one banning piracy. The captains grandfather used to tell him pirate stories when he was the same age as his youngest grandchild was now, and he still remembered them. Because Capodistrias had his good points, but he was also a perverse man. “ Until I came along these Greeks didn’t even know how to make a salad," he said, showing by “these Greeks” how alienated he really was. He was accountable to a Europe that the Greeks did not know; he wanted to cure “the illness Greece had sufferedfrom, after four centuries of slavery and seven of anarchy, ”the same way dictators play doctor by putting a country in plaster. He wanted to make Greece into another Switzerland, but he was forgetting that the Greeks had as a model not William Tell, but Dighenis Akritas.