The Scapegoat (24 page)

—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 kid stood before him, waiting.

—Eighteen out of twenty, Souk said. There’s some excellent work here, but I can’t ignore the gaps and oversights. As for taking a position, I would suggest that you leave the kind of hesitation I saw in your presentation to older, more experienced scholars. You’re still young. For the time being, you should take a stance.

Minas shrugged.

—You obviously don’t care either way, Soukiouroglou muttered.

Minas lowered his head. He turned to leave, but then turned back again. He might as well say what he had to say now, rather than to himself later in his room.

—Sir, why do you insist on laying blame? If we accuse one person, we let everyone else off the hook, and there were lots of people who played a part. Sure, none of them actually lifted the gun. But the situation was created by friends and enemies both. Right or wrong, the result is the same: an innocent man went to jail. Case closed.

Soukiouroglou looked at him.

For the entire quarter, Minas had been reading Souk’s favorite
books, packed to the gills with words and ideas, which the teacher had recommended as a secondary, though still useful, bibliography. In studying them carefully, in marking passages with his highlighter, Minas had come to realize that justice is an abstract concept. Perfect on paper. But in practice, riddled with qualifications, asterisks, interpretations, clashes of opinion. History books offered no catharsis, as tragedies did; there were no happy endings, as there were in fairytales or soap operas. What he would have liked more than anything was to talk to Souk about that. But his teacher wanted to have the upper hand. And with Minas that wasn’t always an option.

NIKIFOROS DINOPOULOS, LAWYER FOR MANOLIS GRIS

I don’t underestimate power. I don’t judge anyone for having it. What troubles people—and rightly so, if you ask me—is how a nation’s leaders shirk their responsibilities. They insist on blaming outside forces for the country’s woes rather than their own decisions. They refuse to acknowledge their own failures.

Justice means each individual getting what he deserves. And virtue is the pursuit of justice. At least that’s what Aristotle tells us. It sounds old-fashioned, doesn’t it? Today’s lawmakers are less strict about such things, more willing to water their wine.
Legislation has a responsibility to be neutral
, they all say. It has no right to convert, or to try to force good on anyone. Virtue isn’t about coercion. Justice, above all, implies freedom of choice.

All sorts of things were said about the case, which most people separated into lies and truths. The reporters who got involved never considered what we might call inexactitudes. The ignorant fools couldn’t tell the difference. Whereas the lawyers’ evasions clearly demonstrate respect for the law. They took care to package the evidence well, to keep up pretenses to the very end. Sometimes they departed from the law, other times they took refuge in legal fictions, or interpreted the law in a particular manner. But they never flew in the face of the law, they always paid tribute to the obligation to remain honest. They maintained their professional dignity.

They made their decisions. And since the situation demanded it, they moved forward into action. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and it’s easy for people to pass moral judgment. But those involved in the case never acted outside the law. They simply behaved like people who would.

Please don’t return to the issue of truth. If you think carrying a law book around ensures that justice will be served, I’m sorry, but you’re being naïve. Life is so much more complicated than that.

As for the evidence you refer to, I can’t help but laugh. I lived through two wars and witnessed plenty of military tribunals, and the idea that reality is single and undeniable amuses me. Reality is the ultimate construction—just ask the lawyers and journalists, whose careers rest on that construction. Other people have trouble understanding that. What they summarily call truth is rarely sufficient. Even more rarely does it offer any kind of solution.

The dictatorship of the truth. The tyranny of good intentions. There’s nothing more dangerous for a family or a country. Historians show up after the fact. They rummage through locked drawers, discover forgotten papers, conduct their research, pass judgment. When precisely did the Gris case begin? With the murder of Talas, or with the decisions that were made behind closed doors? In history there is no such thing as progress, change, advancing toward the good or sinking into the abyss. I don’t care what the survivors say.

Before and after. That’s all there is. And between, a chasm.

Anyone who investigates the Gris affair needs to understand one thing: no one made any decisions without agonizing over them first. But everyone felt that the country’s future was at stake. The greatest good for the greatest number, that’s the basic rule of governance. You weigh the options and settle on the least of all evils.