An Athenian Diary

15

Characters

"000-000," writes Theophrastos, the late fourth century BCE student and successor of Aristotle. His Characters is often seen as a manual for writers of New Comedy, quick sketches of stereotyped characters ("the miser," "the lusty man," etc.) that could be plugged in to a play without original thought on the part of the playwright. Perhaps; or perhaps it was a catalogue of such types, like the other catalogues, descriptive and analytical, produced by Aristotle, Theophrastos, and other members of the school. I've no such lofty goal here -- rather just to sketch out briefly some people I know casually, in one setting, but who have stuck me as somehow full of life, or unusual. My knowledge of all derives only from stereotyped interaction, or a single encounter; of the full humanness of their lives I know nothing. Most cases I don't even know their names. But still they have resonated with me, one way or another, and so I offer here in honor of them a few inadequate words.

    The Priest

I met him at the church at Pantanassa-Geoumena. He'd been priest there for 33 years, and his father was priest before him for 50. None of his three sons was interested in following the family tradition; they didn't want to wear the clothes, he said, fingering his deep purple robes, and they wanted to make more money. When he started as priest the two towns the church serves had a population of about 200; today it's less than forty. Everyone else has died or moved away. The families still own the land and olive orchards, but come only for a couple of weeks for the olive harvest (just about to occur when we met; that is, mid-October), and then leave immediately for Athens. He was delighted when I asked to light a candle. All this information he conveyed with an irrepressible smile and a verve for life that simply radiated from his very pores. Was it the beard, the resemblance to Santa Claus (St. Nikolaos is much venerated in this region, down by Monemvasia; more on him perhaps later), life in a small town atop a mountain, surrounded by sun and sea and fresh air?

    The Seller of Doughnuts

He posts himself on Marasilo Street, just south of the entrance to Euangelismos Hospital. There's lots of traffic there -- taxis dropping off and picking up, doctors and nurses rushing out on break, pedestrians dodging the cars and the dog poop. Like a thousand others of his profession, his office is a handcart with clear sides stuffed with 000-000. He wouldn't let me take a picture of him, so herewith one of his doughnuts, standing in for him.

    The Lady Who Owns the Bookshop

The shop is just down the street on Marasilo, opposite the gymnasion. The window's stuffed with books and the narrow compass of the shop is a jumble of shelves with books in no apparent order. The bookshop lady, of indeterminate (but more advanced than mine) age, is the only person I've ever seen in it. Every time I've gone in I've had the distinct impression she feels offended by the possibility she might have to do business. She stands there looking at me with a slightly challenging expression, as if daring me to name a book she will actually sell. I sputter out my paltry Greek, she stares me down and announces, "Sorry, I don't have that" or "It's sold out" or, once, "I have that but it's really, really expensive." Her chief aim seems to be never actually to have to sell a book. She's sent me to her competitors on every occasion but one, when I needed a first-year Greek textbook for the kids that's also used in the public schools. (It's pretty hard to deny you carry the main public school textbook when your putative clientele is the mass of students pulsating across the street.) But the book only cost 2.5 euros, so she hardly made any money off me at all, and was able to counterbalance that defeat with a firm denial of any knowledge even of the workbook that went with it. (Edie had to chase it down at a big bookstore on Solonos Street -- to which, of course, she had referred us.)

    Kanouries Barbies!

   Just down the street from us, opposite the Maraseilon (the neighborhood school), tucked into a little shop, lurks the neighborhood's greatest danger -- the toy store. The owner, an energetic guy with a son in the advertising business, has fished more money out of our pockets than I can remember. Early on, he sold us the "Sindy" backpacks the kids carry every day to school. For Christmas, we spent hours in the store reviewing every Barbie, till we settled on "Gymnastic Barbie," a toy Caroline has called "sick." (Only in the best of senses, of course.) Now, whenever we pass, he pops his head out the shop with a big leer and whispers, "Kanouries Barbies" -- new Barbies! Whatever will we do when we are back in West Hartford and don't get his solicitations every time we run down the street to mail a letter or buy a newspaper?