by Paul Moomaw
“Julian!” Pray tried again to shout, and Julian heard him, and smiled, and Pray tried to run toward him, but instead he began to float, and to expand somehow, so that he was suddenly much larger than his brother. He stooped to pick him up, but Julian wriggled and squirmed, and grew even smaller, and began to squeal, and then it wasn’t Julian any more, but a small, white pig that squirted from Pray’s grasp and vanished into the trees as the moon laughed and swelled, growing larger and larger, the laughter swelling with her, until she popped.
Pray woke up sweating. The sun was back, the shadows gone, and he was lying in the open, between the trees; but the squealing continued, and something butted at the back of his thigh, and then a woman laughed.
Pray twisted and swung a fist. A real pig, young, mottled gray and black, snorted at him, and rooted a couple of more times at the back of his thigh, then ran off a few yards and squealed again, standing stiff-legged, its little tail twitching vigorously.
“He thinks you are his mother.”
Pray twisted the other way. A young woman stood, turned partially away from him, one foot up on a large rock. She was tying her shoe, and her skirt had hiked up over her legs so that Pray’s first impression was one of yards of olive brown thigh. He followed the legs up, past broad, strong hips and full breasts and came at length to a face, looking at him over a shoulder, smiling, framed in a mass of black curls. The eyes were black, too, and gigantic.
The woman stood up.
“You were asleep,” she said. “You should be careful. They say this grove is sacred to Pan, and that if one falls asleep here at high noon, a kalikanzaros may come and possess you.”
“A what?”
“A devil, or a witch, or a vampire. Something like that.” She tossed her curls. “I do not believe in that peasant stuff, of course.” She finished with her shoe and strode toward Pray, extending a hand. “I am Lydia Kouris. I saw you get off the bus.” She suddenly frowned, stepped back, and withdrew her hand.” But I did not follow you here.”
Pray stood up “Of course not,” he said. He held out his own hand, to be polite, and because he suddenly wanted to touch her. “My name is Adam Pray,” he said.
Lydia nodded and took his hand. Hers was strong, but soft, and Pray felt a surge of desire.
“You are Julian’s brother,” she said. “You look very much like him, except bigger. She grinned. “He made a lot of trouble in town, and some people want to kill him. I think he enjoyed it, getting in trouble. When they find out who you are, maybe they will want to kill you, too. Do Americans enjoy trouble?”
“Only some of us,” Pray said. He still held her hand, and she made no effort to pull it away.
“And do you stare at all women?” she asked.
“Only some of them.” He dropped her hand and grinned. “Do you mind?”
“Only some of the time,” she said, and then they were both laughing. She reached out and touched him lightly on the arm. “But you had better watch out,” she said.” Maybe I am the kalikanzaros.”
“Or maybe you are Circe, and turn men into small pigs.”
“But I won’t, if you are nice. You will need a place to stay for a few days. I know, because my gambros, my brother-in-law, has a letter that you got from your brother, and I read it. I read English very well. I am good at opening mail, too. You won’t even be able to notice I have done it. Maybe I can be a spy some day.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the road that led back to town.” First we will get your letter from my brother-in-law’s shop. It is called The Fat Fisherman, but Milos is the only fat person there. He is married to my sister, Irene. He is too old for her, but he is a kind man. Then I will tell my father to let you stay at our house. We have room, and my father does whatever I want. He feels guilty because I have no mother. Then you can teach me how to curse in American.” Although she was not very tall, she set a rapid pace, and Pray let himself fall a little behind so he could watch the smooth, powerful way her haunches moved as she marched down the hillside.
“Enter these enchanted woods, you who dare,” he murmured.
“Please?” Lydia called over her shoulder.
“Nothing,” Pray said.
“You talk much to yourself?”
“All the time.”
Four boys—Pray estimated the youngest to be six or seven, and the oldest perhaps twelve—kept a respectful distance as he and Lydia strolled toward The Fat Fisherman, although two or three times the oldest dashed in front to stand spraddle-legged, hands on hips, and stare as Pray as he passed, after which laughter and loud whispers filled the street behind him.
“You are famous already,” Lydia said. “Not that it takes much to be famous in Sitia.”
“Kids are like that anywhere,” Pray said.
“Not only them.” Lydia nodded to a pair of old men who played cards at a side walk table. “Look at the way old Posis Galanos and Giorgos Krisosstare at you. Somebody could grab their coffee and drink it, and they wouldn’t notice. And see old Glykeria Papa and her cronies on the corner.” She pointed with her nose to three old women in black. “The word is out by now that the brother of the American troublemaker is here, and everyone will want to keep an eye on you.”
A heavy-featured man with straight, almost blonde hair, wearing the black boots that are obligatory male attire on Crete, placed himself in their path and stared, his eyes moving slowly up and down Pray’s body. He folded his arms across his chest and said something in Greek to Lydia, then looked back at Pray and sneered. Lydia tossed her head and responded in Greek. Her voice had an edge. She walked straight at the man, and he grinned and stepped back, then launched a large blob of spit at Pray’s feet. Pray jerked his foot away, but a bit of saliva splattered the toe of his shoe.
Stay cool, he thought. One fight a day is enough. And this one isn’t a foreigner. Lydia tugged at him.
“Come on,” she said. He let her pull him after her. Laughter followed, and his ears burned.
“Ignore him,” Lydia said. “He is a fool.”
“He thinks he frightened me,” Pray said. “He’ll escalate next time.”
“What is escalate?”
“Try something more than just spitting at my feet.”
Lydia nodded. “Escalate,” she said. “Escalate. I like that word.” She looked at Pray and grinned. “If he escalates you, then you can escalate him back, right on top of his head, no?”
Pray laughed, his humor restored. “Who is he?”
“Minas Skevis. His sister ran off with your brother.”
Understanding came.
They reached the entrance of The Fat Fisherman. She steered him inside. A young man stood at the rear, half-heartedly wiping a glass display case. Another man, large and swarthy, sat alone at a table, drinking a beer.
“Andrea,” Lydia said in English. “Where is your father?”
Andreas glanced toward the ceiling and responded in Greek.
“Be polite,” Lydia said. “Kyrios Pray does not speak our language.” At the sound of Pray’s name, the man at the table looked up and gazed intently at him. Pray stared back until the man looked away.
“Father is with Irene,” Andreas said. “She had another attack of whatever is wrong with her.”
Lydia frowned. “Is it bad?”
Andreas shrugged. “Who knows? Women always have pains, especially pregnant ones.” He returned his attention to the counter.
Lydia nudged Adam toward a table. “Sit down,” she said, and went to the rear of the shop and returned with an envelope that she handed to Pray.” Go ahead,” she said. “See if you can tell it has been opened. She turned to Andreas, “Bring kyrios Pray coffee and ena glyko, a sweet, a piece of Irene’s baklava, if you haven’t eaten all of it. I’m going to see my sister.” She marched across the room to the stairs at the back. Andreas flipped the dusting cloth over his shoulder and ambled behind the counter.
“American coffee or Greek?” he asked.
“Whichever is more conv
enient.”
“American, then. I would have to make the Greek.” He filled a mug from a tarnished pot, carried it to Pray and placed it down with a bang, so that coffee sloshed onto the table. He went back to the counter, and returned with a cracked plate that contained a flat piece of pastry that had been rolled into a tube.
“This is called a diple,” he said. “There is only one piece of baklava left, and I am saving it for myself.” He stared hard at Pray as he placed the pastry down, as if daring him to argue the point.
“Lydia is a little bossy,” Pray said.
Andreas snorted. He jerked the towel from his shoulder and snapped it between his hands. “She will change when I marry her. Greek men know how to make their wives be have.” He snapped the towel again, turned on his heel and, as if to reinforce his words, strode with a heel-banging step toward the stairs. Pray sat back in the chair and opened the envelope from Julian.
“Dear Brother Adam,” the note began.
Yes, Pray thought. I am still your brother. I’m glad you remember.
“I don’t mean to keep playing hide and seek, but duty calls. I will make shore again, if I can stick to my schedule, in five days, at Aghia Roumeli on the island’s southeast coast. There are buses, except for the last bit down the Samaria Gorge, which is a walk you won’t soon forget. When you get there, look for a blue and white ketch.
“Milos, whom you have met by now if you are reading this, can find you a place to stay in the meantime. He is all right. You can trust him as much as any Greek shopkeeper, and his wife, Irene, is a jewel beyond price. I would run away with her, if I hadn’t already filled my quota for that sort of thing. That’s another story, in reference to which, stay away from men named Skevis. I will explain when we meet.”
Pray returned the letter to its envelope, and had finished the pastry and most of the coffee when the sound of shouting floated down the stairs, followed by Lydia, who was in her turn pursued by a scowling, arm waving Andreas. Lydia, nose elevated, marched to Pray’s table and sat down. Andreas stalked after her, leaned his hands on the table, and launched into a torrent of rapid-fire Greek. Lydia ignored him pointedly, turning to Pray with an oversized smile.
“I see you had diple,” she said. “It is very good, isn’t it? But you should have made Andreas prepare decent Greek coffee for you.” She turned her head toward Andreas, but kept her eyes on the ceiling. “He is actually very, very lazy,” she said, loudly and slowly. She stood up. “We can go now.”
“He seems a little irritated,” Pray said, as he followed her out the door.
“He came up just as I was giving my brother-in-law a message. We do not have a telephone. When my father is out of town, he calls here to stay in touch. Andreas is angry because he heard me ask Milos to tell my father that you will stay with us, and that he should bring extra food home.”
“Young men in love get jealous.”
Lydia barked a laugh. “He called me a putana, a whore. You don’t call somebody you love a name like that. He thinks he owns me.” She stopped walking, and her shoulders sagged. “And when we are married, around here, he might as well.” She looked up at Pray with a grin. “Maybe I should do like Dina Skevis, and run away with an American.”
“What’s wrong with your sister?” Pray asked, to change the subject.
A cloud passed over Lydia’s face again. “I don’t know,” she said. “She is pregnant, and she insists it is only that, like a morning sickness. But it comes at all hours, and not just vomiting. She gets weak, and she hurts so bad back here,” Lydia patted a kidney, “that she moans and almost faints. And I am certain she is losing her hair.” She shook her head. “Morning sickness doesn’t make you bald, I think.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“She won’t go to a doctor. I want her to go to Athens, or at least to Iraklion. But she is afraid Milos will get mad at her for spending the money. She won’t even go to one of the quacks here in Sitia.”
Lydia began to walk. Pray followed close off her quarter, admiring again the smooth, powerful motion of her thighs and hips. He could understand that a young man like Andreas might lose control, faced with potential competition.
Minas Skevis appeared around a corner, in the company of two other men. This time he looked more obviously drunk. One of his companions appeared to be his age. The other was older, with silver hair. The trio stopped as they saw Pray, and stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way.
Pray also stopped. They stared briefly at each other, Minas Skevis swaying slightly between the other two. Skevis said something to the younger of his companions, and the other man snickered.
Pray decided it was time to draw a line.
“Tell them,” he began, speaking to Lydia, but not removing his eyes from the three men, “tell them I did not do anything to Minas, when he spit in front of me, because he is drunk, and only one man, and I did not choose to disgrace him. Now that there are three, I will be delighted to offer a lesson in courtesy—here or any other place and time they choose.”
Skevis snarled and lunged forward. The older man grabbed him and pulled him out of Pray’s path.
“We will remember your thoughtful offer, amerikanos,” he said. He smiled and nodded as Pray and Lydia walked past.
“Does everybody around here speak English?” Pray asked.
“Sure. We all have televisions, you know? Miami Vice. Dallas. All that.” She seemed suddenly to have more energy in her stride again. She looked at him with a happy grin. “That was the brother and father of Minas. They already want to kill Julian. Now they will definitely want to kill you, too.”
“I can see the thought depresses you,” Pray said. Lydia laughed and began to walk faster. They walked several blocks, and reached a narrow street, lined with two and three-story, whitewashed houses, their windows barred with iron grillwork, and their doors opening directly onto the sidewalk.. The street sloped downward, and ended at a small quay that jutted into the bay. Lydia led the way to the third house on the left. The door was of heavy, dark wood, scarred by age and use. The handle was of smoky gray iron, with a keyhole you could put a finger through. But above that perched a shiny brass lock that looked new and business-like. Lydia pulled out a key and opened the door.
“No one used to lock anything until about two years ago,” she said. “Then things began to disappear. It turned out that a gang of kids from Khania, at the other end of the island, was coming here and stealing. The police finally caught them, but now we all have new locks.” She led the way inside. The inner walls were whitewashed, too, and the floors of pale gray tile, so that even with narrow windows the house felt light and airy.
“The kitchen is through there,” Lydia said, pointing to an arched entryway. “And the bathroom is back here, right next to the room you will stay in.” She paused and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I forgot. We did not go to the bus station for your bag, and now I have to leave you here. I have promised Andreas that he can take me to the movie tonight.”
Pray felt a twinge of envy, and decided he had been too long between women. He sat on the feeling and shrugged.
“No problem,” he said. “There is only one piece of luggage, and I can find my way to the station and back again.”
“Then you must at least walk me back to Milos’ shop. It is on your way.” She grabbed his arm again and pulled him toward the front door. She seemed to have a hands-on approach to life. Pray decided he didn’t mind.
The trip for luggage wound up including a stop at a small, store-front rotisserie that sold chicken, whole or in pieces. Pray paid for two breasts and returned to Lydia Kouris’ house, carrying suitcase in one hand and the chicken, wrapped in brown paper, in the other. He ate, washed the grease from his fingers, and laid out his belongings. What next, he wondered. Lydia was busy being a fiancee, God only knew where Julian was, and while there was, as Lydia had said, a large TV in the front room, Pray wasn’t in the mood for that, either.
A walk, he thought
. He went to the front door and inspected the hardware. The original latch turned easily from both sides, and the brass lock was a dead bolt that had to be turned to secure it. He would not have to worry about locking himself out. He stepped onto the sidewalk, closed the door behind him, and began to stroll down toward the water. It was beginning to get dark, and there were no lights along the street, except for a small lamp post at the land end of the quay. It was Pray’s favorite time of day—that period between afternoon and night, when you could put the affairs of the day to rest, and wonder what the evening would bring. At the land end of the dock a cement bench invited him to sit. He settled onto its cool surface and watched the calm water shift and glimmer in the lights of the town.. A small boat was just visible in the distance, moving toward the west. Pray watched it until the dusk swallowed its outline, and only its red and green running lights marked its location. Julian was out there somewhere, Pray thought. He wondered what his older brother would look like. It struck him suddenly that, after so many years, he might not even recognize Julian. He shook his head to brush the thought away. He would not have changed that much, and even Lydia had seen the resemblance between them.
But what life might have done to his brother, Pray could only guess. Julian had always loved adventure. He had always been the ringleader, surrounded by other kids, not just his younger brother. But even then, there had been a distance, a sense of separateness. Pray had worshipped his older brother, and had tagged after him everywhere Julian went. But he realized, with a sense of surprise, that they had not been close. Pray ransacked his memories, and could not come up with a single time where Julian had bared his soul, shared a secret, or talked about his dreams.