But my name is not Smith. It is not Jones or Berg or Müller. I am not northern, not calm or cool, and talking is not what I do when I am moved. I am Kyriakos. I am Constantine Kyriakos and I may not give a shit about football or the Church or ships or the Acropolis but I am Greek. I have already embraced him, halfway lifted him like the bundle of twigs that he is, and I have buried my face in his shoulder and I am crying, too. We are men, and this is how we grieve. I feel his tears on my neck, and I do not know which of us is shaking harder—we are both shuddering and wheezing—and then like an earthquake the moment ends quite simply, and we are just two fellows who have never seen eye to eye in a hug we’ll never acknowledge again. A heartbeat later, even the embrace is gone.