The Gold Letter

by Lena Manta

  “Hush now, so I can read it!” Smaragda ordered as she opened the envelope with trembling hands.

  “Read it, but after that, he said you might want to answer him.”

  After a few tense moments, Smaragda looked up with shining eyes. “Simeon says for me to thank you very much for undertaking this mission and bringing me the letter.”

  “He wrote that? If your mother reads it and kills me, and my mother too, he can keep his thanks! Lunatics, both of you.”

  But Smaragda wasn’t listening. Her eyes ran over the words, and her spirit sang with delight as she read everything she longed for. Her heart couldn’t hold so much happiness. She read the letter twice and then pressed it passionately to her breast, as if it were the boy himself. She kissed it a dozen times and whirled around happily. Her friend shook her head.

  “Goodness me! What people suffer for love!” she teased, but affection showed in her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what the gallant fellow writes?”

  “He loves me, Evanthia,” the girl exclaimed.

  “Hush, silly! Do you want us to get caught? Your mother will hear!”

  Evanthia went to the closed door, listened carefully, then opened it to see if there was anyone outside. She closed it again more calmly.

  “We got lucky,” she observed, but Smaragda’s mind was elsewhere.

  She was seated, already writing her answer with a firm hand and a heart filled with happiness. Evanthia tried to say something, but wasn’t permitted.

  “Hush, Evanthia, I’m writing. Sit and wait till I finish.”

  Obediently, the girl sat on the bed and crossed her arms, waiting for her friend to complete her love letter. Smaragda sealed it in an envelope and handed it over.

  “How will you give it to him without anyone knowing?” she asked Evanthia.

  “He told me to go to the church and leave it under the icon of the Virgin. Did you ever hear anything so shameful?”

  “But you’ll do it, won’t you?” Smaragda asked in agony, squeezing her hand tightly and looking imploringly at her friend.

  “I guess I have to. But it’s all your fault if something happens and they find out!”

  But nobody found out because nobody suspected calm, courteous Smaragda, nor cautious Evanthia. Every day, Simeon kept an eye on the two houses, and he grabbed the letter mere seconds after the girl left it under the icon, trembling and asking forgiveness a thousand times from the Virgin. In the half-light of church candles, he read it, his hands shaking in anticipation.

  Dear Simeon,

  I did not dare to hope for so long.

  You were in my dreams and my prayers, and at night I asked for comfort as I longed for what your eyes had shown me to be true. And you were not dreaming. What you read in my eyes was true. I feel as you do.

  And your heart, which you offer me, I hold beside my own. They will beat together from now on. But you know, just as I do, that it will be difficult for this love to have a happy ending. I’m not, my dear, the bride your parents would wish for you. Neither my name nor my dowry is a match for your name and position. But the heart has its own currency, my dear, and its own place, and I feel happy at this moment because you love me as much as I love you. As to all the rest, we must place our hopes in God.

  With my love,

  Smaragda

  Simeon brought the letter to his lips, as Smaragda had done with his, and he had the feeling he was holding her hands in his. The sheet of paper had touched her, she had bent over it, it held her breath still. He buried it deep in his pocket, next to his heart, and left. He was unprepared for Evanthia’s return; she hurried into the church, and they nearly bumped into each other.

  “I’m very sorry,” Simeon blurted out.

  “Pardon,” Evanthia said at the same time.

  “Did you come back to see me?”

  “Yes, with my heart in my throat, but I had an idea. Smaragda doesn’t know anything about what I’m telling you, but I really want to help you two. My friend loves you, Mr. Kouyoumdzis, and I hope your feelings for her are serious.”

  “I give you my word, Miss Evanthia!” he reassured her warmly. “I love Smaragda with all the strength of my heart.”

  “Next Wednesday my mother and hers will be away in the afternoon at a ladies’ gathering. I’ll be alone, and no one will think anything of it if my friend comes over to keep me company.”

  Hope shone in his eyes. “Are you inviting me?”

  “But you have to be very careful. Nobody must see you coming into the house, or we’re done for!”

  “I swear to you,” Simeon declared. “I have no words to express my thanks.”

  They separated, and Simeon nearly danced in the street on his way home. Just before she left, Evanthia had assured him that, the next day, she would return to receive his reply.

  The second letter from Simeon arrived in the same way as the first, but when Smaragda finished reading it, the girl looked at her friend wide-eyed with surprise.

  “It says here that we’re going to meet at your house!”

  “Speak softer, Smaragda,” Evanthia begged her. “Don’t you know the walls have ears? And yes, it’s true. I told him that our mothers will be away on Wednesday, and he can come to my house so you can speak in person.”

  “How could you be so daring?”

  “Don’t remind me, because I’ll regret it. I invited him, and that’s the end of it!”

  “And what if someone sees him coming in? What will we say?”

  “Are you stupid? We won’t have a chance to say anything, because our parents will have hanged us by the neck! So whatever prayers you know, you’d better say them. But I can’t bear to see you so upset, and from what I understand, he loves you. Anyway, what harm are we doing? It’s not like your sister or our teacher. He’s a Greek, and he wants you—I’m just acting as a matchmaker!”

  That Wednesday, Smaragda was surprised that her mother didn’t notice a thing. She felt as if she had a fever, her cheeks were burning, and it was hard to breathe. When Kleoniki was ready, she took her daughter over to Evanthia’s house, where Mrs. Marigo and Paraskevi were waiting to accompany Kleoniki to Mrs. Alexoudis’s party. There were detailed instructions about locking the door, not opening it to anyone, and behaving themselves before the two girls finally found themselves alone. They looked at each other guiltily, but before they could catch their breath, there was a knock at the door, and Evanthia raced to open it in case someone saw their visitor. Simeon entered hurriedly and closed it behind him.

  “They only just left, Mr. Kouyoumdzis,” she scolded him. “What if my mother or grandmother forgot something and they come back? We’re finished!”

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait any longer. For two hours I’ve been hiding across the street,” he apologized, blushing.

  With an understanding smile, Evanthia led him into the main room, where Smaragda stood waiting, obviously very moved. Evanthia muttered something about going to make them coffee, but the two lovers heard nothing. They had already been transported to their own world. Simeon approached slowly and took Smaragda’s frozen hands in his. He dared to kiss them, and when he raised his head, he saw her eyes full of tears. They sat down beside each other without him relinquishing her hands. He felt a knot of happiness closing his throat.

  “I think I’m dreaming,” he told her softly.

  “Me too . . .”

  “Bless Miss Evanthia.”

  Smaragda nodded.

  The hour she spent sitting beside him was a dream that had become reality, but she still didn’t believe it. Whatever beautiful and tender things she heard from his lips she knew would never leave her heart or her mind. When he bent closer, she allowed him to kiss her, and that was the moment when she thought she would die of delight. She wasn’t ashamed that she had pressed him to her; everything seemed completely right. They separated before the two hours were up, unwilling to take any risk, and he got up to leave, promising that he would write very soon. Even th
ough Evanthia had returned, he dared to hug Smaragda tightly again, making her friend blush and lower her eyes to study the pattern on the carpet. Immediately afterward, he regained his composure, said good-bye politely, and left the house, taking every precaution. As soon as she heard the door close behind him, Smaragda’s knees buckled. Her friend was shaking with nerves too.

  “I’m terrified the whole neighborhood knows what happened here this afternoon,” Evanthia confessed, her face white.

  “Me too,” Smaragda agreed.

  “We’d better pull ourselves together before our mothers get back! Let’s splash some water on our faces, and then we’ll eat some sweets to help us recover.”

  Smaragda didn’t object, but the candy she ate seemed tasteless after the far greater sweetness of Simeon’s kiss.

  The next day, they watched their families like hawks for signs of suspicion, but nothing seemed to be amiss. Another letter from Simeon reached Smaragda’s hands without incident, and her eyes were damp with emotion as she read it. She shared her beloved’s words with Evanthia.

  “This surprise he’s preparing, what do you think it is?” her friend asked. “It’ll be made of gold, I bet. He makes jewelry for a living; surely he won’t leave you.”

  “Evanthia, did you get stuck on that? Didn’t you hear the rest? He’ll speak to his father! He’ll ask for his blessing.”

  “Yes, but look what else he said. His father has other ideas about a bride. What’s more, my father, who knows him, has said many times that he’s a difficult, ill-bred man. Don’t get your hopes up, my dear, because a man like that isn’t going to care a whit about any great love.”

  Anxiety and fear filled Smaragda’s heart. And as the days passed without any news of Simeon, she sank into a darkness that deprived her of her very breath. She wandered about the house with no appetite, and her mother soon noticed that the girl was hardly eating, that her clothes swam on her, that her rosy cheeks were dulled and faded, and that she never smiled. However much pressure her mother put on her, the girl wouldn’t say a word and closed herself up in her room. Kleoniki grew very anxious. She was afraid of how her husband would react if she told him what she’d observed about Smaragda. A month later, she turned hopelessly to Mrs. Marigo and confessed her fears.

  “If he’s a good boy, one of ours, why doesn’t she tell me, so we can see what we can do about it?” she said in tears to the woman who had been like a mother to her all these years.

  “Wait a bit, my sweet; it’s not the end of the world,” Mrs. Marigo said comfortingly. “Most likely, Smaragda loves a boy, but he doesn’t want her, and that’s why she’s fading away.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right, Mrs. Marigo, because neither Anargyros nor I could deal with another tragedy like with Makrina.”

  “Give me a little bit of time, and I’ll get a hold of that good-for-nothing granddaughter of mine and pressure her until she tells me what’s going on.”

  Mrs. Marigo did as she said. She and her daughter grilled Evanthia until she cried, but still they didn’t take pity on her. Finally, after hours of alternating threats and pleas, the girl couldn’t bear it and confessed the love between Smaragda and Simeon Kouyoumdzis. The two women almost shouted for joy because the boy was at least Greek. Afterward, though, Mrs. Marigo grew somber. She remembered something her husband had told her. At the time, she hadn’t paid much attention, but now her position was very difficult. How could she be the bearer of such bad news to the lovesick girl wasting away next door?

  CHAPTER 3

  KOUYOUMDZIS FAMILY

  Constantinople, 1926

  Simeon Kouyoumdzis returned home after the enchanting afternoon he had spent with his beloved and shut himself happily in his room. The next day, he threw himself into crafting a piece of jewelry for his Smaragda. He didn’t want something ordinary, something any other woman would have. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t hear his mother calling him to eat lunch. Penelope Kouyoumdzis had to send a servant to fetch him, and he came downstairs, ashamed of his absentmindedness. But the whole time they were eating, his mind kept returning to the complex design for his beloved.

  “Young man, you seem a bit distracted today,” his father observed.

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Did you catch a cold?” his mother asked anxiously and hurried to feel his forehead.

  “I’m fine, Mother,” he answered irritably. “I’m just not hungry.”

  “And what’s wrong that’s made you lose your appetite, my son?” his father insisted. “Did your ships sink in a storm, or is there something else the matter?”

  Simeon never admitted it, but he was as afraid of his father as everyone else was. The man’s word was law, and though he was not violent, his icy stare was enough to make anyone feel threatened. Even at twenty-six years of age, Simeon had never dared to talk back. Vassilis Kouyoumdzis had a particular way of imposing his will on others.

  Simeon looked down and began drawing designs with his fork, unwilling to continue the conversation. He wasn’t ready for an open conflict with this father, a conflict he couldn’t see any way of avoiding when he declared his love for Smaragda.

  “I’ll let it go for now,” Vassilis said, the satisfaction in his voice obvious, “considering that I’m bringing you such good news.”

  “Me?” the young man asked in surprise.

  “This evening, we’ll have the pleasure of receiving the Karakontaxis family.”

  “And that has something to do with me?”

  “It seems, Simeon, that you don’t listen when I speak!” his father upbraided him. “Didn’t I tell you some time ago that the daughter of my friend Aristarhos Karakontaxis would be a suitable bride for you? They’re coming for a small party so that you two can get to know each other.”

  Simeon was thunderstruck. He stared at his father for several long moments.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered as soon as he could speak, “but didn’t another family come last week that also had a daughter? The tall one with the big nose?”

  “And you said you didn’t like her,” his father replied. “Even though, in my opinion, it shouldn’t be the big nose you should be examining, but the enormous dowry.”

  “Yes, but I must like the bride, mustn’t I?”

  Vassilis turned to his wife. “Penelope, leave us!”

  The woman didn’t even think of objecting, though she had hardly touched her food. Vassilis lit a cigarette and looked carefully at his son before he spoke.

  “I think I failed to teach you some things and left that work to your mother, who isn’t qualified for it.”

  “What sorts of things, Father? If I don’t like the bride, if I can’t love her—”

  “Why are you mixing up love with marriage? A man, Simeon, has a responsibility to examine other questions.”

  “Of morality, for example?”

  “That, but also the dowry. We have a position in the city. A name and a solid fortune. We can’t allow those things to become a target for every conniving female!”

  “Yes, Father, but if I don’t like the woman—”

  “Now you’re talking like a schoolboy. We’re men; do you understand? When the lights are out, all cats are gray! You’ll marry, have two or three children with your wife, and afterward, do what you like. Who’s going to stop you?”

  “Is that what you do, Father?” Simeon dared to ask.

  “This is not about me.”

  Simeon suppressed the ironic smile that rose to his lips. His father was already looking at him quizzically.

  “Son, are you, by chance, in love with someone? Is that what this is all about?”

  “No, Father!” his son hastened to reassure him.

  “That’s all we need—lovesickness! Anyway, you’ll like Aristarhos’s daughter. And when I tell you what sort of dowry her father’s offering, you’ll like her even more!”

  “Do you mean she’s ugly too?” asked Simeon without enthusiasm.

  �
��Not all that again! What did I tell you? What does beauty matter? Simeon, get your head on straight . . . unless you love someone else, and that’s soured all the rest.”

  “No, Father,” Simeon repeated and was silent.

  For a second time, he heard a bell strike in his head. He felt like a betrayer, like the apostle Peter. Before the rooster crows, you will deny Me three times . . .

  “Good, then. Tonight my friend’s family will come, and you’ll study the candidate carefully. Afterward, we’ll talk again and make a decision. Enough!”

  Later, to calm down, Simeon immersed himself again in the design of the locket for his beloved. Far from the influence of his father, protected from his overwhelming presence and icy gaze, Simeon felt his conviction and his dreams of a life with his beloved return. Let his father’s friends come. He had given away his heart already.

  Miss Roza Karakontaxis didn’t have a big nose and wasn’t ugly, Simeon had to admit. She was pleasant, delicately built, and quiet, as befitted a girl from a good family. Dressed in the latest fashion, her hair set in chic waves, she sat so still that he knew she wasn’t a doll only by watching her thin fingers playing with the pearls that hung from her neck. She glanced secretly at him, Simeon observed, and the enthusiastic looks that were exchanged between their parents did not escape him. The Karakontaxis family were not the only guests, but his mother had been careful not to invite another family with a marriageable daughter so that there would be no anxiety.

  Despite the fact that Vassilis Kouyoumdzis wanted to speak immediately to his son and find out his impressions, his wife persuaded him not to rush the boy. She also took care to see that, in the following days, Roza and Simeon would meet again at a party. In fact, there was a gramophone at the house where they were invited, and all the young people danced, avoiding the modern fox-trot and choosing simple waltzes so as not to shock their parents.

  Simeon’s mother discreetly approached her son and said in a low voice, “Simeon, your father says you must ask Miss Karakontaxis to dance.”