We passed the temple of Athena Nike set high on a bastion of sun-bleached stone. The Propylaia was massive. It presented a six-columned Doric façade on both sides. It was the gateway to Athens’s past, where gods and goddesses of Grecian legend were honored, victories at war were remembered, custom and ceremony were observed, treasures were stored, and the architecture of forgotten times stood bold before the world.
On the same path where the yearly procession once carried an offering of a new tunic for Athena, tourists now slipped and scrambled.
Shane tugged me to a stop beneath the great looming lintel of the Propylaia.
“How often do you folk get earthquakes?”
I knew how he felt. Though the massive pillars and great rectangular stones that they held aloft had stood for well over two thousand years, I always held my breath when I walked through. Though nerve racking, walking into the Acropolis took my breath and always turned my heart toward God.
Some people might think of visiting the Acropolis as a purely pagan experience.
While I saw evidence of the scheming gods and goddesses of yore who had never offered salvation to my people, I saw God as well.
The towering marble was bright under a summer sun. The ingenuity of man, his mind pressed toward beauty and permanence. The breathtaking accomplishments of a creature made by God, and the simple elegance of the blades of grass that grew up between the ancient stones. Wind and sun, marble and earth, sky and sea, and beauties untold. Yes, God was here, too.
I tugged Shane forward.
Despite the awesome splendor, I didn’t want to be smashed beneath an archeological wonder any more than he did. Scooting closer to hide the cuffs, I walked flush up against Shane’s side trying not to think about what was in the box he carried under his other arm. The sun would not improve Chrysanthemum. As soon as we lost our followers, I needed to get that cat into a shady spot where Shane could set to work.
We strolled out onto the long, flat field of natural marble that made up the top of the Acropolis. White marble pressed up through the ground in smooth, rounded swells. Bits of grass and soil scratched out enough space to grow between the stretch of ancient stone. However, the surface was predominantly white with a bit of gray limestone thrown in. The smooth mounds of marble were interrupted by sharp chunks of fallen stone that littered the ancient field. They were a testament to marvels that had been devoured by time, and war, and neglect.
A touch of unease hung in the air around us, and I turned scanning the crowds.
Two men followed us standing out from the crowds with their scowls, thick sensible clothing, and lack of photography equipment.
Shane squeezed my hand. “I see them. Let’s take a loop around the Parthenon and see if we can slip down the path while they gawk at all this marble.”
It was as good an idea as any and sounded quite sane, which is saying a lot for a man who was toting around a dead cat.
We meandered across the field of scattered marble. A few lone benches were placed amongst the stones for weary tourists and out of breath photographers. We weaved through the benches and scattered chunks of cut marble as we approached the Parthenon.
It was unbelievably vast. Eight pillars wide and seventeen pillars long, the ancient war memorial dominated the sky-scape. There wasn’t a straight line in the whole massive structure. Gently curved, the architectural trick gave the impression of lightness and perfection without the heavy, sagging look common to large temples of perfectly rectangular proportions.
Shane took a left, and we walked the length of the Parthenon not having to manufacture a touristy awe. The Parthenon was solid marble and the most imitated building in all of history.
The men behind us took a left as well, unfortunately. They appeared unaffected by the building’s splendor.
After a great deal of hiking, we reached the other side of the Parthenon.
Shane grabbed my hand. Together we ducked behind a pillar and then bolted across the field of stone.
The bare pads of my feet stung with grit. My lungs ached with the tight burn of running too hard. I had spent the last five years of my life in the back room of a high class boutique forming silk ribbon roses. An Olympian sprinter, I was not. But I managed.
We were almost across the open space when the men spotted us from where they searched on the other side of the pillars.
I yanked Shane off the path and onto a glassy stretch of marble.
The men behind sprinted, gaining ground. Then they leapt from the path as well, landing hard on the smooth, age-worn stone. Our pursuers’ legs skidded out from under them as if they were cartoon animals attempting to run from a pack of phony ghosts. Ha! So there was an advantage to being barefoot and bedraggled. Arms windmilling, the men landed hard. One of them even hit a tourist bench on his way down.
I grinned. We had the lead.
Shane, Chrysanthemum, and I busted across the remaining stretch of field and through the Propylaia. As we clattered down the steps, our cat bouncing and sliding around in her box, I remembered that the Propylaia hid an even more ancient gate.
The gates of an old Mycenaean palace from the time of the Trojan War. The only thing that had made the marble hill top habitable was a small spring buried deep in the cleft of the rock. Servants would carry water up from the fissure so that their sovereign could have the finest view in the land.
I wondered what was left of that ancient king’s legacy. Without breaking stride, I glanced back thinking of the hidden gate.
A man in a crisp, gray suit rose out of the shadows behind one of the pillars, growing taller and taller as though he came from a set of sunken steps. Surely it was a trick of the light? He must have simply been standing behind a pillar. But whether his entrance was mundane or mysterious, one thing was certain. The man stepped out of the Propylaia and jogged down the white marble steps. His eyes met mine for an instant before he broke into a run.
11
The Interview
We had been trotting down the white, marble steps at a good pace. With the appearance of our stealthy pursuer, our trotting morphed into a mad, leaping dash.
I had never proceeded at a mad, leaping dash through ancient monuments and walkways before. Our sprint across the Acropolis field had been bad enough. But despite all of my Ya-Yá’s warnings concerning running on marble, we managed a remarkable pace. It was less glamorous than it sounds but proved effective.
Our pursuer was a tall, thin man in a suspiciously un-rumpled suit and a glossy red tie. Did I mention that he wore shoes? Yes, indeed, the man wore shoes. Shiny black dress shoes that were not conducive to long flights of marble stairs.
So, although my inner fashion designer cringed and grimaced whenever my grimy feet vaulted off a new step, skidded across some lose stones, or smashed an errant bit of foliage that had dared to grow upon the long mountain path, I rejoiced at our hasty retreat.
We slid around the corner at the bottom of the hill.
I slipped, landed on my hip, and bounced off the path. The handcuffs yanked Shane with me, and what was left of Chrysanthemum fell out of the box and rolled through the gravel. My dress was torn, I’d broken three more nails, and my derriere was covered in earth and bush prickles. Part of me wanted to give up right then and there, but I had already committed myself. So I dropped to my knees and scrambled after the foil-wrapped cat skin.
As Chrysanthemum tumbled down the mountain, bits of foil and plastic tore away leaving a scattering of litter behind us. I tried not to imagine what Pricilla, my former boss, would say to me. Instead, I lunged forward and snatched Chrysanthemum up by a tiny bit of foil that remained on her tail and flung the thing, gravel and all, into Shane’s box.
We both scrambled around on our hands and knees gathering our litter. When every scrap was crammed into the box, Shane stood, glanced behind us, and then turned to me.
“I wish you could see yourself.”
I sent him an appropriately fierce glare and snatched my hand as far away
from his as the handcuffs would allow.
Shane grinned. “Sunlight in your hair, ancient ruins behind you, eyes full of the mysteries of the ancients. I see where they came from. Helen of Troy, Andromeda, Aphrodite.” He pulled me to my feet, brought my fingers to his lips for an instant, and kissed my hand. “You’re beautiful, Jack.”
Before I had a chance to stomp on his toe or fire back with a snarky retort, he yanked me into a run again.
I blinked away my confusion and simply ran. My mind returned to the image of his eyes drinking me in as he bent over my grimy fingers. I glanced down at our clasped hands. A layer of dirt colored my French manicure in a most unbecoming fashion.
What a confusing man.
My old boss would have a hernia.
I had courted perfection for five long years and now look at me…my job! Oh, my goodness. I had an interview with my new boss, and it was today.
We had run past the gate to the Acropolis.
Shane pulled me behind the closest building. “Where to, Jack?”
“It’s Jacqueline. Do you have the time?” I glanced behind us.
The man in the suit was nowhere in sight. But had we really lost him?
Shane glanced at his wrist. “Ten o’clock.”
“We need to go into Central Pláka. I’ve got an appointment with my new boss.”
Shane glanced at my attire. “You’re a bridal designer, right?”
“Yes, I was a design intern. But in this new shop I’ll be a full-fledged designer.” I crossed my fingers behind my back and shot a quick prayer toward heaven. This new job was Your will Lord, remember. Please don’t let some stupid cat and a bit of dirt mess it up.
I couldn’t ruin a divine job appointment, though. Could I? This offer had come right on schedule according to my perfectly drawn up prayer chart. Five years slaving under other designers until a position for a designer in Athens opened up. Of course, my perfect romance was a few years behind schedule. My meticulous nail care had brought me job security, but had not ensured wedded bliss with the dental surgeon of my dreams. I should have had my own dog and 1.6 children according to my prayer chart. But God had granted most everything else, right on schedule.
Except that which was most important to your heart, some darker, somewhat angry part of me pointed out. I stuffed the questioning voice down deep and tried not to think of my Ya-Yá. I had never imagined I would land my dream job only to find her gone.
Shane held my gaze for a long moment and then shrugged. He followed me as I tugged us away from the Acropolis. Whatever he thought of my plans, I didn’t ask.
I had enough to worry about.
12
Athena and Aphrodite: A Grecian Boutique
We hitchhiked to the edge of the Pláka and then walked to Apollonos street.
Yep, I, Jacqueline Mallory Gianakos, hitchhiked.
Amongst my peers, I had always been the greatest skeptic of hitchhiking even under the direst of circumstances. Hadn’t a girl in my high school algebra class told me all about how her dad, a man who stood six feet four inches tall, sustained a very painful knife wound at the hand of a less than grateful hitchhiker?
Hadn’t the husband of my best friend’s niece picked up a homicidal schizophrenic on his way to referee a youth wrestling event and had to take a detour to a mental hospital to drop off his passenger when the man blithely admitted to carrying a gun in his duffel bag?
Nonetheless, we hitchhiked to the Pláka.
Since there is no traffic allowed in the Pláka, our ride dropped us off just outside, near a wall filled with painted canvases and decorative plates. Jesus riding a donkey and nostalgic pastoral scenes shared space with mythological Greek characters fighting their way across yellow and black plates.
We thanked our benefactor and walked down the street to Athena and Aphrodite, the wedding boutique where I was supposed to prove my prowess as a wedding professional and actual designer.
I slowed on the sidewalk and stared up at my place of employment.
An ancient yellow building with balconies and white iron railings had been given a new lime wash and an updated facade. It was a new shop in an old part of an ancient city. The owner, Agathi Papalia, had explained the name to me during our phone interview last month. Athena, the Greek goddess of strategy, craft, and inventiveness, represented woman’s skill and talent. Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, represented the loveliness of womankind. Something that was important to a girl on her wedding day. It was a nice name, but what about me, today, standing on the sidewalk in bare feet and tatters?
I felt neither particularly clever nor lovely.
Chrysanthemum slid across the bottom of the box and thumped against the end as Shane turned to survey the street behind us. “I think we’ve lost them. Are you going to your meeting? It’s 10:44.”
“Yes.” I took a deep breath and grasped the new, brass handled doors. I had come too far to give up on this dream now. Ya-Yá was gone, and her beautiful house felt hollow without the sound of her puttering about, talking to Chrysanthemum, and losing things around the house.
But this was my dream, all that was left of my dream, at least. I would not give it up without a fight. I was willing to stuff her cat for my place in this city. Meeting my charming and sophisticated boss should be a cinch. If only my nails had all broken evenly. I glanced down at what was left of my French manicure.
Back in California, Pricilla would have put a pukey face sticker on my clipboard and made me wear one of the returned wedding gowns from the 80’s that always made our clients laugh and feel superior to all the brides who had come before them.
“Would you like to borrow my flannel?” Shane asked. “I think it’s cleaner, and nothing’s been torn off.”
He was right. But I shook my head in a tight-lipped “no” and stepped through the door.
He tried to follow me, but I pulled the door shut with the chain of our cuffs holding it slightly ajar.
He snorted and raised an eyebrow. “Come now, Jack. You’re embarrassed of me?” He indicated my torn dress with his chin but didn’t try to follow. In fact, Shane looked infuriatingly comfortable leaning back against the outside of the building in his ragged jeans and soft flannel shirt.
I turned away and smoothed my hair down hoping that the water I’d splashed on my face in the public restroom near the bottom of the Acropolis made me look windblown rather than oppressed by villainous cat-snatchers.
“Is Ms. Papalia in? I have an appointment with her at 10:45.”
Fortunately, the front desk was just to my right, and I was not forced to shout. Would a calm sophisticated voice make up for my lack of shoes?
“Yes, if you will step this way, Ms. Papalia will see you in her office.” The girl behind the counter spoke flawless English and stood with the graceful confidence of supermodels all around the world. Her French manicure was perfect, undisturbed by grit or animal remains.
The phone rang right then.
I let out my breath in a whoosh.
Ms. Perfection answered switching to Greek as easily as I’d slipped from my shoes last night. When the call ended, she walked around the counter and clicked to a door on the left.
I remained by the outside door ignoring Shane’s quiet laughter from the other side.
My guide turned around. She waited.
I bit my lip and remained silent.
Suddenly, the door behind me lurched open. It shoved me across the gleaming hardwood floor.
Shane slammed the door behind him and held it shut. “They followed us!”
The office door across the room opened just then and Agathi Papalia stepped into the room. She started to smile at me, then her gaze scanned my filthy dress, bare feet, and cuffed arm. The smile melted like wax.
Thump.
Someone heaved against the door behind us.
“Give us the cat, Ms. Gianakos,” was shouted through the door in Greek.
I glanced up at my would-be employer.
>
She paled.
My single hope was dashed. Yep, I guess she did, in fact, speak Greek.
“Who are you? Do you actually have their cat?”
“Of course not. I have my Ya-Yá’s cat. Their cat must have been next to this one,” I pointed at Shane’s box, “in the freezer unit. These men are mistaken.”
“You froze your grandmother’s cat?”
“It’s not what you think. Chrysanthemum is dead; I’m just getting her stuffed, for Ya-Yá, so I can inherit her house.” I laughed and shoved my hip back against the door hoping that the cat snatchers would give up and go get their own cat.
“You brought a dead cat into my boutique?”
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.” Oh, my goodness, now even I was saying it. If I didn’t watch myself, pretty soon I’d be wearing boots and flannel. “It’s only part of a dead cat.”
The look on her face confirmed what I already suspected. No matter how talented the bridal designer, she was not welcome if she arrived with pieces of a deceased animal upon her person. Even if those bits were small and inconspicuous, whatever amount of dead cat she brought, it would always be too much.
Agathi Papalia pointed down the hall and hissed a single word in Greek. “Βγες έξω!”
The door shuddered behind me.
I followed orders and fled across the boutique.
Shane wasn’t ready, and I yanked him forward as I ran.
He stumbled.
The cat tumbled out of her box.
The lopsided plaster cast that Shane had carefully formed to Chrysanthemum’s exact shape skittered into a display of ballet slippers. The partially-cured cat pelt flopped out onto a vase of dried flowers twined with ribbon and pearls. The pelt was no longer white, or intact, or protected by a wrapping of any kind. One of the paws hung in shreds, dirt and gravel clotted the long soft fur, and Chrysanthemum’s left ear was either folded in on itself or completely gone.
Shane made a dive for the mold.
I was once again left to gather up the pelt. I grasped the dusty tail and turned to go. A meaty hand wrapped around my shoulder, and I lurched to a stop.
Athens Ambuscade Page 5