The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  “Just a minute. Give me a minute. Okay?” Gus got out of the car, released Manny from his car seat, and gave him a hug while he waited. “Ready, little guy?” Gus and Callie rode the ascending glass elevator in silence, their backs turned to the expansive view. Callie held Manny in her arms, while Gus rested his hands on the handles of the empty stroller. Two perfumed older ladies stood near them making faces at the baby, trying to get a smile. Manny studied them seriously and without comment.

  “Oh look at that red hair!” one of them said.

  “Oh, he must be Irish,” the other responded.

  “How darling.” They nodded and smiled at Callie. “How old is your little . . . boy?” said the lady with the silk flower tucked into her lapel.

  “He’s about eighteen months.” Callie smiled at the ladies.

  “Oh, how precious,” said the one with the unconvincing wig.

  Gus interrupted, “He’s Greek. He’s not Irish. He’s Greek.” He shifted his weight and squeezed the handles of the stroller, gritting his teeth.

  “Oh really! I never would have known! What a lucky little boy. I wish I was Greek! Do you like to eat spinach pie?” the wig lady chortled. Gus rolled his eyes, wishing Callie would stop trying to get Manny to smile at the old ladies.

  The elevator doors opened onto the platea swarming with bodies, the gyro booth to the left and the main stage far to the right as they passed through the ticket booth. Panoramic views of the Bay Area surrounded the festivalgoers, and Gus was glad to get away from the old women and enter the throng. He gravitated toward the stage where the musicians were playing spirited dance classics. As he approached, he spotted the usual awkward folk dance enthusiasts taking up center stage, while on the margins the Greeks danced in their own circles, politely escaping the bumbling steps and eager smiles of the folk dancers. The folk dancers had their own culture, with men sporting Greek fisherman’s hats and the women wearing embroidered peasant blouses with ruffled cotton gauze skirts from the Greek tourist vendors. They drank in the local color and with comfortable unawareness danced in too-wide circles, leading their pack into all corners of the dance floor, crowding into the Greeks. Then there were the average festivalgoers of every ethnic heritage imaginable, mostly walking about with fists full of food and drink, their bodies soaking in the music and bustle of the festival. For the most part, Gus felt good to see so many different people interested in his heritage, and he walked proudly among the festivalgoers as if he personally were hosting them.

  The music was infectious. Gus could feel the drums in his belly and the bouzouki in his feet. He turned to Callie. “Give me the baby.”

  Callie held Manny a little tighter. “How come?”

  “Give me the baby. I want to dance with him. I want him to feel this music in his body. I want him to really feel it.”

  “Okay. Let’s dance.” Callie started toward the dance floor, holding Manny close to her.

  “No. Someone has to stay with the stroller.” Gus wanted to dance with Manny. He wanted to hold him in his arms and repeat the steps he’d been dancing since he was a child. He wanted the baby to absorb the rhythms into his soul so that for the rest of his life he would involuntarily respond with joy when he heard the sounds of Greek music. Gus wanted to dance. Just him and Manoli.

  Callie reluctantly handed Manny to Gus and turned away to find a parking spot for the stroller. Gus held Manny in his muscular arms and danced to the music. Manny’s mouth was wide open in a smile, and Gus looked into the baby’s eyes while he sang to the music. Gus hadn’t felt so happy in a very long time.

  Gus closed his eyes and sang, holding Manoli close to him. The old songs took him back to childhood, going to the Greek Taverna in North Beach with his parents: dancing the hasapiko, watching belly dancers, and sitting on a table while a Greek man lifted and spun the table in the air with his teeth. Gus would hold on tight and watch the room spin ’round, the blue and white of the Aegean, and the darkness of the American nightclub. His parents wouldn’t fight on those nights, and they’d applaud as he danced in his little black patent leather shoes, impressing the crowd. He loved the music and the smell of lamb roasting, and the boisterous shouts of the men who’d drunk too much ouzo and yelled “Spasta ola!” They threw plates to the ground, smashing them in a gesture of pleasure, abundance, and wholeness—a moment when all of the humiliations of immigrant life faded away and the glory of Ellatha returned. Kefi. The state of being when all your troubles vanish and you are filled with an expansive freedom that lifts you spread-eagled into the heavens.

  Gus was reaching that place when Callie stepped up to him and said, “I don’t want to watch the stroller while you dance. I want to dance, too.”

  “Fine. Go ahead,” Gus said, continuing to dance with Manny.

  “I want to dance with you, Gus. And Manny.” Callie grabbed Gus’s hand and attempted to follow him around the dance floor. She studied his feet as he moved ahead of her in their tiny circle. “Hey, Gus. Are you doing the right steps? I can’t follow you.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m doing the right steps.” I can’t help it if you can’t follow, Gus thought, and tried to lose himself and Manoli in the music once more.

  “I don’t think you’re doing the right steps, Gus.”

  Gus looked at Callie. She was beautiful, with her red hair curling around her soft neck, but at that moment he hated her. “I am doing the right steps. I’m just taking small steps so that I don’t put Manoli’s ears right into the speakers.” That is exactly why the Greeks avoid the folk dance enthusiasts. Gus grimaced. They want you to lead them, and then they get mad when they can’t follow. They have no awareness of space, or judgment when they dance. They see only themselves and their own desires. Then they want to lead the Greeks. “Callie, if you don’t think I’m doing the right steps, maybe you should dance with someone whose steps you like better.”

  “I don’t want to dance with someone else. I want to dance with you. I just want you to show me the steps.”

  “But if I’m showing you the steps, then I’m no longer dancing with Manoli, see?” Gus stopped dancing, standing still at the edge of the dance floor. As Callie and Gus argued back and forth, the music came to a stop, and the crowd applauded the band. Gus stonily walked toward the stroller and their baggage, while Manny twined his fingers through Gus’s wavy brown hair and squealed, “Dada!”

  • • •

  As they wound their way through the crowds, looking at tables of goods and possible foods to consume, and for people they might know, Callie was delighted to see that the church had installed a new playground. “Hey look, Gus. There’s a playground. Let’s take Manny in there.”

  “Yeah. That’s nice. But let’s take him into the church first.”

  “I think he’d have more fun in the playground. Look at that slide!”

  “You know what? Fine. You take him to the playground while I go get something to eat.”

  Callie winced at Gus’s terse tone of voice. “Don’t you want to be together?”

  “I’m hungry. Do you want something?”

  “Well, I wanted to have fun today. . .” Callie pouted.

  “But do you want any food?”

  “No. I don’t want anything.” Callie wasn’t even sure if she was hungry, but she didn’t want to accept anything from Gus in that moment. Gus tried to open the gate for Callie to enter the fenced-in playground, but she pushed inside with the stroller herself while avoiding his eyes.

  “Okay then,” Gus snorted as he walked toward the lamb sandwich booth.

  Callie turned toward the playground, Manny in her arms. There were at least a dozen children sliding, hanging, and jumping off of the play structure, and the sun was blazing on the dark rubber tile floor. There was little shade except for one spot beneath two olive trees growing side by side. The playground was situated between the two performance stages, and the sound from the live bands and the jumpy house across the way was deafening. Manny squirmed as he w
atched Gus walk away through the chain-link fence, calling out to him, “Dada!” but Gus didn’t hear.

  Callie shivered despite the warm sunlight and decided to go park the stroller in the corner while Manny played in the dirt between the two olive trees. She fiddled with the baby bag in the basket of the stroller, grabbed her compact mirror, and took a quick look before scanning the crowd for a familiar face. She wondered if Xeni would be there, and reapplied her lip gloss. It had been months since they’d seen each other. Months since the night that Callie had attempted to bring about a miracle for Xeni, interminably long months of wondering and waiting. She found herself nervous, but hopeful that the day would bring a reunion.

  As much as Callie wanted to see Xeni, she was afraid of what her reaction would be. The possible rejection. Or the possibility that she wouldn’t even be there at all, and she’d be left playing all of her mistakes over again in her head, bathed in regret, while cheery partygoers danced all around her.

  Manny lifted his arms for Callie to pick him up and pointed toward the fence enclosing the play area. As she brought him closer, he leaned forward and she realized he was trying to climb onto the fence. He stepped on her chest and arms to reach the fence. His soft leather shoes left imprints on her white blouse, and in his zeal he stepped onto her face and hair. “Manny! Ouch!” He was gripping the fence with all his might, and Callie felt embarrassed that she couldn’t pull him away without him issuing screams of protest. She felt the disapproving looks of the old Greek women in black as they walked by. She was tired of being stepped on, but she didn’t know how to stop him. She tried to pull Manny down, but he dug his feet into her chest and howled. “All right. All right,” said Callie, giving up, her eyes filling with tears. It was hot, and loud, and humiliating, and Callie wanted nothing more than a comforting hug. But no one there wanted to hug her, which made her even sadder.

  Callie was still standing at the fence with Manny tenaciously clinging to the wire when she finally saw Gus returning with a half-eaten lamb sandwich.

  “Sorry it took so long—the lines . . .” Gus trailed off, noticing Callie’s tears.

  “I’m so sick of being trapped in this little cage!” Callie cried.

  “Okay. Okay. Let me finish this sandwich and we’ll go. Want some?” Gus offered a bite.

  “No. I want to get out of this cage and walk around. I want to be free.”

  Gus took a last bite of his sandwich and shrugged, “Okay, let’s walk.”

  With Gus carrying Manoli, they walked past the countless vendor booths offering hand-painted bowls, worry beads, T-shirts, and signs stating, “Parking for Greeks Only.” They paused at booths offering tiropita, frappe, loukanika, and calamari. There was a booth for the Greek School, and Gus said, “Let’s send Manny there once he’s old enough.” Callie shrugged. There were sunny oil paintings of Greek islands with white-washed churches with blue domes that matched the color of the azure sea. Callie paused at the vendor booth that showcased cotton gauze skirts and billowy blouses and turned away as if she’d caught a whiff of a cornucopia of fruit gone rotten.

  “They always have the same things here,” Callie said.

  “It’s only your second time at the Greek Festival. How would you know? There’s always something new here,” replied Gus.

  “Show me something that’s new,” challenged Callie. “It’s the same, the same as last year; nothing changes.”

  “They’re selling those hip wrap things with the coins on them now. Seems like you’d be excited about that.” Callie didn’t appreciate Gus’s sarcastic tone. He used to like watching her dance, the coined hip wrap chiming with each pop of her hips. Now he seemed to be mocking her. Two preteen girls ran past wearing the jingling wraps, followed by a middle-aged woman yelling after them, “Come back here, youth!”

  “They had those last year.” Callie eyed Gus, holding Manny in his arms, and wondered how life could feel so stagnant in the middle of spring. Despite the festive music, beautiful weather, and opportunities for feasting, Callie felt bereft. “Let me hold the baby.”

  “I’m holding him.”

  “I see that. I want to hold him. I need to hold him.” Callie’s face was flushing a hot burn. Manny held out his arms to his mother and pointed to her eyes, now glistening.

  “What’s up with you today?” Gus handed the baby to Callie with exasperation.

  “Show me something new. I need to see something new.” I need to see Xeni.

  “How about we go to the Kafenion and have a cup of coffee and galaktoboureko?” suggested Gus.

  “That’s not new!” Callie shouted.

  The crowd of festivalgoers bumped into Callie and Gus as they stood blocking the stream of foot traffic.

  “Christ, Callie! Would you get a grip? You’re freaking out the baby.”

  “Am I freaking you out, Manny honey? Mommy didn’t mean to scare you. Mommy’s just having a hard day.”

  “Seems like you’ve been having a lot of those lately.”

  A woman in her fifties wearing a depressed frown and coined hip wrap bumped into Callie, nearly throwing her off of her feet. The clash of the gold coins hit Callie like a slap into the future. “I want to be happy. It’s just that . . .” Callie paused, unsure whether today was a good day for telling the truth.

  “Come on, Cal. Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” Gus interrupted. Callie gave up and followed Gus into the Kafenion. The cool room was a relief after the hot sun. She noted that, like last year, there was a cooking demonstration booth set up in the front of the room, near the entrance in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tables with white cloths were set up throughout the room where festivalgoers were dining on desserts and coffee. Along one side of the room was a glass case filled with classic Greek sweets, and behind it was a team of church matrons standing at the ready to serve the confections. Adjacent to the dessert case was a long table where they could order Greek coffee and pay for their confections. Callie and Gus joined the line of people waiting to order their desserts.

  “What do you want?” Gus asked. “To eat?” he added.

  “It’s all the same.”

  “What’s your favorite? Everyone has a favorite.”

  “It’s all the same, same as last year,” Callie sulked.

  “That’s the point, Callie. It’s the same every year. One time a year, everyone comes here and gets to look forward to the same things that they can’t get for the rest of the year. I’m having galaktoboureko. Manoli, what do you want?” Gus squeezed Manny’s cheek and chuckled.

  “I never learned to make that.”

  “Well, if Xeni hadn’t run off without a word, then maybe you would have learned.”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  “Okay, let’s not get into this again.”

  “Fine.”

  “Look, it’s going to be our turn. There’s only one person ahead of us. What do you want?” said Gus, impatiently.

  “Baby Belly.”

  “Huh?”

  “Baby Belly. What does that sign say? Baby Belly?” Callie stretched up onto her tiptoes to see the sign perched atop the glass case, with a neat stack of brown boxes tied with gold ribbons next to it. Gus looked ahead and saw the large, sage green sign with brown lettering. There was a mighty plant trailing up the left side of the sign bearing something unexpected: chocolate babies.

  “Well, that’s new,” Gus snorted.

  “What is it? I can’t see!” Callie gripped Manny tighter and tried to see past Gus.

  “There’s a sign. And there’s a plant on it, with fruit hanging off. They look like some kind of chocolate babies?”

  “Chocolate babies? What kind of chocolate babies?”

  “Is there more than one kind? Well, actually, according to this sign, there is more than one kind.” Gus chuckled. “It says:

  ‘Baby Belly

  Sumptuous Chocolate Baby Bellies of All Colors,

  Filled with Unanticipated Flavors.

  Eat a Baby
Today!’”

  Just then one of the Greek matrons asked, “May I help you?” and Callie waited as Gus ordered an assortment of Greek desserts, one piece of galaktoboureko to eat on the spot and four pieces to go, in addition to two melomokarona, two kourabiethes, two diples, and four baklava.

  “What about the Baby Bellies?” Callie cried.

  “What about them?”

  “We have to get the Baby Belly chocolates.”

  “That’s not Greek!” Gus protested.

  “If they aren’t Greek, then why would they be selling them here?” Callie volleyed.

  “Kyria, can you please tell me . . . what are the Baby Bellies?” Gus asked the church volunteer politely.

  “Oh, pedie mou. They are sokolates. I don’t eat sokolates.”

  “But are they Greek?” Callie asked.

  “A Greek lady makes them. And the fillings, they have Greek flavors and ingredients, like walnuts, pomegranate, Metaxa cognac, bergamot, and mastica. Except one, that is her specialty. One is not so Greek, with fraoules.”

  “What are fraoules?” Callie asked.

  “Strawberries. She makes one with strawberries and rhubarb.”

  Callie’s scalp prickled. “Who is this woman who makes the chocolates?”

  “I don’t know her name. I think she maybe makes cooking demonstration later. Look in the festival program.”

  “Do we have a festival program, Gus?”

  “Anything else for you?” asked the church volunteer.

  “I’ll have a box of the Baby Belly chocolates!” Callie exclaimed and tickled Manny’s stomach. “Did you hear that, honey? Baby Bellies!” Manny gurgled at his mother’s tickling and said, “Da!” The church matron handed Callie a box of chocolates from atop the counter, a sturdy brown box with a clear lid, filled with chocolates in the shape of babies—babies lying on their backs, their plump bellies announcing themselves. There was dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, pink chocolate, and tan chocolate. The grinning babies lay in a row, side by side as if in a nursery, resting on pink, blue, and lavender tissue paper. “Look, honey. Look at all the sweet babies! This one looks like you.” And, indeed, all the babies looked like Manny with his cherubic smile and curly hair, as if he represented all the baby citizens of the world.