The Gold Letter

by Lena Manta

  “The trouble is, I fear another period of mourning is about to begin.”

  The girl’s fears were confirmed a few days later. Her grandmother breathed her last in Smaragda’s arms. But before dying, for the first time after her husband’s death, she was completely lucid. She smiled at Smaragda, she stroked her hair, she thanked her for all her care and love, and she gave her her blessing. Then the body ceased while her soul flew to meet the man she loved so much. Before the official days of mourning for the doctor were up, people gathered again at the house to bid farewell to his wife.

  Still more grief descended on the household, and this time, Smaragda had to turn all her attention to her husband, who couldn’t bear losing both his parents within a month. And as time passed, the love between the two young people grew stronger. They invented all sorts of ways to spend even a little time together, and between kisses and burning caresses, they exchanged vows of love and dreams of a beautiful life. They deliberately avoided discussing their fears about their families’ objections in an effort to exorcise the trouble that, inside themselves, they knew they couldn’t avoid. Those fears were confirmed two months after the death of Chrysafenia’s grandmother. Smaragda had begun to return to her usual routines, and the first thing she wanted to do was to speak to her daughter. She hadn’t forgotten her mother’s words for a moment, and she decided it was time to straighten things out.

  What she didn’t expect was the discovery she made when her daughter was at school. While cleaning the floor one day, she found a small pearl button. She recognized it from one of Chrysafenia’s dresses, so she went to her daughter’s room to find the dress and sew it back on. As she was looking, it fell out of her fingers onto the bottom of the wardrobe. Looking for it irritably, her hands found a velvet box. She pulled it out, and the blood drained from her face when she saw, on the dark cloth, the familiar name: Kouyoumdzis. Trembling, she opened it. On a bed of white silk, she found a thin gold chain from which hung a small gold envelope. On the back there was a tiny diamond. In surprise, she saw that the envelope opened, like a real one, and out of it fell a gold sheet with one phrase on it: I love you.

  The woman began to tremble. Her legs wouldn’t support her anymore, and she sat on her daughter’s bed with the necklace in her hands, staring at it as if hypnotized. Suddenly, she had the desire to bang her head against the wall, to cry out, to smash the letter to pieces, to curse fate for playing this dirty trick on her. Instead, she took a deep breath and put the necklace back in its box, but did not put the box back in its place. She staggered out of her daughter’s room.

  So, it was true. Her blood froze at the idea that things might have progressed a long way. Might even have gotten out of hand. She sat in her armchair, and that was where her daughter found her when she came home from school. She was shocked—her mother never sat down at such a time—but any expression of surprise died in her throat. The velvet box in Smaragda’s lap looked like a bloodstain. Numbly, Chrysafenia approached.

  “And now tell me, am I mistaken?” Smaragda asked in a low voice. A threat floated in the air.

  “No. I won’t lie to you,” the girl answered.

  “Vassilis gave you this.”

  Chrysafenia nodded, then knelt in front of her mother.

  “Mama, please, I want you to understand me. I love him, and he loves me too!” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “He says he’ll marry me, but with so much mourning, how could he come to ask for my hand?”

  Smaragda felt the room spin at the words she heard from her daughter’s mouth. Something dragged her violently into her youth, when she’d thought Simeon would be hers forever. The nervous laugh that rose to her lips was interrupted by Chrysafenia, who continued her passionate speech.

  “Vassilis is a good boy, Mother—you know he is. He’s been coming here for so many years—you know his character!”

  “And this character,” Smaragda interrupted her angrily, “didn’t hesitate to betray us, did he? Under our noses, betraying our trust and his friendship with your brother. And tell me, since we’re speaking plainly, how far did this good boy’s hand go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Daughter, I think you understand very well. I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “If you mean what I think you do—” The girl swallowed drily. “Nothing bad has happened.”

  “Enough! And your meetings? Where did they take place?”

  “What do you want me to tell you, Mother?”

  “Tell me the truth! You never leave the house by yourself, and when he’s here, your brother is too.”

  “Um—he used to come secretly at night. We sat in the entranceway, Mama. We didn’t do anything bad, I swear to you! We just talked and—oh dear! Do we have to talk about this?”

  “So, have we reached that point?” Smaragda said, horrified. “Upstairs, your parents were going through agony with Grandpa’s death, and I was lying beside your dying grandmother, and you—how could you do this to us? Weren’t you ashamed?”

  “Have you ever been in love, Mama?”

  The simple question stabbed Smaragda in the chest. She looked at her daughter. It wasn’t the time for revelations. She preferred to attack.

  “How dare you! I expected you to learn what love is,” she shot back, “instead of telling me such shameless things. And if he was someone else, perhaps I’d say you’re young, both of you, but since you love each other . . . But child, you know very well that we can never consent for you to marry a Kouyoumdzis!”

  “But what have they done to you? Was it so terrible?” the girl objected, standing up from her position at her mother’s feet.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “But it is, Mother! I love Vassilis, and he loves me. That’s all there is to it. And he’ll marry me!”

  “He won’t marry you, my child. And even if we gave our consent, he wouldn’t marry you!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a Kouyoumdzis. He says one thing and does another. Listen to me! His mother won’t let him. I promise you that!”

  “And I promise you she won’t stop us. Neither she nor his father. And that gold letter you’re holding, it’s to remind me forever of how much he loves me. Vassilis has made up his mind to fight his family for our love, and he’ll do it!”

  Smaragda wasn’t angry now. Her eyes filled with sadness. She understood her daughter, who was in love and so like her. But she was certain of the result. Then, the problem had been Simeon’s father, who wouldn’t allow his son to marry a girl from a lower class; now it was Roza, who would never permit her son to marry the daughter of the woman her husband had once loved. She stood up and approached her weeping daughter.

  “I’m sorry that I’ve made you cry, but with that man you’ve gotten mixed up with, it’s unavoidable.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Let’s say an inner voice tells me. In any case, I’ll give you a chance.”

  “What chance?”

  “I won’t say a word to your father, because if I do, you should know there’ll be real trouble. And I won’t tell Nestor that his friend betrayed him. But Vassilis may not come here ever again except on the day he comes to ask for your hand—together with his parents. Don’t you dare be foolish enough to meet again in secret, or I’ll break the promise I’m making you now. Send him a message that the lies are over and he must talk to his parents.”

  CHAPTER 8

  KOUYOUMDZIS FAMILY

  Constantinople, 1947

  Before he closed his store to finally go home, Simeon Kouyoumdzis carefully examined the work his son had done and was satisfied. Despite the fact that the boy had been absentminded lately, his experienced eye discerned that Vassilis had even more talent than he as a goldsmith. It was obvious that he loved the precious metal very much. When he was quite young, still a schoolboy, he had watched his father and grandfather work, and tried to learn as much as he could. They could have sent him abroad to s
tudy, but were delighted that Vassilis wanted to stay and continue the family tradition. He had devoted himself with great enthusiasm to learning all the secrets of the trade.

  They had a very important order to deliver in a few days. The Tsalikoglu family were celebrating their son’s engagement, and they wanted all the pieces to be unique and worthy of a princess, seeing as the bride was from one of the most important families in Constantinople.

  Simeon examined all the precious stones his son had set in the bride’s ring and sighed with satisfaction.

  “Bravo, my son!” he said to him.

  He looked around at the place where he spent most of his day. Although he had put the key in the door a little before eight that morning, and now the clock showed eight again, he didn’t feel ready to return home. His aging father still came every day, and his hands were still steady, but he tired easily and his back ached, so he left much earlier. They all lived together in the large, two-story house that had filled with children’s voices over the twenty years of his marriage. In addition to Vassilis, they had two other children: Penelope and Aristos, who was finishing school and wanted to study to be a teacher.

  He sat at the desk in the back of the store. It used to be in his room, but after his wedding, they had moved it to the store. It was rare for Simeon to sit there. Usually, Vassilis used it to write invoices and make designs. Simeon lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. From where he sat, he could see the whole place. Up front were the shop windows and display cases filled with gleaming jewels, and further back beat the heart of the workshop. When he took over the business, he had added a door so as to close off the workshop when he wished. The store was at the very center of Pera, and after his renovation, it was the most up-to-date in the neighborhood. Next to his children, it was his proudest achievement.

  His thoughts turned to his marriage, and a bitter taste rose to his mouth. He got up to pour himself a brandy and sat back down. He let his mind wander. Sometimes, when he saw his son, who was so like him, he remembered his own youth, and his mouth filled with poison. Simeon knew that if he ruminated on Smaragda, he would lose his courage to go home.

  As it was, every day was more difficult. Roza looked for excuses to quarrel; their arguments had grown nastier with the years—especially since she found out that their son was friends with Nestor. There were times when it was hard to stop himself from grabbing her by the throat to make her shut up. She could go on for hours, asking questions and answering them herself, shouting, cursing, threatening. In the beginning, Vassilis had tried to explain it to them, but when he got older, he had simply declared that Nestor was his friend, whether they liked it or not. He had to respect his mother’s wish not to invite his friend to the house, but they could not kill a friendship that had deep roots. Every time he went to the Ververis house, Simeon would pay dearly for it. Roza never stopped talking and shouting. Simeon’s own parents held their tongues. They had both grown weary of this unpleasant daughter-in-law, but they didn’t say a word. They simply lowered their eyes when she looked at them. The fault was all theirs; they had no right to complain. Besides, the only thing that father and daughter-in-law agreed on was their disapproval of this friendship.

  Simeon poured himself another brandy. Absentmindedly, he rummaged through the papers lying on the dark surface of the desk. Sketch after sketch. His eye fell on a different type of paper, older, and he felt his hair stand on end. Where had this come from? The memories flooded in, threatening to drown him. This sketch had been made with his own hand, many years ago, for a girl he loved so much that his heart itself had held the pencil when he drew. Except that the necklace had never been made; the gold had melted in the furnace of his father’s will. What was it doing among his son’s sketches? He folded it and put it in his pocket. It was past nine o’clock; he needed to go home. Dinner would be ready, and his family would be gathered around the table. If he was any later, he would have to swallow, together with the food, his wife’s provocations and insults.

  “Did you finally find the door?” Roza asked him as soon as he entered, repeating the beloved phrase with which she greeted him nearly every evening.

  “Good evening to you too!” he answered. The paper in his pocket burned him.

  “That’s all we needed,” she sneered, “your wisecracks! Don’t you see how many people are waiting for dinner? How many times should we heat it up? Who are we that you don’t think of us? And if you don’t think about me, don’t you at least feel sorry for your parents? They want to eat, to take their medicine, to—”

  “Roza, don’t start, please! Can’t you let one evening go by without complaining? Here I am; you can see me. Call the children so we can sit down at the table to eat our food without you poisoning it!”

  She glared at him with half-closed eyes. She wasn’t used to him answering back. Something was different. She pursed her lips unhappily and left to call the family. Simeon loosened his tie a little and went into the dining room. His wife’s pursed lips didn’t mean the fight was over; it was only delayed. She always pursed them, and now they were ringed by small wrinkles. When he married her, she was almost beautiful, but now the poverty of her spirit had made her ugly.

  They all sat down and the meal began, the silence broken only by the children’s conversations, mainly Aristos’s and Penelope’s, because Vassilis was silent and thoughtful, hardly touching his food. Simeon tactfully watched him, and as he began to put things together in his head, he realized that his eldest son was in love. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. He wondered who it was.

  “Do you see something funny?” his wife said, bringing him back to reality.

  “I was thinking,” he said and bent over his plate.

  “Why don’t you tell us so we can all laugh?” she provoked him.

  “Do you, of all people, remember how to laugh?” he asked, and all of them turned to look at him in surprise.

  That piece of paper in his pocket had filled him with a strength he hadn’t felt for years. It reminded him of the impulsiveness of his youth.

  “Did you say such a thing to me?” Roza shrieked. “And in front of the children? How will they respect me, how will they listen to me, when their own father speaks to me like some servant. No wonder your son does whatever he wants. Why don’t you ask him what time he came home today? A quarter of an hour before you! And where was he? At the other people’s house. Whether I speak or shout, you do nothing about it! And you sit there smiling instead of paying attention to your precious son!”

  “Aren’t you tired of always saying the same thing, Mother, for all these years?” said Vassilis, drawing the fire to himself. “Nestor and I aren’t going to give up our friendship over something that happened between you. It’s not our business, as you told me. So, now the hour has come to tell you that it’s not your business what I do with my friend!”

  Roza reacted as if someone had slapped her. She leaned back in her chair, white in the face. The two other siblings lowered their heads, waiting for the storm, which wasn’t long in coming. Roza jumped up with her eyes flashing fire.

  “You dare to speak to your mother like that? Is that what we’ve taught you? But what can I expect given where you choose to spend your time. Who knows what that shrew, your friend’s mother, says to make you behave like that!”

  “Roza!”

  It was Simeon, who was standing now and fixing her with his eyes.

  “Mrs. Ververis is not to blame for anything, and it’s not right for you to slander her like that!”

  Roza pursed her lips again, but help came from an unexpected quarter.

  “Even so, that’s no way for a child to speak to his mother!” the elder Vassilis Kouyoumdzis said in his deep voice, turning angrily to his grandson. “And as long as I live, I won’t permit it!” He thumped his hand on the table. “Ask your mother to forgive you, young man, right this minute!”

  To everyone’s surprise, the boy bent his head and murmured a few words of apolog
y to his mother. Peace reigned until they had finished their meal, at which point they all hastened to get away from one another.

  Vassilis locked himself in his room. Tonight was the big night. In his pocket was the necklace he had made, safe in its velvet box, resting on the white silk lining. He had agreed to go secretly again to her house. He wanted to see her eyes when she opened his gift. He wanted to taste her gratitude—his body was galvanized at the thought. But it would be hours before everyone in both their houses was asleep.

  The front door of her home seemed like the gates of paradise to him. And how couldn’t it when there was an angel waiting on the doorstep inside. He rushed into the semidarkness and sat, as usual, on the marble staircase, while the small candle that she always carried stood guard, casting its glow on faces that burned with love. He took her in his arms, and her kiss was the breath he lacked. He caressed her hair, buried his face in its silk, and smelled her perfume. He felt her trembling in his arms as his kisses and caresses became more daring. She pulled back, blushing, her thick eyelashes shading her eyes. He pulled himself together with difficulty. It was time . . .

  “For me?” she asked, and her voice was a whisper full of ecstasy as she saw the beautiful locket.

  “For you, my darling,” he answered, a lump in his throat.

  He showed her how to open the tiny envelope so that the letter fell into her hand.

  “Gold of my life,” he said to her as he helped her put it on. “This way you’ll know every moment that my soul is in this gold letter. For me, this is our engagement. From now on, I’ll think of you as my wife.”

  The girl leaned toward him, carried away, delighting in his stolen kisses. She couldn’t let him stay long. She was afraid. And he knew it. But he also knew that dawn would find him still full of thoughts of her, and once again he would ache from her absence.

  He had no time to feel anything that night. With a thousand precautions, he returned to the house and plunged into his room, his mouth still holding the memory of her kisses. He wanted to lie down and let his mind advance to when she would be all his, when her body would belong to him forever. He closed his door, switched on the light, and turned to find his father looking at him grimly. He staggered back from the shock. His father stood up and approached him.