The Nifi

by Linda Fagioli-Katsiotas

  He found more cousins there, the brothers of that one, and other Greeks from Northern Epirus. They sat in a large dining room at a table with white tablecloths that had red cloth napkins folded into smooth triangle. Nikos was served fish without bones, and fresh salads and vegetables, and warm fruit pie with American coffee. It was a delicious meal coupled with sweet conversation about the villages and life in America. His cousins offered him a job and a place to stay and Nikos saw it as an opportunity to see that wonderful new place called Long Island.

  That afternoon, Nikos was brought to the house of Mrs. Elleni in a town called Smithtown. She was an older Greek widow and she rented rooms to some of the young Greeks in that area. That became Nikos’ new home. His new job would start the day after.

  “Washing dishes?” Nikos thought of the small cafes back home, the small sinks with suds and greasy plates, “How bad could that be?”

  The next day he was brought back to the diner and put behind a mountain of dirty dishes, the size of which he’d never seen, and it grew larger as the frenzy of waitresses circulated in and out of the swinging door – their angry faces shouting words at him that he could not understand. His instincts told him to leave, quietly find the back door and disappear to freedom. But how? Instead he watched the small Latino man beside him and then picked up a dish with one hand and the hot water hose with the other. And that was the America he saw for many months, but he knew it would only be temporary. He would never stay in such a place as that Long Island—Margariti was his home.

  In the meantime, Chevi thought of her son and stopped by the post office often. But there were no more letters. She tried to distract herself and decided to finally go to Chavana’s house to see that new television her husband had brought from Germany. She sat with her neighbor watching a snowy picture on a square screen.

  “Look at this,” Chavana’s husband showed them how the round dial could change the picture several times. Then on the screen, Chevi saw a ship being tossed by waves in a storm.

  “Stop.” She held up her hand to the man, “let me see this.”

  “Are you looking for your son?” He laughed at her. The waves were taller than the ship and it was being tossed onto its side. “Nikos is in a ship like that . . . and maybe he’s going to drown in the sea!” Chavana’s husband slapped his leg and bellowed with laughter at his cleverness.

  Chevi stood up with a start, her coffee cup falling to the floor, “You’re a donkey's ass.” She rushed from the house, tears starting down her face.

  That night, as she lay restlessly turning under the sheets, she saw her son. He was a small boy of ten or eleven, being tossed among the waves, choking on water.

  “Mama!”

  She bolted upright in her bed, wet with perspiration, dawn just breaking through the window.

  “Tomas!” She woke her husband, “Tomas—you must go to your cousin. Get a phone number for his brothers’ restaurant.”

  Tomas was barely awake. From across the room, he sat up.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nikos . . . I want to talk to my son. I need a number.”

  “Oh leave me alone. He’s fine. He’s a big boy.”

  “Tomas, please.”

  He was getting out of bed, “okay, okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  So Chevi tended to the two sheep that her Grandmother had given her, to ease the loneliness that grew with each step of independence her children took, and Chevi felt a little lighter knowing that she’d be able to hear her son’s voice soon.

  In the evening, as Tomas stumbled up the driveway, Chevi was eager to meet him.

  “Well?” She waited.

  “Well what?” His expression was blank.

  “The phone number?”

  “Oh that . . . I’ll take care of it . . . I’ll take care of it.” And he climbed the stone stairs and disappeared through the entrance.

  In the morning Chevi waited at the bus stop. She knew the village's name. It was near the town of her husband. As she entered the bus, the line of people stopped behind her.

  “Do you know the village, Krania?” She asked the bus driver.

  “It's not this bus. You need the Athens bus and then switch to—“

  Chevi backed off the bus steps.

  “Athens bus,” she whispered to herself, “Athens . . .”

  She chatted with passersby as she waited for the next bus. When it came, she climbed aboard and asked the young man behind the wheel, "is this the Athens bus?"

  “That's what it says, yiayia.” He pointed to the sign above his head.

  “I'm going to Krania,” she said.

  The driver looked at her. “Yeah. Okay. Take a seat.” An older man, with the ticket book in his hand, followed her to her seat.

  “Madam, be sure you get off at Louros.” He helped her to her seat as the bus lurched forward. He smiled. “Is someone meeting you there?”

  No.” Chevi settled next to the window, her head leaning on the dusty glass. The bus wound around mountains and through local villages and each time it stopped, Chevi looked to the ticket writer, questioningly, and he clicked his tongue and raised his head to indicate, no. But finally, she heard him call to her.

  “Madam, this is Louros.”

  The bus to Krania was much like the one before it, until it began the snaking climb to the top of a mountain, back and forth, up the incline where it deposited Chevi in a village square. It was clear to the inhabitants that this was a stranger and she quickly identified herself as the wife of a cousin.

  As it happened, the other Nikos was visiting from America.

  “What luck,” Chevi thought, “this was surely someone who would have the number.” He was one of the restaurant owners. She was quickly led to him, and Chevi, after appropriate greetings, stated her case.

  Cousin Nikos frowned. “Sorry, I cannot help you.” He had never met this woman, did not know why her son had decided to go to America, and did not know if his cousin in America would want to be found. With a sense of what felt like loyalty, he hesitated, “uh, I don't have the number. Don't worry. Your son will—“ but he wasn't able to finish.

  “What!?” Chevi pulled at the ends of her head scarf. “You have it! Give it to me!” Tears began to fill her eyes. He was saying something but it was indecipherable through her angry cries.

  “What kind of a man are you? Not giving a poor mother her son's number.”

  “Calm down, calm down. Let me—“

  “Don't you have a mother?” Chevi cried.

  People began to gather.

  “What does she want? What's happening here?”

  Cousin Nikos heard the grumbling around him.

  “Okay, okay.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote something on it and Chevi plunged it deep into her apron pocket.

  She wiped her eyes with her scarf. “When is the next bus?”

  “Would you like to stay? You can sleep in my home, or just come and rest a while. Visit with my mother. Have a cup of coffee.”

  “No thank you. When is the next bus?” Chevi could think only of the phone call she wanted to make.

  “Please stay. It’s late.”

  “I can’t. Tomas will worry.” She lied. “The next bus?”

  Cousin Nikos decided to drive her to Louros and he waited with her until he saw that she was safely back on a bus.

  It was dark, late evening when she finally returned to Margariti, but she made her way to Miti's house. She would not rest until she heard her son's voice.

  Miti took the paper. He dialed the phone, waited a few seconds and then hung up.

  "What!?" Chevi's patience had disappeared hours ago.

  "Cousin, I think it's early in the morning there. No one answers. Come tomorrow morning. We'll try again then."

  She stood there motionless, not wanting to wait until morning, not wanting to face the night without reassurance.

  "The time is different there Chevi. It's okay. We'll call in the morning."
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br />   With a sigh, she turned and left.

  At dawn, Miti opened his shutters to find his cousin sitting under the grape arbor. He dialed the phone, waited, and spoke into the receiver.

  "Hello," he spoke in Greek. Apparently the person who had answered, understood. He talked for a minute, with Chevi straining to hear the other voice, and then he handed her the phone.

  She took the receiver and screamed into the phone as if to breach the distance.

  “Nikos, it’s me. Are you okay? What are you doing? When are you coming back?” She gave him no time to answer, but she heard America in the background—dishes clanking, people talking.

  At that moment, I was behind a counter, a young waitress-in-training, cleaning up after the lunch rush, making coffee, stocking cups and silverware. And a blond, golden-skinned Greek, having been summoned from the kitchen, was at the front desk talking loudly into a phone receiver in a language I did not understand.

  “Oh, who's that?” I asked the woman who was training me.

  “One of their cousins.” She shook her head. “Stay away from him," she warned. "He’s trouble.”

  “Hmm.” I looked over at him and found him watching me. His steely green eyes pierced mine.

  And my heart began to thump.

  A Few last words

  Chevi took her last breath on July 5, 2013 after suffering a stroke three weeks prior. She lay comfortably in her own bed in Margariti with all of her children nearby. Nick and I had arrived two weeks before, but Chevi never saw the finished book or knew that her story would be told. I was too late.

  Though her world was small, and her resources limited, Chevi was a woman of great strength. She quietly fought against a rigid patriarchal society and she won. More than anything, she wanted her children to be happy and her daughters to be free.

  And they are.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Linda Fagioli-Katsiotas lives on Long Island with her husband, Nick. She teaches English to newly immigrated English language learners at her local school district.

  She has also written a novel, Your Own Kind, a love story of yearning and desire, of the basic need to connect with others and the expectations of culture and tradition that sometimes keep us from real love.

  You can visit her at: www.truestorythenifi.blogspot.com