I FEAR THE GREEKS BEARING GIFTS
When I returned home from four years of war in 1946, apa was not there to greet me. He had been forbidden by court order not to approach within one mile of his former residence. For those of you who require the whys and wherefores of such things, that is a story for another day.
I located him in Freeport, Long Island, where he had again become a successful entrepreneur during the war. He was, also, an Elder in the Greek Community, to which he spent out reunion day introducing me, never failing to point out that I wore the uniform of a Captain. I marveled at this affection for the military, since he had left his village in Greece to avoid their obligatory draft. I do not say this as criticism as Papa was wise in the moral truths of the world and the impotence of war as a solution.
Moreover, when I left after several days of VIP treatment, he urged me to visit often and to be sure I wore my uniform.
To be fair, I knew that Papa was not given to ostentation without purpose. His business successes were frequently attributable to his particular charm, and a kind of practical guile in soliciting advantage. His favorite device was a gift basket of rare fruits studded with such amenities as champagne and caviar within which he would include an envelope carrying crisp new bills of varying denominations--depending on the value of the gratitude required.
I knew that sooner or later his purpose would be revealed. IT was--and much sooner than I expected. I was asked to serve as Godfather to the newly born grandson of his business partner, Aristophanes, who was the Patriarch of the community and who boasted a brass posting of his identity on the walls of the town cathedral. It extolled his generosity and was, I suspect, a down payment for immortality.
There is no point to recount my protestations, the fact that I almost never had gone to Church and that my Greek was far from passable within the context of an interminable and intricate liturgy. He reminded me of the many dollars he poured into the private school he sent me to learn Greek and the immortal ways of our Fathers. He reminded me also of my filial duty to make him proud and of the benefits that would rebound to our family name.
I capitulated though Paper made that sacrifice easier by offering the down payment on the new Ford motorcar I contemplated buying.
There are twenty-five pages of single-spaced text in the Sacrament of Baptism. I spent several days memorizing the Nicene Creed in Greek, my major part in the ceremony. For the rest, I seemed to be managing well. When the Priest asked me if I had renounced Satan and all his works, I said I had, though mentally I thought I would not want to submit to cross-examination on the subject. When he asked me to breathe and spit on Satan, I did. But the worst was to come. As I stood taut and anxious for my cue, a voice behind me sounded. I listened to seventeen lines of perfect articulation of the Creed. Apparently there was some apprehension that my recitation might in some way inhibit entry into Paradise for the infant, as my accent was identifiably non-Greek and likely suspect.
I admit that I was relieved, though somewhat insulted, at the intervention.
Later, at the inevitable reception my tension was assuaged when I drank several toasts to the immortality of my Godchild. There were toasts after toasts. I do not remember much about the dancing, but I do recall the Patriarch and grandfather of the now cacophonous infant and his dramatic entry upon the scene of the celebration.
He strode into the hall majestically, removed his overcoat, and tossed it into the middle of the floor. His wife, elderly and stooped, her head covered with the traditional pleasant scarf, picked it up, dusted it off, and exited the room. She was clearly a proper wife and helpmate in the ancient tradition of our forefathers.
Papa was pleased. I was slightly drunk, and puzzled. There was nothing that revealed his purpose in the occasion. Papa usually had a good reason for his business peregrinations. To plagiarize a phrase, I decided I would think about that, tomorrow.
It was many tomorrows before the contents of my father's wooden horse became apparent to me. But it is late; I am tired. If you want to hear more, so signify, yea or nay.
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Well I think I recall what was the reason, the purpose of this introduction to the Long Island Patriarch and his family. I know it was the subject of another story. It may be one already on this blog, I don't remember. If not, hopefully I will locate it and transcribe it here in time. I can tease it however. The old man had plans to marry Dad off to one of the young ladies of the family. The problem was, which my Grandfather did not then know, my father was already married, to my mother. They kept their marriage a secret for one year.
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