Nicolai's Daughters

by Stella Leventoyannis Harvey

  Alexia stood waiting for what seemed like hours. She reread the numbers over and over as if reviewing a spreadsheet of figures for a potential merger she was negotiating. Except there was no making sense of these numbers. She gazed out over the mountains, the way they cradled the valley below. Groups of mourners lingered on the grounds. What am I doing here with these people? I don’t understand them or what they’ve been through. I’m not Greek. Christina should have brought Theodora. She’d get these walls, this place. She’d know what to do, how to act.

  Christina dried her eyes and led Alexia down into the small bunker dug into the hill. Medallions lined the walls and dangled from the ceiling, tributes from the families of the dead. They glinted in the light of hundreds of candles burning inside the tiny space. Christina lit one more.

  Back in the village, Alexia followed Christina into a taverna and sat at the bar out of the sun’s reach. The stone walls were garlanded with white and yellow plastic daisies sprouting from dusty green foliage. Bouzouki guitar replicas stood silent on the shelves beside motionless ceramic dancers in traditional dress. Sorrowful music wailed from speakers. It was the kind of music Nicolai had listened to every Sunday morning just before dawn, his eyes closed as if in a dream, his hands, like those of a mime, moving in time with the beat. Alexia was about ten the first time his music woke her. She’d crept out of bed and found him lying on the living room floor. He smiled as he sang and hummed. For a long time, this was their Sunday morning ritual. She listened and watched, then slipped back into bed before he noticed her. Though the language and the sounds were foreign, she felt safe. He was there. They were together. When she was older, she’d stay in bed, a pillow over her head, willing herself back to sleep. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand another Sunday, he started bringing his girlfriends home. That was the end of the Greek music.

  Her father would have loved everything about this taverna, she thought, from the old men who smoked and gossiped as they nursed coal-black, thimble-sized coffees, to the chatty bartender who talked with his hands, poured drinks and served food, unperturbed by the soup and coffee he spattered on his pants. If her father were here, he’d watch the bustle of people eating and visiting, and find a way to insert himself, make friends. He’d introduce her to everyone, “This is my daughter, the lawyer.”

  Alexia preferred to keep her distance. She didn’t want to be beholden to anyone.

  She pulled her sweater off and draped it over her shoulders, as Christina said the cave lakes and the Agia Lavra monastery were close by. She pointed over her shoulder as she swallowed another bite of her chocolate crepe. Alexia nodded. She needed to talk to Christina about Theodora. Alexia had to decide what she was going to do about her. Chocolate dripped onto Christina’s chin. Alexia touched her own face and mumbled, “There’s something.”

  “An insect?” Christina asked.

  When Alexia shook her head, Christina swallowed another mouthful. “Then nothing to worry about.”

  “Do you know Theodora? What’s she like?”

  “Again with this?” Christina threw up her hands. “Think about the history so close to you. The monastery of Agia Lavra is in the trees, only five kilometres away.”

  “You talk about people all the time,” Alexia said. “Why don’t you want to talk about Theodora? She’s part of my history too.”

  “Yes, but you have time. No rush. First you think of bigger history.”

  Alexia picked the olives out of her salad and dropped them onto a side plate.

  Christina bit down on her lip, shook her head. Her eyes burrowed into Alexia. “What kind of Greek you are?” Christina asked.

  “I’ve never liked them.”

  An olive rolled off her fork and onto the floor. She ripped her paper napkin in two, scooped up the olive, scrunched up the package tight and stuck it in the ashtray.

  “Paidi mou, you smart girl. No?”

  Alexia wondered what might come next, because her father used to say the same thing just before he made a condescending remark. “I like the oil, not the actual olives.”

  “But you Greek. No?”

  The smell of fried batter and stale grease in the air made her queasy. Alexia sniffed at her sweater to see if the odour had settled. To anyone watching, it would look like she was wiping her nose on her shoulder. No one was paying attention.

  “Our banner with real bullet holes is in monastery.” Christina leaned into Alexia, touched her arm. “You should see.”

  “Shouldn’t I want to deal with these family things first?”

  Alexia’s cell phone rang.

  Dan got to the point. “What’s the status on the Springs and Gordon merger? I’ve had several messages. Anything I should know?”

  “What happened to ‘how are you doing? Are you having a nice time?’”

  Christina took the phone out of her hand and stared at it as if to see which end she should speak into. “We have lunch now,” she said while holding it out in front of her. “She calls you back. Later. Late, later.” Christina poked at several buttons. “Where is off?” Without waiting for a reply, she said, “Did I tell you cave lakes are 827 metres?”

  Alexia snatched the phone back and listened to dead air. “Hello, hello. Hello?” She shook the phone. “That was my office, my work. It was important.”

  “You on vacation.” She took a mouthful of chocolate. “No?”

  “If there’s a problem, I need to deal with it.”

  “Problems wait. Never worry about this. Lakes inside cave more interesting. How you say, unique. Do you know about them? You study in school these things?”

  “I don’t know.” Alexia rolled another olive to the side of her plate.

  “Spend time looking, instead on phone. It better than worry about your father and sister, all those things. You learn about your history. Think about things first and the answers come. This history. It is who you are.” She pointed her gooey fork in Alexia’s direction. “Who we are.” Christina made a circle with her fork and aimed it back at herself. Her eyes were clear, her voice strong and firm, and her hands punctuated her points. She would have made a convincing lawyer, Alexia thought.

  “Oh, paidi mou,” Christina said, and pointed to Alexia’s chest.

  Chocolate speckled Alexia’s white linen blouse. Christina spit on her napkin and rubbed at the stains. Alexia sat still, unable to move. Her face felt warm. Christina didn’t look up from her task. Her hand was heavy against Alexia’s chest.

  “Everything is fine.” Christina tucked her napkin away on her lap.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Alexia pressed her napkin against the wet spots.

  “You worry too much.” Christina garbled through a full mouth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stains clean. Broken things fix.” Christina swallowed, patted her mouth with her napkin and dropped it on the table beside her. “Only time, you no bring back. You exactly like your father. He worry about too many things.”

  Alexia shook her head. “He wasn’t the type.”

  “He no show, but he worry,” Christina said and swallowed her last bite of crepe. “When we children, he worry about the anger in your pappou and he protect me, all his sisters and our mother. I try to keep the peace in the house, but he would fight our father if he tried to hurt us.”

  Alexia didn’t know who Christina was talking about. It sure didn’t sound like her father. “He had friends and went to parties. He didn’t like problems, refused to deal with stuff. His answer to any question was, ‘it’s too complicated’. He left me when Mom died.” She shook her head. I took care of him and he still left. And when he came back, I took care of him again, well, at least until he started dating all those women. Then he had no time for me. You just didn’t know him. “He wasn’t someone who worried.”

  “Parents protect their children. This is why you no see.”

  Maybe some parents do, Alexia thought. That’s what you’re doing for Theodora right now. I can see that. I can
’t figure out why. But I will.

  Alexia excused herself and went to the bathroom. In the privacy of the stall, she patted each dribble of chocolate with pieces of wet toilet paper. She rubbed harder and elongated the marks. Her shirt was now spotted in faded brown dots and frayed toilet paper. Flicking away the paper, she took off her shirt, squirted some of the pink dispenser soap hanging above the sink onto it, and washed it, making sure she didn’t touch the grimy sides of the sink. She rinsed her shirt, squeezed every drop of water out of it and rolled it up in some paper towels. She put on her sweater and buttoned it up, knowing she’d be hot when they left the restaurant. She thought about what Christina had said. Anything could be cleaned. Really, how do you wipe away Theodora? A child was not like a shirt or a napkin or underwear you could wash out.

  The image came clearly. She’d locked the bathroom door at school. She was in grade seven. She took off her panties and tried to wash the sticky gore away. When she couldn’t, she stuffed her panties with toilet paper, put them back on, felt cold wetness against her thighs, the clump between her legs, took a breath to steel herself, unlocked the door and went home without telling anyone. Nicolai looked up from his desk as she walked in. He put his pen down. “What are you doing home so early?” he asked.

  “Wasn’t feeling well.” Standing in the hallway, pack on her back, she couldn’t move. She hadn’t expected him to be there.

  He quickly slipped the file into his desk and came to her. “What is it?”

  “Bleeding.” She couldn’t come up with anything else.

  He removed her pack, checked her arms, hands, face and legs. “Did you fall?” He stood in front of her. “I don’t see anything.”

  Why did he have to ask questions? She pointed to the area below her stomach. He stood still like he didn’t know what to do either. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him. He was her dad. He wouldn’t know about this stuff. She should have called Mavis.

  “Paidi mou, I’m so happy for you,” he said. “You are becoming a woman.” He hugged her. The familiar scent of forest on his shirt reassured her. His ponytail dangled over his shoulder. She smiled in spite of all that had happened.

  “Your mother, God rest her soul, would be so excited if she were here.” He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, patted his eyes. “This is a good day. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Later he’d bought her books, took her to the store to buy pads, and answered questions she’d thought about asking but couldn’t find the courage. He talked, she listened and eventually she became comfortable enough to respond, ask a few questions.

  She remembered other times when he’d surprised her with his thoughtfulness. At her first concert, she saw him in the audience, leaning into the people around him, talking and pointing at her. His eyes glistened and he pulled out that handkerchief her mother had given him before she died. They had been close then. After he came home from Greece, it was just the two of them gossiping into the night about what they did during the day until she said, “I think I should go to bed now, Daddy.” Later, when she went to high school, Nicolai started to bring women to her basketball games. He used to call them “my friends.” They were much younger, the same age as Mom when she died, but showy like him, nothing like Mom. Alexia heard them in his room, laughing and talking. What had she done to make things change?

  They were back in the car. Alexia sat quietly, watching the scenery dash by.

  “Do not think too much.” Christina had a tight grip on the steering wheel and manoeuvred the narrow road back towards Diakofto.

  “I’m looking at the scenery.”

  Christina patted Alexia’s thigh. “You think about her. But the past is done.”

  Alexia leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. The voice in her head would not stop. There’s no point discussing Theodora with you. You won’t tell me anything anyway. He wanted me to deliver that stupid shoebox, don’t you get it? He didn’t ask me how I felt about it. He forced me into this. And now you’re not going to help me either. Alexia tucked her hands underneath her. I don’t want to deal with it either. But I have to. I knew I’d end up doing this on my own.

  Christina was calling up to her. “We go to the market. Katarina is here already. And we can have lunch after we finish shopping. You come, yes?”

  “No!” Alexia said, more emphatically than she intended. She pictured Christina standing at the bottom of the stairs, her liver-spotted hand on the handrail peering up the staircase in the direction of the attic. “Thanks,” Alexia called down. “But I have to work.” It sounded like a growl even to her. They’ll probably talk about me, she thought.

  Alexia peeked out the attic window. Katarina was pacing in front of the house, her shopping cart rattling behind her. Finally, Christina joined her. Alexia heard Katarina mutter and point in the direction of the window. Christina shrugged. Alexia moved from view.

  She lay on her stomach on the floor, Theodora’s picture propped against her book. She stared at those two different-coloured eyes — innocent, happy, hinting at mischief — and tried to imagine how this girl would react to having a sister. What would she do with Nicolai’s letters? That’s what was in the box. When she’d returned from Kalavryta, she went straight to her closet and flipped the lid of the shoebox only to find stacks of envelopes, each addressed to Theodora Christopoulou from Nicolai Sarinopoulos. He’d used his full name even though he’d gone by the name of Sarino ever since he’d immigrated to Canada.

  “We have to fit in,” he’d told Alexia when she asked him why they didn’t use their full name. “This is easier.”

  A few of those envelopes lay beside her book. She picked up the first one, flipped it forward and backward, examining it to see if there was a slight tear or opening she could pry. She’d convinced herself she needed to know. It might help her figure out how to approach Theodora. The envelope was sealed. She pictured Nicolai licking the envelopes and then stamping each with his company seal, his beloved Greek flag. She picked up a handful of envelopes, looked outside her window to make sure Christina and Katarina were gone and went down the stairs into the kitchen. She put the kettle on the burner, lit the flame and stood watching it, her hands behind her back, the envelopes on the counter beside her. She waved the first over the screaming kettle. The envelope became damp. She wiped it against her shirt quickly, turned off the gas and ran back upstairs. She unfolded the letter and found it was written in Greek. All that effort and she couldn’t read it. She put the letter back in the envelope and put the envelopes back in the box in the same order she’d found them. Theodora could have the letters and the old shoebox, Alexia thought, but not Mom’s ribbons. He’d probably used them when he ran out of tape. He was thoughtless that way. She hid the ribbons under her pillow.

  Nicolai sometimes made her funny cards for her birthday, but he’d never written her a letter, not even when he left her. What did he write about in those letters to Theodora? And why her? What was so special about her? Alexia flung the picture towards the wall. It floated and fell short. Don’t be so childish, she told herself, and picked it up. The floorboards groaned as she paced. She pressed the pointy end of the picture against her temple, leaving tiny needle-size impressions on her skin.

  A bus pulled up in front of the roadside shelter where Alexia stood with five others. She’d decided that just laying eyes on Theodora might help her figure out what to do. But now that she was about to get on the bus to Aigio, she wasn’t so sure. Her stomach felt hollow, her throat tight.

  A white-bearded Greek Orthodox priest — in a black square hat, floor-length black tunic and scuffed loafers — stood with his back to her. In front of him were four young, stocky women in navy skirts and pastel blouses, their babies slung on their hips. Each stood with her legs slightly apart, in flat, practical shoes. One child screeched. Alexia jumped. The baby’s mother raised the child over her shoulder and patted its behind, then adjusted her hair band and bags. Gurgles re
placed gasped protests. Calm down, Alexia told herself. Start worrying when you arrive.

  The women nodded to the priest and he stepped onto the bus first. He touched their heads and those of their babies as he passed and they kissed his hand. Alexia waited well out of his reach, smelling diesel fumes.

  She got on board and stopped to count out the fare. She flipped each coin back and forth to make sure she knew what it was worth. The bus driver clucked his impatience. He took what he wanted from her outstretched hand and nodded for her to move to the back.

  Walking up the aisle, she received guarded smiles and nods from a few passengers. Did they know what she was up to? She had no reason to feel guilty. She was simply doing what her father wanted, fulfilling his last wish. Still, she couldn’t shake the image of Christina’s smile or the feel of her hand on hers when they were in Kalavryta. Christina had said, “We help. You not alone with this.”

  She took a seat next to the window. Stop thinking, she told herself. It’s too late to turn around. You’re committed now. And besides, Christina’s not telling you everything she knows, so she’s not being very helpful, is she? And she had suggested not seeing Theodora at all, hadn’t she?

  Unlike the cramped buses in Vancouver, this one had reclining seats, leg room and air conditioning. There was no scent of damp sweat as there was on rainy days she rode the buses in Vancouver where soaked passengers stood sandwiched. She would never get used to that dank stench.

  Every few minutes, the bus jolted to a stop. She tried to distract herself by watching the passengers who got on and off with shopping carts, packs and farm tools. She focused on these people, looking at what they were wearing, imagining who they were.

  When the bus arrived in Aigio, Alexia left the station and walked to the first main square with a water fountain. She cupped water into her hand and slurped away her thirst, then splashed her face and the back of her neck. Benches flanked the triangular sides of the square. She’d read about this place in her guidebook. It was an embarrassment to the community because the renegade planner had designed the square as a triangle. Squares were supposed to be square. Why hadn’t there been simple, easy-to-follow rules like this for her life?