When the Cypress Whispers (17 page)

“What are you doing?” he asked

“It’s traditional to write the names of those you want the saint to protect on a piece of paper.” Daphne wrote her list: Evie, Yia-yia, Popi, Nitsa, and Stephen
.
She kissed the paper, folded it in half, and placed it in another basket, which was quickly filling with the notes of the faithful.

Daphne turned. She smiled at her fiancé and lifted his hand to her lips for a kiss. She knew he didn’t understand it, that he thought the whole idea of miracles and worshipping a mummified body was somewhat archaic and creepy. He was a man of reason—of facts, not blind faith. Daphne knew there were basic differences between them; their cultures and histories were worlds apart. But in the end, that really was all right. She had long ago given up on the ideal of a perfect companion who understood and adored her every nuance. Daphne had buried that dream the day they placed Alex’s body in the earth.

“Come on, let’s go.” She tugged at his hand again. “There’s a beautiful rooftop bar at the Hotel Cavalieri I want to show you.”

“Now that’s more like it. Let’s get out of here. I could use a drink.” He placed his arm around Daphne and led her toward the door.

“Yeah, me too.” She turned once more before exiting the church. As she glanced back toward the saint’s tomb, Daphne stopped.

“What is it?” Stephen asked.

There, standing at the entrance of the tomb, was Yianni. Daphne felt her stomach jump alive. She tried to swallow, but it seemed as if the butterflies had also gathered in her windpipe, their fluttering wings blocking her air passage. She stood there beside Stephen and watched as Yianni bowed his head before the icon. Daphne noticed how unlike the other worshippers, he did not perform the sign of the cross.
Of course not, he’s Jewish
. But he did lean forward toward the base of the icon and kiss the feet of the saint who had helped save his mother and grandmother so many years ago. He walked through the door and disappeared into the small room where the
agios
slept.

“What is it?” Stephen asked again.

“Nothing.” She smiled up at her fiancé. “Just a guy I know.”

They walked arm in arm out of the church and into the cool night air of the cobblestone square. She looked back toward the church one last time. “He’s just an old friend from Erikousa.”

Twenty-two

N
EW
Y
ORK

2001

“Never.” Mama slammed her fist on the dining room table. “You will never see him again,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“But Mama, he is not what you think,” Daphne cried. She reached her arms out to her mother, pleading. “Please, he’s not what you think.” Her voice quivered, as did her hands.

Mama stood. She stared down at Daphne. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to grow three shades darker as Daphne looked up at her.

Mama brought the knuckle of her right index finger to her mouth and bit down hard. Daphne had only seen Mama do that once before, the time she had dared give her phone number to the sweet, pale, and sweaty-palmed boy she met at the seventh-grade school dance. When he called the next morning and simply asked to speak with Daphne, Baba had hung up on him, slamming the phone down so hard and loud that Daphne came running out of her room to see what was the matter. Baba stormed off to the restaurant without speaking or looking at her. Daphne knew all too well the staggering depths and ramifications of Baba’s temper. It had been twenty years since he had spoken to his own siblings after an argument about the inheritance of his parents’ small garden plot on the neighboring island of Othoni. She wondered how long it would be before he spoke to her again. As the door banged closed behind him, Mama gnawed on her knuckle before slapping Daphne across the face.
“Poutana,”
she spat before banishing Daphne to her room.

That was the first and last school dance Daphne ever attended.

But that was then. She wasn’t that scared and obedient thirteen-year-old anymore. Respectful, yes—but no longer scared. This was too important. This was Alex.

“Baba, please.” His back was to her. She stood, placing her hand on his shoulder, willing him to turn around and see the honesty in her eyes. “You need to trust me. Alex is a good man.”

Baba lifted his chin and swallowed hard.

“Just meet him. You’ll see when you meet him.”

He walked away from his daughter just as he had the morning after the dance, again—never meeting her eyes. Her limp arm fell to her side as she heard the click of the radio and Greek news blaring too loudly from the next room.

Mama stood from her seat at the head of the dining room table. She took three steps toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned to face Daphne, wringing her hands. Her black bun, normally so neatly pinned on top of her head, had come undone. Bobby pins are no match for the flailing, chest beating, and gesticulations of a Greek mother whose daughter dares defy her parents and her heritage.

“You will not do this to your father. You will not do this to me. We did not come to this country to stand on our feet sixteen hours a day, cleaning, cooking, serving, slaving—working like animals until we are so tired that even sleep does not soothe our exhausted bodies—we did not do this, Daphne, for you to be the whore of some American boy you met at school.”

Her words hurt worse than the slap across her face had. Daphne straightened her spine and met her mother’s glare without blinking and without backing down. “I am not his whore.” She spoke slowly and deliberately. “I love him, and he loves me. And we are going to be together.”

Mama did not say a word. She stormed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Daphne heard the refrigerator slam shut. She shuddered as Mama’s cleaver slammed down on the chopping board again and again, louder and harder and more deliberate than necessary.

End of discussion.

Beginning of Daphne and Alex’s herculean mission.

S
EATED BETWEEN HER PARENTS IN
the pew, Daphne recited the Our Father first in Greek, and then in English, along with the rest of the congregation.

“
Pater emon, O en tis Ouranis, Agiastiste to onoma sou . . .”

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

She knew he was there. She didn’t have to see him. She could feel him near. Knowing it was disrespectful to look behind you in church, she stared straight ahead, never daring to look back for confirmation.

Remember Orpheus and Eurydice, she reminded herself, knowing how close Orpheus had come to saving his beloved Eurydice. The young bride had stepped on a poisonous snake and died, taken away to become a shade in the underworld. Orpheus was distraught, playing his lute so mournfully that Queen Persephone and even King Hades himself had taken pity on the heartbroken lovers and promised to reunite them. They allowed Eurydice to follow Orpheus out of the underworld on one condition: that Orpheus never look back to see if she was there. But overcome with fear and doubt, Orpheus turned to look. Eurydice disappeared before his eyes.

Daphne would not make the same mistake.

“Lead us not into temptation . . .” She continued reciting the prayer a bit louder than usual.

When it was time for communion, she stood with her parents and walked to the altar. Father Anastasios dipped the communal spoon into the chalice of wine and bread and then slipped it into her mouth. She turned to go back to her seat, and finally she spotted him, seated toward the back, alone in a sea of families and
yia-yias
.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of him. He smiled back, keeping his head solemnly bowed, along with the rest of the parishioners.

Mama looked at Daphne and then followed her gaze to Alex. No introduction needed.

“What is he doing here? He is not Greek,” she hissed under her breath as she grabbed Daphne’s elbow, just a little too hard, and directed her back into their pew. Baba followed behind, lost in his thoughts, not noticing the drama playing out before him.

Daphne leaned over and pulled the red velvet-lined prayer kneeler down. She got down on her knees, made the sign of the cross, clasped her hands together, and said a silent prayer of thanks before turning to face her mother.

“He loves me.” She smiled. That was all the explanation needed.

Mama got down on her knees and said a prayer of her own.

I
T CONTINUED LIKE THAT FOR
months. Each Sunday he sat at the back of the church, respectfully and solitary, never approaching Daphne or her family. Just smiling at Daphne and, when she dared look and acknowledge his presence, at Mama as well.

He was there on August 11, the litany of Saint Spyridon. From the corner of her eye, Mama watched as he lit the red glass offering candle and placed it on the altar by the feet of the saint’s icon.

He was there again on August 15, the feast of the Dormition, at the celebration of the Holy Virgin Mother’s assumption into heaven. Mama had just returned from the ladies’ room when she spotted him lighting a candle and making the sign of the cross, not with three fingers as in the Greek Orthodox tradition, but a “cross of other churches,” as Mama called it, using his entire hand.

He was there on Christmas Eve, carrying an armload of gifts for Saint Basil’s orphanage collection. He smiled broadly as he approached the Ladies’ Philoptochos Society table where Mama was volunteering for the toy drive.

“Merry Christmas, young man,” one of the ladies greeted him as he handed over the gifts. Mama busied herself with untying and retying a large green bow on a small square box.

“
Kala Hristougena, kyries
,” he replied; “Merry Christmas, ladies.” The accent was off, but the vocabulary was perfect.

“Bravo, young man.” The ladies clapped their hands and fussed over him.

Mama said nothing.

H
E WAS THERE ON
P
ALM
Sunday. Alex bent down to kiss Father Anastasios’s hand as the priest handed him his woven palm cross at the end of the service. Mama watched as Father welcomed Alex to the church family and invited him to stay for coffee hour. “Everyone is welcome in Christ’s house,” the priest said, slapping Alex’s back.

Mama and Baba watched from across the church hall as Daphne approached Alex. They stood drinking coffee, talking and smiling at each other. They dared not kiss or touch, knowing that would be insolent and imprudent. Baba huffed as he watched them, taking one step forward to put an end to this shameful display. But Mama put her hand on his arm and stopped him from going farther.

“No,” she said. “Everyone is welcome in Christ’s house.”

He was there every night of Holy Week, through every moment of every solemn service. He stood in line at the altar on Holy Wednesday and lifted his head toward Father Anastasios while the priest anointed his face with holy oil, first on his forehead, then chin and cheeks as well as his palms and hands. On Good Friday he joined the procession as the flower-covered
epitaphios
depicting Christ’s tomb was carried around the church and the congregation followed solemnly behind. Daphne walked with her parents at first, but gradually found her way to Alex’s side. Mama and Baba watched and shook their heads as their daughter slowly drifted away from them. But neither tried to stop her.

At the midnight Easter Anastasi Service of Christ’s Resurrection, Alex was already seated as Daphne and her parents filed into the church just before midnight. They had run late, the diner busier than usual, making it impossible to get there in time to secure seats for the always crowded service. They stood in the back, just behind Alex, who knew better than to turn and confirm she was there. The packed church was quiet and still as the celebrants stood shoulder to shoulder, holding unlit candles and waiting for a joyous end to the mournful and reflective week.

Just before midnight all the lights were turned off. Father Anastasios emerged from behind the altar into the darkened church holding a single lit candle. He then turned to the altar boys lighting each of their candles. The boys walked into the congregation, and one by one, candle by candle, row by row, the light of Christ’s resurrection spread through the church. The young mother seated in front of Alex turned to light his candle. Alex then turned around to share the flame and came face-to-face with Daphne and Mama. He smiled as he lit Daphne’s wick. Mama stared at him and hesitated for a moment. But finally she leaned in and allowed Alex’s light into her life. In that moment, the church erupted into the joyous hymn of Christ’s resurrection.

“
Christos Anesti ek nekron. Thanato Thanaton patisas, Kai tis en tis mnimasi, Zoi, Harisamenos
.”

Daphne lifted her face toward the light and sang each word as if it were coming from her heart and not her mouth.

With one hand she held her candle, with the other she reached for her mother’s hand. Mama didn’t hesitate this time. She locked fingers with Daphne as they sang.

“Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs, granting new life.”

And in that moment Daphne knew she had indeed been granted a new life.

Twenty-three

Evie ran across the dock as soon as she saw Daphne disembarking from Big Al. She let out a high-pitched screech and took a flying leap into her mother’s arms.

“Mommy, I had so much fun,” Evie squealed as she wrapped her legs around her mother’s waist and cinched her arms around Daphne’s neck.

“Well, did you miss me even a little bit?” Daphne kissed her little girl’s neck. Evie smelled of sunblock and the giant red rose that she wore tucked behind her right ear.

“Yes, but Mommy. You won’t believe it. Yia-yia showed me how to make pita, my very own pita dough. I used an old broom and everything, just like the one you have at home. It was so cool. Mommy, I loved it. How come you never cook with me back home, Mommy? How come? Promise me you’ll cook with me, promise me, Mommy?”

“Honey, of course I’ll cook with you.” Daphne laughed.

“And you know what else?” the little girl continued. “Thea Popi told me a story. There was this guy, King Midas, and he was really greedy, Mommy. Everything he touched turned to gold—I mean everything.”

“Sounds pretty good.” Stephen chuckled.

“Yeah, until he touched his little girl.” Daphne stroked Evie’s hair and kissed her little pink cheek.

“And then she turned to gold, too,” Evie shouted as she clapped.

“It’s a great story, honey. One of my favorites. But aren’t you forgetting something?” Daphne chided. “Aren’t you going to say hello to Stephen? He came all this way to see you.” Daphne unwrapped Evie’s arms from around her neck and placed the little girl back on the ground.

“Hi.” Evie fingered the glass eye that hung around her neck.

“Well, hello to you too. For you, Miss Evie,” he said as he hugged her, then took a rainbow-colored lollipop out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Evie said as she took the treat, unwrapping it and placing it in her mouth before racing off with one of the stray dogs who lived at the port.

Popi, who had been standing off to the side watching the entire exchange, stepped forward. “Welcome back, Cousin.” She hugged Daphne and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Popi, this is Stephen.”

“Ah, finally we meet,” Popi bellowed as she threw her arms around Stephen. He stood motionless for a moment, his arms straight at his side, not sure what to do with this much affection from a stranger. “Welcome, Stephen,” Popi shouted as she squeezed one last time and released Stephen from her anaconda grip.

Daphne giggled. She had to admit, it was pretty funny. On one hand, there was Popi, red-cheeked, rotund, and bursting with unbridled energy and affection, swinging her hips and her arms as if she were performing some sort of ancient fertility dance. And then of course, there was Stephen; fit, self-contained, immaculately dressed and mannered, not a hair or gesture out of place.

“Where’s Yia-yia?” Daphne asked as she looked around the port.

“She’s back at the house, waiting for us. Ah, Cousin Stephen, you are in for a big surprise.” Popi clucked as she linked her arm with Stephen’s.

Daphne bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. There was Stephen, usually so in control, looking as if he were afraid Popi was going to eat him for breakfast.

“So what’s the surprise?” Daphne asked.

“Ah, Cousin Stephen.” Popi patted his forearm as they walked. “For you, Yia-yia has outdone herself. For you,
stifado.”

“Stif-what?”

“Stee-faa-do,” Popi repeated.

“It’s a stew,” Daphne chimed in. “A really delicious, thick, rich stew.”

“Then why haven’t you made it for me before, if it’s so delicious?” Stephen teased.

“I know, I’ve been holding out,” Daphne admitted. “It’s really, really labor-intensive, actually. It’s a tangy beef stew simmered with tomatoes and vinegar and tiny little pearl onions. It takes hours to clean those little onions.”

Daphne’s mouth as well as her eyes watered, just thinking back to the last time she’d made
stifado
. It had been for Alex’s birthday.. She was seven months pregnant at the time, and by the time she was done peeling the tiny pearl onions, her hands cramped and her back ached. The stew had turned out delicious, but Daphne spent two days lying in bed just to recover from its preparation. But she hadn’t minded. It was worth seeing the sublime satisfaction on Alex’s face when he dove into the dish and lapped up each last drop of sauce. That was the first and last time she had ever made
stifado
.

“Popi, how is Yia-yia making
stifado
with her arthritis?”

“She’s been up since four a.m., that’s how. It’s slow, but she’s determined to do it.” Popi sashayed away from the port, her arm still linked with Stephen’s. “Cousin Stephen, you are a lucky, lucky man.” Popi gazed up at her new cousin and batted her thick lashes.

“Yes, I know.” He looked at Daphne and a broad grin crossed his face. “Believe me, I know just how lucky I am.” He released the suitcase, reached into his back pocket for the white cotton handkerchief that he always carried with him, and dabbed at the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow.

With Evie and the scrawny stray dog leading the way, they moved away from the port and toward Nitsa’s inn, where Stephen would be staying.

It was a typical island morning, the soft breeze from the port at their backs, the cracked pavement of the makeshift roads at their feet, an infusion of sea spray, honeysuckle, and fresh rosemary bushes in their nostrils. And everywhere they turned, a swarm of
yia-yias
looking to kiss, hug, and pinch the newly arrived American. If Stephen didn’t know what to make of Popi’s bold display of affections, he certainly had no idea what to make of what was to come.

Damn, Daphne thought, suppressing the giggle in her throat. I forgot to warn him.

As the first black widow approached, Stephen had no idea that he was in fact the target she was homing in on. Thea Paraskevi circled her prey for a few moments, fanning her hands in the air and squealing and shrieking her congratulations. But unfortunately, instead of well wishes, all Stephen understood was that a shriveled-up old woman veiled in faded black was screaming at him while accosting him with wet kisses.

Daphne watched from the sidelines as one by one, every
thea
,
theo
,
ksadelfos
, and
ksadelfi
they crossed paths with made sure to bid a proper welcome to the immaculate
Amerikanos
who had arrived to marry their Daphne. With pleading eyes, Stephen shot Daphne a series of SOS signals, but Daphne was powerless to stop the surge of well-wishers. She just shrugged her shoulders and whispered, “I’m sorry, I know,” while her fiancé repeatedly reached into his back pocket for a hankie to wipe the wet kisses from his cheeks.

Finally they arrived at Hotel Nitsa. Just as Stephen thought he was in the clear, safe from the overzealous gaggle of islanders, they entered the polished marble lobby, where Nitsa was waiting to pounce.

“
Ahoo
!” Nitsa’s raspy voice could be heard echoing off the white marble. “There you are. Come here. Come to Thea Nitsa. Come let me see you and welcome you.”

The wineglasses above the bar jingled with each waddle. Stephen dropped his suitcase right there in the lobby. He looked like he wanted to run and hide as he spotted Nitsa scurrying toward him in her white apron, hair net, and of course, lit cigarette held high in her right hand. She was half his height, three times his girth, and dead set on giving the American banker a proper Erikousa welcome.

“Look at him,” Nitsa screeched as she held his face in both of her hands, the embedded scent of tobacco and garlic on her fingertips making Stephen gag. “Look at him. He looks like Kennedy. He’s Kennedy, I tell you. Daphne, your man looks like President Kennedy.” Nitsa pinched three plump fingers together and made the sign of the cross. “May God rest his soul.”

“Thank you,” Stephen stammered and smiled at Nitsa, not sure exactly what the appropriate response would be in a situation like this. He’d barely got the words out before Nitsa again sandwiched his face between her thick hands.

“Welcome to Hotel Nitsa,” she announced, spinning and lifting her arms to the sky. “I—,” she proclaimed, pounding her chest, “—am Nitsa.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied.

“You are family now, and I will make certain you feel at home.
Ella
. You must be tired. I will show you to your room. It is the finest one we have to offer.”

“I’ll wait here with Evie,” Popi shouted as she grabbed Evie’s hand and headed toward the bar, where a new group of Australian tourists was settling in with frosty mugs of Mythos. “Take your time. I’ll watch her.”

Daphne and Stephen followed Thea Nitsa down a long white hallway and turned right at the very last door. Nitsa turned the unlocked doorknob and showed them into a bright, sparsely furnished but immaculate room. The bed, no larger than a full-size mattress, commanded most of the space in the compact room. Starched and ironed sheets peeked out from beneath the holes of the delicate crochet blanket covering the bed. Daphne knew this tiny rosette pattern was one of the more complicated patterns, and that Nitsa reserved this coverlet for the most special of guests. Besides the bed, there really wasn’t much else in the room, just a small dark wood bureau adorned with a small vase that held two perfect red roses. A single French door led to a tiny terrace that overlooked the sea.

“Here you are.” Nitsa stood in the doorway, since there wasn’t room for her in the room. She took a cigarette out of her apron pocket and lit it, blowing smoke directly into the tiny room. “It may not be fancy like other hotels you have stayed in. But it is the best we have on Erikousa, and I hope you like it and are happy here.”

“Yes, it’s perfect. Isn’t it, Stephen?” Daphne said from the edge of the bed, where she was fingering the delicate strands of the rosette petals on the blanket. “Isn’t it?” She got up from the bed and opened the terrace door in an attempt to clear the cigarette smoke from the room. There was nothing Stephen hated more than the smell of cigarette smoke.

“Yes. It’s very nice. Thank you, Nitsa.” He was examining the bathroom, and popped his head out to respond. “One thing, how late is the business center open?”

“The business center?” Nitsa laughed. “Why,
I
am the business center. I am here all the time. I am always open for my guests.” She pounded on her chest again with her left hand, oblivious to the cigarette ashes that had fallen on her black T-shirt. “Any business you need, you tell Nitsa—and Nitsa will take care of it for you.”

“So, there’s no business center then?” He shot a glance at Daphne.

“No. No business center.” Daphne spun her engagement ring.

“All right, then. I will leave you two alone to get settled. Again, welcome.” Nitsa turned, starting to close the door. “Anything you need, you ask Nitsa, okay?”

“Thank you.” He dismissed her with a nod.

As disappointed in the room as he was, Daphne knew Stephen’s manners would never allow him to show that disappointment to Nitsa. One thing was certain about Daphne’s fiancé; he was a gentleman. He waited at the door until the seismic vibrations from Nitsa’s stomp grew softer and softer. Only when he heard Nitsa bellow from the bar area below, “Hello my new friend, would you like another Mythos?” did he deem it safe to speak.

“Well, it’s not exactly the Four Seasons, is it?” The springs creaked as he sat down.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to. It’s simple, but it’s clean. And it’s not like you’ll be spending much time in the room anyway,” she said. “Remember, that’s what I told you. Simple island elegance. That’s what we’re about here.”

“Well, you’ve got the simple part right.”

He got up from the bed and unzipped his garment bag. Second only to cigarette smoke, Stephen hated unkempt and wrinkled clothing. He pulled open the door to the empty closet. “Hey, where’s your stuff?”

“Back at Yia-yia’s house. Where else would it be?”

“Here, with me, your fiancé.” He paused. “Remember me?” He pointed to himself.

“Come on, Stephen, I explained this to you. We’re not married yet, remember?” She lifted her engagement ring and wiggled it toward him.

“So you weren’t joking then.” He slid behind her and held her to him. “Are you sure we can’t stay together, here”—he motioned around the room—“or anywhere else?”

“No, I’m not joking.” She turned to face him, shaking her head and waving her finger, mockingly scolding him. “This place is very traditional, remember I told you? I can’t stay here until we’re married, honey. I just can’t. Everyone will talk. I know it sounds silly, but that’s how it goes here. And remember, when in Rome—”

“May I remind you that this is Greece.” He grabbed her and threw her to the bed, hovering over her before kissing her gently on the lips. “Are you sure there’s
nothing
I can do to convince you?”

“Don’t make this harder for me than it already is.” She narrowed her eyes and shook her head at him. “Things here are very traditional. I know it’s hard to understand. But when I’m here, I respect those traditions.”

She had explained this all to Stephen back at home, telling him how modern life had yet to change the way things are done on Erikousa even though Corfu, just seven miles away, was by comparison contemporary and cosmopolitan. But Erikousa had always been in its own provincial time warp. Certain traditions, prejudices, and customs never changed. To those who loved Erikousa, that was the charm of the island—the predictability and nostalgia of it all. But to outsiders, the culture of the island was difficult if not impossible to understand.

“It would mean a lot to me if you respected those traditions while we’re here.”

“I know, Daphne. And I will. If it makes you happy, you know I will.” He kissed her again and stood up. He walked toward the closet but paused and turned again to face her. “But it just seems funny to me when for so long I’ve heard you talk about how hard all those traditions made things for you when you were a kid. Don’t you think it’s pretty ironic that you’re going back to those same traditions now, as an adult—when you can make your own decisions?” His tone was not angry; he seemed truly confused by the contradiction.