Sophia Nikolaidou: The Scapegoat

— 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:

To my beloved grandson ,

for your success ,

Grandma

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.