And so he married Froso. It was an arranged marriage. She was a good, sensible, respectful girl. She could darn socks and cook. There was nothing missing from Froso’s dowry, not even a needle. She was obedient in bed, fulfilled her wifely duties convincingly. As for flowing conversation, that’s what his friends were for.
Evthalia, on the other hand, was an untamable beast, and he needed to secure his career, he didn’t have time to waste on winning a girl over or strategizing about his love life. At times, though, he still thought of how it might have been. Particularly when he saw her in her green pleated dress, her white ankle socks, and her ponytail, walking home from the university hugging her Cicero to her chest. He found Homer less exciting — Homer was a poet, all empty words — but the sight of the girl clutching her Cicero could keep him dreaming for days. That was enough for him. And it was something no one could take from him.
Meanwhile, Froso learned to cook papoutsakia the way his mother did. She wrote his name on the prayer paper in the evening, for his health, and took care of his laundry. As far as his mother was concerned, that more than sufficed for a successful marriage — and in the end, he came around to her opinion. Evthalia was the moon. You don’t take the moon down from the sky and marry it. You admire it from afar. That would have to be enough.
What had gotten into him, why was he thinking about all that? He needed to focus on other things right now, things that couldn’t wait. Perhaps it was because he had caught a glimpse of Evthalia’s ponytail from afar. And he knew she had her Cicero class today. De oratore.
Oh, if only.
SCHOOL YEAR 2010–2011: “THE ONLY DIPLOMA WORTH EARNING IS YOUR DOCUMENTATION OF INSANITY”
MINAS
Souk makes no sense. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he barely eats. His pants always look like they’re about to fall off, his stomach is actually concave, I’ve never seen another belly that doesn’t stick out at least a little bit.
Evelina says his whole body is an appendage. That it’s just there to hold up his head. It’s more or less what everyone says who doesn’t like him, including the other teachers. They can’t criticize his knowledge of the material, so they start out saying how well-read he is, only to end up saying he’s not cut out for high school. He’d do great at a research institute, or the university, but here, it’s not about how smart you are, you need other skills. They’ve mastered the art of the backhanded compliment. Yes, of course, but.
None of the other teachers came to Fani Dokou’s concert. If they had, they’d have been stunned. Souk was way up front, all in black, as usual. And next to him stood Dokou’s son — I knew it was him, I’d seen him in photographs. He’s about my age and plays in a band at his school in Athens. He has a pierced eyebrow and a tattoo on the back of his neck. My mother would have a heart attack.
Anyhow. Souk looked like his usual somber self, only he was standing there with his arm around Fani Dokou’s kid like it was no big deal. Souk, who never touches anyone. The tenderest thing he’s ever done in class is say five nice words in a row. But there he was, all tight with Fani Dokou’s son. You could tell how much fun he was having by the look of them from behind. Souk’s back speaks volumes — like when he’s writing on the board, he doesn’t have to turn around for you to know what look he’s got on his face. At the concert, it was obvious he was having a good time.
— Look who’s here, Evelina said, giggling, as she body-checked me from the side. She came over and stood right next to me, waving to some big dolt who was making eyes at her from across the crowd.
— I came with a friend, she said.
— I can see.
She raised her cell phone to take a picture, but there wasn’t time. Just then the lights dimmed and Dokou started singing a folk song that everyone in the audience knew, about a jealous husband who murders his wife. The drums fell silent, the keyboard hushed. Her voice rose up from deep inside, she held the high notes, then plowed on, filling the stage, filling the whole square with sound. She lifted us up and swept us away with her. The crowd was a pulsing sea creature. Cameras flashed, cheers rang out.
— My mom used to sing that as a lullaby, Evelina whispered in my ear, her hands raw from clapping.
My mom sang it on road trips. It was so sad, but it always put her in a good mood.
— That song goes out to someone I love dearly. For you, Marinos, Fani Dokou said, pointing right at Souk.
Respect.
Maybe Souk has a body after all?
Fani Dokou hadn’t given a concert in Thessaloniki in over a decade. She left in her twenties and never looked back. But Thessalonians never forget their own, particularly when someone makes a name for herself in Athens. And now Dokou is an internationally recognized ethnic singer, with concerts in Portugal and Oslo, recording sessions in Paris, tours in Israel. She popularized Greek folk songs, reworked them, added electronic touches. And in the process, she achieved the impossible: she made music that both Mom and I like.
— She’s good, Evelina agreed.
That didn’t seem strong enough to her, so she added,
— A goddess.
For real. The light around her wasn’t that fake, plastic light, all smoke and cameras and kilowatt hours. Her sweat shone. She was on fire up there on the stage. Mom always talked about her concerts, the flowing skirts that fell around her like veils, the bracelets all the way up to her elbows, the bells at her ankles. Any other woman who dared to wear what she wore would just look ridiculous, but Fani Dokou pulled it off.
The concert ended, the floodlights flickered off. Most people pushed as fast as they could toward the exit.
— Should I walk you home?
Evelina hesitated.
— My friend was going to walk me, but his house is in the opposite direction. Wait a minute, I’ll let him know.
We walked without talking, half an arm’s length apart.
— Are you really not going to take your exams? she asked.
— Can we really not use that word today? It’s Saturday, and I hear it enough during the week.
— Okay, category change. Let’s turn to affairs of the heart, Evelina said, doing her best impression of a talk show hostess. Do you think they’re a couple?
— Who?
— Souk and Dokou. I wish I’d gotten a shot of them with my phone. I could’ve put it up on Facebook.
— They were at university together, ages ago.
— You know everything, don’t you? she commented.
— Yes.
— Modest as always.
— Just acknowledging the facts.
She laughed. When Evelina laughs, her whole face changes. She turns into a normal person. At school she’s always got a smile plastered on her face, like a good, obedient student, pretending to be social. You never see her alone during break, the others always cluster around her. In class she rarely asks questions, she’s too full of certainties. She hates philosophy but still quotes philosophers left and right in her essays. That’s how people are who believe in the absolute: they need a guru to show them the way.
But now, walking up Iktinou Street, Evelina had left her shield and spear behind. She reminded me of how she was in grade school, a little girl in sweat pants and braces. She used to steal candy bars from my bag, and she once ruined my shirt from pulling it too much during a game of tag. She was always trying to engineer trades. She would grab my Scooby Doo erasers and give me chewed-up straws in return.