
Until I reached mid-adolescence I would see Uncle Petros only once a year, during the ritual visit on his name day, the feast of Saints Peter and Paul on the twenty-ninth of June. The custom of this annual meeting had been initiated by my grandfather and as a consequence had become an inviolable obligation in our tradition-ridden family. We journeyed to Ekali, a suburb of Athens today but in those days more of an isolated sylvan hamlet, where Uncle Petros lived alone in a small house surrounded by a large garden and orchard.
The contemptuous dismissal of their older brother by Father and Uncle Anargyros had puzzled me from my earliest years and had gradually become for me a veritable mystery. The discrepancy between the picture they painted of him and the impression I formed through our scant personal contact was so glaring that even an immature mind like mine was compelled to wonder.
In vain did I observe Uncle Petros during our annual visit, seeking in his appearance or behaviour signs of dissoluteness, indolence or other characteristics of the reprobate.
