The minister’s private secretary, Miss Deninedo Piostonzitee, had tried to fit him in between appointments and phone calls but every time he had been on the brink of entering the minister’s office, something had happened to abort the interview – a sudden summons from the prime minister; a political correspondent of one of the leading Athens papers, barging in to whisper a hot piece of political gossip into his ear; a visit from his wife; a phone call from the party boss in his constituency – all these interrupting the minister’s normal business of taking care of the rousfetia (political favors) of his rather large family and of his constituents, and preparing himself for the interview on a TV talk show.
Grigoris had finally taken to planting himself outside the minister’s office and spending the whole morning there, chit-chatting with Miss Piostonzitee and waiting for the few minutes he needed for a private talk with his boss. He had instructed his own secretary to put off any calls or callers by saying he was with the minister, which was not exactly true, but close enough.
This tactic finally paid off when the minister was seeing off at the door an important industrialist, who had pledged several million drachmas to the minister’s next election campaign, and caught sight of Grigoris outside.
“Grigori, my boy. What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you for ages, Everything all right in your department, I hope? Do you want to see me? Come in, come in, you know I’m always ready and willing to talk with my department heads at any time, any time. Come in, come in and sit down.”
Grigoris sighed as he was ushered into the minister’s office. He felt like telling him he had been trying to see him for more than a fortnight but decided that since the minister was in a particularly good mood, after his meeting with the industrialist, it would not be politic to remonstrate with him.
The minister sat down at his desk and was just about to ask Grigoris what he could do for him when the phone at his elbow rang. He picked up the receiver and Grigoris saw by his expression that he was embarrassed to talk before him. He rose to go but the minister gestured to him to stay. Then he turned his back on Grigoris and spoke low into the mouthpiece, Grigoris barely catching the words: “Yes, my darling, three o’clock as usual. I’ll be there.”
Then the minister turned to Grigoris again, beaming, and Grigoris thanked his lucky stars that he had caught him in such an excellent mood.
“It’s about Fotis Fostiras, the agricultural expert in my department,” he began.
“Yes, yes, what about him?” the minister asked.
“You will remember that he was engaged on a short-term contract, at my suggestion, to investigate the possibility of growing asparagus in the southern Peloponnese so we could take advantage of the substantial funds ear-marked by the EC to support European asparagus producers.”
“Yes, I do remember. I also remember his report which says the soil is not suitable for growing asparagus in the southern Peloponnese which means we can’t get our hands – I mean, we can’t avail ourselves of the EC support in question. What about him?”
“His contract expires next month and I have with me here his application for another six-month extension of the contract which needs your approval.”
Grigoris opened the file he was holding and placed the application before the minister. The minister frowned.
“Why should we extend his contract when he’s done the job and there’s nothing else for him to do?”
“He’s a very bright young man, he has degrees from Oxford, Harvard and the Sorbonne and we could use him to investigate other areas in Greece where asparagus could be grown, or to do research on other crop-growing possibilities – Brussels sprouts, for instance, or parsnips or brown beans.”
“I’m sure he’s a whizz-kid but you heard what the prime minister said the other day. We will all have to cut down the departments in our ministries to the bone. The jobs of many others who’ve been with the ministry much longer that this young man are in jeopardy. We simply can’t renew short-term contracts. It can’t be done.”
“You renewed the short-term con-tract of Miss Antigrafaki in the administrative department,” Grigoris said, reproachfully.
“You know perfectly well why I had to do that,” the minister snapped. “She handles a photocopier that is so complicated, nobody else in the ministry can make it work. Also, she happens to be distantly related to you-know-whom.”
Grigoris bit his lip.
“Sir,” he went on, “I must ask you to reconsider. Fostiras is an asset to the ministry and if we don’t renew his contract we shall lose him to some multinational company and when we need his services again, he will be unavailable to us. We need people like him, sir, if we are to build up a civil service worthy of its name.”
The minister’s eyes narrowed.
“Tell me, Grigoris, why are you pushing this fellow so much? What’s he to you?”
Grigoris blushed and lowered his eyes.
“Well, if you must know, sir, he’s my sister’s only child.”
“Your nephew!” the minister exclaimed.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course we’ll renew his contract. Here, let me sign that thing.”
