A New York Lawyer in the Court of Pericles
By David Schenck
A modern man trapped in ancient Greece.
If you were suddenly thrown 2500 years back in time would you be a king or a slave? Would any of your modern knowledge be useful? When Robert Kakos, a lawyer for a New York bank, in Athens as part of a team working on the Greek financial crisis, suddenly finds himself in the Athens of the 5th Century BCE, he must struggle to find value in his modern knowledge. Along the way he meets a host of colorful characters, slaves and merchants, Pericles and Socrates, and finally finds love and a home.
Copyright © 2016 by David Schenck
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents
Part One: Malthake’s Tail
Prologue
Chapter 1 – It’s my birthday!
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two: The Great God Einstein
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
About the Author
Part One: Malthake’s Tail
Prologue
I apologize if any of my references to events or people in the past are unclear. So much about the past has changed and my own memories are a confused jumble of the old past and the new.
For example, I find that the name Al Capone no longer means anything to anyone except me (and presumably Alphonse himself, if indeed, he actually existed or exists).
Nonetheless, I have tried to tell the story as it occurred to me at the time, including my memories of the old past, so if you find a reference confusing or without meaning, just assume that it meant something to people at one time.
Chapter 1 – It’s my birthday!
I was in Athens for my 53rd birthday. I didn’t particularly want to be in Athens, but I also didn’t have anywhere much better to be. At 53 I found myself pretty much unattached. Divorced for 8 years, no kids, an older brother in London, we were close, but not close close.
I was working as an attorney for an international bank. That’s why I was in Athens. As part of a team trying to negotiate the soft crash of the Greek economy.
I didn’t particularly feel bad about my lack of connection. But I will admit that on the morning of my 53rd birthday, waking up in my hotel room, I felt like something was lacking, and I wanted to do something to celebrate.
I wasn’t a particularly important part of the team. My specialty was tax law (It’s more interesting than it sounds, no really), and US tax implications would only play a minor role in the eventual deal. I really think I was there only because I spoke some Greek (thanks Grandma!). Not that the team needed a translator (not that my Greek was good enough to be a translator), all the Greek bankers and government officials spoke English. I was there just to trot out and show that we weren’t all barbarians.
“Have you met Robert? He’s one of our attorneys, he speaks Greek!”
I would butcher a few words in my American accented Greek, and the big boys would get on with the real business of butchering the Greek economy and protecting the interests of the funds, be they of the hedge or mutual variety.
My Greek wasn’t actually that bad. It was what you might call conversational, if the conversation was light and mostly about how much things cost or what’s on the menu. Like a lot of people with a second language, I understood more than I could talk. When I was younger, I was actually pretty good (thanks Grandma!). She taught me Greek herself, mostly by refusing to speak English to me, even though I know she spoke perfectly fine English. “So you can talk to your Greek cousins when they come to visit”. They never came.
So, after the day’s meetings finished, instead of taking the car service back to the hotel with the others, I hailed a cab.
“Where to?”
“I don’t know exactly.” I managed in my rusty Greek. “I’m looking for a place to have a nice dinner, something away from the tourists. What do you recommend?”
In the mirror, I could see him looking at me, in the mirror. I could feel him evaluating me, how much was I good for? My poor Greek marked me out as a foreigner, my nice suit (just what all the bank lawyers wear when meeting with the Finance Minister of a major (if economically troubled, especially if economically troubled) country, marked me out as a potential mark.
“You OK with a little ride? I know a great place, authentic, fantastic seafood, but it’s a ways outside the city. About a half hour. You’ll love it!”
I could feel him taking advantage of me, and normally I wouldn’t let him, but I was in this weird mood, so… “Sure, half an hour is fine. Where’s it at?”
“Little place just outside the city, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s just what you’re looking for, away from the tourists, authentic, and seafood so fresh it gets off the plate and tries to go back to the sea. There’s a nice patio with a sea view, you can have a drink and watch the fishing boats come in. Nice place you’ll like it. Tell you what, if you don’t like it – the cab ride is free. Both ways. I’ve got some friends nearby, I’ll wait for you and drive you back. Deal?”
Sounds like he just wants me to pay for his trip to visit friends, but whatever. “Deal”
We start to drive and he starts talking. Really talking. He will not shut up. I quickly learn that he doesn’t need any response from me, so I just let him drone. The traffic is terrible and the promised half hour is up almost before the ministry is out of sight. Eventually, we’re out of the city and the roads start to clear up. We are driving along the sea for a while and I watch the waves and the boats, thinking my thoughts while the driver keeps talking. It’s late June so the sun is still up and the ocean is beautiful and hypnotic.
After we’ve been on the road for about an hour, the pattern of his talking changes in a way that breaks through my haze. “Almost there he says. This area is part of Megara, my family’s lived in Megara for as long as any. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years. The records only go back so far, but as far back as they go, we’re there! We still have a small farm outside the city. I live in Athens now, it’s a great scandal. I’ll move back one day. But, it’s a small city, it doesn’t have the kinds of opportunity Athens has. My great-grandfather tells me that Megara was once a great city, that we once ruled Athens and Sparta both. The historians don’t say that, the archeologists don’t say that, but in my family we tell the legend of the time when Megara was the greatest city in all of Greece. He tells me this when I’m leaving for Athens, he tells me I should stay in Megara. But, I say, ‘But now, Megara isn’t so great.’ So, he hits me on the back of the head. It doesn’t hurt, he’s old. But still! I’m a grown man, he shouldn’t hit me.”
&nbs
p; I start to tune out again, when he announces, “Here we are! This restaurant is run by my cousin, and before that by my uncle and before him by my grandfather, on the other side, not the hitting side. As long back as anyone can remember. I’ll go in with you and introduce you around. I promise you’ll like it. What’s your name again?
“Robert, Robert Kakos”
“Hey” He shouts “Are you Greek? Kakos is a Greek name!”
“On my father’s side.”
“Come on! They are going to love you! They don’t get a lot of Americans, and hardly any Americans who are Greek and speak Greek!”
The place looked ok, it was clearly very old, a little run down, but clean. As he said, you could see the water from the patio and he led me to an empty table. There were a few other tables on the patio and a few groups of people. Everyone was drinking and eating and now, after more than an hour in the cab, I was suddenly very hungry.
“What do you want to drink? Beer, wine? Ouzo?” I’ll get it for you and bring you a menu!”
“I’ll have a beer, whatever is good and cold.”
He goes inside and is back a few minutes later with 2 beers and about a hundred people. He opens a beer and takes a swig, before opening the other for me, then he introduces me to his cousin, his cousin’s wife, kids, mother-in-law, grandmother and various friends. Everyone is friendly and soon my table is full. The beer is cold and good.
The driver takes a seat and more beers are called for, then ouzo, wine, food. The seafood is, in fact, ridiculously good. I notice the driver drinking and suggest he should take it a little easy since we need to get back to Athens. “Relax, I’ll stop after this drink.” He says swallowing a shot of ouzo and opening a beer. “I’ll be fine in a couple of hours. You Americans are so uptight.”
I figure if he’s too drunk when we leave, I can always call another cab and he can stay with family.
We drink, we eat, we sing and dance. He has a pretty cousin (or something) who wants to come to America and asks me lots of questions I don’t mind answering.
It slips out that it’s my birthday and more drinks are brought out, more toasting, more music. Some kind of pastry with a candle. It is, in fact, a marvelous time.
It’s a little past midnight when I remember that tomorrow is a workday and suggest to the driver that we should think about heading back to Athens.
He is clearly too drunk. “Tell you what” he slurs “let’s stay here in Megara tonight and head back early in the morning. We leave here about 6 and I’ll get you back to Athens by 6:30, 6:45. What do you say? I’m too drunk to drive all the way back to Athens. My father’s house is just about 2 miles from here. We can have a last drink and Dorothea,” he nods at his pretty cousin “can drive us in the cab.”
I can feel myself getting angry, but it slips away. I look over at Dorothea, she is pretty and she seems relatively sober. It’s been a great night, just what I needed, so let the party continue!
“Ok, sounds good. Will your father mind?”
“He’s dead, but Mom will be happy to meet you and she’s really got no choice about me!”
With plans made, we order another round of drinks, and maybe another after that. What are birthdays for?
It’s a little past 1:00 AM when Dorothea tells me it’s time to go. I’m already planning on being sick (and calling in sick) tomorrow.
I’m a little wobbly on my feet and she helps me to the cab. She is soft and steady and I enjoy the walk and the cool breeze off the sea.
The driver is already laid out across the back seat so I take the front passenger seat.
“It’s just a few minutes up the road” she says.
I nod and she pulls out onto the roadway. The driver in back is still talking! I can’t really understand him, but he keeps going. Dorothea starts to tell me something about the local history (it must be a family trait). I’m not really paying attention, maybe I’m nodding off.
I come to attention as the car slides off the road, maybe it’s a bridge, I’m not sure. I remember falling and thinking “Anytime you fall in a car it’s a bad thing.”
The last thing I remember, I’m waiting for the impact, but I never feel it.
Chapter 2
Introduction to the Book of Questionable Facts:
This book is called the Book of Questionable Facts for two reasons:
One – Because while much of it (if not most of it) is more or less true, it undoubtedly contains some things that are, if not completely false, at least wildly inaccurate. And;
Two – Because science demands that we question all assumptions and facts. If your results disagree with something in this book, check your results, have others check your results, but in the end, accept experimental results over anything you read here.
I wake up in pain. A lot of pain. And it’s pitch black. So black that I think I must be blind. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this kind of dark. There’s always some light, everywhere.
I’m confused at first, then the night starts to come back to me. I remember the car falling and, I assume, crashing.
I’m on some kind of bed. I’m not sure if the bed is just incredibly uncomfortable or if I’m banged and bruised (turns out the bed WAS incredibly uncomfortable – but I was banged up pretty bad too). I experimentally move various extremities, nothing moves particularly smoothly, but everything moves, nothing seems broken.
I feel in my pocket for my cell. Better call the bank team and let them know I’m not coming to the day’s meetings. The light from the screen is almost blinding. If I wasn’t blind before I am now. No signal. 11:31 AM. Well, I’ll give them a call once we’re back on the road. I remember suddenly the driver and his cousin. Where are they, are we in a hospital?
We must not be in a hospital, because I’m not attached to any tubes and there aren’t any machines that go “ping”. Also no lights. Plus it really doesn’t smell so good.
Gingerly, I sit up. Then I fall back flat again. If I’m not in a hospital I should be, I think as I pass out. I wake up again. Still in pain, still in the dark, still wondering where they got this uncomfortable bed. I check my cell, closing my eyes a bit against the expected glare. Still no signal, now 2:08 PM.
I decide to sit up again. More gingerly this time. I achieve sitting status with some difficulty and more than a little pain, but once sitting I remain in that position and don’t fall back. Ok, so I can sit up. It makes me happier than it should and feels like a real accomplishment. I swing my legs around and put them on the floor. Surprisingly, I still have my shoes on.
Before standing, I decide to look around a bit. I turn on the flashlight from my cell, not sure why I didn’t think of this before.
Scanning the room with the light tells me one thing – definitely not a hospital. The room is small, not really much larger than I am. The walls seem to be rough plaster, there is nothing like a square corner. The floor is raw wood worn smooth with use. There is some kind of rough door in front of the bed, which the light reveals to be handmade with a rough blanket and what appears to be a straw stuffed thin mattress. No wonder my back hurts (aside from the car accident).
So – a few moments of thinking solves the mystery. I’m in the farmhouse of the driver’s mother! The kind of house that must have been in the family for hundreds of years. They might not even have wired it for electricity, that’s why it’s so dark. And the smell – it’s just hundreds of years of living.
I stand up, or almost stand up and rap my head on the surprisingly low ceiling. I sit back down and suddenly woozy, I lay back down and, no surprise here, pass out again.
I wake up again and this time the room is less than completely dark, there is a light coming through the door. I check my cell, 4:14 PM; still no signal and the battery is low.
Back through the process, sitting, carefully standing, bent over to avoid the ceiling and, really without moving, I push open the door. Light floods my eyes and for a few moments I’m blind. Then, I duck down and pass through the d
oorway. I feel pretty steady.
I’m on a 2nd floor gallery overlooking a courtyard. This seems to confirm my guess that I’m at the farm house of the driver’s mother.
There is a woman down in the courtyard, she looks to be in her late 50’s or early 60’s – could be the mother – she is dressed in what, I imagine, must have been the fashion here for thousands of years, a kind of short dress, belted and actual Greek sandals. It’s like my own personal reenactment museum. Colonial Williamsburg but with Greeks!
I call down to her “Hello” I say in English, then a second later in Greek. “Where are Dorothea and the cabdriver?” I really have to ask his name. There is some kind of bond you form with people who have been both drunk and in a crash with you.
She looks up at me and seems surprised to see me. Maybe the driver didn’t mention me? Without a word, she disappears into one of the doors and returns a few moments later with a man. Not the driver. Someone else, also dressed in some odd clothing, also wearing sandals, maybe late 30’s. He starts to climb the stairs to my floor. As he is climbing I say to him “Hi, I’m Robert, I was with the cabdriver and Dorothea last night when we had the accident. Are they ok? Where are they? I need to make a phone call and get to Athens as soon as possible.”
He said something I didn’t catch as he rounds the gallery towards me. When we were face to face he repeated himself (or maybe said something different). It sounded like Greek, similar sounds and even some words that almost sounded like words I should know, but I couldn’t understand a thing he said.
So, I repeated myself, slowly and pronouncing each word as carefully as I could. He seemed confused. But a look of recognition crossed his face at the word Athens. So, I repeated it. “Athens. I need to get to Athens.” Accompanied with the proper hand signals. Finger pointing at my chest at “I” and making some kind of gesture to convey “go”.
He repeated with a strange accent “Athens”. Was it possible that the accent was so different that we couldn’t communicate this close to Athens? The driver and I had done fine, the rest of the family at the restaurant too.
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