From the Devil's Farm
Page 25
Patronas had printed out the Arabic words phonetically, and he and the others did their best to join her. There weren’t enough people in attendance to make the odd rows of mourners the Muslim rite required, but Patronas positioned his friends carefully, one a little closer to grave, another a little farther back, in an effort to honor the tradition. It was a hot day and the air was dusty, the sky nearly white with heat.
As Sami’s aunt was not allowed to witness the actual internment, Lydia Pappas wheeled her a small distance away, talking and gesturing in an effort to distract her.
Tembelos had prepared the grave the previous day, and he and Patronas carefully positioned the body at the bottom, making sure it was lying on its right side and facing Mecca as was the Islamic custom.
After they finished, they all recited, “In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah.” Patronas then covered the shroud with the wooden board he’d brought and laid some stones on top of it, after which each of them stepped forward and threw the requisite three fistfuls of earth into the grave.
The workmen immediately went to work with shovels to fill in the grave and finish the task. The headstone had been ordered, but it would take some time. Patronas planned to return from Chios when it was ready to supervise its installation. The boy was well positioned, not far from Andreas Papandreou, a former prime minister, and Odysseas Elytis, the Nobel Laureate in poetry. Patronas wondered what the famous Greeks would have made of the little Syrian. His mother had believed in all manner of spirits—ghosts, poltergeists, angels. Today, he hoped there were such things, and the spirits, such as they were, would be benevolent and welcome the child into their midst.
Weeping quietly, Lydia took his hand and led him out of the cemetery.
They all shared a meal afterward in a fish restaurant in Mikrolimano, a picturesque harbor with tavernas facing the water. Sami’s aunt was very tired and fought to stay upright in her wheelchair. She appeared deeply touched by what Patronas had done and thanked him again and again.
“Sami, he is not forgotten,” she said. “In Sifnos, you say these words to me, but I did not believe. You made it truth.”
Patronas and Lydia Pappas spent the night at a hotel in Varkiza, a seaside resort forty kilometers from Athens. They’d accompanied Sami’s aunt back to the hospital and helped the attendant resettle her in her room, then journeyed on from there in a police car Stathis had put at their disposal, the burgeoning relationship between Patronas and his boss in full flower. Tembelos and Papa Michalis were already in Chios, having flown out immediately after the funeral, and Stathis had returned to his office at the police station, saying he had work to do.
Patronas had bought a gold wedding ring in Athens the day he arrived from Istanbul. He’d had Lydia’s name engraved inside, reserved a room at the Golden Sands on Chios, and ordered a local florist to fill it with roses. The priest had promised to get a church for them and Tembelos had offered to serve as best man. Eleni, Tembelos’ wife, had volunteered to cook the wedding feast. Or they could go out, whatever Patronas preferred. Patronas wasn’t planning on a lengthy engagement. Forty-eight hours at the most. If everything went according to plan, in less than three days he would be a married man.
Later, he and Lydia sat outside on the terrace of the hotel, watching the night. The lights from the hotel were reflected in the still water at their feet, stirring and breaking up when a gust of wind swept across the bay. The gri gri fishermen were hard at work, shining lanterns off the sterns of their boats in an effort to attract mackerel and marida, a tiny anchovy-like fish much loved as an appetizer in Greece. The technique was an ancient one, the light fooling the fish, who believed it was the sun and would swim to the surface, where fishermen lay in wait with their nets. Patronas could see a man with a net in his hand as well as the teeming fish flashing silver all around his boat, leaping and splashing in the dark water.
His cellphone rang. Startled, he looked down at the screen, wondering who it might be at this hour.
It was Tembelos, calling to tell him he’d just spoken to his wife and asked her to purchase the stefania, crowns, and lambadas, the decorated candles used in Orthodox wedding services. Also to speak to a priest and reserve a church.
“You’re good to go,” his friend said. “God help you.”
“Someone getting married?” Lydia asked when Patronas closed the phone. He realized she must have overheard part of the conversation.
“I don’t know. Maybe. You want to get married?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Sure,” she said, making light of how moved she was. “Sure, Yiannis. Why not?”
In the end, they didn’t use any of things Tembelos had purchased. They got married in a civil ceremony in Athens. Lydia wore a white lace beach cover-up she’d found on a rack on the sidewalk in Varkiza, and Patronas, a fresh shirt, pants, and a tie.
She had insisted on the latter, and when Patronas objected, told him, “There’s a Greek proverb: ‘A potter puts the handles where he wants.’ I’m a potter and that’s what I want.”
“You’re not going to put handles on me, are you?” Patronas asked. “Or a leash or a muzzle?”
“I won’t, Yiannis, I promise. It’ll be good, you’ll see. I have some money and we’ll buy a house in Chios, live out our days there. Watch the moon rise over the sea like we did last night in Varkiza. We’re together now. All is well.”
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From Coffeetown Press and Leta Serafim
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Leta Serafim is the author of the Greek Islands Mysteries: The Devil Takes Half and When the Devil’s Idle, as well as the work of historical fiction, To Look on Death No More. She has visited over twenty-seven islands in Greece and continues to divide her time between Boston and Greece.
You can find her online at www.letaserafim.com