from Children of Argos, Act Two

I am Andreas Koriotis.

I was born in a little village between Athens and Thebes.  When I turned sixteen my father came to me with a piece of paper in his hand. He said, Andreas, since the day you were born I have worked hard to feed you and clothe you, and here, on this paper, subtracting of course the sweat of my labor, is what you have cost me.

He gave me the piece of paper and I looked at the figure. Thousands of drachmas I had cost my father.  He said, Andreas, you are old enough to work.  You will work until you are able to pay me back the amount you see there on that paper.

You will say, this is cruel, that no father should behave in this way, that the obligation to support an aging father should go assumed, unspoken, come from the heart, that in demanding payment a father forfeits the very thing he demands.  I might even have asked, did you consult me, father, before you thrust your loins and brought me into this world?  With what right, then, do you now thrust upon me a life of labor so I can pay back what I did not ask you to give?

But I did not say these things to my father.

This does not mean that I loved him.  Whether you love your father or not, you obey your father.  At least that is the way where I come from.  A son’s obedience comes before love, is more important than love, takes the place of love, perhaps is love, as we understand it.

And so, to meet my obligation, I set sail, as did so many others, for the land of work and money, and found myself in New York City, without a word of English.  There is no need for English in what they sometimes call, as a joke, the second largest Greek city.  There, in Queens, I found a bed that I shared in shifts with three other young Greek fellows like myself.  I washed dishes at a café on Astoria Boulevard, carved gyro and souvlaki in a joint on Steinway Street and finally, when at last I learnt some English, waited tables at a restaurant where the moussaka and spanikopita were good enough to attract the attention of the Manhattan restaurant critics.

And thus the people from Manhattan came to take in a heavy meal that left them stuffed and sleepy on the elevated platform of the “N” train but satisfied that it had been served to them by an authentically swarthy young man whose father, they guessed correctly, had been a shepherd.  These people made more money in a week than I owed to my father.  But I was kind to them, and told them jokes and stories, and they tipped me generously.

I worked hard, earned fast, spent little and soon I had nearly enough to pay my debt.  It was then I met a girl at a Greek social whose father owned a wedding reception parlor and a fleet of stretch limousines.  He had done well.  He liked me, too, made me a loan so I could buy a share of the restaurant.  Within a year I’d paid him back, proposed to his daughter and was almost ready to forget my own father.

I knew then that I had come to the moment of which others had spoken to me, the moment in which you leave New York or stay forever.

I sold my share of the restaurant, broke off my engagement, and I left.

I climbed the hill to my father’s house. There he sat, over his bowl of yogurt. He looked up at me and he said, I knew you would be back.  I knew you wouldn’t have the courage to defy me,  to stay where you were, in the land of the dollar, and make your own way.  I knew you were no good.

I counted out, and held out for him, the green bills, the coins, to the last cent, according to the exchange rate in that morning’s Herald Tribune.  I said, here is what I owe you.

He said, I don’t want your money, and went back to his yogurt.

I understood, then, what he had meant.  The only payback he had wanted was that I make something of myself.  The debt was only meant to spur me on.  So late we learn to understand the language of our fathers, and their love.

I took the money and bought what I’d always wanted, a boat.  And soon the Manhattanites to whom I’d served patstitsio and baklava were stepping on board to be ferried to whichever of the islands was fashionable that year.  Soon I had three boats, six, finally ten, and went into construction and hotels and then the football club, of course.

My father died proud of me.  But when he died, my obligation died with him and it all became empty.  I was rich, surrounded by women, and so alone.

I know that you, Electra, have lost your father as well, and your sister and brother too.  Perhaps the emptiness of loss would be enough to bridge the gap of years between us.  I think that I could make you very happy.