My pethera bangs on the door and shouts, “We must hurry to the church.”
“No, no, she does not want the baby.”
“Oh, yes, she does. An evil demon tried to prevent it, to tempt you. We must go now, and hurry.”
“Soon,” I say. “Soon.”
I rock the baby and croon lullabies.
I wake up. How long have I been sleeping? The baby! The baby is gone. “Pethera! Pethera!” She is gone, too. I run, pushing through the crowds, trying to reach the bell tower in time. I push aside mothers and babies, and just as I reach the tower, I see something falling from above, it is falling on me. I hold out my arms, and my little daughter drops into them and looks at me, comforted. I hold her to me and the tears stream down my face. It is a miracle. She is saved. When Pethera reaches me, she is appeased. The baby is saved, the Panayia has made this happen. We walk home, slowly now, surrounded by people crossing themselves. I turn my back as another baby falls down, to the stones this time. I do not look to see if he is alive.
When we arrive home, I hurry to my icon of Panayia to give thanks. She looks at me with sadness, her eyes filled with tears.
ii. The Curse
I was named Maria for the Virgin, who made my birth possible. My mother had promised me to the Virgin, but when my grandmother threw me from the bell tower of the church as vowed, I fell into my mother’s waiting arms. This was called a miracle.
I have to get away from this island, this family, these people who believe in such terrible things, and who would throw a baby from a tower. The church is filled with gold, silver, precious jewels, while people on the streets starve. The priests are rich and fat, while we go hungry. The Virgin has such treasures; she does not need someone’s baby. I will do anything to leave all this. If my mother were here, perhaps it would be better, but she died soon after the miracle.
One evening I see a man watching me, a man of about forty. He follows me. I am frightened, but curious. He talks to me. He says he knows I am unhappy here, and he will marry me and take me away, to a place where there is no church of the Panayia, no miracles. I say yes.
My husband is an odd man. I only see him at night. In the morning he is gone, sometimes he is missing for days. But he is kind to me, and we now have two fine children. We live on a small island with few inhabitants, and I do not have to follow superstitions.
One day two strangers come to my door, a woman dressed in black and a priest. They ask me about my husband. The woman has a picture of him. She says, “He was my husband, too. Some people here recognized him and sent for me.” I am frightened, for myself and for my children. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
“He died four years ago,” the woman whispers.
I do not believe it, but the priest says that we will find out. He will hide, and when my husband comes in at night, he will perform the ceremony that puts the living dead to sleep.
My husband comes. He is afraid. The priest quickly chants and throws oil on him. My husband disappears. Now I am alone . . . except for my children. But when I go to their beds, they are gone, only their rumpled clothes remain.
I curse the Virgin Maria for saving my life.
iii. The Return
I live alone in a tiny hut on the side of a mountain on the island of Tinos. There is no smooth place left on my skin. I can feel the wrinkles whirling around each other, the indentations pocking my face. But I do not own a mirror, it would be bad luck.
Every day I gather herbs and mix them with sheep’s dung, oils, and animal flesh. People come to me for cures, and I sell them my mixtures and chant for them. As a widow who was never really married, a mother of children who were never really born, this is the only way I can make a living.
Sometimes when I see a happy woman with a fine husband and happy children frisking about her skirts, I cast the evil eye on the children. They become very ill, and when the mother comes to me for a cure, I tell her that I have lost my power for the day.
I do not go to church, and I keep no icons. The curse of the Virgin Maria has been on me since my birth. I despise her for allowing me to live. Every morning when I wake up alive, I curse the Panayia.
One day, while seeking herbs, I see something partially buried in the dirt. I dig it out, and it is an icon — the Panayia holding her child sadly, a tear stained with dirt resting on her cheek. I bury again the face that I detest so much and return home.
The next day I try to stay inside my house. My feet itch and my hands burn until I go out, and I am drawn to that spot, where I must dig up the Virgin again. The tear is still on her face, and she seems to accuse me. “Why do you hate me so much?” I say to her. “What do you want from me now?”
I take the icon home with me, place it near my herbs and foul-smelling mixtures, and talk to her. Every day and night now I complain to her and curse her.
One night something wakes me up. Something inside my brain is talking to me. I sit up. The icon is lighted up, and I go to it. The Virgin is crying. “My baby is dead,” she seems to be saying as she holds the infant. “Why are you alive? You who curse me day and night.”
“I lost my children, too,” I scream at her.
“Your children were never alive.”
I know now that I was not meant to live. It was an accident that my mother caught me that day. It was not a miracle at all.
“I am sorry,” I say and leave the house. I walk to the tower. I climb the steps, slowly, one at a time. I reach the top and look down at the hard pavement, then out at the sky. Gleams of light are just beginning to streak across the darkness. I jump, fall quickly, smash on the cobblestone.
As I walk away from my broken body, I see a woman holding a baby; she bends over my body, crying. As she turns away from the body and looks at me, I see that she is the Panayia of my icon. She is crying for me. “Poor Maria,” she mutters and shakes her head, clutching her baby tightly, as if she is afraid she will lose him.
I walk away, feeling her sad eyes following me forever.
The Midwife
Monday, 2:00 a.m.
SHE COMES EVERY morning at this time and sits beside my bed. She talks and talks but I cannot understand her. Only a few words now and then. Goat.Chicken. Lemons. Basil. Sunshine. Babies. Sometimes she cries. I lie there listening while she mumbles. She is a shadow in the darkness, dressed in black, telling her incomprehensible stories.
My mother. Dead for twenty years. Forever present in my darkness. Sometimes giving me advice.
Chamomile, she now says. Hamomee-lee. And then she says, Horta.
Chamomile tea helps with labour pains, as does the juice from boiled greens. Greece is a country with little grass, but the mountain greens bring strength to the ill — and to pregnant women.
I am not surprised when a young man knocks on my door and calls through my window. “Fotini. Come. My wife is in labour. She is suffering. Please help us. Bring our baby into the world for us.”
I change into a loose housedress, one that had belonged to my mother, slip on sandals, gather up chamomile, some dandelion greens, and other herbs, and follow him to his house. As we draw near, I can hear his wife screaming. I quickly enter. “It will be all right,” I say. I touch her stomach and look into her eyes. “The baby will be here soon.” I start water boiling for the tea and also for the greens. I feed her the broth from the greens and help her sip the tea. Then I encourage her to push. The time has come. The baby boy comes out into the world. He is beautiful.
“Thank you, Fotini,” the man says, and his wife smiles down at her baby.
My eyes water. I am happy for them. But I remember my own baby, a sweet girl I named Eftihia, happiness. Because I was seventeen and unmarried, my mother took the baby to the priest, who gave her to a couple in another village. I had loved the baby’s father, but he had gone away soon after I became pregnant. I never heard from him again. I never saw my daughter again. She would be thirty years old now. Once, years ago, I walked to the village where I thought she lived, b
ut my mother and the priest followed me and brought me home. “She is happy. She is with a good family. Do not disturb her life.”
So I did not.
I learned my mother’s trade — midwifery, healing, repelling the evil eye, performing rituals for good luck and success. “No one will ever want to marry you,” my mother said, and she had been correct. In this small village an unwed mother was a curse on everyone. I was considered unclean. Except when it came to helping others with their troubles.
Tuesday, 2:00 a.m.
Eftihia, my mother says. Happiness. She is giggling in the darkness. Then she growls and swats me with her slipper. I feel nothing. She must be frustrated that she cannot hurt me with her blows. I am responsible for ruining her life and her reputation — at least she thinks so. She herself had no husband, though she claimed that she was married, that my father left her for a putana who lived in the wilderness high up on the mountain. But I never met him. No one knew who he was. I was always Alexandra’s daughter. If I asked people if they had known my father, they never answered. Perhaps the devil was my father. I make the sign of the cross three times as I lie here.
Later that morning a woman comes to me. Her sevenyear-old son is very ill. I follow her home. He is screaming and writhing. I can tell this was caused by the evil eye. I take a glass of water and drop oil in it. The oil sinks to the bottom of the glass. It is the mati, I say, the eye. I say the words that I learned from my mother and make the sign of the cross on the boy’s forehead. Then I say the prayer I learned from my grandmother. He is quiet now. Tomorrow he will be well again.
Wednesday, 2:00 a.m.
My mother is crying. I can almost feel wet tears dropping on my face. Her mouth is moving rapidly but the language sounds like gibberish. Koritsaki, she says. Little girl. She keeps speaking but I try to tune her out, to sleep. She shrieks out my name. After a while, she disappears, and I finally fall asleep. I wake at dawn with the crow of the rooster. My mother is gone.
A boy hands a letter through the window. A letter from the next village. My heart is thumping. Perhaps this is from Eftihia. All that is in the envelope is a small amulet, an evil eye protector worn by a child.
Thursday, 2:00 a.m.
I am dreaming that I am holding my baby girl. I feel such joy. This is truly happiness. When I wake up and know it is not true, I begin to tremble. My mother’s hand is on my arm. She is smiling. Avgo, she says. Egg.
Today is like all the others. I get eggs from my chickens. I milk my goat. I work in my garden. When customers come, I give them whatever concoction will be helpful to them. My neighbour Kalliope tells me that her mother is dying, is suffering. I give her herbs that will ease the pain. I remember my mother’s final illness. I asked her where my daughter was, what happened to my lover Yiannis. She opened her mouth but no words came out.
Now she cannot stop talking. Sometimes she keeps me awake all night. Words I do not understand.
Friday, 2:00 a.m.
There is a man with my mother — younger than she is, about my age. He pats her shoulder. He looks at me lovingly. I recognize him. Yiannis. I sit up, reach out for him, but my hand goes through him. “You are dead. Yianni, I missed you so. And now we will never be together, at least not in life.” He smiles sadly. He nods. “Where is our daughter?” I ask him. He looks troubled. I see that he does not know. He does not speak but stands there nodding at my mother’s unending cascade of words. I leave my bed and make myself a coffee. I see them standing beside my bed — as if I am still there. “Look at me,” I cry. “I am over here.” My mother continues to talk to the bed, but Yiannis turns and looks at me. He walks away, through the closed door, into the darkness. Skotathi, she says. Darkness.
I hear the news that afternoon that Yiannis has died. He had been living in America all these years. He never married. I get out my mother’s black dress and veil, the clothing of a widow, and put them on.
Saturday, 2:00 a.m.
She is angry today, her mouth moving frantically, her hands gesturing. I want to grab her words, throw them back at her. Perhaps she is still angry at me. “Mother,” I say, “I have carried on your work, lived forever in this tiny house. I loved Yiannis, but you stole my daughter. I can never forgive you. I am the one with the right to be angry. Not you.” I turn my back and stare at the wall. But I can see her shadow on the wall, her hands waving wildly, her mouth uttering curses or threats. All I understand is my name. Fotini.
I go to the fireplace where my herbs are drying. I take some, mix them together, boil them. Then I pour the mixture into a cup. I hold it up, as if toasting my mother. “Mother, I repel you, once and for all. Leave me now. Go to the land of the dead. I avert your curse. Take it off me.”
I had tried this before, without success, but I feel that this time it might work. My mother turns and looks at me. Her mouth grows still. She is silent. She holds out her hands as if in supplication. As if asking for forgiveness. I cannot forgive her. But perhaps I can make her talk, put my hand behind her back, find a mechanical gadget, and move her mouth. I will say the words I want to hear from her. I am sorry. I love you. I love Eftihia. Go find her.
Sunday, 5:00 a.m.
My mother did not come this morning. I slept well until now. Now I drink my coffee, dress in my widow’s clothing, and pack a lunch. The evil eye amulet is hanging on a string around my neck. I am walking to the village where I believe that Eftihia was taken. What will I do if she has had a child out of wedlock? Will I let her keep her baby? Will I forgive her? I will climb the mountain and walk the dirt paths until I find her. I will sit by her bed and hold her hand. I will speak clearly and slowly. Not gibberish. Words with meaning. Words that I hope she will hear and understand.
Eftihia.
Thirteen
i. Virgin Mother
I SIT IN the ashes of the hearth, staring at the large black pot swinging from its peg, listening to the boiling of the soup. Occasionally I stir the strong-smelling mixture, my arm circling in the same motion I have seen my mother make.
I have no father. My mother says that she has known no man. She always smiles when she tells me this, her few teeth gleaming. She is immaculate, she says, just like the one she was named for, Maria, and that is why she named me Christiana. I am a child of God, sister of Christ. I used to pray hopefully to my Brother to come visit me. He never did. And I wondered if my mother had been joking.
Last week, after my thirteenth birthday, my friend Toula from the village whispered to me, “Who is your father? Babies cannot be born without the help of men. My mother says Lefteris is your father.”
I’m sure that is not possible. Lefteris often smiles at me, but only as he smiles at everyone. He can only smile — emptily, innocently — as he walks the cobblestones begging for food and drink and announcing the end of the world. “It is coming, it is coming,” he cries daily. “Pray that you will be saved. Line up, good people, at my right hand. Come to my left, evil ones, and I’ll push you to Hell.” If someone gives him food, he blesses that person: “You are saved.”
Is this my God, author of my immaculate conception? I seek out my reflection in the well. Is there emptiness in the eyes, a flaccid openness of the mouth? Not yet, but there is a look of him, something I don’t understand, a look of never having been touched.
Mamá is unhappy this week. Someone has stolen her icon.
“My friend is gone,” she says, weeping — her friend, the Virgin, with whom she converses almost unceasingly. “Who would do such a thing?”
Yesterday she ran all over the village yelling about her loss. People came to their windows, but only shrugged their shoulders. They do not love my mother, but they respect, even fear her somewhat. Without her help, many of them would die of disease or of evil spells. They are polite to her, so that she will not curse them. But no one knew anything about her icon.
Mamá is mysterious today. This morning she stretched a cloth across two sticks and tried to draw the Virgin with coal, until, frustrated, she t
hrew her picture into the fire. She sketched faces over and over in the dirt of our floor, then rubbed them out.
“I must have her,” she cried.
She runs into the house now, grabs me, and shakes me by the shoulders. “Christiana. You. You must do it. Only a virgin . . . you are a virgin, are you not?
“Yes, Mamá, of course.” I am shaking.
“Here.” She gives me a pen, a pot of ink, and a tablet of paper. I stare. I have never seen anything like this before.
“Where did you find these, Mamá?”
She smiles. “Never mind. Draw me the Virgin. For me, my love.”
I turn the pen around, confused, until she puts my fingers around it and helps me make my first mark. I make another, then another. I look at the black pot hanging over the fire and copy its form.
“That is a pot, not my Virgin. That pot is not a Virgin, it has been heated many times.”
“I must practise on something first, something from our household. The Virgin is so pure — what if I smudge her?”
So I practise. I draw our hut, its inside and outside. I draw the clouds in the sky, the cypress tree, my reflection in the well. I feel music and light come through my fingers. But how can I make the Virgin?
“Why must I do this, Mamá?”
“She is needed. Aleko has asked me to save his wife and baby. The baby cannot come out, and they will both soon die. I must have my Panayia to help me. Try, my child, try.”
Eye Page 2