Census day in Greece - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 2002 by Nick Papandreou

Today is the decennial census. At my living room table, below the picture of Melina Mercouri, sits the census-taker. He is a young man, tired, sleepy, perhaps uncertain why he and thousands of others took on the task. "Didn't want to start too early," he told me when I asked if he would finish his allotment before the sun went down. "Otherwise everybody would throw lemon rinds at us."

I informed him of the facts: born in America, moved to Greece in 1994 to write, and (check two reasons) to re-join my family. No, I am no longer a Greek abroad, a homogene, as they are called. Size of my apartment--140 square meters, five rooms in all, including WC. Level of educational attainment, job, et cetera.

My neighbor Tasos Bouras, who lives in a two-room shack in the backyard, under the fig tree and grape vine, told the census-taker to write, under Profession: Maker of Dreams. On the outside wall of his shack he has hung a butterfly made from hundreds of painted eagle feathers. Tasos believes I will write my truly great work only once I'm sixty. It will take years to be rid of my old habits.

Today, the Greek government is inaugurating the supermodern Attica Highway. It's nearly complete. What's missing are the "off" and "on" ramps. Once you're on the highway, you can't get off except when you reach the airport. When it's complete, our bit of property in Corinth will be less than an hour away.

Corinth is a place never claimed by Turkey. It does not belong to any of the so-called "disputed" areas.

Sometimes I think that Greece actually needs Turkey. It's a Cavafy sort of thing. Waiting for the Barbarian and all. Greece also needs the Single Currency. The Attica Highway. The census. Greece is populated by Greeks, so the Greeks will tell you. Who today is a Greek?

A Greek is someone who is born in Greece.

A Greek is someone who speaks Greek, even if he is Albanian, Serbian, or Georgian.

A Greek is someone who is Greek Orthodox and was born in Alexandria, Egypt, or Alexandria, Virginia.

Maybe even in Schenectady, New York, or Kensington, London.

Or in Yemen, Kenya, the Congo, Mozambique.

To get to Corinth you have to drive by the shipyard town of Elefsina. Smokestacks, cement factories, and hundreds and hundreds of ships make up this town. A homeless old man with a grizzled face named Pharmakis lived there. For a hat he wore his coat. You could find him in the parks, hanging around sites under construction, or along the shore, searching for ancient stones. When he found them, he would dust them with a small brush. The smaller pieces he carted to the museum yard. He is the keeper of the stones. When archeological sites were covered up by cement, he wore a black armband for weeks.

When he died, the few locals who attended his funeral called him "a true Greek."

A friend of mine was buried this very morning, on census day. He almost made it. His epitaph says: "Here lies Andonis Tzoanakis, a man who believed in the Dream, a socialist, a true Greek."

A little while ago, I received the following news-flash from the Greek-American lobby, over the Internet:

   Come celebrate Creek Independence Day with all of your friends at DC's
   largest nightclub venue "The Spot." Straight from New York, The MYLOS
   ALL-STAR BAND will provide you with the best live Greek music all night
   long. Also featuring the sounds of NY legendary Greek D.J. SAVAS (Radio
   Seismos, World-NY) for a night of the best music from Greece! BALTIMORE.
   GREEKS, busses will be leaving from Michael's Steak and Lobster House, to
   The Spot, 932 F Street, NW Washington, DC.

I was once an honorary Baltimore Greek, since I used to live next door, in Washington, DC, where I worked at the World Bank. Lambis Platsis, a round-faced, happy computer scientist ran Towson Pizza. I was best man at his marriage. He decided to use his "American training" for the socialist cause. He is now head of informatics for the municipality of the island of Rhodes, serving the digital needs of the island citizenry.

His brother never claimed he was a socialist. He opened up a store in the heart of Rhodes called AMERICAN DONUTS. When NATO bombed Serbia, someone tore down the sign and broke the windows. "I'm a Greek-American," he told me over donuts and coffee, when I visited Rhodes to take part in a Greek-Turkish women's meeting my mother had organized. "I don't believe in politics. But here you are." He pointed to the broken sign.

My brother's political star is rising. He is Greek Minister of Foreign Affairs. His detractors accuse him of being an American, unable to understand history. He was born in the States. One good thing, they admit, is that he speaks their language.

During the war in the Balkans, his advisor, who was born in Tanzania (now married to a girl from Oxford, Mississippi), coordinated the Greek war relief effort.

Andonis wanted me to be a full-time citizen, meaning fully active in "the cause." Instead, I drifted away. I took up observing and writing. I had failed him. I wasn't going out to do battle any more. No more posters, no more clashes with the "organs of the state," no more gatherings with villagers on mountainsides to discuss the transformation of society under the protection of thick-smelling pine. Then again, those meetings had ended a decade ago. Maybe it was the right time to be a writer, now the dream had expired.