When the Cypress Whispers (13 page)

Lifting her head again, laughing at the exhilaration of letting loose, Daphne felt lost in the moment, amazed at how young she felt, how sensual, how sexual. Her hips seemed to feel the rhythm, like they knew the next beat, the next strum of the bouzouki before it escaped the stereo speakers. There was always such drama in Greek music, and tonight Daphne reveled in it, lost in a haze of music, dance, cigarette smoke, and the cheers of a room full of drunken tourists.

As the music changed from bouzouki to a traditional sailor’s dance, Daphne turned toward her cousin. Her eyes opened wide under the dark veil of hair that partially obscured her face as she danced. She caught Popi’s eye, and the cousins nodded in unison, knowing what was next. They shuffled together, standing hip to hip, arms draped over each other’s shoulders.

Darararum, darararum . . .
The music called to them.

Snapping her fingers, Daphne dropped her head forward, tapping her toes as she waited for the right note to begin their dance.

Darra . . . darrararum. Daraaaa . . . darra. . . . darrarrarram
. The music began slowly, each note lingering in the air, perfectly spaced to accentuate the drama of the song. For the tourists, this was Zorba’s song, the dance they had seen Anthony Quinn perform countless times on television. But for the locals, the Greeks, this was the
sirtaki
, the dance performed at every happy occasion in their lives, every wedding, every christening, every Easter Sunday celebration as far back as they could remember. It was as if this song, this music, flowed through their veins like the DNA that linked them to each other and to this island.

First left, then right, the cousins stepped in unison. With deliberate steps they jumped forward, then back, then forward again. Daphne bent down on one knee, swiping her hand across the floor, then lifted it again in time for the next chord to call them back to both feet and begin the dance again. As the tempo picked up, so did the pace of the dance. Daphne looked over at Yia-yia as she shuffled left again and then right, and noticed that Yia-yia was waving to someone on the other end of the room to join her at the table.

D
ARARARAUMMMMM
— The cousins jumped forward, higher and with more force this time as the music got faster. Daphne looked to her left as she jumped right to see Yianni taking a seat at the table beside Yia-yia.

D
ADADA—DADA—DADADA
— Faster and faster Daphne and Popi dove and stepped and jumped to keep time with the now-frenzied pace of the music. All eyes were on the cousins as everyone in the room clapped and cheered them on. Faster and faster they danced, Daphne and Popi leaping forward on one knee just as the first dish came crashing on to the dance floor, followed by another and then another. As her head whipped right and left with the dance, Daphne noticed that it was Nitsa who was lobbing dishes at them as she stood just off to the side with a pile of white dishes in her hand. Finally, just when the music was so fast that Daphne and Popi found it physically impossible to jump or dance any faster, the final dramatic note was hit:
DA RA RA RUM
. The dance ended with a flourish as the cousins fell into each other’s arms, sweating and exhilarated.

“That was awesome.” Daphne could barely get the words out. She dragged herself to Yia-yia’s side, leaning her arms against the table and sucking down a tall glass of water.

“Popi, Daphne—beautiful!” Yia-yia cried as she held her hands together. “Yianni, did you see my girls, how beautiful they dance?” The old woman nudged Yianni with her elbow.

“Yes, it was a beautiful
sirtaki
, perfect in fact,” he agreed, lifting his glass and nodding toward Yia-yia.

The compliment was lost on Popi, who was already beside the table of Frenchmen, accepting their congratulations as well as a glass of wine. But Yianni’s words were not lost on Daphne. In fact, she could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“Thank you,” she said as she wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “I can’t remember the last time I danced like that. I can’t believe I even remember the steps.”

“Some things stay in our memories forever, only to be reawakened when we need them most,” he replied, looking over at Yia-yia, who was nodding in agreement.

Daphne looked back and forth from Yianni to Yia-yia. She wanted to tell them that she knew about Yianni’s grandmother, that Nitsa had told her the story, but Yianni opened his mouth to speak before she had the chance.

“Daphne, your
yia-yia
tells me I am to take you to Kerkyra tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Daphne replied, still breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. “If it’s not too much trouble for you.” She was still unsettled by the thought of being alone with this man. But knowing she had no other option, she did her best to appear gracious.

“It is no trouble. I lift my nets at six a.m., and we should be ready to leave by seven thirty. We will go to Sidari. I have work to do there tomorrow. From Sidari you can take a taxi to Kerkyra.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you,” Daphne replied, relieved that Yianni was making the trip anyway and that she was merely tagging along for the ride. Despite what Yia-yia said about Yianni, Daphne still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being indebted to him for any reason. Before she could say another word, Daphne heard her name being called from the other side of the room.

“Daphne
mou
. Daphne,” Nitsa called out to her. “Daphne,
ella
, dance. I dedicate this song to you.” Nitsa pointed her finger at someone behind the bar, someone who clearly had control of the stereo. As the first notes erupted from the speaker, the entire room once again erupted into applause. The tourists had no idea what they were cheering and clapping for, but at this point they were too drunk to care.

“
Ella
, dance,” Nitsa shouted and clapped.

“No, Nitsa, I can’t.” Daphne shook her head in protest. “Really, no.”

“
Ella
, Daphne,” Nitsa shouted.

“Come on, Daphne, do it,” Popi commanded from across the room, standing up, ouzo in hand.

“Yia-yia . . .” Daphne looked to her grandmother with pleading eyes.

“Your host is calling you.
Pegene
—go, dance for us. You are young and beautiful. Dance,” Yia-yia replied, nudging her head toward the now-empty dance floor.

Daphne looked at Yia-yia and forced a small smile. She knew there was no turning back now. Protocol called her to heed her host’s wishes, even though she really didn’t want to go out there and make a spectacle of herself. She reached over and grabbed her half-full glass of wine from the table. “
Yiamas
. . . to our health,” she shouted as she tipped the glass back and downed it with one gulp before heading to the dance floor.

Once she was on the floor, the music took over as the final gulp of wine helped build her confidence. Round and round she spun, arms over her head, wrists rotating along with her hips. Daphne knew she wasn’t the best dancer; Popi was far superior in that category. But that was the beauty of Greek dancing. It was more about living the music, expressing yourself through movement, than it was about technicalities. And tonight, despite her initial embarrassment, Daphne closed her eyes and felt every note work its way through her body.

“
Opa!
” Daphne heard someone cry just as she felt the first sprinkling of flower petals fall on her face and hair as she spun around and around. Eyes still closed, she lifted her chin toward the sky and felt the petals tickle her eyelids and lips, as if she were being kissed by tiny raindrops while running through a sun shower.

“
Opa!
” the voice repeated as Daphne felt another wave of petals dance across her body. They flitted across her shoulders and arms like a lover’s gentle touch. She turned and spun again, opening her eyes wide and then wider still. There, standing directly in front of her, was Yianni.

“
Opa!
” he shouted again as he ripped the petals from the red carnation and tossed them at Daphne as she danced.

Eighteen

The next morning, as Daphne walked along the concrete path toward the port, she silently thanked God that she had listened to Yia-yia and forced herself to eat something before leaving the house. She had wanted to cry when she first opened her eyes before dawn and felt the brutal pounding in her head, the result of too much of Nitsa’s homemade wine. Even more than that, Daphne wanted to cry at the thought of spending the morning on a
kaiki
—face-to-face and alone with Yianni—without Yia-yia, bouzouki music, or Nitsa’s wine to serve as a buffer.

She did feel slightly better after a cold shower and a hot
briki
of Yia-yia’s strong Greek coffee. Even so, eating was the last thing on Daphne’s mind. The way her stomach burned and churned, she didn’t think it would be possible to keep anything down. But despite Daphne’s protests, Yia-yia insisted that Daphne could not leave without eating a chunk of crusty peasant bread along with a handful of home-cured black olives. Yia-yia was adamant that eaten together, the salty olives and dense bread were a reliable hangover cure, sure to settle her stomach and ease her pounding headache.

Daphne didn’t buy it at first, nibbling on the bread and olives merely to appease Yia-yia, her stomach doing backflips with every bite. But after a few minutes, the bread and brine began to work their magic, just as Yia-yia had promised they would. She did feel better; her legs, while still somewhat shaky, were no longer in danger of crumbling beneath the weight of her body. Her stomach, while still tender, didn’t feel like it was ready to empty its contents at a moment’s notice. By the time she reached the port, Daphne had started to feel somewhat human again.

“Daphne,
etho . . .
over here.” She heard Yianni’s voice above the chattering of the other fishermen. He stood against the rail of the
kaiki
, laying his nets out to dry on the deck. He ran his hands along the rough, wet twine, making certain there were no holes.

“You are on time,” Yianni said, stone-faced. “I expected you would be late. Americans are always late.”

Both of his arms were fully extended as he lifted the wet nets into the air to examine them. Daphne looked up at Yianni’s black outline framed against the blazing light. She imagined this is what Icarus might have looked like as well; his handcrafted wax wings awash in sunlight, silhouetted against the sky before his fateful and fatal plunge into the sea below—another victim of hubris. Surely Yianni’s hubris would catch up with him too. But Daphne quietly said a little prayer, hoping the wrath of the gods would wait just a little longer—at least until he delivered her safely ashore in Sidari, anyway.

Daphne took a deep breath before responding, willing herself to remain calm and maintain peace.

“I’m always on time,” she replied, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

“
Ella
,” he shouted as he leaned across the railing and held his brown arm out to Daphne. “It’s time to leave—there’s a
furtuna
coming, and we need to go before the winds kick up.”

Daphne glanced up at Yianni’s hand. Instinctively, she reached hers up, but not toward Yianni; she had other plans. Reaching her arm up and wrapping her fingers around the wooden railing, she lifted her right leg on deck and hoisted herself up. Once she was up and standing on the outer deck, Daphne swung her legs over the railing. She promptly took a seat along the inner ledge, folding her hands on her lap and smoothing her long, white skirt over her legs.

“Well, let’s go.” She stared at Yianni, who was still standing in the same spot, hand extended toward the dock, shaking his head at her. Daphne felt empowered. She chuckled as she ran her fingers through her hair, the damp curls springing to life in the morning breeze.

“Stubborn runs in your family,” Yianni muttered as he withdrew his hand and leaned over the railing again, this time to pull up the anchor.

Just get to Kerkyra. Just stay calm.
Daphne repeated the mantra to herself before lifting her head and responding to Yianni’s sarcasm. “It runs deep in the Erikousa bloodline. You’re just as guilty as I am.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He snorted as he took his seat behind the large wooden steering wheel of the
kaiki
. With his fisherman’s hat on his head, legs spread open in a broad V, and his giant hands gripping the dark brown wooden wheel, Yianni began maneuvering the boat out of the port and into the open sea.

They rode in silence for the first few minutes of the trip. Daphne never had been one for small talk, and she was certainly not about to change now, not for Yianni. She was looking forward to a quiet journey, a trip whose silence would only be broken by the hollow thud of waves crashing against the boat’s side or the shrill cries of seabirds as they circled above.

Daphne leaned back against the railing. She stretched her legs out along the deck, back pressed up against a metal post and head tilted back as the light wind blanketed her in a film of salt and sea mist. There was so much on her mind at the moment. She had gotten so lost in the rhythm of island life, so absorbed in enjoying simple pleasures like a walk with Evie or a coffee with Yia-yia, that she had uncharacteristically fallen behind on her work: the wedding plans. There were still several details to arrange, lists to tackle, and fleeting moments of solitude, like this, to cherish. Soon her life would be changed forever; the loneliness that she had felt for all these years would be exorcised by Father Nikolaos as she walked three times around the altar holding her new husband’s hand and wearing a crown of wildflowers.

“Are you hungry?” Yianni asked.

Daphne opened her eyes, startled by the sound of his voice interrupting her thoughts.

“I said, are you hungry?” Yianni repeated, his voice raised ever so slightly as he stood up, both hands still gripping the wheel.

“No, I’m good,” she lied, despite the gnawing rumbling in her belly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am.” He grunted. “Come here and hold the wheel.” He stood, one hand still on the wheel, the other lifted to his forehead as he scanned the surface of the sea.

The fact that he did not ask, but instead barked his command, was not lost on Daphne.

“I said, come here and hold the wheel.”

“I’m a chef, not a deckhand.”

“You’re stubborn, is what you are. Just come here and hold the wheel. All you have to do is hold it straight. Any idiot can do it, even an American chef.”

Daphne felt the blood rise in her cheeks again. Hands at her sides, she clenched them into tight balls, her fingernails cutting into the palms of her hands.

“Come on. I’m joking.” Yianni laughed. “That was a joke, Daphne. You are so tense, you make an easy target. I hope that fiancé of yours knows what he’s doing and can take care of that stress for you.” Yianni slapped at the wheel as he laughed. “Ah, but Americans are not known for their romantic prowess like the Europeans are. Perhaps your American can ask Ari for some advice; he is a master with the ladies, you know.”

Daphne just couldn’t help herself. The laugh started like a private giggle in the quiet recesses of her mind, but the longer she thought about Stephen having anything to do with Ari, the more she found that there was no way to suppress her laughter. The quiet giggle soon erupted as Daphne’s stomach and shoulders bobbed up and down, convulsing at the thought of Stephen and Ari together under any circumstances, let alone a master class on romance.

“Daphne,” he repeated. “Come, take the wheel. I need to take care of something.”

She didn’t even stop to think this time, but stood up and made her way to the captain’s seat. She grasped the rail with her right hand as she shuffled along toward the back of the boat, careful not to lose her footing. The waves as well as the wind had intensified in the short time that they had been on the sea, rocking the boat from side to side with increased frequency and force.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Here, grab the wheel.” He positioned himself behind Daphne, lifted her hands in his own, and nudged her closer to the steering wheel. His chest pressed against her back. “Just hold it steady, here and here.”

“So, any idiot can do this,” Daphne mocked. “Even you.”

She turned and stole a glimpse at the man who had with one perfectly absurd statement managed to soften her resolve and transform her from passenger to deckhand.

“Yes, any idiot at all.” He nodded in agreement, looking away from Daphne and out into the now-choppy sea. “The tide is strong and against us—it will take longer to get to Sidari than normal. The sea has made me hungry, as it always does. I can’t wait to eat. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Actually, I’m starving,” she admitted.

She hadn’t intended on sharing conversation with Yianni, let alone a meal; but there was something about being out here on the open sea that made her feel slightly more adventurous—as well as more ravenous than normal.

“Good. Just stay like this—I’ll be right back.” Before Daphne could ask where he could possibly be going, Yianni stripped off his shirt, grabbed a ratty old canvas bag from the deck, and draped it across his chest. He then stepped up on to the railing and propelled himself off the deck, diving straight down into the choppy water.

“What the hell—” Daphne watched him disappear under the whitecaps. She stood just as he had positioned her, clutching the captain’s wheel and struggling to hold it straight against the current. She scanned the water in anticipation of Yianni’s return. For someone who loved the sea and had never had any fear of being out in the water alone, Daphne felt surprisingly anxious. It wasn’t as if she was drifting out in the middle of nowhere. From the deck she could clearly see the jagged cliffs of Kerkyra, the lush beaches of Erikousa, and the beautiful yet deserted beaches of Albania. But somehow, for some reason, the moment Yianni went over the side of the boat, Daphne felt nervous, uneasy, and unusually isolated.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but in reality could have been no more than a minute or two, Yianni broke through the surface.

“What are you doing?” Daphne demanded as she looked out into the sea where Yianni had emerged, about fifty yards away from the
kaiki
.

Yianni didn’t answer. He just continued to swim toward her.

“Here,” he said as he hoisted himself back on the boat.

He stepped over the railing, seawater cascading off his body, leaving pools of water on the deck with every step.

“Here,” he repeated. “What is it you Americans call it? Oh yes, brunch.” He smiled a long, broad grin. The muscles of his wet forearm bulged and flexed against the weight of the canvas bag that he now held out toward Daphne.

Not certain what to do, except for trying really hard not to stare at his glistening torso, Daphne reached out to take the bag from Yianni. She opened the sack and looked inside.

“
Heinea
. . . sea urchins.” She laughed as she looked up from the bag to Yianni.

“Yes. There is bread, olive oil, and lemons belowdecks.”

She didn’t wait for him to ask this time; Daphne made her way belowdecks, holding the rail the entire way as insurance against the increasingly rocky sea. She stopped in the doorway, holding the door frame for support as she scanned the small cabin. The room was meticulously neat and immaculately clean, unlike any fishing boat she had ever seen. There was, of course, the standard utility kitchen, a small sink and hot plate, along with a small bed tucked up against the wall. But unlike any other fishing boat she had been on, there was a small desk in the corner, with a computer. And although the cabin was neat and tidy, everywhere she looked there were piles and piles of books.

My, how modern, not a vomit bucket in sight
. She laughed as she scanned the room. There, in the corner, beside the hot plate and the
briki
, Daphne spotted the basket containing the oil, bread, and lemons, as well as a bottle of sea salt. She grabbed the basket and cradled it to her chest before heading back up to the deck.

As Daphne emerged from the cabin, she looked around in disbelief. How could that be? In the short time she’d been below, the winds had died down and the sea was suddenly less choppy, a glassy stillness replacing the whitecaps that had been developing just moments before.

Daphne took her seat along the deck and spread the makings of their meal out on a small crate that Yianni had dragged over between them. Yianni reached deep into the pockets of his wet jean shorts and pulled out a pair of worn yellow leather gloves. Squeezing them onto his hands, he reached into the bag and pulled out a black spike-covered sea urchin. Holding the sea urchin in one gloved hand, he picked up a large fishing knife with the other. Pressing the blade into the spiky protective covering, he cracked open the top of the shell as one might crack open the shell of a soft-boiled egg. Yianni handed Daphne the sea urchin, and she went to work, adding a squeeze of fresh lemon, sea salt, and a drizzle of olive oil to the soft brown flesh. When all of the urchins were opened and properly seasoned, Daphne ripped off a corner of the crusty bread and handed it to Yianni before tearing off another piece for herself.

“
Yia-mas
,” she said as she picked up a sea urchin and toasted Yianni with it.

“
Yia-mas
,” Yianni replied before tearing into his meal. “Hey, Daphne—so how much are you going to charge me for this meal? Maybe a hundred dollars, eh? Isn’t that what you charge in your restaurant?”

Daphne looked up from her spiky bowl and looked Yianni squarely in the eyes. “Well, you get the
kaiki
discount. After all, you are giving me a ride. For you, only seventy-five.”

“So generous,” Yianni mocked. “Thea Evangelia did say you were quite the businesswoman.”

“Yes, apparently you and my
yia-yia
spend quite a bit of time talking about me.”

“Not just you, Daphne. We talk about everything.” He handed her another sea urchin.

“Why is that? I can’t figure it out.” Daphne tossed her empty shell overboard and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Honestly, what is it about you two? I’ve never laid eyes on you or even heard of you before this trip. And now, out of nowhere, here you are, like the son she never had. Exactly how am I supposed to welcome you to the family, when you’ve been obnoxious and rude since our first meeting?” She slammed the sea urchin on the crate, harder than she meant to.