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May 1973
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DATING ARCAS MEANT licking envelopes, putting up notices, and attending meetings in his rooming house on St. George. His room was Spartan, just a bed, a chest, a desk, a couple Theodorakis posters, and an odd bit of pottery he used as a paperweight. I picked it up to examine it more closely.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the spiral of hieroglyphics carved into the unglazed clay.
“Just an old relic my father found in Crete when I was a kid.”
“Interesting, do you know what the symbols mean?”
“No, I’m not an archaeologist.”
I studied it closely, fascinated by the small images carved into the clay. A month ago, the relic would have meant little to me, but now I wanted to know everything about Greece. That small, sunny country full of ancient ruins, was the home of my new friends. I’d been lonely in Toronto, but now I was part of a group. I loved the bull sessions and the rallies, the late nights and the beer and I was gradually and inevitably falling in love with Arcas.
Politics was more than entertainment to the Greeks in our circle. A lot of them, like Tom and Arcas, belonged to PAK, Andreas Papandreou’s Panhellenic Liberation Movement, and the restitution of Greek democracy was the focus of their lives. They studied news from Athens, analyzing it and picking it apart for hidden clues like forensic pathologists. Nothing was simple and nothing could be taken at face value. They might have been students of economics, chemistry, or medicine, but defeating the junta was their real occupation, the thing that gave meaning to their lives.
Back in high school, Joanie and I had attended anti-war rallies in Rochester, and we might have gone to the March on Washington if it hadn’t been for midterms, but the truth is I didn’t care that much about politics. Now, six years later, not much had changed. I was on my way to another demonstration because I thought it was a party and a guy I liked had asked me to go with him.
The rally was being held in the banquet room of a popular Greek restaurant since the Greek church was under the thumb of Papadopoulos and the junta and refused to let the PAK use its facilities. Tom claimed the Greek Church had moved even further to the right since the US had elected Spiro Agnew, a Greek Republican, as Vice President. Luckily, the restaurant’s owner, was a passionate anti-royalist, who’d not only provided a room, but urns of coffee and platters of small cookies dusted with powdered sugar. The place was filled to capacity, and the noise was deafening as everyone shouted to be heard over everyone else.
Tables had been removed to accommodate the crowd except for a speaker’s table that stood at the front with a Canadian flag on one side and a Greek flag on the other. I’d imagined Arcas and Tom sitting at that table, but they were mere functionaries while older men in suits ran the show. Arcas mingled with the crowd, chatting in Greek and dripping powdered sugar on his T-shirt, while Nancy and I sat on the perimeter speaking English.
It was her first venture out in public since the accident. She looked normal, all the casts and bandages were gone, but I knew she was weak and easily fatigued, so we pulled two chairs into a quiet alcove, sipped our coffees, and gossiped like old ladies, trying to avoid the ruckus.
You look wonderful,” I assured her. “You’re really bouncing back.”
“Not quite, but I’m going back to work on a reduced schedule starting next week.”
“Great, the sooner the better. Arcas says they’re lost without you. No one else knows how to work the Xerox machine.”
Nancy rolled her eyes, “You’d think a bunch of doctoral candidates could figure out where to put the paper.”
I grinned in agreement as I surveyed the room. “Quite a good turnout. The guys must be ecstatic.”
“Probably, but I’m not surprised. Greeks love politics. It’s the national pastime.”
I pointed to a young man with unfashionably short hair who was walking through the crowd snapping photos. “Is the Globe and Mail covering the rally? It looks like someone sent a photographer.”
“I doubt it, more likely a spy for the RCMP or the Greek government.”
“The RCMP? That’s crazy, why would the Royal Canadian Mounted Police care about the meeting?” I gave her a doubtful look.
“Because they think we’re all Communists.” She turned away from the man with the camera. “Tom thinks they have files on everyone since Watergate, but he’s probably just being paranoid.”
That sent a cold breeze whistling down my spine. The last thing I needed was the Canadian government looking at me.
Nancy lowered her voice. “It’s probably someone from the Greek government, anyway. They hate the PAK.”
“Are you saying the Greek government has men in Canada?” I asked, incredulous.
She looked amused. “It’s not exactly a secret. It’s called the Greek consulate. They have an office on Bay Street. But they aren’t supposed to interfere with fundamental freedoms like free speech and peaceful assembly.”
“Is that who Tom thinks ran you over with the car?” I asked in a low voice.
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not really, stuff like that happens in Greece, not in Canada. I know he freaked out when it happened, but I don’t think he really believed they’d do a thing like that in North America. They wouldn’t dare.”
I looked around the room where I saw one man after another scowl and turn his back on the photographer. Tom shouted at him in Greek and pointed toward the door. To my surprise, the photographer simply snapped one more photo, closed his camera, and left without a word of protest.
I watched him disappear through the doorway into the outer corridor. “You were right, he’s Greek. He sure understood whatever Tom said to him.”
“Yep.” Nancy was grinning, looking delighted. “Tom’s incredible. I know he can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, but he’s smart and he has a good heart. He cares about stuff and really wants to make the world better. You wouldn’t believe the way he took care of me after the accident.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “That sounds like love.”
Nancy shrugged and looked away. “I’m probably in love with him, but there’s no point talking about it. He’s going back to Greece as soon as the junta’s gone. His family wouldn’t let him marry me anyway. They’re snooty, upper-crust types who’ve probably got some little virgin from a wealthy family picked out for him already.”
I was appalled. “I don’t believe it. Tom would never let his family push him around like that. Anyway, he’s half Canadian. Why wouldn’t he stay here with you?”
“Because he’s probably going to be prime minister of Greece someday. Do you see the prime minister of Greece married to a janitor’s daughter from Peterborough? I don’t think so.”
“I can absolutely imagine him married to a janitor’s daughter from Peterborough if he loved her.” What I couldn’t imagine was Tom being the prime minister of anything, but Nancy was smitten. There was no sense arguing that point with her. I looked around for Tom but didn’t see him in the room. “The future prime minister seems to be missing. I hope he gets back before the speeches start.”
“Don’t worry, he’s here, he and Arcas are working security. They’re probably outside making sure no one tries to shut us down.”
Someone flashed the lights, and the room grew quiet as the first speaker took the microphone. The program began without much drama, just speeches, a few whistles, hisses, and rounds of applause, but nothing alarming or out of the ordinary. Of course, they were all speaking Greek so I had no idea what was actually said. Occasionally, Nancy would recognize a speaker and whisper his name in my ear, but since none of the names meant anything to me, I just smiled, went on sipping my coffee and looking around the room.
A mural of the Parthenon was painted on one wall while guilt frames filled with faded photos of the owner’s family covered another. There was scuffed black and white linoleum on the floor and acoustic tiles on the ceiling. The food must have been great because I was sure no one came for the ambiance. I turned my attention to the audience, mostly men, seated in closely packed chairs. The older men wore sport coats, the younger ones T-shirts and jeans, but they all leaned forward with the same rapt expressions, nodding in unison when they agreed with the speaker and jeering whenever the words Vasilia Constantinou were spoken. You didn’t need an advanced degree in Greek to know they were booing the king. It was clear the speakers were preaching to the choir.
A hush fell over the room as the keynote speaker took the floor. Nancy tapped me on the shoulder. “That’s Andreas Papandreou. He’s a professor at York University now, but his father was the prime minister of Greece. He’s the one who started the Panhellenic Liberation Movement. The guys talk about him all the time.”
Before I could smile or nod, the room went dark, the mic went dead, and the air-conditioning cut off. There was a moment of confused silence then a murmur, like the buzzing of disturbed bees. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear the scrape and squeal of metal chairs being pushed against the floor, then the voice of someone, probably one of the organizers, shouting instructions in Greek. There was the sound of feet running and the creak of a door opening, then a moment later the lights blinked back on, the whirr of the air-conditioner resumed, and the former prime minister’s son, a nice-looking middle-aged man, returned to the microphone.
Nancy and I exchanged bemused glances then shrugged and listened as Dr. Papandreou gave an impassioned address in two languages that engaged the crowd. There was enthusiastic applause, questions, answers, and more applause. Eventually, everyone but Nancy and I stood up and filed from the room. Tom and Arcas still hadn’t reappeared. We waited patiently in our seats, hoping that we hadn’t been forgotten. Fifty minutes later there was still no sign of them, and I was about to suggest that we make our own way home on the subway when they pushed open the door and hobbled into the room. Tom’s shirt was torn, and his lip was bleeding. Arcas was walking with a bit of a limp and rubbing his arm.
“Where in the world have you two been?” Nancy asked, clearly annoyed. “Everyone else left an hour ago.” Then, as she registered their injuries, she let out a little, “Oh, my God.”
“Sorry, but there was a problem that needed our attention.” Arcas sat down hard in a folding chair.
“Yeah, what do the English say? We regret that we were unavoidably detained.” Tom wiped his lip with the side of his hand, then studied his bloodied fingers.
Nancy pulled a package of tissues from her purse and handed one to Tom, softening as she assessed the damage. “What in the world happened? What have you guys been up to?”
Arcas, who’d been sitting with his head in his hands looked up with a wry smile. “Fighting for democracy.”
Tom nodded. “Actually, that is what we were doing. You know those fascists hanging around outside the building? Well, two of them snuck in and tried to sabotage the meeting. They pulled a couple fuses just as Andreas was about to speak. My job was to keep an eye out for trouble, so I was in the hall and caught them messing with the electric boxes. When they saw me, they ran off with the fuses in their pockets, but I tackled one of them then Arcas showed up and landed the other. After we got the lights back on we had to wait for the police to arrive and file a report. It was all very proper, very Canadian.
“It wasn’t actually that easy. Those guys put up a fight.” Arcas had his arm extended and was rotating it back and forth, making sure everything still worked.
“No kidding.” Tom rubbed his swollen cheek. “But at least we’re in Toronto. If they’d caught us holding a meeting like this in Athens, they wouldn’t have pulled fuses, they’d have been pulling out our fingernails. The junta’s men are monsters.”
“Yeah, but the guys who showed up today aren’t much better. They’re idiots and traitors. How can they support the colonels? How do they sleep at night?” Arcas was livid.
I’d seen the opposition outside the restaurant hawking their fliers and engaging anyone who’d listen in noisy arguments. Arcas had steered me away from their table and crumpled the flier they’d thrust into his hand, making a great show of tossing it into the nearest trash can.
“Were they arrested?” I wanted to know.
“No, but they’ll have to show up in court. We’ll probably have to go too, to tell the judge what happened.”
“You’re heroes.” I went over to Arcas and gave him a big hug, then pulled him to his feet. “How about pizza and beer at my place tonight? Let’s celebrate your victory over the oppressors. My treat.” I felt a warm sensation rising through my body. Arcas had jumped on a bad guy and held him by brute force. He was making a difference, standing up for democracy. I pushed aside a dark curl that had fallen across his forehead and inhaled the musky odor of sweat mingled with his usual scent of cinnamon and tobacco. Maybe I’d spring for a couple bottles of wine as well.