Sophia Nikolaidou - The Scapegoat

Now that his wife is dead, Elena, from Georgia, takes care of him. Her legs support the old man and the apartment, too. She’s his nurse, his cleaning lady, his cook. All his relatives worship the ground she walks on.

Grandpa Dinopoulos doesn’t eat much. He spends his mornings reading in his office and pores over the newspaper with a magnifying glass every evening, seated in his favorite armchair. He has opinions about everything and likes to share them with others, though these days he rarely has the opportunity. He’s a walking library and a living museum. He knows everything we read about in books, only he knows it first hand. He has the equanimity of a person who’s lived through a world war, a civil war, and plenty of political changeovers. Nothing phases him. He believes people can withstand pretty much anything.

He hasn’t practiced law in years, but continues to advise his son, who inherited his law practice, along with a Rolodex full of clients. In the beginning his son wasn’t bothered by the father’s interventions, he was glad for the help. But Jesus Christ, he was nearing retirement age himself. It didn’t look good for him to still be accepting advice from his father.

Evelina and her grandfather aren’t on the best of terms. No matter how much her mother sang her praises, it took the old man ten years to reconcile himself to the fact that his law practice would eventually fall into a woman’s hands. Only last year did Grandpa Dinopoulos finally write a card to his granddaughter in a trembling hand congratulating her on coming first in her class, and expressing his wishes that she continue to thrive and prosper and accomplish good works — even if he personally doubted how much a woman could achieve.

Evelina explained all that to me, more or less, when I asked if she would take me to see her grandfather. At first she didn’t want to, he talked too much and it bored her. Besides, there was the principle of the thing, since she thought it irresponsible of Soukiouroglou to assign me a research project so close to the date of the exams that would determine our future.

— What’s his deal, she said, wasting your time on something so pointless?

Evelina is as stubborn as Mom. She thinks her opinion is superior, tries to push her ideas on others, doesn’t listen to anyone. It took me seven text messages and half an hour of close tracking on Facebook to bring her around, and she almost drove me crazy with her LOLs and OMGs in the meantime.

Evelina is like a lion. The lion is king of the desert, and can pretty much do whatever it wants. That’s Evelina. She absolutely never backs down until she gets her way. If you try to stop her she’ll tear you to shreds. I can say under oath: if there’s ever a nuclear disaster and only one human being survives, it’ll be her. Handling her takes skill and subtlety, not brute force. We’re talking hours of conversation and negotiation.

In the end, though, she did arrange a meeting, and even came with me. Elena opened the door. We’d come during the old man’s afternoon walk, and we watched as he dragged his feet through the rooms, braking at every turn, then gathering speed and racing down the hall.

— Advanced Parkinson’s, Evelina whispered in my ear. It takes a while for the engine to warm up. But when he gets going, there’s no catching him. If he stops, he’ll fall, so he always touches the walls to steady himself, even though it embarrasses him.

The old man was approaching the living room. Elena ran over, wedged her body under his, and eased him into his armchair.

— What a wreck of a human I’ve become, the old man commented.

He had on striped pajamas, mustard and red, like the ones people wear in movies. His big bald head had a strip of hair around the edge, and the veins on his hands bulged. But what I noticed most were his eyes. A person’s eyes don’t age. Mom learned that from one of her documentaries, that the eyes are the only part of the human body that doesn’t age. I checked with Grandma’s, too.

— Well? he said, obviously thrilled at suddenly having an audience.

— Grandpa, this is my friend from school, Minas Georgiou. He’s writing a research paper about Manolis Gris. He wants to ask you some questions.

— I see, said her grandfather.

Evelina kicked my shin.

— Say something, she hissed.

— Mr. Dinopoulos, I’d be interested in interviewing you about the events of the trial. I would want to record our conversation, to make sure I get everything right. Of course you can check the final text. It’s a student paper about the Gris trial. I’ll be presenting it at our school at the end of the quarter. And if you’d like to attend, you would be the guest of honor.

As I spoke, the old man pulled a magnifying glass out of his vest pocket and started examining me through it.

— You remind me of someone, was his response.

Now it was my turn to kick Evelina.

— Grandpa, she coaxed.

— I’d be very interested in recording your opinion of the events, I plowed on. You’re the only person involved in the case who never made a public statement.

— What’s done is done. Water under the bridge, last year’s sour grapes, the old man said, seeming bored.

— That’s not true, as you know better than anyone, I tried to challenge him. What matters is that justice be served.

— Evthalia, Evthalia Mitsikidou.

The old man was drumming his nails on the arm of his chair. He’d brought the magnifying glass back up to his face and was scrutinizing me again.

— If you didn’t have that silly ponytail, I never would have made the connection, he said, laughing with a kind of a snort. The devil take me if you’re not Evthalia’s grandson. Your face is like hers, and the way you move your head when you talk. How is Evthalitsa these days? he asked.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, calculating. The Gris affair could wait. For the old man, Grandma came first.

— Grandma, do you know Mr. Dinopoulos, Evelina’s grandfather?

Grandma was frying eggs in margarine. She put them on a plate and poured the extra melted margarine over them, then diced an onion for the salad. She sprinkled it with water and salt to take out the worst of its sting.

— We were neighbors. We lived across the street from one another, she answered, without pausing in her task.

— I went to see him yesterday, Evelina took me. About Gris. I told you about my project, right?

She crumbled feta over the salad with her fingers.

— He guessed right away that I’m your grandson. He says I look like you. He seemed kind of strange.

Grandma smiled.

— Well, he was a very well-respected lawyer in his day. Gris accused lots of people of intrigue, but never Dinopoulos. They had some kind of a friendship, or at least that’s what the newspapers claimed. Dinopoulos used to go and visit him in prison, even after the verdict.

— What’s he like? As a person, I mean?

Under different circumstances, Grandma would have put down the olive oil and the oregano. She would have sat me down at the table so we could talk vis-à-vis and face-to-face , as she likes to say. Grandma believes that people shouldn’t talk without looking one another in the eye. I watched the hunch in her back rise and fall nervously. She fished in a jar for olives, took out some spicy pickles and went on decorating the salad.

— I couldn’t say. I knew him when he was young. People change.

— Come on, Grandma. You’re always bragging about your infallible instincts with people.

Grandma wiped her hands on a dish towel and started setting the table. When she answered, she seemed almost out of breath.

— He’s very bright. Worked like a dog. Was never accused of the slightest irregularity. A family man, with traditional values. Talked a big game, but always followed through.