His black hair shines. He must be about my age, maybe six foot, with a strong back. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and a plaid short-sleeved shirt on top, a sort of skater-boy look. His jeans hang nicely on his slender hips, his legs, straight and strong.
I stop staring and shut my book. I close my eyes for a moment, tilting my head upwards, feeling the autumn sun on my face.
“Here you go,” he says as he juggles two cups of coffee.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“You didn’t catch it because I didn’t throw it,” he says with a big grin.
“Ha. Ha.” I say aloud. I find myself liking this guy more and more. Silly humor works for me. “So, what’s your name?”
“Ravi. Ravi Ghafur,” he says while putting out his hand. I shake it and think that it does sound Indian. “And yours?”
“Thair.” I don’t give him a surname, not yet.
“What an interesting name. Does it mean something?” he says this while sidling up beside me on the marble bench.
“Well, kind of. It’s a made-up name. My mom is Greek and as a young girl she loved the beach—the Greek word for beach is thalassa—and she has also always had this penchant for air-conditioning. She loved the way they both made her relax. She told my dad that when she had a child, boy or girl, she would name the baby Thair. Thank goodness she had a girl. I always teased my mom that a boy named Thair sounds like ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ Do you know that Johnny Cash song?”
“No,” he says abruptly, but then leans in, “can we get back to your name?”
“Well, she took the beginning of the Greek word for beach and ended it with ‘air’ for air-conditioning and voilà: Thair.”
“Oh, you speak French, too?” he teases.
I like his jokes. And he makes me feel comfortable, a feeling I haven’t experienced in quite a while.
“So, Thair, do you have a middle name?”
“Yes, it sounds a bit strange in English, but I like it. It’s Aphrodite, named after my Greek grandmother. But they called her Dita for short.”
“Aphrodite … a Greek goddess, right?”
“Yes, the goddess of love … beauty, among other things,” I blush when I say this.
“It’s a really pretty name. Are you like your grandmother?” A man saying my name is pretty and asking about my yiayia. One brick is removed.
I tell him briefly about my grandmother, but then bring back the conversation to names. I want to clarify that I also, legally, use my mother’s maiden name, not just my father’s, so I state—with pride—my complete name.
“So it’s Thair Aphrodite My … lo … pou … los Wright. That’s quite a mouthful! Wow, your name will be even longer once you add your husband’s name!”
So many presumptions in that statement and just when I was enjoying his company … I tell him that I won’t be taking anyone’s name if I do ever marry, and my forever-partner may not be a ‘husband.’ The brick is being pushed back into the wall, but instead I hear a mantra in my head: living, living! I decide to ask: “What about you? Tell me about your heritage. I am sure ‘Ravi’ means something.”
He indulges me: “The name is of Sanskrit origin. It means ‘the sun.’ My mom wanted to give me a name from her native country, and she is a fan of the Indian musician Ravi Shankar.”
“So, your parents are from India?”
“Yes, but the States is home. They have been here since the sixties, the story of most immigrants, coming here for a better life. I was born in India but have only been back once. What about you? You said your parents are Greek?”
“No, just my mom. My dad is from Georgia, a good old American boy with blue eyes and blonde hair. I took my mom’s olive complexion and dark hair. Not complaining though, I can stay out in the sun for hours without being burned.”
“So you love the beach like your mom?” He remembers what I said about my mom. Score: point number two.
“Yeah. What about you?” I say while thinking he has a lean surfer body.
“It’s okay. To be honest, I love the cold. The mountains, the snow, skiing, but I also like a toasty fire and hot chocolate.”
Sitting in front of a fireplace with hot chocolate sounds good, but I hate the snow. Hate the cold. Well, can’t win them all.
We talk for more than an hour and then exchange numbers. Ravi works at his father’s printing company part-time and is pursuing his PhD in engineering. Cute guy is smart, too. I am certain Mother would find him presentable. As he walks out of the café in front of me, I catch another glimpse of his strong V-shaped back, very, very sexy. He turns around and catches me looking. I giggle like a school girl. Despite a few awkward moments, he seems nice and I do hope he calls.
I wake up feeling just a bit lighter today. When I hear the phone ring, I jump up, excited, hoping.
“Hi, baby.”
“Oh … hi, Mom.”
“I’m sorry, honey, were you sleeping?”
“No, that’s okay.” Instantaneously, I feel heavier. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good. Really.” As she says this, I can hear her trying to sound optimistic. “I just wanted to know if you could come tomorrow to take me to my radiation appointment. I hate to ask you, but last time after my session, I felt a bit light-headed. I was going to ask Greta to drive me, but with the recent passing of her husband, I know she has enough on her own plate.”
“Mom, you know I would happily take you to your appointment. I thought this was your week off; that’s why I hadn’t called. Please, Mama, always ask me, you know I want to be with you through … this.” I still have a hard time saying the “c” word out loud. If I don’t say “cancer,” then it’s not real.
“I know, baby, but it’s just such a far drive, and I know you are so busy.”
“Mom,” I reply a bit irritated, “First, it’s only a thirty-minute drive to your place and, second, I am not so busy that I can’t be with my mother. Of course, I will be there. Now, what time did you say?”
“The appointment is at 2:15 p.m.; if you could be here a little before 2:00 p.m. that would be wonderful.”
The following morning, on my way to school, I hear the phone ring. I don’t have time to pick it up because I am running late but stand above the answering machine in case it’s my mom and there’s been a change of plans.
My voice ends, “Please leave a message at the beep.”
Beep.
“Hi, Thair. It’s Ravi. Um … I think I got the right number since I can hear your voice. Hey, I just wanted to say it was really nice meeting you the other day … I was wondering if you are free this weekend, maybe we could go out for dinner? Okay. I guess I’ll call back later and ask you in person … well … ha ha … over the phone, that is. Have a great day. Oh, you have my number if you want to call me back. I’ll be in after 8:00 p.m. Okay. Bye.”
Click.
I smile from ear to ear, and I am off. I’ll call him back tonight when I get home.
Later that night when I return, I take a long, scalding shower, visualizing the photos in my mind: Yiayia, Papou, and my mom’s yiayia and papou. Mom and I even came across a picture of her sitting behind the reception desk at the hotel, a Polaroid picture. It was a day full of retrospection. Then I remember Ravi’s phone call. I want to call him back, but my spirits are a bit low, so I’ll call him tomorrow. Instead of going to bed, I go into my office and turn on my computer.
Thair’s Story
Rancho Fierno
October, 2001
“What are you doing, Mama?” Thair asked when she walked into Phaedra’s house and saw her mother sitting on her living room floor, her legs spread wide, back perfectly straight, a pile of photos and albums placed between her thighs. Flexible and as youthful as ever.
“Just looking at some old photos.”
“Of whom?”
“My yiayia and papou.”
Thair bent down and sat next to her mother while her knees cracked.
“Wow, these photos are incredible. Where is this?”
“It’s in Egypt. Where your yiayia was raised.”
“You know, Mom, I never understood why Yiayia was in Egypt. I know you told me that her family was from the Greek island of Imbros, but Yiayia always talked about Egypt as her home.”
“Well, that’s because Yiayia spent most of her early life there. Your yiayia loved Egypt.”
“Why did her parents leave Imbros in the first place?”
“I can’t remember the year, but the Turks took over the island, and it was a good time to immigrate to Egypt. There was a lot of trade with Egypt; many Greeks went to Alexandria, the port city, and stayed there. Some went to Cairo. But few returned to Imbros. In fact, today it’s a Turkish island with few Greeks still there. You know, Thair, I really have little desire to go to Greece, but maybe you and I could go to Imbros one day to see where your yiayia was born.”
“That would be nice, Mama.” Thair looked down at a picture of her grandmother and thought of all the stories that were lost. She knew a little about her grandmother’s life from that one summer when she finally opened up. Dita told her bits and pieces about her life in Egypt, about the war, the Allies, her gentleman callers. She had even implied that she was not a virgin when she married Thair’s grandfather with her bedsheet story. Those stories lived inside Thair, vivid, real—almost like memories—and now they were colored by her imagination and committed to ink. “Yiayia’s Story” started in Egypt because, when it came to Imbros, Dita’s life before Alexandria, Thair knew nothing.
“Why do you think Yiayia didn’t ever want to talk about her life on Imbros?”
“I think she was sensitive to her parents’ feelings; they never wanted to leave. They were forced out of their home because of the Greek-Turkish war. I think your yiayia just sort of cut out that part of her life. And the only reason I know a few things about their life on Imbros was because of my yiayia.”
“Couldn’t they return to Imbros after the Turkish people took over?”
“No, not really. The island was just not the same. Of course, your papou’s parents were from Kythnos, so through her marriage, my mama’s parents had a new island to claim as home after World War II was over.”
Phaedra picks up a green-brown photo, “Look. These are your grandfather’s parents.”
Thair looked down at the photo, tattered at the edges, incredible. So many stories trapped in this image. A small, hunched over woman dressed all in black stood beside a tall man with a Groucho Marx mustache.
“And what happened to Papou’s parents?”
“They worked hard tending their land in Kythnos. Your grandfather had always wanted to study, a very determined man, so he went to Athens, but when the war broke out, it was pure chaos at the university, so he got a job with a shipping company that went back and forth to Egypt. There was a lot of opportunity for strong men, and once he was immersed in the Greek community in Alexandria, he learned about your yiayia. She was quite a beauty, a strong-willed girl who was said to be a bit wild. I guess this piqued your grandfather’s interest. From your yiayia’s seventeenth birthday, her parents were looking for a good Greek for her to marry, and your papou was happy to oblige. Of course, they were delighted with the match since your papou was an excellent catch, from a decent family who owned lots of land.
“You know, Thair, life is funny. I see these photographs, and it’s as if these people are still alive, still with us. I picture your yiayia and papou, and how happy they were every summer when we would go to Kythnos. Your grandfather was so proud that he had achieved his dream. A large apartment in Athens and his own summer house on Kythnos. He talked about the awful days on the ship during the war, yet every summer he hung up his shirt and tie, and once more became a fisherman. Our table was adorned with fresh fish and vegetables every afternoon. Those were good summers.”
“Wow, Mama. I didn’t know you had such fond memories of Kythnos, too.”
“Of course, Thair. Do you think you were the only one your yiayia called a poutana?” She laughed.
She continued to finger the photos as her voice softened once more, “I know they all look so old, but I can still hear their voices, smell their scents … my father’s when he returned from the harbor, my mother’s when she sat on the balcony … the smell of fish on my father’s shirt, the smoke seeped into my mother’s apron. Funny thing is, these smells used to bother me, and now I think of them with such fondness.” She said all this with long pauses in between, her mind seemingly light-years away.
Thair sat quietly listening to her mother, thinking of Chanel No 5. Thair could not smell that perfume without thinking of her mother. She never liked this particular perfume; it was too strong, overpowering, yet, she wondered, would there be a day when she, too, would yearn for the smell?
These thoughts were too much for Thair, too much nostalgia.
Watching her intently, Thair’s eyes couldn’t help falling onto her mama’s breasts. Phaedra was left with one perfect breast, the other was deformed and burned. Selfishly, Thair wondered: who was more traumatized? She or her mother? Surely her mother; she would be the one who would have to see herself every day in the mirror for the rest of her life. But she wasn’t sure. Phaedra was so tough. Thair, so weak.
Phaedra continued to sit on the floor, lifting the photos, one at a time. Thair wanted to tell her mother that it was time to go, but the words would not escape her lips. Time was precious, and Phaedra seemed so taken in the moment.
Thair and her mom sat on the ground, opening album after album, talking, pointing, laughing, then giggling when they saw the picture of Thair with a horrible big pink bow on her head. Finally, after about an hour, Thair said, “Mom, I think we missed your appointment.”
A dull, “Yes,” was the response. “I’m sorry, baby, I just didn’t have it in me today. Sorry for bringing you all the way here.”
“Are you okay?” Thair said tenderly, putting her hand on her mom’s thigh while still sitting on the floor.
A tear sprang in Phaedra’s eye. It was the first sign of vulnerability that Thair had seen since Dr. Chung had first mentioned the cancer.
“Um … yes, I guess I am.”
Thair took her mother’s shoulders and wrapped her arms around them, so Phaedra could not see Thair’s tears streaming down her face.
This time it was Thair’s turn to say, “Mama, it will be okay. You’ll see.”
“Yeah, it will be okay.” Her mother repeated. Then Phaedra hopped up with the agility of a teenage girl and said, “Let’s go out for some ice cream! What do you say? I’m treating!”
Thair smiled through her tears. Her mother was the strongest woman she had ever met.
I reread these pages through wet eyes. I turn off my computer and make myself a jasmine green tea.
17
Pacific Beach, California January 1st, 2002
“Happy New Year!” hundreds of voices yell in unison.
Ravi grabs me close and says, “Happy New Year, Thair,” then a long, passionate kiss follows. Ravi and I have undeniable chemistry; kissing him, making love to him, it doesn’t get much better. His sweet sweat encapsulates his body as we sway amongst the people. For a moment, I feel like I could stay like this forever. Our bodies pressed against each other, Ravi’s arms wrapped around my waist.
Accidentally, a twenty-something drunk girl in a yellow, rudely short mini-skirt bumps into us. “Ooops, sooorry.” My hackles rise and Ravi smiles, not one aggressive bone in his body. He then twirls me around on the dance floor and gives me one more kiss.
“Let’s go back to Emily and her date.” He says this, but he is already walking me off the dance floor, pulling me through the throng of people.
The Violent Femme’s “Blister in the Sun” blasts out of the speaker beside us. “Ravi, let’s dance this one, please! I love this song.”
“Aww, come on, Thair, let’s sit this one out.”
“Okay.” I sho
w my disappointment with lips turned upward, but he still tugs me away.
“Hey, you two,” I say when we reach the corner table with bar stools where Emily sits with Mark, an ex-convict who now works in social services. I can’t stop staring at the Roman numerals tattooed on his four fingers.
“Hey, Mark, can I ask you, what do those numbers signify?” Ravi looks at me sideways as if I shouldn’t have asked.
Mark stares directly at me, “It was the number of my jail cell: 1251.”
Emily gives me a dirty look while Ravi changes the subject, “Thair, do you want another Guinness?”
“That’s interesting, Mark,” I say, ignoring Ravi, all my energy focused on this strange man. As an English teacher, I can’t help but notice symbols—especially permanent markings on one’s body—and analyze their greater significance, but I really just want to know more about this former delinquent who is my best friend’s date, so I continue: “Is it sort of a reminder of where you never want to be again?”
Feeling a bit tipsy, I am saying what’s on my mind without really thinking. Ravi and Emily stare me down. Mark notices that our dates are not happy but relieves the tension when he replies in a jocular way, “Actually, Thair, I was stone cold drunk when I got it, so I have no idea of the significance.”
We all laugh though I’m not sure why. I have been put in my place, but then he continues, surprisingly more serious. “To be honest, I did do it without thinking, but I am sure deep down it was something like what you said. Those five years were the worst and, oddly enough, the best of my life. I know without my incarceration, I wouldn’t be here today, be the man that I am today. And with all you lovely folk to boot. So, yes, it does serve as a reminder of where I was. Where I will never go again.”
My eyes are glued on this interesting man, an ex-con who uses diction such as lovely folk and to boot, a man whose chiseled biceps could certainly do some damage to my waifish Indian boyfriend.
“And, by the way, thanks for asking. A lot of people skirt the issue that I was in jail, and, actually, I am proud to talk about it. Not too many people make a complete turn and, though I have some regrets, I have learned to accept and appreciate my journey because the destination has been sweet.” He looks over warmly at Emily; she seems so happy.
The Greek Persuasion Page 11