The Scapegoat (3 page)

Souk
entrusted
me with a list of topics to choose from. He has his own way of speaking. He never just gives you a notebook, he
entrusts
you with it. When I first had him as a teacher, back in my first year of middle school, I thought he was really tall. It took months for me to realize that he’s actually what you would call average height. But in class he seemed to grow taller, until he filled the whole room. Once he suddenly spread his arms out to his sides. He was wearing black, of course,
his uniform
, we call it, since he always wears exactly the same outfit, winter or summer. And with his arms spread wide, he looked like an eagle about to swoop down on us. All the kids in the front row ducked. Souk gave an explanation of Attic reduplication in verb forms, then abruptly clapped his wings shut again. An entire class will remember
akouo, akikoa
for the rest of their lives.

Souk is the one who taught our class what a reference book is. He bought shelves, paid for them out of his own pocket, the gym teacher told us later, shaking his head at Souk’s idiocy. Souk screwed them into the wall next to the blackboard one afternoon after school let out.

—This is where you’ll keep your dictionaries, grammar books, and literary histories, he announced the next day.

At first we didn’t give it much thought. But Souk had a plan. Instead of going home with us, the reference books stayed at school, and they got used on a daily basis. Tons of exercises. Our parents were ecstatic. Souk had earned their trust. Grandma Evthalia even came to school to congratulate him. Finally, she said, someone was correcting our essays with professional rigor, underlining our mistakes in red pen, suggesting alternate wording, teaching us new words, explaining the difference between
katarhas
, “firstly,” and
katarhin
, “in principle,” and quoting phrases
in ancient Greek. She decided it was time to buy me Vostantzoglou’s 1949
Antilexicon
, which has antonyms, word roots, and etymologies. She put it on my bookshelf at home, beside the Triantafyllidis dictionary.

—This book will be a valuable friend. I’ll show you how to use it, she promised. It will enable you to use words properly and with elegance.

She’d written a dedication on the first page:

Over the next few years we had other history and language arts teachers. Good ones, bad ones, so-so ones. None like Souk, though. They all smiled more. And assigned less homework. But Souk had taught us to think—even the kids who’d never admit it knew it was true. He was the only one who’d earned enough respect to be addressed as
sir
whenever we ran into him outside of school. With everyone else, we just crossed to the other side of the street, or mumbled some incomprehensible greeting.

It didn’t matter that he was a tough grader—justifiably tough, he claimed. It didn’t matter that he even failed kids, lots of them.

—It takes effort to fail, but I know that won’t stop some of you from trying, he warned.

And now here we are together again. It’s my senior year, I’m twenty centimeters taller than him and I still feel like he’s the giant.

—Georgiou, I’m entrusting you with a list of possible research topics. When you’re ready, inform me of your decision.

—I’m just a kid, sir. I’d prefer if you chose for me, I dared to suggest.

—You’re not a kid, you’re a mule. I’ll expect your decision by Wednesday.

Souk didn’t mince words. He didn’t give us encouraging slaps on the back, didn’t try to reassure us. But with him at least you knew where you stood.

Souk’s sheet of paper sat on my desk all afternoon. Untouched. At the top of the list was the Gris affair. Messy from the start, an unsolved case even now. I’d heard about it, but that was all.

—Don’t you have Latin homework? Mom asked.

I was in the middle of a mission and didn’t even lift my eyes from the screen.

—Mom, I’m going to die. Who knows when, maybe even today. Do you really want me to have spent the last half-hour of my life studying Latin?

Mom’s given up. This time last year she’d have started shouting. Now she just shuts the door and walks away. She used to do that thing with her eyes, too. You know what I mean. All moms play that game. They stare at you and you’re supposed to freeze. To repent, to apologize.

As soon as she left the room, I called Dad at work.

—When are you coming home?

—That’s so sweet, I miss you too.

—Come on, I’m serious, when are you coming home? I want to ask you something.

—Ask me now, I’ll be late.

He’s always late. Something always comes up at the last minute. Something only he can take care of.

—What do you know about the Gris affair?

—Why? Is it on the exam?

In the battle over the Panhellenic Exams he’s on Mom’s side.

—I have to do this project for school and I thought maybe you’d know something. You’re the one who told me about it in the first place.

At home Dad doesn’t talk much. He sits there and pretends to be listening, but really he’s just filtering out whatever
he doesn’t think is important. If you ask him about current affairs, though, he really gets going.
He gives way to no man
, says Grandma, who’s seen him hijack plenty of family gatherings and Christmas dinners over a piece of front-page news. But when his reporter’s jaw gets going, when he launches into his I-know-how-it-really-went-down routine, I just press mute. That’s why I can’t remember a word of what he told us about the Gris affair. All I remember is the name. And Dad on the sofa, shouting.

—A project about Gris? Who gave you that assignment? he asked, incredulous.

—Souk.

—Who?

—Soukiouroglou, Dad. My history teacher?

—Is that the guy you had in middle school? Sort of a loose cannon?

—Yup, that’s him.

—I didn’t think he had it in him. Turns out he’s got balls.

—Dad, do you know anything or should I just hang up?

—Minas, I’ve got the whole file at home. Gris worked at the paper, you know.

—Great, I’ll be waiting, I said and hung up.

I can picture Dad looking at the receiver. Time for his evening drink. A half glass of bourbon with a splash of water. Two cigarettes, one after the other. I don’t have a hidden camera or anything, but I’m sure. That’s one good thing about parents: they’re predictable. Everyone knows that.

Dad got home at 12:37. Mom had already gone to bed. We’d fought and she wanted me out of her sight. Dad slipped off his shoes. Every morning Mom picks his sweater off the coat rack, sniffs the armpits and tosses it into the hamper, even though Dad complains that too much washing ruins them.

—I was waiting for you.

Dad smiled. He lifted the paper napkin off the plate on the kitchen table to see what Mom had left for his dinner. Whole wheat pasta, pesto with basil from the pot on the balcony. A chocolate turtle for dessert. A calorie bomb from start to finish, but Dad only eats once a day. Always after midnight, when he gets home from work. When Mom’s in one of her moods she makes pasta, which she calls an “edible antidepressant.” It’s what we swallow instead of a pill. It works okay.

—So tell me about this project of yours, he said, putting his plate in the microwave.

—“The Manolis Gris case: presentation of facts, assessment of evidence, disputation of sources and views, historical context, and critical evaluation.”

I held up the sheet Souk had given me so he could see it.

—Isn’t that sort of a lot?

—That’s how Souk is. It’s no fun for him if he doesn’t bring you to your knees.

—Yeah, but don’t you have to study for the Panhellenics this year?

I gave him a look. He nodded. Same page.

—If I comport myself with academic rigor and intellectual gravity in the research and writing of this paper, I said, mimicking Souk’s voice, I’ll be excused from daily evaluation in our class.

Dad listened absentmindedly as he fixed himself a nightcap: he put some tsipouro on the stove and stirred in three spoonfuls of honey. Tsipouro with honey gives you sweet dreams, he always says. He recommends it to Grandma, too, whenever she complains of insomnia.
Lysimelis
, he adds playfully, quoting Archilochus on
limb-loosening
desire, since
meli
for “honey” sounds just like
meli
for “limbs,” and Grandma adores anything having to do with ancient Greek.

—I’ll need a few days to look over my files, he said.

I was so happy I kissed him on the cheek. He hid a smile.
Then I sat down and kept him company for another five minutes. That’s my limit.

—Minas, Dad couldn’t keep from adding, you know you could get into university if you wanted to. It wouldn’t even be that hard.

I didn’t reply. He took a sip of his drink and turned on the TV. If there’s one thing I respect about him, it’s that he knows when to keep quiet.

THROUGH OTHER EYES

The faculty meeting was scheduled for six p.m. The teachers were sitting in groups, some chatting or whispering in one another’s ears, others ostentatiously bored. The principal was still in his office, rustling papers, looking over his agenda. The vice principal—a little meatball of a woman with spindly legs and a girlish ponytail, who sang songs from the resistance when she was in a good mood and always had a smile for everyone, as one of her tricks for getting things done—was already in her seat. She looked out at the warring factions before her: the dad types; the union organizers; the loners who kept their heads down and avoided taking sides; the silent, patient types; the ones who were critical of everyone but themselves; the pissed-off-for-no-reason; the arrogant and annoyingly talkative; the neutrality seekers; the politically engaged. It was each man for himself or everyone thick as thieves, depending on who had what to gain.

In the far left corner of the room, with the back of his chair tilted against the wall, sat Soukiouroglou. He had a book in his lap, a prop to occupy his eyes and hands. He held it open and turned a page every so often, though it was anyone’s guess whether he was actually reading.

—Contrary to our usual practice, the principal announced on entering the room, the student council representatives will be present at this meeting.

The students filed in, the middle schoolers unsure of themselves, waiting for the older kids to take their seats first. Chairs had been set up for them in the center of the circle, exposed to view on all sides—
a spot chosen on purpose by the administration
, some would later suggest. The middle school student council president wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. The high school representatives, on the other hand, sat there with a combative air and notebooks at the ready. The girls crossed their legs almost brazenly. Some of the veteran teachers in the room took offense at that stance, though none of them said anything. Their disapproving looks were enough.

The next day some of the teachers defended them—
they’re just kids, they haven’t learned how to sit properly, where to put their legs
—but most of them knew that body language speaks volumes, reveals all kinds of secret thoughts. Like when Minas Georgiou, who was nearly two meters tall, stretched his gangly legs in their clunky combat boots straight out under the seat in front of him, bottoms up, as if he were mocking them with the red smiley faces painted on the rubber soles. Some were startled, others just figured it was yet another instance of ridiculous teenage fashion, one of those fads that last half a season, tops. Minas watched the meeting unfold with that passive smile kids wear when they want grown-ups to just get off their backs.

The principal scanned the agenda. Rising to his feet, proud of his democratic impulses, which some dissenters called a shocking lack of responsibility, he opened the floor to the students first.

—I’d like to share with you the statement prepared by our fifteen-member council, began Evelina, the high school student council president. We’d like your permission to organize a one-day event at our school concerning the global financial crisis.…

Before she’d even finished her sentence, a current of whispers had spread over the teachers’ part of the room. A few snickered loudly.

—They should forget this nonsense and start studying,
exam time is right around the corner, one teacher hissed to his neighbor.

But some teachers supported the idea, and a few were giving the kids encouraging looks; it was obvious that one or two had offered pointers ahead of time. Among them was the skin-and-bones physics teacher, whom her colleagues called a freak behind her back, because of her messy hair and cherry-red combat boots. She was always getting the kids worked up over something. Once last year she even took them to a protest when they were supposed to be in class. Plenty of teachers in the room were already annoyed at how this group of snot-nosed brats had come that evening to express their political will.

The students stammered that a one-day event with presentations by economists, lawyers, and sociologists would have educational value.

—Sir, we’re the ones who are going to bear the brunt of the crisis, one of the middle schoolers pleaded to the principal.

—I think we’ve spent enough time on this issue, the chemistry teacher broke in. He had a private lesson scheduled for eight that evening and was in a hurry to get going.

—Perhaps you’d like to propose some names of possible speakers, one teacher said, the irony thick in her voice.

The students looked at her, speechless.

—What did you think, that events just plan themselves? she exclaimed, pleased with herself.

Most of them agreed that the kids were looking for excuses to miss class.

The teachers knew that the students had been negotiating in the principal’s office over the past few days. The students promised not to allow a sit-in. They’d learned a thing or two since last year’s occupation, when kids who didn’t go to their school had come and gone freely, and computers stolen from the computer
lab ended up being sold out in the open on pedestrian streets in the city center. The punks would lay them out on torn cardboard boxes and sell them at cut prices, or break them down for parts: a motherboard on Melenikou Street, a brand-new keyboard on Athonos Square. Three months after the sit-in they were still having computer science class on the blackboard. If one kid’s father, a high-level banker, hadn’t donated old desktops from one of his branches, they would still be taking notes about websites with paper and pencil.