High life
The brothers
Takt
In March 1963 four young Greeks and an older one went to Dublin. It was the first time Greece had entered the Davis Cup competition since pre-war days, and we had been instructed not to act like the dimwitted, monosyllabic, scatologically-minded tennis tycoons of today. The non-playing captain was the older man accompanying US, a semi-gent by the name of Stefanos Alepoudelis. In Greek, Alepoudelis means a little fox, and that is what he turned out to be. The day the draw was supposed to take place he asked me for advice on buying a car and avoiding Greek tax. Then he asked me to act as translator as he spoke no English, and the Irish spoke a language none of us understood. Although I was there as a player, not a flunkey, I advised him on how to avoid Greek tax(by volunteering for the American army and getting military plates) and acted as a translator well enough to be offered a job at the UN. But when the president of the FitzWilham Club drew lots, my name was not amopg them. The little fox had not included me, and I watched helplessly from the bench while Greece beat Ireland 3-2. As my Greek doubles partner and I had formed the best doubles team in Greece, and he had won both junior Wimbledon and Rolland Garros that year, and was to get to the last 16 a year later at Wimbledon. I thought it highly unfair not to be picked. But such are the joys of having a captain whose occupation was making soap, and who knew as much about tennis as a tiger knows about vegetarianism. When we returned to Athens, my father Politely asked why I had not played if I was as good as I claimed and, worse, why we had Won despite the captain's folly. My answer was that had I played we would have won more easily, and that the little fox was really a rat. My father did not agree. It turned out that he had been at school in Lesbos with the little fox's brother, who had changed his name from Alepoudelis, did not make soap like his brother, and was a poet of high standing. Although I try not to read anything Greek, especially modern Greek, I eventually heard about Ulysses Elitis, born Ulysses Alepoudelis, younger brother .of my Davis Cup captain. And when in 1979 he was awarded the Nobel prize for literature, the rest of the rich Greeks heard of him also. Last week our paths nearly crossed, and although he was not there due to ill health, the ceremony at which he was awarded the Benson Medal by the Royal Society of Literature in London was surely more satisfying for me (once again as a Spectator) than my last encounter with his brother in Ireland. In fact it was one of the few times — with the exception of the Greek war against Italy and Germany, and that of the Greek army against Stalin's bully boys — that I felt proud to be Greek.
The Benson Medal was founded in 1916, and is the highest award which can be conferred by the Society on a writer. It is also a rare distinction: only 26 have been awarded in the last 65 years. The first award of the medal was made to my favourite Italian, Gabriele d'Annunzio, a man who when only 11 years of age changed his name from Rapanetta, I believe, to d'Annunzio because he knew even at his tender age that one simply cannot become great when burdened with a name like Rapanetta.
Lord Butler gave the medal to the Greek ambassador, for once a Greek civil servant who did not possess that awful Greek trait of boot-licking upwards and kicking downwards. The acceptance speech was short and humble. Then came C.M. Wood house's turn, as chairman of the society. As a man who knows more about Greece and her culture than any Greek, Woodhouse cannot be faulted. But he once reviewed my Greek history book rather unfavourably, and is a friend of my least favourite Greek, Helen Vlachos, so I was looking forward to his remarks in case I could make fun of them. Unfortunately, I was to be bitterly disappointed. His speech on Plato's influence on European literature was of such interest and depth that I found myself taking notes in order to plagiarise later on.
The worst happened after the speech: I ran into my old publisher, Tom Stacey, who accused me of being a highbrow for being there. Shame on me.
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