The Fox Knows Many Things: An Athena Fox Adventure

by Mike Sweeney

  He’d found me a tavern in the Plaka, outdoor seating in a vine-covered court at long tables under white table cloths. The band; a guitar, bouzouki, and keyboard player, were set up on a low stage at one end. I’d been somewhat nonplussed when it turned out all their percussion came from the keyboard. Were authentic drummers that hard to come by?

  A sudden yawn took me by surprise. It was a good one, too.

  “I am boring you,” Markos was ever attentive.

  “Never,” I said. “I’m just…this has been a surprisingly long day. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “You didn’t sleep? What were you doing?”

  “Um…swimming.” For my life.

  “Ah. So your skin doesn’t normally look like that?”

  “My skin? Oh boy, you really know how to charm a girl.”

  Markos was tense for a moment, searching my eyes. Then relaxed. We were starting to get comfortable with each other’s moods.

  The band finished, changed instruments around, started something new. Something that sounded familiar. The audience thought so too.

  “Ah,” Markos said. “Sirtaki,” he told me.

  “Sir who?”

  “You are teasing again,” he said. “No, you really don’t know. Zorba’s Dance.” He emphasized the words.

  “Still not ringing a bell.”

  “You have not seen Zorba the Greek?!”

  “You sound like this is The Iliad for the modern Greek.”

  “Maybe it is. We can call him Antonias Homer Quinn. He sprained his ankle on the day they were to film the dance, you know, so he made up his own and told them it was traditional.”

  “And now it is.”

  “Now it is.” Markos thought about it. “It is not invented from nothing. It is a sort of hasapiko, which comes from the Byzantines. Oh,” he said then. “Here we go.”

  Some of the other diners had gotten up and joined hands. Markos stood as well, then reached out his hands to me.

  “Sure.” We joined the others, who had already begun the steps of the line dance. It started easy. Step right, bring the left foot in, then reverse. Then a sort of hook, kick, kick. At least it was in simple 4/4. And slow, a stately measured slow.

  “You know this!” Markos said, delighted.

  “Not really,” I said, watching feet. I’d done some line dances. Actually, what I’d done is learn the horah during Fiddler. More of my mis-spent youth. Hadn’t danced the show, though.

  Now it was a cross step, in front then behind. The tempo was speeding up. I wasn’t the only one on the wrong foot, at least. I heard a few giggles from other dancers as they missed a step or two themselves.

  The first “Opa!” took me entirely by surprise. I fell out at that point. Almost fell, in fact. Markos had to support me on his arm. I bent into him.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “I’m asleep on my feet.”

  “No, I am sorry. I will take you home.”

  “Markos.” I tried to clear my head. “I need to be very, very honest. Markos, I want to take you home. But I am too sleepy. Last night was...I’m not sure I can tell you how crazy it was. And now it has caught up with me.”

  “Do you want to finish eating, or should we leave now?”

  “Neither,” I said. The music had gotten faster and faster, reached a climax and then dropped back for a final chorus at a slow, reflective pace. I tilted my face up. He didn’t get it.

  I grabbed his ears. He got the point then. It was a good kiss. I bit to make sure he’d remember it.

  I had enough left in me to finish eating. There was more music, too. I hadn’t been lying. I really did want him, but I wasn’t ready.

  Strange talk from a theatre bum. Outsiders thought theatre people must rut like rabbits. Do you know how many long hours there were involved in getting a production together, how many late nights of rehearsals and later nights doing the required “volunteer” work in the shop? Ten-hour days turned into twelve, into fourteen. We were professionals working very hard at a demanding craft and, yeah, we rutted like rabbits.

  Except that wasn’t really true for me. I wasn’t shy. That wasn’t a word anyone had or ever would use about me. But it took me a while. I had to make a connection on a personal level. As much as I believed in the freedom of the one-night stand, I’d never managed to make it work.

  In short, I was very glad that my struggles in the Adriatic had given me an unimpeachable excuse to, once again on this trip, go to bed alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ACCORDING TO MARKOS, a bunch of Vakalo students hung out together on Saturdays at an out-of-the-way mezedopoleio that didn’t mind them hogging one of the big tables all afternoon. Well, that and they drank a lot while they were there.

  “They may have some answers for your questions,” he said. “Socrates is usually there,” he added.

  “Socrates? That better not be the name of a cat. Or another storm.”

  The tropical depression Xenophon had been upgraded to a full-blown Medicane called Zorbas. At least that’s what the news program I’d caught had said. Really, who was naming these things? Having a TV in the room wasn’t the same as having Internet, but at least I didn’t feel completely cut off from the world.

  I had a long but not always comfortable sleep, picked out some slightly less touristy clothes and re-acquainted myself with the array of cosmetics that had stayed in Athens with the rest of my luggage while I raced around Europe. It was a little surreal. It felt like a lot longer than five days since I had been here. This rented hotel room felt more like home than home did. And wasn’t that was a scary thought.

  I also finally read the sign by the toilet and realized I’d been using it wrong all along. Really? You put the used paper in the basket? The Athens plumbing system was that fragile? And here I’d thought they were being extra-helpful to female travelers by putting that receptacle there.

  The sign had been in Greek, English…and German. There was some strange connection between Athens and Germany. Or there were just a whole lot of German tourists.

  “No, he is a student,” Markos was explaining. “His real name is Pavlos, but he is always annoying everyone with his philosophers and his dead historians and so the gang started calling him Socrates.”

  “Funny. There a lot of nicknames in your crowd?”

  “You’ll see.”

  It wasn’t raining, but the sky was overcast and smelled of ozone. Inside was comparatively bright and we weren’t the first there. Biro was already seated.

  “Yasou!” I cried, waving my hand at him, fingers wide. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Who has been teaching you?” Biro chided, coming to his feet. “It is good you waved like that to me first. It is an insulting gesture to a Greek.”

  I looked at Markos. He nodded in agreement. “You already know Biro,” he observed.

  “You’ve discovered Achilles,” Biro said snarkily.

  “Achilles?” I looked from one to the other.

  “Most gorgeous of the Achaeans,” Biro said, sarcasm in full flight. “He likes to hang around the art museums and pick up foreign chicks.”

  Ooh, boy. I came around the table to look Biro full in the face. “Are you jealous?”

  “No.” But sullenly.

  “Are you trying to protect me?” I demanded. “Because I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”

  That got to him. A smile cracked through his scowl. “I’m too young to be your dad,” he said. “I’m not jealous, really. You’re cute but you’re not my type.”

  I sighed theatrically. “Really? Cute? Is that all I am going to get from you people?”

  “I have other words. Many other words.”

  “Later, Achilles.” I said sternly. Then destroyed the effect by giggling.

  Achilles. Interesting. Back where I came from, we thought of Achilles as a warrior, and as the one who got shot in the foot. And maybe if we had any classical leanings, the one who was always sulking in his
tent. Did it say something about the Greek mind that his peers would reach for Achilles as the name for a guy who was too good-looking for his own good?

  “So I finally met an Athenian,” I told Biro.

  “Besides me,” he said.

  “I mean born here.” Markos sucked in a breath. Oops. I’d hit another sore spot?

  Biro shook his head. “I thought better of you. It is okay, I am used to it. You are like those stupid guards up on the Acropolis that day: you think I am Sudanese?”

  “Umm…” I started to say something then thought better of it.

  “Our family is Eritrean. We have been in Greece for four generations now. I was born in Greece. I speak Greek. I am Greek.”

  It was a sore subject. And from the looks back and forth, a subject that had been discussed at this table before. “I am sorry,” I said. “I made an assumption, and I insulted you because of it.”

  “And then you learn,” Biro said. “There are so many immigrants right now,” he said. “Mostly Albania, but also Sudan. They aren’t much liked.”

  “So is Biro an Eritrean name?”

  He laughed. “They would say ‘Brre.’ But that’s for a dip pen. The ballpoint is ‘Pena.’”

  “So it’s all you,” I said.

  “It’s all me. Now sit! The others will be here soon enough, and if you want any food, you need to beat them to it.”

  We sat. Socrates arrived soon enough, carrying a mug I was fairly sure wasn’t hemlock. Then a Demetrius (I looked but I didn’t see a Helena in pursuit), and two in heated conversation that Biro told me were named Georgio and Goku. Goku? I shared a look with Markos. He shrugged.

  There was a lively interest in me as the gang assembled. “He doesn’t usually hang on to them long enough to bring them here,” Biro said. That was a bit cruel.

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “Okay, maybe it is like that.”

  “I’m not here at all. Just keep talking about me.”

  “Yse poly malakas!” The two G’s were at it again. I think that was Georgio.

  His buddy Goku (really, Goku?) came back with what to my ear sounded like more laid-back but equally pungent Greek.

  “They’re talking about the fire,” Biro explained.

  “They sound angry.”

  “Everyone is angry,” Markos volunteered. “Many people died.”

  Died? Biro must have seen my shock. “The Attica Wildfires. It was just this July.”

  July, July. “Wait. Was that…the people standing in the sea to get away from the flames?”

  “Mati,” Georgio told me. “Wooden buildings. Fuckers bribed the inspectors. Half the fire engines were in the shop for missing parts. Pigfucking EU and their pisscock Austerity.”

  “And no warnings. Didn’t wanna cause a panic.” Goku added.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Folks, this is Penny,” Biro made the announcement. “She’s a historian. Or was that archaeologist?”

  “Ah…” I temporized.

  “Christ our Lord.” That was Georgio again. “Keep that away from me!”

  Wait, what? I turned to address him directly. “You’re serious,” I said.

  “Serious as a dead dog in the street. Where archaeologists go, construction stops. Everyone has to wait for the assholes to finish jacking off into their little holes.”

  “You find a statue in your garden, better smash that thing quick,” Goku volunteered.

  “Otherwise they’ll be on you like flies.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. “What about your heritage?”

  “You can’t eat rock!”

  “I believe she speaks as she does because her heritage is American.” Socrates, unexpectedly coming to my aid. “Their nation is yet a child. From her perspective, every bit of history is precious.” Okay, maybe not to my aid, exactly.

  “But what about the tourist dollar?” I asked, hating myself for it.

  English didn’t have the words Georgio wanted. I wanted to write down what he said, but I was afraid to ask.

  Meze arrived, finger foods I was slowly starting to find familiar. And again messing with my expectations, the guys had glasses, but they were pouring beer from a trio of bottles set up in the center of the table.

  “So,” Biro said brightly into the silence. “How do you think the referendum will go?”

  “The Slavs’ll sign,” Goku shrugged. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  I looked from one to the other. “The Prespa agreement,” Biro explained. “Our government has graciously allowed part of the former Yugoslavia to call itself...”

  “Tispras threw us under the bus!” Georgio burst out. “North Macedonia my bleeding prick!”

  Macedonia? As in Alexander of? And then I remembered Markos correcting me back at the National. This might be a good time to shut up and listen.

  “It’s stupid,” Goku shrugged. “They’re not Greek.”

  “I can understand their admiration for Hellenic culture...”

  “Piss up a tree, Socrates! What, all that fapping made you blind? Both of you!” His voice dropped, the last words in a dangerous growl. “It’s not culture they want. It’s conquest.”

  “Macedonia is part of Greece,” Goku had his theme and was sticking to it. “Alexander was Greek. The Skopjes are Slavs.”

  “Macedonia is a Greek province,” Markos took pity on me. “After Yugoslavia broke up the Southern tip tried to call themselves Macedonia, too.”

  He’d spoken a little too loudly. Georgio looked ready to blow up again.

  “So what makes a Greek?” Biro interrupted. He looked at Goku and there was a dangerous undertone in his voice. “How can you tell? Am I a Greek, Goku?”

  “Yeah, you’re a metic,” Georgio said dismissively.

  “Not so!” Socrates had leapt gleefully into the fray. “In the time of Pericles a metic meant a non-citizen. We Athenians have always been proud to be autochthons. If you weren’t born in Athens to Athenians, your only hope was to be sponsored into citizenship.”

  “So he’s a metic.”

  “In the time of Solon, Athens was desperate to expand the polis with skilled workers. Long after the wars with Sparta, too, it became possible to buy citizenship — this time with cash. The claims of autochthony do not hold water.”

  “If I understand it, though,” I couldn’t help myself, “this would be true of anyone who wasn’t Athenian. Spartan, Thespian, or Ethiopian; it made no difference. I think what Biro is aiming for is what makes one a Hellene.”

  “The koine, they would have said.” Socrates gave me a nod of approval. “To my mind, it was never said better than by Herodotus. Shared descent, shared language, shared shrines, shared customs.”

  “And after the diaspora? After the return?” Biro pressed. “After population exchange and, yes, genocide?”

  “We are Hellenes,” Georgio snorted. “Genetics proves it. Our blood goes back to Theseus.”

  “Since Metaxas…”

  Hooting cut him off.

  “Since Metaxas,” Socrates pushed ahead, “It has been ethnos that matters. Not genos. As Isocrates said; ‘People are called Greeks because they share in our education rather than in our birth.’ The Constitution of 1822 made it official. Metaxas merely executed it. ”

  “Metaxas was a bastard,” Georgio said angrily. “He burned books. He tortured people for speaking the Macedonian Greek dialect.”

  “So, Socrates…” Demetrius had a look in his eye. “Here’s Penny. She’s with friends eating meze and arguing politics. How much more Greek can you be than that?”

  “Oh, no way!” Biro looked betrayed.

  “Um…” I did not like the way this was going.

  “She’s in Greece. She knows the classics. Say something in Greek, Penny.”

  I had to hope I knew where he was going with this. “Opa!” I said brightly.

  “See; she’s Greek.”

  “No fucking way!” Georgio yelled. “I’m all f
or whatever pisses off Biro, but no outsider can understand. You must be born Greek.”

  “No.” Socrates weighed in. “This does not properly reflect the spirit of the definition.”

  “So, she’s Skopia?” Demetrius switched his attack to Georgio.

  “What? She’s no Slav!”

  “Oh, is that all it takes to be a fake Greek, then?”

  “You want to eat wood? ‘Cause I’ve got some right here!”

  “My mother’s family was from Poland.” I made an evil grin. “That close enough?”

  “I do believe there are substantial logical holes in your argument.”

  “You want to be next, Socrates? Because I can put bricks in your mouth, too.”

  “Enough!” Markos slammed his hands on the table. “This is unkind.”

  They were all looking at him. I stood, deliberately. “You want my two cents?”

  “No. You don’t get a vote.” Georgio, of course.

  “You get them anyway. Biro is Athenian. You are all Athenian. And that’s enough.”

  I sat back down.

  “You ain’t Athenian,” Goku said quietly. “But I like the way you argue.”

  “Make her honorary member of the Athenian League,” Demetrius said suddenly.

  “What the fap is that?”

  “Us,” he grinned.

  “Yse malakas. That’s a lame name.” Giorgios thought quickly. “The Demons of Vakalo.”

  “No.”

  “The Posthumous Agora.”

  “What kind of eene kako is that?”

  “No, I like it,” Demetrius joined in. “I knew we kept Socrates around for a reason.”

  “But what the fuck does it mean?”

  “Who cares!” Goku clinched the vote. “She’s in.”

  Demetrius stood. “By the careful consideration of all standing members, and blessed with the sacred Mythos and Fix,” it took me a long moment to realize he meant the beers, “Penny, girlfriend of Achilles, is made now and forever a member of the Posthumous Agora.”

  “Opa!”

  “Opa!”

  “Art students!” Biro laughed.

  It was astounding, I thought, just how much of a real-life Athena Fox investigation took the form of sitting somewhere and eating. Half of the Posthumous Agora had gone off to find more excitement. We were down to Biro, Markos…and Socrates. That is, Pavlos.