Yia-yia released Daphne’s hands and leaned back in her chair. “How did they save me? How did they save me?” she repeated again and again.
Daphne could detect a melodious undertone to her voice. For a moment, it seemed as if Yia-yia was going to answer in a lament song. But Daphne didn’t care. She just wanted answers. Daphne leaned in closer, wringing her hands together in anticipation of hearing the words that would unravel this great mystery for her. She had been consumed with learning more about this story from the moment Yianni had tossed out the first description of the vibrant Jewish quarter. Now she needed to hear Yia-yia’s version, so she too could better understand the secrets of the island, the secret her grandmother had clung to for so many years—and hopefully, in some way, better understand how their lives and these legends were so inexplicably intertwined.
But as Daphne waited for Yia-yia to unravel this mystery, the voices from below grew louder. She could hear Evie’s giggles more clearly now, and she could make out some of the words of Popi’s prattle; words like opportunity and investment and risk. Words Daphne was shocked to realize that Popi even knew.
“How did they save you?” Daphne asked again, desperate to learn the answer before the others joined them. But it was too late. The patter of Evie’s ballet slippers was upon them as she bounded up the last few steps, raced across the patio, and dove into Yia-yia’s lap.
“Be careful, Evie.” Daphne lurched forward, frustrated that this conversation had come to such a sudden end. There was no way she would learn what Yia-yia was about to say now; it would have to wait for later this evening, when Yia-yia and Daphne were alone—then, and only then, would Daphne broach the subject again.
There were not many secrets on this island, not many whispered conversations. Everything here was shared and shouted across the treetops; news, recipes, weather reports, and gossip. As primal as this method of communication seemed, that was the reality of life here; people needed each other. They needed to know each other’s business, not just for lack of other entertainment but in order to survive. But this conversation was different. Evie was too young, Popi too frivolous, and this culture and its customs were still so new to Stephen. No, this would be a conversation finished over the evening’s last dying embers, reserved for Yia-yia and Daphne alone.
“Can I? Can I? Can I?” Evie asked again and again as she bounced up and down on Yia-yia’s knees, the very knees that Daphne had noticed earlier seemed a bit more swollen than usual.
“Evie, be gentle. Stop it.” Daphne reached her arm out to stop the little girl’s acrobatics. “You’ll hurt Yia-yia. Can you what?”
“It’s all right, Daphne mou. This child cannot harm me. She is my best medicine.” Yia-yia wove her crooked fingers through Evie’s hair.
“So can I go for a ride on Jack?” Evie begged.
“Later, honey. I promise. Stephen just got here—it’s not polite to leave him alone. He wants to spend time with you, he missed you.”
“If he missed me so much, then why is he playing with Thea Popi and not me?”
Although Evie spoke in English, Yia-yia nodded in agreement. She didn’t need to speak the language to understand what was happening. The old woman was fluent in reading the faces of those she loved.
“Now, Stephen, don’t let Popi monopolize you, everyone wants to get to know you,” Daphne called out.
“No, it’s okay. Your cousin has some great ideas.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. This is a wedding we are celebrating, after all. Daphne, I really am sorry, you are the bride, and this is your time. My time will come too, I know it will. And now that we are family, there will be plenty of time for business after the wedding. What’s the word”—Popi scanned the recesses of her mind for the elusive word—“merger.” She clapped in celebration of her verbal victory. “Yes, it is a family merger, and great things will come of this for all of us. Ella.” Popi lifted her arms and clapped her hands again, this time above her head. “Come, let’s eat.”
Daphne watched Popi sashay to the table. She could swear she noticed a little extra olive oil lubricating her hips as they swung back and forth.
“Thanks for tolerating her. She’s a little overbearing sometimes, but she’s a good person. She means well.” Daphne pulled Stephen closer.
“I’m not tolerating her. She’s pretty amazing, actually.” Stephen watched as Popi took her seat by the table. “She does have some good ideas. Really good ideas.” He laughed as if surprised that this place could spawn more than just chickens, flies, and donkey dung. “She’s a smart girl, Daphne, like you.” He squeezed her hand. “This is going to be some wedding . . . like your cousin said, this is going to be some merger.”
“Come on, it’s time to eat. Enough business for one day.” Daphne clapped her hands and shooed everyone toward the table. “One of the great things about this stew is the smell when you first open the pot lid. It’s incredible. Come on, you’re gonna love it.” She smiled at Stephen and led him to his seat.
“I mean it, Daphne.” He leaned in just inches from her face and placed his hands on her shoulders. “When I’m done, we’ll be the biggest thing New York has ever seen. Hell, that Greece has ever seen. I have big plans for us.”
For generations, as far back as people could remember, island weddings were celebrated for the joyous yet vital merger of two families. Nowhere did the phrase strength in numbers ring more true than right here, where families joined by marriage would share their crops, their livestock, and all of the essentials of their lives. Daphne remembered attending so many of these festive celebrations with Popi and Yia-yia. There was the summer when Daphne was nine . . . she would never forget the pleasure of dancing along the dirt roads with a colorful parade of women; bundles of clothes, blankets, and towels balanced on their heads as they took part in the rouha, a beautiful ritual where the women of the island would carry a bride’s possessions to her new husband’s home. There was the mortification she felt the time, at twelve years old, the kilo of rice she cradled in her arms in anticipation of the bride and groom’s emergence from church slipped out of her hands and down the back of Thea Anna, who had worn her one “good dress” for the occasion and dripped rice from her girdle all over the dance floor for the remainder of the evening. But there was no image of island marriage more seared in Daphne’s memory than the stories Yia-yia had shared of when she was a girl and bloodstained white sheets would hang from an olive tree, billowing in the breeze, the morning after a young couple married.
There would be no dancing women balancing Daphne’s possessions atop their heads, no kilo of rice to throw, since she had insisted on rose petals instead, and certainly no stained sheet to confirm her purity. No dowry, livestock, linens, or land would be changing hands. Hers was by no means a typical Erikousa wedding. It was to be modern and elegant—Amerikanico. But after watching Popi work her magic on Stephen, and hearing Stephen’s excitement about the potential for new business ventures ahead, Daphne couldn’t help but feel that in some ways she was far more traditional than she ever could have imagined, that she too was a measure of her dowry.
When the stew was finally ready, Yia-yia insisted they eat on the table under the large olive tree. But that would be Yia-yia’s only concession to American formality. The round loaf of peasant bread was placed in the middle of the table, pieces to be torn away by hand, as was the usual custom. There would be no delicate china or serving dish either; the old, battered pot was placed straight from the fire right at the center of the table as Daphne stood to do the honors.
“It’s ready, you can remove the tape,” Yia-yia announced, signaling to Daphne that she could now peel the charred silver tape from the lid.
“Why are you doing that?” Stephen leaned in to get a better look. He had spent countless hours with Daphne in the kitchen at Koukla, but he had never before seen her prepare a dish using electrical tape.
“It is to keep the flavors in,” Popi
answered. “We know special tricks here, wonderful tricks.” She stood, almost knocking over her chair with the sheer force of her hips. She bent forward, bottom pointed straight up, leaned her entire body across the table, grabbed the round, crusty loaf of bread, and shoved it into Stephen’s face. “Here, smell,” she commanded.
Stephen did as he was told. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yes, it is.” Popi nodded furiously. “See, we take hospitality very seriously here, cousin Stephen. There is nothing we don’t do for our guests.”
“This is delicious. Absolutely delicious.” He took a piece of bread and dipped it into the thick sauce. “And I love these little onions.” He plunged his fork into the stew and pulled out a perfect little round pearl onion. “Delicious.” Stephen devoured his stew and dabbed at his mouth with the paper napkin while Daphne refilled his bowl. “Daphne, seriously. You need to put this on the menu at Koukla. I mean it, as soon as you get back to work.”
“Just eat, enjoy . . . okay?” Daphne filled his bowl again.
“Okay. But we have a lot to talk about once this little vacation is over.”
Yia-yia watched as Stephen inhaled the stew that she had slaved over since before the sunrise. She leaned in and whispered into Daphne’s ear. “Your young man has good taste. But have you warned him about those little onions that he loves so much?”
Daphne brought her hand to her face and laughed. She shook her head.
“Ah, kala. He’ll have a nice souvenir from his first day in Erikousa,” Yia-yia muttered under her breath.
That was all it took. In an attempt to keep from laughing, she pursed her lips inward, biting both her top and her lower lip. She tilted her head down, allowing her hair to fall in front of her face. The veil of black curls obscuring her features might have done the trick and hid the fact that she was laughing, but it was the way her entire body jiggled up and down that gave her away.
“What’s so funny?” Stephen pierced another pearl onion and plucked it from his fork with his teeth.
“It’s nothing.” Daphne tried composing herself, but one look at Yia-yia had her dissolving into giggles again.
“Really, what’s so funny?” he asked again.
“It’s the onions,” Popi offered as she filled her beer glass again.
“What’s so funny about the onions?”
“They . . . how do you say . . .” Popi tapped her glass with her fork as she searched for the right word. “They, you know . . . make air.”
“Huh.” Stephen took another sip of beer.
“They make air.” Popi waved her arms around her as if she might be able to capture the correct word from the passing breeze.
“They give you gas.” Daphne took a very large sip of her Mythos, not certain how Stephen would react to where this conversation was heading. As much as Stephen had a fine sense of humor, these were unchartered waters for him. With Greeks, no conversation was ever off-limits; nothing was ever considered too gross, inappropriate, or even risqué for dinner table conversation. There was basic, primal humor to be found in body functions, and Greeks always seemed to value a good punch line over propriety.
“Farts!” Popi yelled, slamming the empty bottle of Mythos on the table. “Yes, that’s the word. Farts.”
Daphne hid under her hair once again.
Popi placed her hand on Stephen’s shoulder and leaned in closer toward him. “Cousin, be glad you are here outside with us and not in one of your important meetings. Stifado is so good.” She smacked her lips. “But not good for business.”
And from the way Stephen squirmed in his seat and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, it seemed it wasn’t good for dinner-table conversation either.
Twenty-six
After everyone had stuffed themselves with the stifado, Daphne insisted Yia-yia stay seated so she alone could clear the table. Daphne knew how much work had gone into this lunch, and she didn’t want Yia-yia to exhaust herself any further. She cleared the plates one by one, scraping what little bits were left into a large bowl to give to Nitsa so she could feed her pigs later that evening. Daphne noticed how little was left on each plate; the stifado had been too extraordinary to leave any morsel behind. She felt sorry for the pigs whose evening slop would be slighter than normal. As she lifted Stephen’s plate, she laughed out loud, noticing how he had picked the bowl clean except for the tiny pearl onions, which had been left behind in a smattering of sauce.
“Daphne mou, I’ll sit here and rest a moment. Efharisto.” Yia-yia sat with her hands folded on her lap and watched as her newly extended family went about the business of getting to know each other. But like any good Greek hostess, she always had enough food to feed the entire village. And like any good Greek village, the villagers were more than happy to show up and enjoy the hospitality.
Nitsa was the first to arrive, her heavy footsteps heralding her arrival before the squeaky gate could do the honors. Nitsa was followed by Father Nikolaos and his entire family, as well as half a dozen or so theas and theos who were happy to indulge in Yia-yia’s delicious stifado as well as the entertainment of getting to know Daphne’s rich American.
“Stephen. How is your first day on our beautiful island?” Stephen braced himself as Nitsa approached. Cigarette in hand, Nitsa enveloped Stephen in her arms and hugged him close, pressing his face deep into her bosom.
“Great. Just great,” he managed to spit out, despite the fact that Nitsa’s humongous breasts were now blocking all of his air passages.
“Excuse me, Thea Nitsa.” Daphne pulled Stephen away before the lack of oxygen could do any harm. “I need to borrow my fiancé. He still hasn’t met Father Nikolaos and Presbytera.”
“Thanks,” he whispered, red faced, as she pulled him away.
“Don’t mention it.” Daphne laughed. She led him back to the table where Yia-yia still sat, now surrounded by Father Nikolaos, his wife, and their baby.
“Father.” Daphne took the priest’s hand and kissed it. “Father, this is my fiancé. This is Stephen.”
“Yia sou,” Stephen said. The priest reached his hand out. Instead of kissing the priest’s hand, as was the custom, Stephen shook Father’s hand as if he were closing a deal. If Father was offended, he didn’t show it. The priest simply smiled. He lifted his right hand and formed the sign of the cross in the air between Daphne and Stephen. “God bless you” was all he knew to say in English.
“Same to you,” Stephen replied.
“Stephen, this is Presbytera. She was kind enough to offer to make our wedding crowns from local flowers. Isn’t that wonderful? Now that is a true blessing.”
“Yia sou, Stephen.” Presbytera stood, her gurgling baby straddling her hip as she kissed Stephen on each cheek. “Daphne, tell your young man we are so happy and honored to welcome him to our island and to God’s house. I pray Agios Spyridon watches over him and that God grants you both many children, and many years of health and happiness.”
Daphne translated Presbytera’s wishes for Stephen, who smiled politely in response.
As the sunlit afternoon gave way to a beautiful sunset, the welcome party thinned considerably. It had been a long afternoon filled with food, laughter, and a lot of translation as Daphne found herself interpreting well wishes the entire afternoon.
“Congratulations.”
“Welcome to the family.”
“Welcome to Greece.”
“May God bless you.”
“Why are you so skinny?”
“Is this why you are so rich, because you spend no money on food?”
“Exactly how rich are you?”
“My son wants to come to America. Can you give him a job?”
WHEN THE PLEASANTRIES AS WELL as the food were finally exhausted, Daphne stood alone on the edge of the patio and watched as the sun tucked itself away behind the faraway shelf of the Ionian Sea, reveling in the fleeting quiet and the magical golden light. She looked around her and took in the moment. There was Yia-yia, huddled ove
r and making coffee by the fire. Evie played quietly in one corner of the patio with her favorite baby chick, her kitten curled up in her lap. And there, huddled together under the olive tree, were Popi and Stephen, once again deep in conversation.
Just as the final glimmer of the sun’s orange orb disappeared behind the horizon, Daphne was about to turn and join Yia-yia for coffee, but the creaking of the gate made her turn instead toward the noise.
“Yia sou, Thea Evangelia.”
It was Yianni. He carried a brown net draped across one shoulder and a large white bucket in his hand. “Thea Evangelia . . .” He dropped his net and bucket at Yia-yia’s feet and bent down to kiss the old woman on both of her cheeks. “Thea mou, tonight the sea delivered many gifts. She was very generous as I lifted my nets. I thought, with your family growing every day . . .” He looked around the patio and saw that everyone—Daphne, Evie, Popi, and even Stephen—had stopped what they were doing to watch him. “I thought that you might like to share in her bounty.”
“Ah, Yianni mou. You are always so good to me, so kind.” Yia-yia poured him a cup of coffee before he could ask for one.
Daphne felt the uneasiness return in her belly, the knot in her neck tighten. After their time together on the kaiki, when he told her the story of how their yia-yias had survived the war together, she had seen another side to this man whom she had once so strongly disliked. Daphne no longer saw Yianni as a danger. He was no longer a threat. When they had first met, the mere thought of Yianni unleashed the vicious furies in Daphne’s mind. But from the moment he had opened up to her, had shared his kaiki, his stories, and the sea urchins, Daphne realized, that was no longer the case. There was nothing to fear about this mysterious man. And like the bloodthirsty furies who had their fill of vengeance and ultimately turned benevolent in the story of Orestes, Daphne felt a shift in their story as well.
“Yia sou, Yianni.” It seemed the arrival of a single, eligible man was what it took to pry Popi away from Stephen. “Yianni, this is Stephen. This is my cousin, Daphne’s fiancé. O Amerikanos,” Popi announced.
When the Cypress Whispers Page 20