The Names

Tap came to Athens for two days with his friend Rajiv and the boy's father, who was connected with the Department of Art History at Michigan State. I'd talked to him several times at the site, a heavyset man named Anand Dass, stern and friendly, moving impressively through the rubble in tennis shorts and a spotless cotton shirt. His son seemed always to be dancing around him, asking questions, grabbing hold of the man's arm, his hand, even the loops in his belt, and I wondered whether Rajiv's fourteen months in America and five weeks in Greece had put him at such a bewildering distance from the sum of known things that only his father's dark anchoring bulk could ease the disquiet.He was a likable boy, he bounced when he walked, Tap's age but taller, and he wore flared trousers for his trip to Athens. I met them in Piraeus, a bleached-out day, empty and still. It was my notion to give the boys an auto tour of Athens but I kept getting lost. Beyond the central landmarks the streets looked identical. The modern apartment blocks, the bright awnings over the balconies, the walls marked with acronyms of political parties, an occasional old sepia building with a terra-cotta roof.Anand sat next to me talking about the island. There had been no water at all for two days. A dry southerly was blowing fine sand over everything. The only fruits and vegetables in the village stalls were those grown on the island itself. It would be a month before he was back in East Lansing. Green. Trees and lawns."You might have picked an easier place to dig.”"This is Owen," he said. "Owen is famous for this. He thinks he is going to India next. I told him forget it, you know. You won't get funding, you won't get permission, you will die in the heat. He pays no attention to weather, this man.”"He enjoys the sense of ordeal.”"He enjoys it. This is exactly true.”We cruised down endless streets, near deserted. Two men walked along biting into peaches, heads jutting and twisted, their bodies drawn awkwardly back to escape the spill."You know what happened," Anand said.He'd changed his voice in such a way that I knew immediately what he was referring to."I was there.”"But it wasn't the first. There was another about a year ago. Another island. Donoussa.”"I don't know the name.”"It's in the Cyclades. Small. A mail boat once a week from Naxos.”The boys were speaking Ob in the back seat."A hammer," he said. "It was a young girl. From very poor people. She was crippled. She had some kind of paralysis. I heard it just before I left. Someone from Donoussa was in the village near the dig.”I turned a corner into a traffic jam. A man stood outside his car with hands on hips to look ahead to the source of the trouble. A figure of transcendent disgust. There were buses, trolley buses, taxis, horns blaring, then stopping almost simultaneously, then blaring again, as if to suggest a form for this ordeal-a stately panic. Rajiv asked his father where we were and Tap said, "Lo-bost obin spobace.”It took half an hour to find our first destination, the apartment building where friends of Anand lived and where he and his son would spend the night. The following evening we would all go to the airport. Rajiv was flying to Bombay with these friends, a young couple. His mother would meet him there and they would go to Kashmir, where Anand's family had a summer home.After we'd dropped them, Tap said, "Can we drive around some more?”"I bought food. I think we ought to go home and eat it.”"I like driving around.”"I showed you the wrong stuff. We'll do better tomorrow.”"Can we just drive?”"Don't you want to see things?”"We'll see things while we drive. I like driving.”"You're not driving. I'm driving. Aimless driving. Will the island still be fun with Rajiv gone?”"I'm staying.”"One of these days you'll be going back to school.”"They're still digging. When they stop I'll go to school.”"You like the hard life. You're a couple of hardy people. Soon she'll be dressing you in animal skins.”"It'll have to be donkeys or cats. There must be a million cats there.”"I can see the two of you sailing around the world in a boat made of reeds and cat hair. Who needs school?”He looked out the window for a while."How come you don't have to work?”"I'll stick my head in the door around noon tomorrow. Things are quiet now. It's Ramadan. That affects the pace of things in the countries where most of our business is.”"Wait, don't tell me.”"It's an Islamic month.”"I said wait. Couldn't you wait?”"All right, what are people not allowed to do during Ramadan?”"They're not allowed to eat.”"They're not allowed to eat till sundown. Then they eat.”"Think of some more.”"We're almost home. I notice you've got Rajiv speaking Ob. Does your mother think you're overdoing it a bit?”"She hasn't said anything. I learned it from her, don't forget.”"If you become Ob-sessed, I blame her. Is that the idea?”He turned to me abruptly, a little wild-eyed."Don't tell me what that's called. I'm thinking. Just wait, okay?”When I pulled up it was nearly dark. The concierge stood outside the building, a man about my age with the forceful dark look of his profession, organized loitering. They were arrayed along the sidewalk, four or five of them, thumbing their amber beads, men of inevitability and fate, presences. They stare into the middle distance. Sometimes they gather at the barber shop, serious talk, dipping their knees in turn. They attend the entrances, they sit in the marble lobbies. A man or woman walking down the street, someone of interest for whatever reason to the concierges, is passed in effect from one to the other, a stray plane tracked to the pole. Not that they are curious. The barest scattering from a common center moves them only to suspicion. Cars come and go, people wait at the bus stop, a man paints the wall across the street. This is enough for anyone.But Niko had never seen my son. His arms went up. He came forward to open the door on the passenger's side, smiling widely.Children were the full becoming. They stirred a mystical joy in people. They were centered, always in light, in aura, scooped up, dandled, sung to, adored. Niko spoke Greek to Tap as he'd never spoken to me, with vigor and warmth, eyes shining. I see my son in the small tumult of the moment. He knows he has to handle this alone and does it conscientiously enough, shaking the man's hand, nodding madly. He is not experienced at hearty rapport, of course, but his effort is meticulous and touching. He knows the man's pleasure is important. He has seen this everywhere on the island and he has listened to his mother. We must be more precise in the details of our responses. This is how we let people know we understand the seriousness and dignity of their feelings. Life is different here. We must be equal to the largeness of things.