And so they drowned any inconvenient suspicions like a baby in a bucket. At the trial the accused’s lawyer, a young man by the name of Dinopoulos, spoke at length, but avoided the strongest arguments, relying solely on rhetoric. Some supporters of Gris suspected Dinopoulos of compromise, but no one ever accused him outright.
The American general who had once given Tzitzilis a piece of his mind went along with the Greek officials. Through process of elimination Gris was the only name remaining on the initial list of suspects. Antrikos was silently crossed off thanks to a telephone call from the prime minister, while Zouzou had the fervent protection of her mother-in-law. There had been another woman on the list, a reporter, Kristen Sotiropoulos, a troublemaker with an American passport and connections in both the United States and Greece; she was the one who introduced Talas to Gris during their five-minute meeting, but she had supporters in high places, too. By a kind of reductio ad absurdum, Gris was the obvious solution. He wasn’t a well-known figure; he had very few connections; no one would rush to his support. He was, consequently, an easy target.
The American general had earlier expressed his suspicions to the State Department that the crime had been perpetrated by right-wing forces. His superiors were concerned, as he confided in personal conversations. The general cited his sources, but government officials were hesitant to implicate the right. A development of that sort would serve no one. On the contrary, it would harm their interests in the region. The American general rightly declared that, since his own compatriots were failing to verify the information they received, they couldn’t expect much more from the Greeks. His superiors chose not to add fuel to the fire. And the uncouth general, though known for his obdurate outbursts, also knew how to read the silences of his superiors. In this trial, justice was not the primary goal — political expedience had the upper hand, and anyone who imagined otherwise would do well to keep his mouth shut. Now and forever.
SCHOOL YEAR 2010–2011: “LET YOUR RAGE RUN FREE”
MINAS
Turns out we’re having a sit-in after all. The first-years organized it, they hung a banner and dragged all the desks to the front entrance. We took a vote, but it didn’t go down quite as it should have, since their representatives ran around to all the classrooms during the breaks making secret deals.
We decided to let the teachers into the building. The coordinating groups from the other schools say our occupation is a sham. Who ever heard of joining forces with the enemy in the heat of battle? When they found out our student council decided that seniors will still have class, so we don’t lose any prep time for the exams, they were furious. But it’s a school tradition, it wasn’t really ever in question. The world outside could fall apart, but the seniors would still go to class. Your only tradition is in being sissies, Dad teases. He’s a fine one to speak, making revolution from the comfort of his office.
The principal called an assembly, to give us an opportunity to share our views and articulate our demands. He invited the Parents’ Association, too. Everyone needs to accept responsibility for their actions, he said.
The teachers are bored by the whole thing. Except for the party-liners, most of them are opposed to a sit-in. They shake their heads at our demands. Grandma does, too, of course.
At the assembly the principal could barely keep it together. Just the other day he had assured the citywide school board that while occupations were being staged at surrounding schools, ours was an unwavering bastion of learning, a shining example of effective communication between students and teachers. Now he would have to let their offices know that the stronghold had fallen.
Spiros took a piece of paper from his pocket to read off the demands. Evelina would happily have strangled him. According to her, he was a lame, uncouth idiot. His sheet of paper was covered in scribbles and torn on one edge, where he’d ripped off a piece to spit his gum into. He took a deep breath and launched into the list. After complaining about a few run-ins with teachers and our lack of resources, he hurried on to his main issue: why did we need to learn ancient Greek? He just didn’t understand why we should spend so many hours memorizing the verb lyo or third-declension nouns. We want a school that’s alive, he said, we want to talk about things that affect our lives, not memorize words from a dead language.
Evelina looked like she might punch him. In the end she couldn’t restrain herself. The defender of the theoretical track of study intervened.
— Sorry for interrupting this little diatribe, she said. Our fellow student here seems to have gotten carried away by his own eloquence, when he spoke about Ancient Greek class. In order for this conversation to proceed on the basis of arguments and evidence rather than assumptions, I thought I should inform this student, who’s still only in his first year of high school, of some objective facts about the pedagogy and grammar of the Ancient Greek language.
When Evelina gets going, there’s no stopping her. She made a complete fool of him in front of everyone. Before the assembly started, she’d gotten the other seniors to agree to be totally ruthless with the younger kids. No way were the seniors going to get loaded down with absences just because some stupid brats wanted to play revolution in the cafeteria. The occupation had already lasted three days, and that was more than enough. The first-years had had their time in the sun. Basta.
The whole episode raised suspicions that the student council had made a deal with the administration, but Evelina had a solution for everything. She got the others to agree to floating one-hour meetings to take place during different class periods, so that the student representatives could keep track of the demands of the majority. Whatever stupid shit everyone thought up, they would bring before the teachers. The negotiations seemed to drag on forever, but in the end it was decided that the seniors would continue going to class. The younger kids could cling to the illusion that their demands had been heard. Meanwhile, the whole thing would blow over, since the one-hour meetings would diffuse the situation.
Spiros learned his lesson. Next year, though, Evelina would be at university, and there was no one else with her force and connections. He would just have to sit tight and wait.
— Well? she asked.
She was expecting me to congratulate her.
— You destroyed him.
— I’d have preferred a more generous description. I guess maybe hanging out with Spiros has brought you down to his level.
I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. I’ve figured out by now that it drives her crazy when I don’t give in.
— Are we going to your grandfather’s? I asked.
— I’ve got homework.
— Me too.
— You’ve made your decision.
— So have you. What’s a few hours more or less at this point?
— It’s a matter of discipline, she insisted.
— Fine. Then we can go tonight, when you’re done. I’m sure he doesn’t go to bed at nine.
— He doesn’t sleep at all. He just sits in his armchair with glassy eyes. Dad says he’s afraid of death.
It’s exactly what Mom says about Grandma. She once went over to Grandma’s place first thing in the morning and found her on the sofa with the telemarketing channel on, still awake from the night before. Mom gave her a talking- to like you’ve never heard, like she was the mother and Grandma was the kid.