26. The Tribe Has Spoken

When they next wake, all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision,
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend.
——A Midsummer Night's Dream, III.ii

A man in my position should have had mixed feelings.

Anger at Q. for behaving like a playground bully. Confusion over exactly what he thought I had said or done. Wistfulness over missing the last band gig. Satisfaction that I hadn't missed more band gigs. A strange relief that our situation had been stripped of its ambiguity. Excitement that we'd soon be out from under Q.'s thumb. Anxiety over what might happen the rest of the night. Concern and a wee bit of betrayal at Holly's capitulation to Q. Pride in having stood my ground and told Q. what I thought of him. Frustration over not taking charge of the conversation and really sticking it to Q. Gratitude to Sarah for her support, and to God for our continued survival and safety.

But I didn't feel any of those things as I set my bags on the floor of a Metro train and we settled in for the ride to Thissio Square. The only feeling I remember is absolute, complete, utter, bone-numbing exhaustion. If Sarah and I said anything to each other on the train, I couldn't tell you what it was. We just sat and tried to gather energy for the walk from Thissio to Athens Christian Center.

Our mission, should we choose to accept it, was to get inside the church before Q. returned. If we succeeded, I didn't intend to leave the building again, unless it was in handcuffs or on a stretcher, until Q. went to Thessaloniki the next day. If we failed ... well, there were several abandoned buildings in the neighborhood. A family of Gypsies were squatting in one, next to the church. We'd been giving stuff to their kids all week (extra food, T-shirts, towels, spare change). Maybe we could become their new neighbors.

I knew our chances weren't good. Our only hope was that Gilbert or some other group member had stayed behind, or that Haris was working late for some reason. It was around 11 p.m. when we finally reached the courtyard gate and I started banging on it. Nothing happened. We shouted and banged some more. I walked over to the church sanctuary and tried to rattle the heavy iron rolling gate that covered the front door. No response.

So we found a relatively clean spot on the sidewalk near the church building and sat down. (Athens got shiny new sidewalks for the Olympics, but the urban renewal never spread as far as Leonidou Street.) A dog wandered by, sniffed us, and kept moving. Someone looked down curiously from an upper balcony on the apartment building opposite the church, but otherwise the street was deserted. There we sat, talking, praying, singing a little, and trying to stay awake.

Our sidewalk vigil at least allowed us to recover from the shock of the encounter with Q. We began to process what had happened to us, and to experience some of the mixed feelings I catalogued earlier. We read Sarah's Bible by flashlight. We felt a bit like Paul and Silas in the Philippi jail, only we were locked out instead of in. Midnight came and went; there was no earthquake.

I had to admit that Q. held most of the cards now. As much as I didn't want to give him an undeserved apology, it might be the only way of getting inside. But every 20 minutes or so, I got up to stretch my legs and gave the courtyard gate another bang, just in case.

After more than two hours of this I looked through the gap by the gate's hinge for the umpteenth time, and saw to my astonishment that a light was on in the church building where no light had been earlier. A miracle! Sarah and I both pounded on the gate and yelled at the top of our lungs, and who should come and unlock it but...

Pandora, the deposed chef. She'd been asleep and then taking a shower, but she'd finally heard us. We rushed inside and made straight for our conjugal room, explaining to Pandora as we went.

Not knowing how much time we had, we quickly packed our suitcases and gathered our stuff in a corner of the room, against the possibility of a forceful eviction. We left our sleeping bags out, although we stayed fully dressed. Meanwhile we continued talking with Pandora, who prayed with us and vowed (a) not to tell anyone we were there; (b) to raise hell if Q. tried anything. We were still chatting when, after about 10 minutes, the gate opened and the rest of the group entered the courtyard. Sarah and I shut the door to our room, turned off the light, and jumped into our sleeping bags.

Today's Pearl of Wisdom: E. was the first person through the gate, and she heard Pandora's voice before she entered the building (Pandora being blessed with præternatural volume and projection), although she didn't hear us. We lay in the dark and listened as E. upbraided Pandora for violating quiet hours, even though (a) this was the first time she or Q. had ever breathed a word about nighttime quiet hours — the ones they established after my outburst were only in the morning; (b) as far as E. knew at the time, Pandora had been the only person at the church, so just whom was she supposed to be disturbing?

Eventually both E. and Pandora calmed down, and I lay still in my sleeping bag, trying to psych myself up for what might happen next. Since the group's return, my mixed feelings had begun to unmix themselves, leaving anger and anxiety at the forefront. It had been 17 years since my last violent altercation with anyone. But if Q. wanted a fist fight, I was ready to give it to him, although I didn't want to throw the first punch. We were both out of shape; he was a lot bigger than me, but I was pretty sure I had better reflexes. I didn't tell Sarah, but there was one other object in the room I hadn't packed: one of my instrument stands, which was constructed of heavy-duty steel and would be suitable for whacking an attacker on the noggin, should it come to that. (Of course, leaving the stand out was premeditation, which could mean first-degree assault if I ended up using it ... unless it was clearly in self-defense ... but I wasn't really thinking that far in advance.) Fighting dirty (groin kick, eye gouge, biting) wasn't out of the question either.

I had no idea how the Greek police might see things. But I didn't care. That's how angry I was. I was not coming out of that room voluntarily.

With all this on my mind, I sweated in my sleeping bag in the dark, the night being too warm to sleep fully dressed. Nothing happened for several minutes. Then we heard E. coming back up the hall. She flung open the door to our room (both she and Q. must have been home sick from finishing school the day their classmates learned to knock before entering) and flipped on the light. "Oh, you are here," she said. She shut the door and left.

And that was it. I expected Q. to come charging up the hall next, but he never did. Apparently he'd wised up, or at least mellowed out. After about 15 minutes we decided it was safe to get undressed and go to sleep.

The next morning everyone else got up uncharacteristically early and made a lot of noise cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors. But Sarah and I stayed put until they finished. We'd had enough confrontation for one trip.

It wasn't quite the Warsaw ghetto, but we did feel like survivors when the group finally left and we stumbled out into the courtyard. In fact, the entire trip at this point felt like a particularly excruciating reality-TV show, except for two things:

1. Despite being kicked out of the band, we were starting to consider ourselves the winners — and I think we had a pretty strong case.
   
2. Unlike reality TV, this was real.
   

But hey, if anyone wants to make an "Apprentice"-style show about a manufactured worship band, I can recommend a band manager who will give you footage you won't soon forget.