I have no idea how the ’embros’ response originated but I suspect that the first telephones ever used in Greece must have belonged to the army. And since official conversation in the army is not particularly noted for its courteousness, the clipped and abrupt ’embros’ came into being and eventually passed into civilian use.
After twenty-five years of residence in this country, I am still slightly put out when I ring a number and hear the voice at the other end giving me the command to go forward. I start mumbling’ah’, and ‘er’, and the voice at the other end becomes more insistent, repeating ‘Embros!’ two or three times. By then I have become completely flustered and can’t remember whom I was calling in the first place. And when I do remember and start to speak, the person at the other end has slammed the phone down.
Sometimes when I dial a number I get a busy signal and sometimes nothing at all but, more often than not, I get a number that is completely different from the one I dialled. If the person at the other end waits long enough for me to get through my ‘ahs’ and ‘ers’ and realizes I have been connected with a wrong number, he abruptly utters the word ‘lathos’ (mistake) and cuts me off immediately. If I try again and, instead of a busy signal, I get the same wrong number, the next ‘lathos’ is louder and more scathing. I try to explain that I am dialling correctly but getting his number through no fault of my own but the person at the other end has already slammed the phone down and my explanations are lost into a dead receiver.
Once, instead of the laconic ‘lathos’, I was subjected to a curt lecture. ‘My dear sir,’ I was told, ‘why the hell don’t you learn to dial properly?’By the time I had gotten over the shock of this rudeness and thought of an appropriate reply, I was naturally cut off.
I myself try to be as polite as I can with people who ring another number and get mine instead. But it can be exasperating when the person at the other end is a peasant woman calling from some remote village in the hinterland.
‘Mitso, is that you?’ a shrill voice shouts into my ear.
‘No, it is not Mitso. There is no Mitso here. You have the wrong number.’
‘Where is Mitso? I want to speak to him!’ the shrill voice goes on.
‘There is no Mitso here. You have the wrong number,’ I repeat.
‘Wrong number? What wrong number? Where is Mitso?’
‘What number are you calling?’
‘Barba Stavro, is that you? I want to speak to Mitso. Where is he?’
‘It is not Barba Stavro. You have the wrong number. Try again.’
‘Isn’t that Barba Stavro’s cafe?’
‘You have been connected with a wrong number. Put your phone down and try again.’
‘Who are you?’
I decide to try a different tack. ‘What number are you calling?’
The shrill voice remains silent. There is a consultation at the other end that I cannot quite make out. Then the line is cut off. A few seconds later the phone rings again.
‘Mitso, is that you?’
By this time I have had enough. I leave the phone off the hook and go into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. By the time Γ return and pick up the receiver again I can hear the woman engaged in an animated conversation with Mitso. How she ever got through to him on my open line I shall never know.
A friend of mine claims that he can tell whether a company is flourishing or not by the state of its lavatories. If they are bright and spotless, the company is doing well. If they are not, the company is obviously going down the drain. As I rarely use company toilets, I haven’t been able to substantiate or disprove this contention. However, I do believe that the way a switchboard operator or a secretary answers the phone is a strong clue to the way a company is being run.
The company name and a bright and cheery ‘Kalimera sas’ (good morning) right up to the end of the day means the company is doing very very well indeed, with a happy and efficient staff to keep it going. A tired voice barely pronouncing the company’s name and nothing else is a bad omen. It is usually the trade mark of a government-controlled corporation where nobody gives a damn, or of a company seething with labour troubles and cash-flow problems.
Secretaries who put you through to their bosses straight away after you have identified yourself are obviously working for a successful man who has nothing to fear from anyone. The ones who make you wait with an Til see if he’s in’—the most often-repeated lie in our modern world—are manifestly working for a man who is full of hang-ups and probably can’t cope with his job.
Hotel switchboard operators are a race apart. They know everything that is going on in the hotel, probably by listening in on everybody’s conversations. There is one luxury hotel in Athens (which shall remain nameless) whose switchboard operators are the friendliest and most uninhibited girls in the business. Typical responses from this hotel are:
‘Mrs. Haggerty? Is that the red-haired Irish-American lady with the husband who has a sinus condition? Ah, well, she went out about fifteen minutes ago to buy some Greek embroidery. She’ll probably be back soon. Can I take a message?’
Or else: ‘Mr. Ferguson? No, I’m afraid he’s out. He had an appointment at ten at the Ministry of Coordination and you know what they’re like there. He probably won’t be back till after two. Do you want to speak to his wife? She’s sitting in the lounge waiting for him and I expect she’s bored stiff. Hang on a minute and I’ll have her paged for you.’
