Sitting in a café in the village’s main square, I think about the family I just met and can’t help but compare them to my own fractured Greek family and the quiet cottage that had been my sanctuary. Unlike our neighbors’ homes that were filled with generation after generation of families, my yiayia’s cottage was always quiet. When I was young, I believed my yiayia must have done something very bad to God because she had practically no family left. She would tell me: “Thair, when you find good man, you feed him good. You get to heart from stomach. He like your cooking, he marry you, and if you lucky, Theos bless you with many children. Children have children, and when you be a yiayia, you have lots of family, all everywhere.”
So what did my yiayia do wrong? She had me, but I was just one grandchild—and I was a girl. I know she loved me, but sometimes words slipped from her mouth: “You lots of work, if you a boy, I no mind you stay out so late.” I knew she really didn’t mind my social life, but I knew a grandson could have helped her around the house, helped her fix things. In the handyman department, I was indeed worthless, and for that, I sometimes felt sad for her, for me. She tried to teach me, but I had no desire; books and pretty dresses drew my attention, not tools and toils.
With no man around to fix things, Yiayia had the Herculean task to keep everything working. Her skills were plentiful, but her bones were brittle and cracked just like the floorboards. Rust ate away at the wrought iron fence, exposing its innards; the shutters flapped in the wind, so hard to close, a constant thudding all night. The toilet’s slight running sang through the wee hours of the morning, enchanting us like Odysseus’s sirens; without beeswax in our ears, the cacophony of sounds actually lulled us to sleep and, like babies, we slept deep and peacefully. As the house became more decrepit, my romance with it grew. It was old and safe, just like my yiayia.
Our summer house was neither exploding at the seams with sniveling babies nor rambunctious adolescents, loud uncles nor demanding fathers, but we did have noise. Beautiful noise: Yiayia’s continuous complaining, my constant chatter, our endless laughs. Every so often, though, I saw Yiayia stare at the neighbor’s house, which was directly across from ours, but did not say a word. When she looked my way, I saw something in her eyes, but I did not know how to read her perplexed expression. I wondered if it made her sad or relieved to be just the two of us.
Even before my grandmother’s death, my mother didn’t like visiting Greece, saying it was a country that had suffocated her; unlike my mother, I came to life here. But, then again, I have always been so different from my mother. I always loved the heat of a summer in Greece. The humid afternoons sitting on the balcony watching Yiayia smoke her Karelia while she ignored me. After the third cigarette, Yiayia would go into the kitchen, get the vegetables that she had cut that morning from her garden, return to her chair, and begin to meticulously chop the cucumber, the green peppers, the onions, the tomatoes.
I always grabbed a tomato from the bowl and munched on it like an apple. “Stop,” she would say, “that for dinner,” as if there was some shortage of her red, delicious tomatoes. As I wiped the juice off my face with the back of my hand, I started conversations with her; sometimes she responded with short answers, sometimes my words just hung in the air with the silence. Then, finally, she would say: “I tell you about Italian soldier who got macaroni stuck up his kolo?”
“Yes,” I would reply, “but tell me again.” I had only heard the joke fifty-eight times, almost once a day for the months of summer, but if it gave her such pleasure to tell me about the guy who got spaghetti stuck up his butt, I would gladly listen. The next day I heard it again and laughed again, and again, then again. But there was a genuine payoff for me: her laugh. Just to hear that throaty, deep, heartfelt laugh made it all worthwhile.
I usually arrived pale, chubby, and unhappy, and left tan, trim, and rested. I didn’t want to go back to the US; I never did, but I had no choice. The summer always came to an end, and I needed to go back home. At twenty-one, I had so many dreams. I had one more year to get my bachelor’s degree, and then I planned to move to Greece forever.
So many plans, yet nothing happened like I had imagined. Yiayia died. I pursued a higher education and made a down payment on a condo with the sale of Yiayia’s beloved Kythnos house. By twenty-five, I was an adjunct professor and a homeowner of a small place by the beach. A big step away from the suburbs, no more cohabitating with Mom, no more land-locked living, just miles and miles of sand and ocean, I finally had a breath of fresh air. And a place to call my own.
But I still felt unsettled.
I shared none of this with my mother, who believed her daughter was successful and happy. After years of a difficult marriage, I didn’t want to burden Mama because for the first time in my life, I saw her happy.
I think about Mama and how different her life is now from when she was married to “the American”—as Yiayia called my father.
After my grandfather died, Mama sent Yiayia enough money to maintain her apartment in Athens and her summer cottage on the island, but after the divorce from the American, Yiayia had to choose: either the winter or summer house. Yiayia chose to keep the latter. It was her haven. Winters on Kythnos were brutal: sharp winds, low temperatures even for the Mediterranean, but she couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of her sweet, white house with its luscious garden.
Yiayia was only forty-seven when Papou died; the following year, a tragic accident killed her only son. She was a tough woman, and though I could still make her laugh, my mother used to say that after Theo Sotiris’s passing, death lived in her eyes. Yiayia would repeatedly state: “No Papou, no Sotiris, no daughters,” her daughters, not dead, but worthless in her mind. “Doxa to Theo,” thank God! She used to say, she had me. Even though I was a handful (and a girl!), I knew I meant the world to her. With every Sandro, Nikos, Andreas story, I brought color to her mundane existence. I was the red in her tomatoes. The young lady who arrived every summer and grew up before her tired eyes, the girl who talked incessantly, Dita’s granddaughter: the storyteller. I knew she also had stories to tell, and the day she gave me the gold band and her fragmented tale was one of the happiest—and saddest—days of my life.
I’m playing with the gold band on the table, twisting it around my index finger. Hadley’s initials are barely visible, worn with time, not with wear. Finally, I open my wallet and put it in the side with the small zipper, the place it has been living since Yiayia gave it to me. I pay my bill and decide it’s time to head back, too much reminiscing. But before I do, I want to give Rick a call from the local kiosk. I am hungry for a friendly voice from home and want to temporarily escape all the haunting memories. After several attempts, I finally get my buddy on the line. I tell him about the last few weeks, and he gives me an update on my condo. He and Frank are staying at my place on the weekends to enjoy the swimming pool and have the beach close by. He tells me that a grumpy neighbor complained to the Homeowner’s Association about these “strange men that have been frequenting the pool area and that it’s bad for the children.” I tell Rick that I will call the HOA, but he says that it’s already under control. He also mentions that he has talked to Phaedra, and she was upset that I hadn’t called in so long. He emphasizes these words, and I can hear my mom’s voice in my head. We laugh about this; thirty-one and I still need to check in with my mother every few days. It’s a short call because of cost, but I feel much better as I walk up the hill to my place. When I get to the front door, Tang is there, waiting to greet me.
9
Late June, 2000
From the breakfast nook in the kitchen, I have a perfect view of the electric Aegean. I have been taking my daily swims in the cove below, about a fifteen-minute walk down a steep hill. I came to Greece feeling “heavy,” as the ancient Greek philosopher Parmenides would say, though lately, a jaunty insouciance penetrates my days for hours at a time. There have been days when I am so relaxed, I almost forget to eat. I drink my Greek coffee and turn the
cup over in the sink. By the time I put on my bathing suit, the sandy grounds have dried, and I read my own fortune, a little bit of witchery passed down from my yiayia. Ah, I see lots of hearts around the rim. Today will be a good day. Today I will be surrounded by love.
As silly as it sounds, I do feel loved. Certainly, there has been no love from a man, but for the last month, Mother Earth has sure worked her magic on me. I wake up to the trills of birds; the heat from the sun sneaks its way through the shutters and onto my sleeping body; I taste the sweet, humid air and see the clear blue water below. There really is no love greater than this. I can’t help but wonder why I fail to see these things when I am living in sunny San Diego. It’s probably that ridiculous (but true?) saying: “the grass is always greener on the other side.” But how long can this tranquility last? Better yet, how can I learn to recapture this feeling when I am home, trapped by routine, bored with grading, dissatisfied with life? I am not afraid to be alone, but I can’t help the loneliness that sucks me dry when I am “home.”
And now, for the first time in my life, I am happy with the silence. Have I changed or is it just the surroundings? I don’t feel like I have to go out to meet anyone; in fact, I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. I do go to a café and have an afternoon Nescafe frappé every few days and people-watch; otherwise it’s just me and Tang, my little pal who waits for his milk bowl every morning.
It’s another perfect day, so I drink my coffee, put on my pink bikini, a quick flip of my coffee mug, practice my daily sorcery, then take off. I walk down the hill to take a quick dip and am back in about an hour, just before I begin to get a bit shaky from not having eaten anything.
My stomach is growling. I push the unlocked door open, walk into the kitchen, and grab the cucumber and feta cheese from the fridge. From a hanging basket, I get a sweet red onion and two tomatoes. As I cut up the first blood red tomato, my mind begins to wander. I have so many lingering questions about my grandmother’s story, so after my snack, I get dressed and anxiously make my way down the hill to the local telephone kiosk.
“Yasou, Mama.”
“Hi, sweetheart, what a nice surprise! I was just telling Greta that I hadn’t gotten a call in about a week, and I was getting worried.”
“Mama, you know there’s no reason to worry. I gave you the neighbor’s number, so if anything were to happen, someone would call.”
“I know, but it’s sad for me to think of you there all by yourself.”
Cutting her off, knowing that each word is costing me a pretty penny, I ask: “Mama, how long were Yiayia and Papou married and what exactly happened to Theo Sotiris?”
“Thair, these are strange questions to be asking now and—”
“Mama, please, just answer. Just to be back here where Yiayia …” I can’t say the words. “Mama, can you please humor me and answer?”
“Well, let me think. Yiayia was married to Papou for about … um … about thirty years when he died. You know, your grandmother used to say that he died because of me. Because I broke his heart. Isn’t that awful?”
“Yes, Mom.” I say as my chest heaves. “I remember that part of the story. But it was a heart attack, right?” Just like my poor yiayia, but I don’t say that part out loud.
“Yes. But, I have to admit, I do feel a bit guilty. I should never have betrayed my father—but then again, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have you!” When she says this, I can picture a smile on her face through the phone lines. My mother. The ultimate optimist, a woman who sees the glass overflowing, never just half full; she’s so different than me.
“What about Theo Sotiris? He died young, right?” I used to ask Yiayia the same questions, but she never wanted to talk about him.
My mother’s voice softens, “Yes, he was a good kid. Never really book smart, so he worked construction, and they told Yiayia he died when a beam fell on him.” I can hear her pause. “Gosh, it was so sad, such a horrible death. Oh, Thair, please don’t ask me anymore right now … Oh, I just remembered. I have some wonderful news! Aunt Lena will be visiting next month. She has a few weeks off from the London Philharmonic and will come to San Diego. Isn’t that exciting?” When she says this, her voice goes up an octave. Mama adores and admires her older sister, another tough cookie, who pursued music when everyone told her that she had to get married and make babies.
“That’s great, Mama. It’s been … three or has it been four years since her last visit?”
“It’s been four. Too long. Too, too long! I’m so thrilled! She is even going to stay the entire two weeks here with me!”
Mama beams whenever she sees her sister. They act like teenage girls, staying up all night, talking and laughing into the wee hours of the morning. It is always sad when she leaves; Mama never knows when Thea Lena will come back. I tell my mother she should go visit her in London, but she has no desire to go anywhere.
“I look forward to seeing her, too.” I add.
It’s the truth. I am usually busy teaching, but Thea Lena’s visits are always intellectually stimulating and her manner delightfully quirky, so I try to make time. When I was a teenager, I had asked her why she wasn’t married. Thair, darling, she had responded, my compositions are my friends, my concerts are my home, and my cello is my lover! Then she laughed with a deep, throaty laugh that reminded me of Yiayia’s.
“Mama, can I ask you something else?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Can you tell me about Papou?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Anything about him, about how he was with Yiayia.”
“Okay.” She pauses, and I see the phone clicker moving rapidly, but money is not important right now. “Well, your grandfather was a tall man with thick grey hair, a soft voice, and sensitive hands … but he had a hard heart. Thair, he really was a good man. And I was—surprisingly—his favorite. When I left, he was heartbroken, but he was also very, very angry. It’s just that at the time, a respectable Greek girl did not leave her family to go off and marry an American.”
When she says “American,” her intonation reminds me of the neighbor’s that day when he asked if I was the American niece. What is it about America that makes some people say it in such a distasteful way?
“Thair, Thair … are you still there?”
“Sorry, yes, Mama, please continue.”
“Well, when you were born, your papou was furious that he had not met his first grandchild. And yet he didn’t want me to come back to Greece to visit. I tried to call him through the years, but he forever closed his heart to me, would never even speak to me on the phone. It was really a sad situation, especially for your grandmother, who was in between the two of us.”
“Mama, why didn’t you come back for your brother’s or father’s funeral?”
“Oh, Thair. Must I respond now?”
I hear the phone crack or is it my mother’s voice?
“Please, Mama … ”
“I just couldn’t. Oh, Thair, I couldn’t. Please understand. Please. Honey. Please … I can’t talk—”
As I stand here holding the phone line, I don’t quite understand, but I know when it’s time to switch subjects. It hurts me to hear her so upset, and my questions are the cause of her angst.
“Okay, Mama. Thanks. Now let me tell you about this orange cat that has befriended me.”
After a few minutes of light conversation, I hang up and pull out the equivalent of sixty dollars from my wallet. The woman in the kiosk gladly counts each thousand drachma bill then nods.
When I walk home, I think about our conversation. I remember Yiayia always wearing black, saying it was out of respect for her dead husband and son, but she never said more about them. Mama told me that when Papou died, she called her mother every day. But Yiayia did not want to speak to anyone. According to the neighbor, Yiayia sat in her room, stared out of the window, and did absolutely nothing. After the required forty days of mourning, she got up and continued with her l
ife: she went to the market, cooked, and watched hours and hours of movies while smoking packs and packs of cigarettes.
Aphrodite’s Story
Athens, Greece
August 14th, 1946
Their first child was staying with a neighbor because Dita knew the new one would be coming any day. Dita could not relax, tossing, turning, her huge belly twice the size compared to last time.
“Are you okay?” Stavros asked his very pregnant wife.
“Yes, fine, please sleep.”
But he could not sleep, the days were long, working all day, studying all night, supporting his wife, his little girl, and now—so soon after the first—they were having another. It was not his work, his studies, or his responsibilities that were keeping him up that night, but sheer excitement. He was going to have a baby, and this time it would be a boy. A son!
Dita could feel her husband beside her, his breathing heavy, pulling the covers, and then turning towards her, “Dita, are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
She rolled over, slowly, every move taxing on her heavy body. “Yes, don’t worry. The baby will be fine.”
The Greek Persuasion Page 4