I was born in a village just thirty kilometers away from Athens. However, this small distance was enough to define customs, traditions, and perceptions. So much so, in fact, that if someone didn’t know where they were, they would think it was a place where progress and culture were light years away. They named me Andreas. It was my grandfather’s name, and I inherited all the traits of the family legacy, foremost among them a sharp mind, which, however, always worked differently from others’—just like my father’s and grandfather’s, whom everyone in the village called “wise.” The villagers whispered that whatever their eyes saw, their hands could create. A heavy legacy that I honored, though I still don’t know if it was for my own good…
My father… Kyriakos Zisimatos… I remember him through the haze of so many years that have passed. Back then, when he laughed and his whole body shook, and his laughter, strong and joyful, with a scent of childhood, carried everyone around him along. Everyone says I resemble him, and they are not wrong. Witness to this is an old photograph, black and white, worn by time and with a soft yellowish tint at its edges. Yet, I want to believe that our resemblance goes deeper beneath the surface and reaches to equate us as people.