*****
 |
| The Death Of Socrates |
***
Sitting in the bicycle shop that was his new
classroom, with Jim occupied on the phone, Lucky looked through the books that
his new Cypriot tutor had purchased for him.
The first book wasn’t so interesting – arithmetic –
the same text he’d used at the British school. The second was a little more
intriguing – a slender volume with a paperboard cover: "Euclidean
Geometry." The third book gave him a bit of a start. It was labeled,
"Common Mistakes In English." He glanced inside and saw that it was
book meant for foreign students of the English language. Beneath it, was a
regular English grammar, then a French textbook. That was interesting… was he
going to learn French?
A geography full of maps followed; then a single
volume world history; A book on Greek mythology by Edith Hamilton was next. He
smiled when he lifted that aside and saw a collection of Edgar Allen Poe’s
stories and poetry. Finally, he came to a small book with a drawing of an old
bug-eyed Greek wearing the robes of the ancients and reclining on a stone
bench.
The title was, "The Last Days Of Socrates."
Intrigued, he opened the book, turning pages,
scanning the text until his eyes fell upon the following:
"Socrates: What is the charge? Well, a very serious
charge, which shows a good deal of character in the young man, and for which he
is certainly not to be despised. He says he knows how the youth are corrupted
and who are their corruptors. I fancy that he must be a wise man, and seeing
that I am the reverse of a wise man, he has found me out, and is going to
accuse me of corrupting his young friends…"
As Lucky considered the words of the ancient
philosopher, outside the shop an ox cart passed by, bells jangling, hooves a slow, clump, clump;
flint-edged wheels grinding against the cobbles. Next, came an incense maker’s
push cart, smoky twigs swinging from strings and perfuming the air.
Automatically, Lucky drew in a breath and the sweet smell filled his soul as
well as his lungs.
Somewhere far off he heard a cart seller take up the
cry: "Galla oxino… Galla oxino…" sour milk, sour milk, which Lucky
knew to be yogurt pudding with sweetened rose water – "straight from the
Gods." Another cart seller broke in… "Phastusja… phatusja… phastuja
vasta…" peanuts, peanuts, salted and hot.
A camel tromped by, turning its head to peer into the
window, fixing its solemn eyes on Lucky and chewing its cud. For a moment, both
the camel and Lucky considered one another. Then the animal’s master gave it a
switch and it groaned with indignation and continued onward.
Lucky looked back at the page: "…I fancy that
he must be a wise man, and seeing that I am the reverse of a wise man, he has
found me out, and is going to accuse me of corrupting his young friends…"
But this time he was reading it as if it were a
newspaper article and the tragedy of Socrates’ execution was happening here and
now instead of something that had occurred twenty three hundred years
ago. And as he thought about this gentle old man dying, forgiving his killers
and teaching one last lesson in his death, his heart ached as if it were a
tragedy fresh and new.
Lucky sighed and as he did so he suddenly realized
that Jim had been silent. The boy looked up and saw Jim smiling at him. The
phone was in its cradle.
"What a pity," Jim said, indicating the book. "A pity of
monumental proportions."
He poured them each a demitasse of coffee and pinched
a lemon peel into his own cup, pushing the other to Lucky.. "Imagine what
a different world this would be," Jim continued, "if Socrates had not
been forced to drink that cup of hemlock."
Lucky frowned. "Forced? I thought he was given a
choice. All he had to do was leave Athens. To go into exile. Also, that
happened hundreds of years ago… way before Jesus Christ. How could that affect
what happens today?"
Jim said, "Well, I guess you’ve chosen your
first lesson." He indicated the pile of official papers still in the box.
"We were supposed to do tests for the School of The Americas."
Lucky nodded. He knew what that was – a home study
program set up by the foreign service. Larry and his brother were signed up
with something similar, except their mother was their teacher. The program
assured proper academic progress of the students and gave them official credit
that was recognized by all American schools at home.
"Don’t worry," he said. "I’m good at
tests like that." And he was. Multiple choice, true and false, he’d taken
so many tests of that type that he could pass examinations for subjects he’d
never even studied.
The moment he made this boast, however, he regretted
it. Jim only smiled, but Lucky saw his eyes narrow slightly. The boy mentally
kicked himself for giving away such a valuable secret to someone who, in the
end, was a Teacher, after all.
Jim looked at his watch. "I have an appointment
in a hour or so," he said, "which should be plenty of time for our
first lesson." He rose. "You’ll need your notebook and a
pencil."
"Where are we going?" Lucky wanted to know,
scrambling to grab the required items.
"We’re going to ask some of my friends the same
questions you asked me. What made Socrates choose death over exile? And why
would the world be different if he hadn’t been killed by his own people."
With that, Jim strode through the door. He paused
just outside, put fingers to lips and gave a piercing, goat-herder’s whistle.
Immediately, the ragged boy Lucky had seen earlier came hustling up the street.
Jim patted his head, slipped him a coin and whispered something. The boy
stiffened like a private getting orders from a general, then pulled a bicycle
chain from around his waist. As Jim and Lucky walked away, the boy started
strolling up and down in front of the shop, swinging the chain, like a
policeman swinging his truncheon. Lucky looked back at him.
"Are you worried about gypsies?" he asked.
Jim looked surprised. "Gypsies?" he said.
"Oh, sure, a little. But I pay them to watch out for my shop, which means
they only steal a small amount."
"Well, what do you need a guard for?"
"The communists, Lucky," Jim said.
Now it was Lucky’s turn to be surprised.
"Communists steal?" he asked, incredulous. "Yorgo’s a communist
and he’d never steal anything. I mean… material things aren’t so important to
communists, are they?"
Jim said, "Material things are important to
everybody, Lucky, no matter what they say. And there are many criminals in
Cyprus and elsewhere who claim to be communists so they can behave like
gangsters."
"But not Yorgo," Lucky protested. The
father of the wondrous Athena could not be suspected of such things.
"Not Yorgo," Jim agreed, to Lucky’s immense
relief. Jim shrugged. "However, there are others… But let’s not talk about
them just now. That’s a lesson for another day. Today, let us interview the
experts about Socrates."
As they turned the corner, Lucky looked around,
expecting to see the imposing edifice of a school or university. Instead, all
he saw was a wheelwright’s shop – with wide doors, like a barn, that were flung
open. Inside, a wagon had been hoisted up and one wheel had been removed,
apparently to be repaired. Just inside the entrance, several men were crouched
over a camel dung fire. They were taking turns stirring a large, odiferous pot,
of some sort of gooey substance.
Lucky was dumbfounded when Jim said, "There’s
Socrates, himself." He indicated the oldest man. "Let’s see what he
has to say.
* * *
Short of
stature, thick of waist and neck, pug nose set beneath bulging eyes, Solon
Socrates was far from the ideal of Greek beauty. In his grizzled fifties,
Socrates was a wheelwright of great skill who possessed much pride in his
family name.
Jim introduced Lucky to Mr. Socrates and the other
three men – one of whom was his son, Pericles, only slightly less ugly than his
father.
"So, you are the American chap Jim was telling
us about and your name is Lucky," Socrates said in Greek, squinting up at
him with one eye closed against the heady fumes of the pot he was stirring.
Lucky admitted he was both.
"Well, how do you know you are lucky?"
Socrates asked, winking at his companions. "That you are an American is
plain. But lucky?" he chuckled, displaying some missing front teeth.
"How can a man know if he is lucky or not?"
The boy only understood a little of this – Mr.
Socrates was speaking rather fast - and Jim had to translate some of the words,
but he didn’t give Lucky any help on what the old man meant by his question.
So, the boy took his time to think. No one spoke while he considered. Socrates
stirred the pot, keeping one bulging brown eye fixed on him.
Finally, Lucky nodded and said – partly in Greek and
partly in English, which Jim translated - "I’m Lucky because I was almost
dead twice, maybe even three times. And if that had happened I wouldn’t be
standing here asking Socrates all about Socrates."
There were murmurs of approval and chuckles of
appreciation all around. Solon Socrates balanced on one foot and stretched out
a leg, cracking the joint. Then he tucked that leg under him and cracked its
brother. He shouted something and a barefoot boy ran out with a clay jug. Solon
motioned for Lucky to squat beside him, which he did. Someone fetched a three-legged
stool for Demetrakis and his teacher sat next to him.
The clay jug was passed around. When it reached
Lucky, Jim intervened. He took a folding cup out of his pocket, snapped it
open, poured a little clear liquid from the jug into the cup, then added water
from a jar on the floor. Lucky sipped it and even watered down, the liquor was
so strong it made him gasp. But it was sweet-tasting, like sugared oranges.
"Go easy, Lucky," Jim murmured and Lucky
went easy.
Socrates took a second swig from the jug, very deep,
then cradled it between his knees instead of passing it along. "Ask me
anything you desire, Mister Lucky," he said, thumping his chest with a
hand. "And I – Solon Socrates – shall answer as best as I can."
"Is your name really Socrates?" Lucky asked
– a part of him worried that he might be the butt of an elaborate prank. And
that Jim and everybody would suddenly start laughing at him.
The old man frowned at the boy, eyes bugging out even
more. For a minute, Lucky thought he’d insulted him. Then the wheelwright
laughed and mugged at Lucky, emphasizing even more the bug eyes and pug nose.
"How can you doubt it?" he said. "Is
this not the ugly face of my grandfather, Socrates? Can you not see the
resemblance?" He indicated the young man across from him. "And my
son, is he not ugly as well?"
Lucky was confused. "Socrates was your
grandfather?"
Solon Socrates rolled his hand, indicating passage of
time. "My long ago grandfather." He rolled his hand some more – more
rotations of the Earth, or whatever. "Long, long ago grandfather."
Lucky nodded, understanding that he was applying
many, "great, greats," attached to the grandfather.
Then the man said, "So, yes, that is truly my
name… Socrates. And if you are wondering, there are hundreds of people in my family.
Many, many in Greece – in Athens, especially - but some here in Cyprus. Over in
Limassol is where most of them live. Where the family first arrived."
"When did they come to Cyprus?" Lucky
asked, amazed at what he was hearing. If true, this was real history, not the
dry stuff of books.
"Oh, right away," Socrates said. "Just
after Grandfather Socrates died. He had many enemies, you know, so some of the
people in the family were afraid they would be killed as well. It was the son
of Lamprocles, who came first. The family of my grandfather’s oldest boy."
The grizzled man leaned close, grinning. "His
mother was Xanthippe," he said, "the old shrew who was Grandfather
Socrates’ first wife. Such a tongue, she had. Like a razor, you know. Some say
the boy was fleeing his grandmother’s tongue, more then his enemies in Athens."
Solon held up two fingers. "There were two boys,
that came," he said. "Pari and Girogo. Pari made a hotel. A place for
sea captains who came to Limassol. Girogo was good with his hands. He made the
wheels, like me."
The old man indicated a huge wheel, with several
missing wooden spokes, propped up against a wall. Then he reached over,
grabbing the stick in the boiling pot, and held it up, goo dripping back down.
"This is the very same glue he used," Solon said. "The glue of
Girogo Socrates."
He grabbed up two blocks of wood and held them between remarkably large hands. He slammed them together. "See!" he cried, "this is the wood. The wood made from a great tree…" His hands flowed up, the blocks gripped in each palm, forming an imaginary tree that went from the floor to well above his head… "…that God grew from a small nut."
He grabbed up two blocks of wood and held them between remarkably large hands. He slammed them together. "See!" he cried, "this is the wood. The wood made from a great tree…" His hands flowed up, the blocks gripped in each palm, forming an imaginary tree that went from the floor to well above his head… "…that God grew from a small nut."
He put one block of wood on his knee and held up an
encircled thumb and forefinger, to show just how small that nut would be. "And
it was the genius of Giorgio Socrates, grandson of the greatest genius the
world has ever known, to create a glue that would kiss the wood. Make it a
lover of other wood. A lover who would never betray his mistress." He held
up a finger of admonition. "Never!"
Then he took the glue stick, slopped the goo on one
slab on wood, then, with great ceremony, he pressed them together. "See,
they are married now."
He handed the two blocks of wood to his son, who
quickly bound them up in twine.
Mr. Socrates said, "And so now they will
honeymoon." He beamed and put hands clasped in prayer to his less than
beautiful face, rocking his head back and forth, his bulging eyes glowing,
reminding Lucky of his Grandfather Sullivan’s pig when it was in a playful
mood. "And after their honeymoon…" He grabbed the bound up blocks of
wood from his son… "the bond of this loving glue…" he pretended to
try to pull them apart, grunting with effort… "this glue created by
Giorgio Socrates, grandson of the master…" And he let go of the wood,
sagging and breathing hard as if in great defeat. "… Could not be broken
apart by Hercules, himself."
Solon Socrates slapped the wood down on the ground
and stared defiantly at the men on the other side of the gluepot, as if daring them
to deny the truth of his statement. They all turned their eyes away, but they
nodded in agreement. He grabbed up the jug, took a drink, then magnanimously
passed it around.
He touched his chest with both hands. "What else
do you wish to ask, Mr. Lucky? Something from your studies with my good friend,
Jim Demetrakis, perhaps?"
Lucky nodded, saying, "Socrates was given a
choice. He could live, but leave Athens forever. Or he could drink poison and
die…"
Before he could go on, the old wheelwright nodded his
head firmly. He spoke, but his Greek was far above Lucky’s head - and also a
little thick with drink. However, Jim whispered a quick translation.
"Why did Socrates – the wisest man the world has
known - not accept exile, over death? That is the question, is it not?"
Solon asked.
Lucky nodded. "Yes, teacher," he said in
Greek. "I’d like to know that, please."
The old man brightened at being addressed with such
an honorific as teacher, or professor. He grinned at his son and his
companions, as if saying, see – an American recognizes who I am. Why not you?
He said to Lucky, in the kindest tones – "If you
were anyone else, Mr. Lucky the American, I would call you stupid for not
understanding the dilemma of Socrates the philosopher. But I see that you are a
sensitive young man, curious about the world – just like my grandfather. So I
will tell you what I think, Mr. Lucky. I will tell you why Socrates did not
leave Athens.
"It was because everything that we think of as
beautiful was invented in Athens. The music in your ears. The lovely art in
your eyes. The cinema, the theater, the living art that makes you laugh, or cry
- that is from the Greeks, especially the Athenians. Everything that makes life
good, that makes a man a man, is from Athens. Because without art, without
laughter and music and tears at our fellow man’s tragedy, we would be nothing
but barbarians. Worse, we would be animals… beasts from the forest and field.
So how could he leave Athens? How could Socrates turn his back on the most
beautiful city the world has known – and also the most cruel to have killed him
– to live with the barbarians? With no true art to kiss their eyes, pure music
for their ears, or words – beautiful words – to beguile their thoughts."
Solon Socrates took a long, deep drink from his jug.
Then asked, "So, Mr. Lucky, my new American friend, what other choice did
Grandfather Socrates have than to make his own death?"
In Lucky’s mind’s eye he saw himself crouched over the bayonet in the
Florida field and thought he understood why Socrates might have made the
choice. Maybe it was even a happier choice. But it was beauty that had saved
Lucky – the beauty of the tiny fish that had suddenly appeared that kept him
from falling on the blade. It was so strange to think that Socrates took his
own life so that beauty wouldn’t be denied him.
"Did it hurt?" he asked Socrates. "The
poison? Did it hurt?"
The old wheelwright shook his head. "It was very
peaceful," he said. "That’s what my father told me and that’s what
his father told him, so it must be true. No, it was peaceful, his death. And
beautiful. All his friends were there, you know. And he said some wise words
and I think maybe Mr. Plato or somebody wrote them down." He nodded at
Jim. "Ask Demetrakis, I believe he has some books with the words in
them."
Jim nodded, yes, he did. "But don’t take Mr.
Plato’s word completely, Mr. Lucky," Socrates warned. "He was a
boxer, you know, and had been hit a lot in the head." He tapped his skull
by way of illustration. "Sometimes he forgot if it was something Socrates said,
or what he, Plato the boxer, said. This is what my father told me, you know.
And what his father said as well, so it must be true."
There was a long silence and Mr. Socrates sipped from
the jug drink and passed it around and Lucky got the idea that everyone was
waiting on him.
He said, "Jim told me that the whole world would
be a different place if Socrates hadn’t have been killed. But I don’t see how
that could be."
The wheelwright thought a moment, then nodded.
"I can see why you would wonder," he said. "It was more than two
thousand years ago when the master lived. So how could something so far away –
almost like the stars - have to do with us… am I correct… is this how you were
thinking?"
Lucky nodded. Exactly so.
Mr. Socrates reached into his shirt and pulled out a
cross on a chain. He kissed it reverently and then displayed it to Lucky.
"So here is our Lord, Jesus Christ, and he was killed two thousand years
ago, was he not?" Lucky blushed, getting the point. "And you would
not quarrel that his death changed the world?"
Lucky said he wouldn’t.
"Well, then, let us think of Grandfather
Socrates," the wheelwright said. "He was the model for Christ, you
know."
Lucky raised an eyebrow. What in the world was the
man getting at?
Mr. Socrates shrugged. "Oh, sure, it is a well
known fact," he said. "The Romans copied everything, like the
Japanese today. But the Romans copied everything Greek. They were bold, you
know. Wanted to make their own history. Their own great men. So as soon as they
discovered the Christians they saw right away that Jesus Christ was the perfect
Socrates. So they made the stories – not the same, but nearly the same.
Including the noble death of Jesus and the noble death of Socrates."
Lucky was incredulous. "Don’t you believe in Jesus?"
he asked.
The wheelwright frowned at this. "Who said
anything about not believing?" he demanded. "I only said people made
one story similar to the other. It is the way of people, you know. To copy what
is good. So, maybe Jesus Christ was really Socrates. And maybe Socrates was
really Jesus Christ. And maybe they were also that guy Buddha, the Indians
admire. Or Confucius, the Chinese fellow. Or, Mohammad, the Arab. And so on and
so forth and the world is a different place because all these men took our sins
and swallowed them up to give us another chance."
"But, Jesus was supposed to be the son of
God," Lucky protested. "Socrates was just a… well… just a man."
"This is true, my American friend," the
wheelwright said. "Socrates always said he was just an ordinary man. And
the apostles tell us that Jesus was the son of God. But did the Lord ever say
so himself? Do you have evidence of this? If you do, I would like to see it for
I have always been curious. In fact, he might have said the opposite. That he
was only a man like us and we were all the sons of God. So, my boy, the
important question you might think about: was the Lord Jesus the Lord, or only
Socrates come again to teach us? Giving us a second chance."
Lucky didn’t know how to answer. The wheelwright
hoisted his jug, but only a dribble came out. He made a face and lumbered to
his feet.
"I have a wheel to fix," he said
apologetically. "Come again, Mr. Lucky the American, and we will discuss
this matter of Jesus and Socrates. And perhaps someday we’ll visit Limassol
together – with Demetrakis – and you can talk to my brother and cousins."
He chuckled. "You won’t find one opinion from them, you know. Not one
single answer. Only questions. For that is the way of the Socrates family. With
us, there are as many questions as there are cousins."
Lucky thanked the man and formally shook hands all
around. But as Jim led him out of the shop, Socrates called out to Jim -
"Have you taken Mr. Lucky to meet Homer yet?"
NEXT: LOOKING THROUGH THE EYES OF THE ANCIENTS
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
*****
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United Kingdom ...........................Spain
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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
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