“Then probably your ancestors lived right here in Constantinople. No Greek worth anything would have lived in Greece itself at this time. At this very moment a luscious ancestress of yours is in this very city!”
“Well—”
“Find her!” cried Metaxas. “Fuck her! It is joy! It is ecstasy! Defy space and time! Stick your finger in God’s eye!”
“I’m not sure I really want to,” I said. But I did.
28.
As I say, Metaxas transformed my life. He changed my destinies in many ways, not all of them good. But one good thing he did for me was to give me confidence. His charisma and his chutzpah both rubbed off on me. I learned arrogance from Metaxas.
Up until this point I had been a modest and self-effacing young man, at least while I was around my elders. Especially in my Time Service aspect I had been unpushy and callow. I did a lot of forelock-tugging and no doubt came across even more naive than I really was. I acted this way because I was young and had a lot to learn, not only about myself, which everybody does, but also about the workings of the Time Service. So far I had met a lot of men who were older, smarter, slicker, and more corrupt than myself, and I had treated them with deference: Sam, Dajani, Jeff Monroe, Sid Buonocore, Capistrano. But now I was with Metaxas, who was the oldest, smartest, slickest and most corrupt of them all, and he imparted momentum to me, so that I stopped orbiting other men and took up a trajectory of my own.
Later I found out that this is one of Metaxas’ functions in the Time Service. He takes moist-eyed young Couriers-in-training and fills them full of the swagger they need to be successful operators in their own right.
When I got back from my tour with Metaxas I no longer feared my first solo as a Courier. I was ready to go. Metaxas had showed me how a Courier can be a kind of artist, assembling a portrait of the past for his clients, and that was what I wanted to be. The risks and responsibilities didn’t trouble me now.
Protopopolos said, “When you come back from your layoff, you’ll take six people out on the one-week tour.”
“I’ll skip the layoff. I’m ready to leave right now!”
“Well, your tourists aren’t. Anyway, the law says you’ve got to rest between trips. So rest. I’ll see you back here in two weeks, Jud.”
So I had a holiday against my will. I was tempted to accept Metaxas’ invitation to his villa in 1105, but it occurred to me that maybe Metaxas had had enough of my company for a while. Then I toyed with the idea of signing up with a time-tour to Hastings or Waterloo or even back to the Crucifixion to count the Dajanis. But I passed that up, too. Now that I was on the threshold of leading a tour myself, I didn’t want to have to be led by somebody else, not just at the moment. I needed to be more secure in my new-found confidence before I dropped down under some other Courier’s leadership again.
I dithered around in now-time Istanbul for three days, doing nothing special. Mainly I hung around the Time Service headquarters, playing stochastic chess with Kolettis and Melamed, who also happened to be off duty at this time. On the fourth day I hopped a shortshot for Athens. I didn’t know why I was going there until I got there.
I was up on the Acropolis when I realized what my mission was. I was wandering around the ruins, fending off the peddlers of hologram slides and the guided-tour hucksters, when an advert globe came drifting toward me. It hovered about four feet away from me at eye level, radiating a flickering green glow designed to compel my attention, and said, “Good afternoon. We hope you’re enjoying your visit to twenty-first-century Athens. Now that you’ve seen the picturesque ruins, how would you like to see the Parthenon as it really looked? See the Greece of Socrates and Aristophanes? Your local Time Service office is on Aeolou Street, just opposite the Central Post Office, and—”
Half an hour later I checked in at the Aeolou Street headquarters, identified myself as a Courier on vacation, and outfitted myself for a shunt up the line.
Not to the Greece of Socrates and Aristophanes, though.
I was heading for the Greece of the prosaic year 1997, when Konstantin Passalidis was elected mayor of Sparta.
Konstantin Passalidis was my mother’s father. I was about to start tracing my ancestral seed back to its sprouting place.
Dressed in the stark, itchy clothes of the late twentieth century, and carrying crisp and colorful obsolete banknotes, I shunted back sixty years and caught the first pod from Athens to Sparta. Pod service was brand new in Greece in 1997, and I was in mortal terror of a phaseout all the way down, but the alignment held true and I got to Sparta in one piece.
Sparta was remarkably hideous.
The present Sparta is not, of course, a linear descendant of the old militaristic place that caused so much trouble for Athens. That Sparta faded away gradually, and vanished altogether in medieval times. The new Sparta was founded in the early nineteenth century on the old site. In Grandfather Passilidis’ heyday it was a city of about 80,000 people, having grown rapidly after the installation of Greece’s first fusion-power plant there in the 1980’s.
It consisted of hundreds of identical apartment houses of gray brick, arranged in perfectly straight rows. Every one of them was ten stories high, decked with lemon-colored balconies on every floor, and about as appealing as a jail. At one end of this barracks-like city was the shining dome of the power plant; at the other was a downtown section of taverns, banks, and municipal offices. It was quite charming, if you find brutality charming.
I got off the pod and walked downtown. There weren’t any master information outputs to be seen on the streets — I guess the network hadn’t yet gone into operation here — but I had no trouble finding Mayor Passilidis. I stopped at a tavern for a quick ouzo and said, “Where can I find Mayor Passilidis?” and a dozen friendly Spartans escorted me to City Hall.
His receptionist was a dark-haired girl of about twenty with big breasts and a faint mustache. Her Minoan Revival bodice was neatly calculated to distract a man’s attention from the shortcomings of her face. Wiggling those pink-tipped meaty globes at me, she said huskily, “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mayor Passilidis. I’m from an American newspaper. We’re doing an article on Greece’s ten most dynamic young men, and we feel that Mr. Passilidis—”
It didn’t sound convincing even to me. I stood there studying the beads of sweat on the white mounds of her bosom, waiting for her to turn me away. But she bought the story unhesitatingly, and with a minimum of delay I was escorted into His Honor’s office.
“A pleasure to have you here,” my grandfather said in perfect English. “Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a martini, maybe? Or if you’d prefer a weed—”
I froze. I panicked. I didn’t even take his hand when he offered it to me.
The sight of Konstantin Passilidis terrified me.
I had never seen my grandfather before, of course. He was gunned down by an Abolitionist hoodlum in 2010, long before I was born — one of the many victims of the Year of Assassins.
Time-travel had never seemed so frighteningly real to me as it did right now. Justinian in the imperial box at the Hippodrome was nothing at all compared to Konstantin Passilidis greeting me in his office in Sparta.
He was in his early thirties, a boy wonder of his time. His hair was dark and curly, just beginning to gray at the fringes, and he wore a little clipped mustache and a ring in his left ear. What terrified me so much was our physical resemblance. He could have been my older brother.
After an endless moment I snapped out of my freeze. He was a little puzzled, I guess, but he courteously offered me refreshment again, and I declined, telling him I didn’t indulge, and somehow I found enough poise to launch my “interview” of him.