Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (17 page)

“Wait, but . . . what about other times?” I ask incredulously. “The bus only runs twice a day?” Town is not exactly within walking distance.

“No, of course not only twice a day, only twice a day outside our
house.
Now, if you want it at other times, you walk over to the airport or the other stop down by the market—remember where that moron was sitting instead of going at the little tunnel?—and you take the number 1 bus. That will drop you at the McDonald's, right past it, and then you catch a number 5 to Rethymnon, or you can stay on it—the number 1—and go to the hotel in the middle of town.”

“What's Rethymnon?”

“It's another town, a very big one by the coast, you should go and walk around, have a coffee, look at everything . . .”

“Oh. But it's a different town? Not the number 1 bus to get to Heraklion?”

Theseus heaves an enormous sigh.
Oh, dear.
“No, Zona, honey, you are not listening. Okay, the number 7 bus—this is so simple!—you take that from our house at seven thirty
A.M.
, yes?
Or
if you miss that, you take the number 1 to the McDonald's, just past it, and
there
you walk a few blocks and that is where the other buses are, to go to Rethymnon, Chania, wherever you want to go. Melina, you tell her.”

Melina sighs, exactly like her dad. “I am not getting involved with this—Baba, you're confusing her.” She leans over my shoulder. “He's making it confusing. I'll explain it later.”

“I am confusing?” Theseus roars. “Who told
you
how to go, I'd like to know?
I am confusing,
my own daughter says to me.”

“My mother told me,” Melina whispers in my ear. I giggle.

“Girls, why is this so hard for you? Zona, you just told me you take the train everywhere. So, this is a bus. Same thing.”

“But . . . Is there a map I could maybe—”

“A map?!” he scoffs. “Listen, listen, you don't need a map, right? I just told you how to do it!” Theseus slows the car as we approach a big square building. He rubs a hand over his eyes like we've exhausted him.

Melina groans. “Can we get lunch, Baba,
please
?”

Theseus makes a sharp turn, almost taking out a stray dog and what's left of my sanity. “For you, my heart, we can do anything. So, now to Heraklion!”

The town of Heraklion is different from the green country village I had expected. The air smells like the sea, there's a fine layer of sand spread along the gutters, and people stroll instead of rushing to get where they're going. Beachy—like a permanent vacation.

We park the car near the big marina, where lots of massive ships are docked; Melina explains that some are ferries like the one Yiota and I took to get here, and some are day boats that take tourists to various islands. I can't believe I've been in Greece for over three months and still haven't seen one of the famously gorgeous beaches.

I ask Melina which is her favorite, and she lists a few she's been to. “But they're all beautiful, you know? Different sand, maybe, but the clear water and the sun . . . it's a beach! The beaches here are nice, too, right near our house!”

I make a note to ask how to get there—if I can't visit Santorini or Mykonos, I can definitely go somewhere local, right? Pretty sure a big part of celebrating Easter is having a nice, even tan. I definitely read that somewhere.

We keep walking. There are about a million cobbled streets that fork off the main road, and down each one is a café or bar with people sitting and reading or smoking or having coffee and playing cards, just chatting and enjoying their time together. Melina tells me they sit there all day long, and maybe never even order anything. I tell her that we do that in Athens, too, but it would
never
fly in Manhattan.

She laughs. “In New York you take things too seriously. In Crete we just live.”

Thios
Theseus stops to talk to every single person we pass and point out every crack in the sidewalk, just like on the drive here. On the main street—the high road—there are mostly typical stores, just like in Athens (when we pass the Starbucks, Theseus lets out a grunt and Melina whispers to me, “He
hates
the Starbucks. Don't even
ask
to go in.”), and also little gift boutiques and clothing stores. Everything inside is perfectly nice, but looks slightly out of date. It's like the styles here are five or six years back from NYC, or even Athens.

There are also quite a few empty storefronts, or shops with metal gates pulled down over them, covered with graffiti.

“Is it because of the economy?” I ask.

“On Crete we aren't affected so much as in Athens, really,” Melina says. “We make so many things, you know, and don't rely so much on this kind of, em . . . commerce? But—you know, some businesses just close, I guess.”

“Well, that's good. For the people on Crete, I mean. Not so good for the people in Athens.”

At this point,
Thios
Theseus has stopped to talk to yet another person he is apparently best friends with. I'm starting to wonder if he's the unofficial mayor of this place.

“It isn't so bad anymore, at least here,” Melina continues. “People are learning how to live this way. Greeks are very strong people. Don't worry.” She smiles. A few yards away, Theseus is jogging back up the street to rejoin us. “I dare you should ask my father to go into Ben & Jerry's.”

“Ha! Yeah, right,” I say.

“Girls! What are you whispering about? I can't trust you for a minute.” Theseus smiles, joining us and kissing Melina on the top of her head. Seeing them together makes me wish my dad could be here, too. He'd love exploring this new place with me.

“I'm telling Zona about the Greek economy,” Melina says. “Maybe her father will want to interview me for his book, yes? Me and not you?” Melina teases him. Theseus doesn't respond, but at the mention of Dad, a darkness passes over his usually sunny expression. It bothers me.

“Yes, you'll have to meet him. He's amazing,” I say. “He's won two Pulitzers.” Ugh, now I'm bragging about his awards—Dad would hate that. But I can't help it. Why don't they want to get to know him, to just try?

There's a chilly silence as we go around a corner.

“Ah, Zona,
this
is an important place. It is the 25th of August Street Promenade, which is a long story, and here is Lion Square, which has a very famous fountain. But no one can ever tell how many lions there are—six? Four? What is the answer, do you know?” Theseus is back to his usual self, but Melina reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly. I let the uncomfortable moment slip away.

“Uh, how many?” I ask, squeezing back.

“Five! There are five!” Theseus crows delightedly. “But for some reason, Zona, no one can ever remember this. Ask anyone you see on the street and you'll see—it's a mystery. And tomorrow night, we will come back near here for a Happening. You will love it. Everyone comes—old, young, babies, even cynical teenagers like you two, yes?”

I decide not to risk asking what a Happening is—what if it's even more confusing than the bus system? Better to wait and see.

The next morning Yiota's mother,
Thia
Angela, invites me to go with her to the market, and I gratefully accept. In the beautiful white light of the morning, a quiet trip for two seems like a perfect idea.

Last night all the cousins crowded into the main house again for another giant feast of Lent-approved foods, and while I'm getting more used to being surrounded by relatives, it's still overwhelming. Plus, I'm always very much aware of the coldness from
Thios
Labis and some of the other older relatives. It's nothing they do or say; it's just that they don't really interact with me much at all. Even
Thios
Theseus changes the subject every time my parents come up.

It was a really fun night, though—don't get me wrong. Theseus played and sang some of his favorite Elvis songs, and each of the little cousins recited a poem or sang or performed something. It was really sweet. Before I knew it, it was three
A.M.
I don't know how they do this every night. I, for one, am exhausted.

•  •  •

As we drive down to the market, I tentatively ask Angela about the bus system, in case I actually want to try using it.

She laughs. “Oh, no—was Theseus explaining to you? You'll go one time and be fine. He just likes to make everything complicated. It's one bus, or take a bike. You know there are beautiful beaches right here, yes? Come, I'll show you on the way, then you'll know how to get there. And of course Yiota or Melina will go with you.” She turns the car at a small fork in the road.

“So, you just go straight here, then around this bend—it's all flat, really, once you get down this far, if you are biking—and then turn in here where it says ‘Public Beach,' you see?” There is a second sign made of old driftwood that says
bikini plaz
. That makes me think of SpongeBob SquarePants, which makes me laugh.

“It's funny, the sign? Well, it's old, you know. Like Greece!” Angela smiles at me.

“No, I was just . . . Never mind. Do you guys come down here a lot?”

“Oh, yes!” She stops the car in a small lot and we get out. She leads me down a little path that goes through a sort of tunnel and then opens up again at the beach.

It's my first real glimpse of the beach in Greece, and oh my God, is it incredible. The sand looks like beigey-pink powder (unlike coarse yellow Coney Island sand, which scratches your feet to pieces). The water is an opal: blue and green and white and constantly changing. I catch my breath.

“I know, can you believe how beautiful? I look at it my whole life and I still cannot believe.” Angela sighs. We are leaning up against a wooden beam on the deck overlooking the sand. The only people in the water are a gorgeously tan woman and a naked toddler who is squealing with excitement as her mother dips her over and over.

I wonder if my mother would have taken me here.

“I love this beach,” Angela muses. “It's nice and quiet, and the water is warm and, you know, so clear and blue. Sometimes I come at seven and spend the whole day. For only two euros, you can have a chair and stay all day if you want. I take my nap here, read . . . I used to bring my children when they were little. Now Yiota likes the busier beach, or she goes to Santorini with her friends, but I like this one.”

“Where are your other kids?” I ask.

Angela looks wistful. “Well, my oldest, my daughter Christiana, she lives in France with her husband and their children. They visit sometimes, but they are too far away to me. And my sons, Vasilis and Kostas, they are living in Athens. Vasilis, he will come with his wife for Easter—their children, they are here, you met them—but Kostas is very busy, so you maybe will not meet. They are all much older than Yiota, you know? Yiota was our . . . I don't know in English how to say. She was . . . a surprise.” Angela laughs, but then cuts herself off. “Zona, I know your
thios
Labis has been a bit . . . cold to you.”

He hasn't spoken a word to me since I got here, actually,
I think.

Of course I say, “No,
Thia
Angela, I—”

“
Éla,
Zona, I am not blind. But I also know more of this story than you do. You understand, I was already married to your
thios
then, I knew Hélenè since she was a little girl. She was like Yiota, a surprise for your grandparents. Yes?”

“Okay,” I say cautiously. This seems like big secret sharing time, and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. But she goes on.

“Labis, he is the oldest, fourteen years older than your mother. And your
pappous,
your grandfather, he was . . . not a very
warm
person, you understand? Not a bad man, but very strict, and Hélenè was the only daughter, and she was very, em . . . very spirited and curious. Always teasing her brothers, always making new friends and wanting to explore everywhere.”

I try to picture my mother as a little girl, running around this place, in the fields and on the beach. It's too hard.

“When she gets older he is more strict with her, but she wants to go out, have fun. Your
thios
Labis was her trusted friend, almost another father to her, yes? She confided in him. He thought his father was
too
strict. We used to help her sneak out sometimes, or stay with us in our little place so she could meet her friends. Yiota was a baby then—Hélenè would help us with her, though I don't think Yiota remembers. So we said . . . Well, we wanted her to be happy, she was so beautiful and so much . . . energy, so much love of life—”

“So,” I interject, “when she ran away with the horrible American,
Thios
Labis blamed himself, right? He thought if he had listened to his father, none of it would've happened. So now he can't forgive himself or my father or me?” I've seen this movie.
Come on, life. You can do better than that.

“Well, sort of this way,” Angela says. “But more like he cannot forgive
her.
Because he thought what she loved so much was Greece and her life here. It never crossed his mind that she would leave, not ever. And when she met your father, who was much older—older even than Labis!—and so obviously in love with her. You know, she had many admirers, many boyfriends; she teased them all and it was a game—not a mean game, but the way a teenager is. Labis thought . . . and when she left, when he realized she was serious, he was so hurt. Like he had failed her, as a brother, as a father. As a friend, as a Cretan. I am not explaining well, I'm sorry.”

“No, you are. It's just . . . I'm not used to talking about my mom very much, and I've done nothing
but
talk about her recently. It's just . . . a lot.”

“Can you try to give your
thios
a chance? He is a wonderful man, and he loved Hélenè so much. I think it's that you are so like her . . . He doesn't want to risk loving you since you are going away. I know, it sounds simple, but it isn't. He was very strict with our girls after that—oh, did they struggle with Labis's rules, especially Christiana, the oldest. I think sometimes, maybe this is why she moves away.” Angela pauses, thinking. “Anyway, Labis has lived with this pain for many years, and then one day finds out about you. It is hard for us, too, this news. I think he always hoped that maybe Hélenè was still alive, in America, that one day she would write another letter, come back.”

I'm quiet for a while. I don't really know what to say. I hadn't stopped to think about the fact that finding out about me also meant finding out, for sure, that Hélenè was gone and the possibility of seeing her again was gone, too.

But it still isn't enough. “I just don't understand
why.
Why they didn't write back, why they didn't try. Not ever. How could they . . . do that to her? If they loved her so much?”

I can feel hot tears springing up in back of my eyes, and it makes me furious. Because I know it's not really about my mother, this woman I never knew; it's about the principle of the whole thing. The hatred directed at my terrific dad for no reason by people who don't even know him. The frustration of never knowing why my mother's family gave up on her. The dichotomy of my sweet
Yia-Yia
and the woman who deserted her youngest child.

Angela sighs. “I don't know that I have good answers, Zona,” she says. “Like I am saying, your
pappous
was a very . . . a traditional man. He didn't speak any English, he did not have interest in America or Americans, he was Greek through and through, and that was it. He did not approve and he told Hélenè so with his silence.
Yia-Yia
didn't question her husband's choices; she was traditional also.” Angela sees me about to interject and puts her hand on my arm firmly. “I'm not saying they were right, Zona, just that . . . this was the choice they made. Not because they didn't care. They thought it was the right thing. And then, years pass and nothing . . . but at that time also, there was no Google, no e-mails, no Facebooks. You couldn't just find someone so easily—especially in a different country, in a different language.”

“Come on,
Thia
Angela. People have been finding other people without the Internet for hundreds of years—my dad does it all the time! And besides,” I continue quickly, “Theseus lived in America, didn't he? He speaks English, why didn't he—”

“Theseus is different story,” Angela confesses, looking away. “Him, I think maybe . . . I think he was afraid to look. Or maybe even he did and didn't admit it to us. Because he didn't want to believe his sister . . . that she had passed. That they could never fix their father's mistake. Everyone's mistake.”

We sit together in silence, watching the waves and listening to the birds wheel over the sand. I can't think of any more questions. At least, not right now.

“Angela,” I say finally, “you never lived in America, did you?”

“Me? Oh, no! Why?”

“How is your English so good?”

She laughs. “
My
English?
Ochi,
is terrible! I try, but thank you. So, to tell—I learned some in school, and then my kids, when they learn, I learn more and we all speak together. I think it is important, to learn. In case . . .”

“In case . . . what?”

She puts her hand over mine on the wooden beam and presses it firmly. “Just in case.” We watch the water for a few minutes in silence, and then we walk back to the car, her hand still wrapped around mine.