Sophia Nikolaidou: The Scapegoat

The devil has a name , Dad says, and his name is Asteriou . Dad knows everything that goes on in the city, it’s his job. He’s a career reporter. He’s told me the story about Souk and his dissertation advisor, Asteriou, but of course I can’t remember. Too many excruciating details, like notes from grammar class. An academic dispute, someone betrayed someone else, who took some kind of revenge, and soon enough it was one big mess. Pretty classic. The important thing is that Soukiouroglou blew his chance at a university career and ended up at the high school, teaching us.

A few days ago Mom came to school for a parent-teacher conference. Soukiouroglou met with her in the teachers’ office. Our Latin teacher needed someone to make photocopies for our class during the break, so I volunteered. Evelina made some snarky comment about my finally doing something for the common good. When it comes to the success and well-being of my beloved classmates , I replied, there’s no sacrifice I’m unwilling to make .

The copy machine is right outside the door to the teachers’ office, but I still couldn’t hear what they were saying. Soukiouroglou asked me to come see him, though, during the next break. One thing I’ll say about Souk, he’s got style. He doesn’t play good cop. He doesn’t even pretend to like us kids. And he doesn’t try to turn you into a replica of himself. Which is pretty rare for someone who spends his days at a high school.

— Your mom came to see me. I told her you don’t study.

I fixed my eyes on the floor.

— I also told her your grade in my class is still fairly respectable, thanks to the outside reading you do, even if your knowledge is often chaotic and disordered. But I don’t think you’d do well on the exams. She informed me of your decision not to take them.

Pause.

— Your mother objects, but right now that’s not our concern. Can you tell me why you’ve given up on trying to get into university?

— I just don’t want to go through all that, I answered with as much indifference as I could muster.

— You mean you can’t handle it.

— I’d rather jump off a balcony.

— Fine, he said, and turned to leave.

Days passed. Then, on Thursday morning, Soukiouroglou asked to see me again during third break, the long one that lasts a whole fifteen minutes. I felt like I was standing in a circle of snakes. I found him in the schoolyard, by the basketball hoop. He was surveying the passes, the dribbling, the three-pointers. He was bored and it showed. He nodded me over to where the others wouldn’t hear.

— Do you like our book? he asked.

I must have been staring at him like an idiot, because he did that thing he does with his eyes when he’s trying to keep himself from crushing someone.

— The book for our history class, he clarified.

— Oh.

— Well? Do you like it? he repeated the question.

— Am I supposed to? I asked.

With Souk you never know what the right answer is. It works well for him when he’s teaching, but outside of class it’s too much.

— Do you understand it? he asked.

— I don’t know, I usually can’t follow the thread from one sentence to the next.

— It’s not the most elegant text, Souk agreed, nodding.

I decided not to tell him about the hand. Every time I open the stupid book, a huge white hand appears and passes in front of my eyes. Within seconds it wipes away whatever I’ve just read.

— Listen, Georgiou, Souk went on. Since you’re not really interested in taking your exams this year, I’ve got another suggestion. Forget the book. Would you like to do some actual historical research?

Only Souk could come out with the craziest idea as if it were perfectly normal.

— There’s a case, well, there are lots of cases, but there’s one I think might suit your temperament. I propose you research it. I’ll give you whatever guidance you need in terms of bibliography. You’ll work on it for the rest of the quarter, and then present your findings at the end of February in front of an audience of teachers and fellow students. Your grade in my class will depend entirely on this project. In other countries, students are introduced to basic research methodology during the last two years of high school. They go to libraries, look at primary sources, learn how to cite scholarly works. They cultivate their own views. If we lived in Australia, you wouldn’t be staring at me right now as if I were an alien.

The bell rang. Souk told me to think it over. If I kept a diary, that day’s entry would read: Friday, November 5, 2010. There is a god. His name is Souk and he works at our school .

I used to be an excellent student. Used to as in up until last year. Mom was so proud. And even though Dad teased me about my “sissy” grades, he still photocopied my report cards to show to his colleagues at the newspaper. A row of perfect, sparkling twenties, every time.

Their blood froze when I told them about cram school.

— You’re wasting your money. You might as well hold on to it and give it to me at the end of the year, when I’ll really need it.

— What for? Mom asked, completely baffled.

— Mom, ever since I was born you’ve been saving up to send me to university. Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to go?

From the look on her face, you’d think I’d just told her I only had two days to live.

— And what are you going to be, Minas? A plumber?

I could see her counting the seconds in her head, the way her shrink taught her to. Her face was bright red.

— You mean I’m only allowed to become a lawyer or a teacher? Those are the only jobs that count?

I won’t bore you with the whole conversation. In the end she lost it and called Dad. She said she didn’t want to do something she might regret.

That night I heard her crying in the bedroom through the closed door.

In our house education is everything. There are bookshelves in every room with books lined up two rows deep. Both my parents studied literature. They met at university. Dad became a reporter. He’s always complaining about the long hours and how his cell phone never stops ringing. But when he’s not at the newspaper, he paces like a beast in a cage. His mind is moving twenty-four seven, and always in the same direction. News is his sickness. For him reporting is serious business. To be a reporter means to be out walking the beat all the time, eyes and ears peeled. You have to know who to talk to and what kind of information you’re looking for. I mean, sure, he has a pretty high regard for journalists who write features and stuff, too. But for him, they’re a different breed. They don’t have to deal with the pressure of the quick turnaround, the day-to-day, they have more time to digest what they’re writing. They’re not out there in the trenches with the real reporters.

Mom comes from a long line of literature majors and teachers, and she’s proud of it. Her uncles and cousins all studied literature, and most of them are teachers. It’s in her genes, she says, since her mother studied literature, too.

Grandma Evthalia is a classical philologist of the old breed. In her day the Faculty of Philosophy accepted very few students, all of them top-notch. The girls who got in were the cream of the crop — rich or poor, they all knew their stuff. Grandma Evthalia speaks in proverbs, ancient Greek sayings and phrases from old schoolbooks. She reads Plato in the original, but she’s crazy about John le Carré, too. She’ll watch any thriller or police drama they’re showing on TV. She loves beating the detective to the punch. She always calls out the murderer’s name as soon as she figures it out, which Dad gets a kick out of, though it infuriates Mom.