Greek As A Foreign Language
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sometimes your national identity can be all Greek to foreigners.
_____________________________________________________________________
Hamish McColl, a teacher of English, was pacing the floor of an eye surgeon’s waiting room. A uniformed police Sergeant was staring at him. He had been staring at him for the last five minutes. Hamish approached the Ouzo 12 barometer that was screwed to the wall. He tapped the glass with a fingernail, then tutted to himself. You only did that when you were interested in air pressure. The dial below it, the thermometer, read 36C.He turned.
The Sergeant was still watching. ‘It’s hot for April,’ he said.
Hamish took a moment. He wanted to come up with something relaxed, something witty and assured, but he was too slow.
‘What’s wrong?’ said the Sergeant. ‘Did you swallow your tongue?’
The door to the examination room opened and an old man came out, bent double over a stick. A wad of gauze was taped behind the rims of his spectacles. He shuffled, painfully slowly, to the exit.
Hamish made his move.
The Doctor was scribbling something in a notepad. He picked up what appeared to be a holiday brochure and compared what was on the cover to what he had just written.
Hamish sat down in the chair in front of the desk. ‘It’s about my eye,’ he said.
The Doctor looked up. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils large, as he twisted the top onto his pen. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Yes, good morning,’ said Hamish.
‘And how can I help you?’
Hamish was prepared. He had devoted the best part of a week to a scientifically faithful translation of his symptoms. He wanted to be clear, in a biological, medical sense. ‘I suffer from hay fever,’ he said, trying not to feel too pleased with himself. ‘Hay fever’ wasn’t in any of his dictionaries. He’d eventually noticed something likely on a bottle of eye drops he found in the flat. ‘Pollen fever’ was the literal...
‘Hay fever?’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s quite common at this time of year.’
‘Indeed,’ said Hamish. ‘Anyway, there’s something yellow at the corner of my left eye. I’m a bit worried. It looks like one of those pouches that bees have on…’
‘Where are you from?’ said the Doctor.
‘Sorry?’
‘Where are you from?’ The Doctor moved his elbows onto the desk. He made a little pyramid with his fingers and propped his chin on the apex.
‘I’m Scottish,’ said Hamish.
‘You realize you speak broken Greek?’ said the Doctor.
‘Thank you,’ said Hamish. ‘That’s very eh polite of you.’
‘No problem at all,’ said the Doctor. ‘If you’ll come with me we’ll get you sorted out.’
It was the complete works, the letters beamed onto the wall and the Thomas Dolby goggles, although the puff of air on the eyeballs came as a surprise. Hamish was trying to calm down through all of it. The sarcasm was one thing, but no way was he forking out for an eye test when all he needed was…
The Doctor leaned back on his stool. ‘You’re showing signs of presbyopia,’ he said. ‘You’ll be needing glasses in a couple of years, you mark my words.’
‘I’ll know where to come, then,’ said Hamish. ‘What about my eye? Sometimes it’s really itchy, I mean that’s why I came to see you.’
The Doctor laughed gently. ‘Oh, your itch!’ he said. ‘We’re coming to that, don’t worry.’ He moved the rack with the lenses out of the way and swung a large metal contraption into place.
Hamish felt his head being bolted into it.
‘Not to worry,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s to make sure you don’t move, nothing more.’
‘But I’m not moving,’ said Hamish.
‘Oh, come now!’ said the Doctor. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf!’
Hamish gave himself up to it. What else could he do? His fingers flexed as the Doctor prised his eye open with an attachment that looked like lockable pliers, but in reverse. Then a squirt of liquid. The sensation, or lack of it. He heard a drawer being opened near the bottom of the apparatus. Something was peeled from metal foil.
‘I want you to listen carefully,’ said the Doctor. ‘It is vital you remain as still as possible. I’ve immobilized your head as much as I can, and your eye should be completely numb, but please don’t flinch. The consequences would be dire.’ He moved in close, much closer than for the eye test. Aramis and old garlic. His hand suddenly appeared. A scalpel blade was nestling between the pads of his thumb and index finger.
The door crashed open.
The blade drew back slightly.
White chevrons crossed the room. ‘You going to be much longer, Kosta? I’m on duty in half an hour.’
‘Is that you, Aki?’ said the Doctor. ‘Five minutes, as soon as I give this boy a scrape.’
‘A scrape?’ said the Sergeant. ‘That sounds a bit slapdash.’
‘Not at all,’ said the Doctor. ‘Routine.’
Hamish’s breath was shallow, rapid. He felt prodding, nothing more. He couldn’t feel anything being scraped from the surface of his eye.
The Sergeant moved in to inspect. ‘I saw him outside,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘He’s English.’
‘I knew he was foreign,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Although I didn’t know he was a poof.’
‘I’m Scottish,’ said Hamish, carefully. His teeth were clenched – he was trying not to move. The Doctor was prodding again. Scraping.
‘He speaks Greek?’ said the Sergeant.
‘No,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not really.’
‘I sat the proficiency exam last year,’ said Hamish.
‘Did you pass?’ said the Doctor. ‘Please hold still, it’s for your own good.’
‘I don’t like it when people call me English,’ said Hamish. ‘Especially when I’ve just told them I’m Scottish.’
‘Scottish, English,’ said the Sergeant. ‘It’s the same thing.’
The Doctor sighed. ‘Aki,’ he said, ‘if you could go and sit down. This is quite a delicate procedure, you know. I don’t want anyone getting blinded.’
‘Well, hush my mouth,’ said the Sergeant. He backed off, but Hamish was still aware of his presence; epaulettes and a cocked neck. It must have been quite a scene, the Doctor prodding, scraping, swabbing, prodding, scraping, swabbing. Hamish took a slow breath and gripped the armrests of the chair more tightly. The heat. He was beginning to feel dizzy. He knew it wasn’t just the heat, the situation...
‘Bosnia,’ said the Sergeant.
‘Eh?’ said the Doctor.
‘Bosnia,’ the Sergeant repeated. ‘Is he with the Serbs or the Muslims?’
The scalpel froze. The Doctor stared at Hamish. Hamish stared back, but everything was blurred.
‘He’s with the Serbs, I can tell,’ said the Sergeant.
Hamish’s thumbs pressed into hard plastic. ‘There are two sides to every story,’ he managed.
The Doctor turned to his friend. ‘Christ, he’s not with the Muslims, is he?’ he said.
‘Could be,’ said the Sergeant. ‘He’s English, after all.’
‘I’m Scott…’
‘You’re whatever the fuck I say you are, fucking Scrooge McDuck! And I say you’re with the Serbs. You’re not stupid. Go on, say it. You’re with the Serbs.’
The Doctor leaned in again. Something flashed then moved into focus. The edge of the blade was a dark strip that came to a broken point. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Go on, try. In your own words.’
Hamish had stopped shaking. He said nothing.
‘He’s a hard nut to crack,’ said the Sergeant.
The Doctor, somehow, was over at the sink. The hiss of the tap. ‘Aki,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word with you for a minute? In private.’
Hamish heard the door close. Silence. He moved his hands to the contraption, but his head was fixed in place. And his eye, jammed open like that. It was starting to sting.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sometimes your national identity can be all Greek to foreigners.
_____________________________________________________________________
Hamish McColl, a teacher of English, was pacing the floor of an eye surgeon’s waiting room. A uniformed police Sergeant was staring at him. He had been staring at him for the last five minutes. Hamish approached the Ouzo 12 barometer that was screwed to the wall. He tapped the glass with a fingernail, then tutted to himself. You only did that when you were interested in air pressure. The dial below it, the thermometer, read 36C.He turned.
The Sergeant was still watching. ‘It’s hot for April,’ he said.
Hamish took a moment. He wanted to come up with something relaxed, something witty and assured, but he was too slow.
‘What’s wrong?’ said the Sergeant. ‘Did you swallow your tongue?’
The door to the examination room opened and an old man came out, bent double over a stick. A wad of gauze was taped behind the rims of his spectacles. He shuffled, painfully slowly, to the exit.
Hamish made his move.
The Doctor was scribbling something in a notepad. He picked up what appeared to be a holiday brochure and compared what was on the cover to what he had just written.
Hamish sat down in the chair in front of the desk. ‘It’s about my eye,’ he said.
The Doctor looked up. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils large, as he twisted the top onto his pen. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Yes, good morning,’ said Hamish.
‘And how can I help you?’
Hamish was prepared. He had devoted the best part of a week to a scientifically faithful translation of his symptoms. He wanted to be clear, in a biological, medical sense. ‘I suffer from hay fever,’ he said, trying not to feel too pleased with himself. ‘Hay fever’ wasn’t in any of his dictionaries. He’d eventually noticed something likely on a bottle of eye drops he found in the flat. ‘Pollen fever’ was the literal...
‘Hay fever?’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s quite common at this time of year.’
‘Indeed,’ said Hamish. ‘Anyway, there’s something yellow at the corner of my left eye. I’m a bit worried. It looks like one of those pouches that bees have on…’
‘Where are you from?’ said the Doctor.
‘Sorry?’
‘Where are you from?’ The Doctor moved his elbows onto the desk. He made a little pyramid with his fingers and propped his chin on the apex.
‘I’m Scottish,’ said Hamish.
‘You realize you speak broken Greek?’ said the Doctor.
‘Thank you,’ said Hamish. ‘That’s very eh polite of you.’
‘No problem at all,’ said the Doctor. ‘If you’ll come with me we’ll get you sorted out.’
It was the complete works, the letters beamed onto the wall and the Thomas Dolby goggles, although the puff of air on the eyeballs came as a surprise. Hamish was trying to calm down through all of it. The sarcasm was one thing, but no way was he forking out for an eye test when all he needed was…
The Doctor leaned back on his stool. ‘You’re showing signs of presbyopia,’ he said. ‘You’ll be needing glasses in a couple of years, you mark my words.’
‘I’ll know where to come, then,’ said Hamish. ‘What about my eye? Sometimes it’s really itchy, I mean that’s why I came to see you.’
The Doctor laughed gently. ‘Oh, your itch!’ he said. ‘We’re coming to that, don’t worry.’ He moved the rack with the lenses out of the way and swung a large metal contraption into place.
Hamish felt his head being bolted into it.
‘Not to worry,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s to make sure you don’t move, nothing more.’
‘But I’m not moving,’ said Hamish.
‘Oh, come now!’ said the Doctor. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf!’
Hamish gave himself up to it. What else could he do? His fingers flexed as the Doctor prised his eye open with an attachment that looked like lockable pliers, but in reverse. Then a squirt of liquid. The sensation, or lack of it. He heard a drawer being opened near the bottom of the apparatus. Something was peeled from metal foil.
‘I want you to listen carefully,’ said the Doctor. ‘It is vital you remain as still as possible. I’ve immobilized your head as much as I can, and your eye should be completely numb, but please don’t flinch. The consequences would be dire.’ He moved in close, much closer than for the eye test. Aramis and old garlic. His hand suddenly appeared. A scalpel blade was nestling between the pads of his thumb and index finger.
The door crashed open.
The blade drew back slightly.
White chevrons crossed the room. ‘You going to be much longer, Kosta? I’m on duty in half an hour.’
‘Is that you, Aki?’ said the Doctor. ‘Five minutes, as soon as I give this boy a scrape.’
‘A scrape?’ said the Sergeant. ‘That sounds a bit slapdash.’
‘Not at all,’ said the Doctor. ‘Routine.’
Hamish’s breath was shallow, rapid. He felt prodding, nothing more. He couldn’t feel anything being scraped from the surface of his eye.
The Sergeant moved in to inspect. ‘I saw him outside,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘He’s English.’
‘I knew he was foreign,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Although I didn’t know he was a poof.’
‘I’m Scottish,’ said Hamish, carefully. His teeth were clenched – he was trying not to move. The Doctor was prodding again. Scraping.
‘He speaks Greek?’ said the Sergeant.
‘No,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not really.’
‘I sat the proficiency exam last year,’ said Hamish.
‘Did you pass?’ said the Doctor. ‘Please hold still, it’s for your own good.’
‘I don’t like it when people call me English,’ said Hamish. ‘Especially when I’ve just told them I’m Scottish.’
‘Scottish, English,’ said the Sergeant. ‘It’s the same thing.’
The Doctor sighed. ‘Aki,’ he said, ‘if you could go and sit down. This is quite a delicate procedure, you know. I don’t want anyone getting blinded.’
‘Well, hush my mouth,’ said the Sergeant. He backed off, but Hamish was still aware of his presence; epaulettes and a cocked neck. It must have been quite a scene, the Doctor prodding, scraping, swabbing, prodding, scraping, swabbing. Hamish took a slow breath and gripped the armrests of the chair more tightly. The heat. He was beginning to feel dizzy. He knew it wasn’t just the heat, the situation...
‘Bosnia,’ said the Sergeant.
‘Eh?’ said the Doctor.
‘Bosnia,’ the Sergeant repeated. ‘Is he with the Serbs or the Muslims?’
The scalpel froze. The Doctor stared at Hamish. Hamish stared back, but everything was blurred.
‘He’s with the Serbs, I can tell,’ said the Sergeant.
Hamish’s thumbs pressed into hard plastic. ‘There are two sides to every story,’ he managed.
The Doctor turned to his friend. ‘Christ, he’s not with the Muslims, is he?’ he said.
‘Could be,’ said the Sergeant. ‘He’s English, after all.’
‘I’m Scott…’
‘You’re whatever the fuck I say you are, fucking Scrooge McDuck! And I say you’re with the Serbs. You’re not stupid. Go on, say it. You’re with the Serbs.’
The Doctor leaned in again. Something flashed then moved into focus. The edge of the blade was a dark strip that came to a broken point. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Go on, try. In your own words.’
Hamish had stopped shaking. He said nothing.
‘He’s a hard nut to crack,’ said the Sergeant.
The Doctor, somehow, was over at the sink. The hiss of the tap. ‘Aki,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word with you for a minute? In private.’
Hamish heard the door close. Silence. He moved his hands to the contraption, but his head was fixed in place. And his eye, jammed open like that. It was starting to sting.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, an industrial town in East Central Scotland. He studied Science and Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh and went on to take a teaching qualification at Jordanhill College, Glasgow. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the The. His first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. His first collection of short fiction, The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories, was released in October 2011 and his second, A Man's Hands, in December 2012. He lives in Greece.
Andrew's blog is called Wee Fictions.
Andrew's blog is called Wee Fictions.