When the Cypress Whispers (18 page)

“I know. I guess I never thought of it that way.” She smiled at her fiancé. “But this isn’t about me having to go to Greek school instead of Girl Scouts, Stephen. This is different. And no, a lot of things about this place don’t make much sense. I think maybe I like that right now. I’m so tired of making so many decisions all the time. Maybe it’s kind of nice to let tradition take over and make the decisions for me, at least for a little while.” She smoothed her skirt and shrugged her shoulders.

He shook his head as he shook the wrinkles from his navy blazer.

“When in Greece—”

Twenty-four

“Yia-yia.” Daphne opened the gate and was surprised when she did not immediately see Yia-yia sitting there by the fire. “Yia-yia?”

The door to the house squeaked open, and Yia-yia leaned against the door frame. “
Koukla mou
, you are back. I missed you.”

“Yia-yia,
ella
, come meet Stephen. I’ve been waiting so long for you to meet him.”

“Ah, ne.
O Amerikanos.
Pou einai.
Where is he?” The old woman took Daphne’s hand and walked toward Stephen. She wore no shoes, the outline of her bunions clearly visible through the thin fabric of her stockings.

As they walked together out of the doorway and onto the patio where Stephen stood, Daphne noticed how Yia-yia leaned on her a bit more than usual. Yia-yia was a slight woman, without the traditional heft of the other widows who spend their days indulging in a gluttonous cycle of cooking and eating. Although it was impossible that she could have gained any considerable weight in the past twenty-four hours, Daphne was certain that Yia-yia had never before felt this heavy on her arm.

As they approached, Stephen smiled politely and extended his hand.

“
Te einai afto?
What is that?” She looked from Stephen to Daphne. “Daphne
mou
. Please tell your young man that this is not a business meeting. This is our home.”

“Stephen, honey.” Daphne reached her free hand out and touched his shoulder with her fingertips. “People here hug and kiss hello, we don’t shake hands. That’s for business.” She looked around and saw Yia-yia, Popi, and even Evie staring back. “This is family.”

Without another word, Stephen nodded and stepped forward. He circled his arms around the old woman and gave her a hug. Yia-yia leaned in and kissed him on each cheek. As she pulled her face away, Stephen smiled at her, his perfect white teeth glowing in the sunlight. Yia-yia’s eyes narrowed and focused in on his.

Daphne bit her lower lip and watched as Yia-yia stared deep into Stephen’s eyes. She looked past his lashes, past the muddy blue of his irises, through the black pools of his pupils, and seemingly down into his very soul. Even the trees stopped their rustling so their soft whispers would not distract Yia-yia from her mission.

“
Ah, kala.
All right.” It seemed she had seen what she needed to see.

As Daphne watched, she couldn’t help but wonder what was running through the old woman’s mind. Daphne knew Yia-yia well enough to know that she had been searching for something when she looked at Stephen that way. There were no coincidences when it came to Yia-yia. Everything about her—every word, every glance, every
briki
of coffee—was steeped in significance.

“Popi, Evie.” Daphne stood, still holding on to Yia-yia. “Why don’t you show Stephen around the garden and maybe even introduce him to Jack, okay? We’ll get lunch ready.” She turned toward Stephen and smiled. “It’ll only be a few minutes, and it’ll be nice to have some time with Evie, you know she always needs a little time to warm up.”

“Sure.” He looked around the patio for Evie, who had spotted another spider weaving her trap between the twisted branches of the lemon tree. “Come on, Evie,” he called. “Where’s this famous donkey I’ve heard so much about?”

“Look.” She pointed to the web. “It’s Arachne.”

“Oh, a spider. Well, we have those back home in New York, you know. Come on. What we don’t have are donkeys, or chickens, and from what I hear, you have plenty of those.”

“No, she’s not just a spider.” Evie finally looked away from the web and up at Stephen. “It’s Arachne. She’s a girl who was too proud. Thea Popi taught me that. Athena punished her and turned her into a spider.” She stared at him squarely in the face, her little arms crossed at her chest. “That’s what you get when you think you’re better than everyone else.”

“Well, little Evie. You sure have learned a lot since you’ve been here.” As he spoke, something small and black flew above their heads and into the arachnid’s trap. “Well, look at that. See, she was smart enough to catch a little friend.” Stephen leaned in closer.

Stephen and Evie both watched the fly struggle against the sticky threads, its small black body and wings twitching, fighting until there was seemingly nothing left to fight for. The spider didn’t move. It sat perched on the opposite end of the web, as if waiting for dinner hour to approach.

“Do you know what happens next, Evie? That fly is going to be dinner. Spiders suck the blood of insects who are dumb enough to get caught in their traps. That’s pretty cool, huh? If you ask me, those little eight-legged guys are pretty smart. They have every reason to be proud, no matter what Athena thinks.”

“Not always.” Evie turned toward Stephen, her catlike eyes ablaze. “Thea Popi says sometimes Arachne is still too proud for her own good. And Yianni told me that anyone who is too proud should watch out.”

“Well, I’d say that sounds like pretty good advice,” Stephen replied. “But don’t forget, little girl, pride can be a good thing—it can push you to do more, be better, be the best. And there’s nothing wrong with being the best—just look at your mom.” But Evie’s famously short attention span had gotten the best of her. She turned and skipped down the stairs and toward the chicken coop before the words were out of Stephen’s mouth.

Just as Evie danced away, Popi was on Stephen like flies on honey cakes. She stroked his biceps with her thick fingers. “Come, I will show you everything. Daphne tells me how smart you are in business, how much she has learned from you. There is something I would like from you as well. After all, we are going to be cousins, and family helps each other, no? I have an idea, and there is no one else on these islands who can help me with it. If I wanted to learn how to gut a fish or make cheese, no problem, I would have all the help in the world. But business—” Popi took her right hand and scraped her fingers along her neck and chin, the Greek equivalent of someone giving the middle finger back in the States. “Business,
tipota . . . skata.
Shit.”

“Well, you are a spitfire, like your cousin.” Stephen shook his head and smiled at her.

“We are the same, Daphne and I. But she was the lucky one, raised in America. Here, we are not as lucky. We do not have so many opportunities, so many choices. I have worked in the café for many many years and I know I can do better. I have watched and stayed quiet and learned. I know I can do this. I want more than just to work for the
malakas
who water down the liquor, smoke their cigarettes, bed the tourists, and call themselves big businessmen. I have ideas, Stephen. I want to be like my cousin. I want to be like Daphne.” She glanced over at Daphne, her eyes filled with both longing and love.

“So let’s hear these ideas of yours,” he said as they walked.

Daphne watched as Popi led Stephen away. She strained to hear what Popi was saying to him, but it was no use. They disappeared into the chicken coop before Daphne could make anything out. And perhaps, Daphne thought, it was better that way.

Daphne turned to Yia-yia once again and held her liver-spotted hand a bit tighter, careful not to squeeze too tight, knowing how painful Yia-yia’s swollen joints could be. Yia-yia was the first to speak.

“So, this is your American.”

“In another week he’ll be
our
American.”

“No, not mine, definitely not mine.” Yia-yia shook her head.

“Why, what’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, there is. Something is very wrong, Daphne. He’s too skinny, just like you. This man has so much money, yet he cannot afford to buy food. I do not understand Americans sometimes.
Tsk tsk tsk
. Come, let’s check the stew. We don’t want it to stick.” And with that, it seemed Yia-yia’s analysis of Stephen was finished.

Daphne desperately wanted to know what Yia-yia had seen when she looked into Stephen’s eyes, but there was also so much more that Daphne wanted to speak to Yia-yia about, so much she wanted to ask. Why she had insisted on making
stifado
when she knew it would take days for her ailing body to recover from the strain? Why, after all these years of sharing stories and secrets, had she not shared with Daphne the story of Dora and what happened during the war? Daphne knew she could ask anything of her grandmother, and she would be met with the truth. But the more she thought about what the truth might actually reveal, the more anxious she grew. They walked together from one end of the patio to the other, Daphne running through the questions she would ask over and over again in her head, just how she would word them and what she thought the answers might be.

“Look,
koukla
.” Daphne’s internal dialogue was interrupted by Yia-yia pointing to the lemon tree. “Look, Daphne. See, it’s as I told you. Just as I told Evie.”

Yia-yia pointed to the spiderweb, the same one that Evie had spotted earlier. There, on one end of the ornate web, was a gaping hole where the fly had escaped.

“See, Daphne
mou
,” Yia-yia said. “Hubris is a dangerous thing. Look away for a moment, and your prized possession may escape even the loveliest of traps.”

Twenty-five

“Here, let me do it for you.” Daphne leaned over the fire and lifted the heavy silver pot from the metal grate.

“
Entaksi
, all right,
koukla mou
. Be sure you don’t break the seal.” Still in her stocking feet, Yia-yia sat in her wooden chair.

“I know, I know.” Daphne’s muscles flexed from the weight of the stew. She swirled the pot around and around. She was careful to keep the lid securely fastened on top and not to disturb the tape that Yia-yia had placed around the lid to seal in the vapors. Although she herself had not made
stifado
in years, Daphne knew that the secret to a rich and savory stew was to seal in the vapors so the simmering vinegar would ensure a pungent sauce.

“There.” She placed the pot back on the metal trivet.

“Do you want coffee?” Yia-yia asked as she lifted her hands to secure several long gray coils that had escaped the confines of her braids.

Daphne leaned over and tucked the strands behind Yia-yia’s ear. “If you like, I’ll wash and braid your hair tonight for you.” She smiled at her grandmother, knowing that Yia-yia’s brittle joints made weaving her long hair into braids more and more difficult with each passing day.

“Thank you,
koukla mou
.” Yia-yia nodded. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but I can wait for the
stifado
.” Daphne pulled her chair closer to Yia-yia and sat down. Evie’s delighted squeals could be heard from the garden below.

“What is it, Daphne
mou
? What’s wrong?” Yia-yia could read Daphne’s face like the grounds at the bottom of a muddy cup.

“Yianni told me everything.”

“Ah,
kala,
all right.” She closed her eyes. “I thought he might.”

“Why, Yia-yia? Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why would you keep that from me? I always thought we told each other everything. That we had no secrets between us.”

Yia-yia’s eyes were heavy and red. “This was not a secret, Daphne
mou
. This was our history. You have your own.” Yia-yia’s voice was soft, barely audible. “Daphne
mou
.
Koukla
. It is a terrible day when a person realizes that there is evil in the world. That the devil walks this earth. I learned this the moment I looked into the terrified black eyes of Dora and saw what those men did to her, what they stole from her. Those animals thought it was within their rights to extinguish people as one puts out an evening fire, a church candle. They stole too many lives already, destroyed too many families. I could not let them do it again. And why—because Dora’s people called their God by another name? God does not judge us by what name we call him. This is not how we are judged.”

Daphne took Yia-yia’s hand and watched as the first tear slid down her hollow cheek, navigating a slick path for the others that would follow. But Yia-yia never let go of Daphne’s hand to wipe her face; she just held on even tighter.

“Sometimes, it is not just blood which these monsters crave. They want a small piece of our souls—but that too is dangerous, sometimes even more so. Even that is too much to give.” She finally lifted her index finger, crooked and scarred, and wiped clean the wet streak from under her eyes. “Had I not helped Dora that day, they would have succeeded in taking my soul too. I could not lose that, I would not lose that.”

Yia-yia continued, her voice still shaky but gaining strength now, becoming clearer, more powerful and passionate. “Sometimes in facing those monsters, you find your strength, you find your purpose.” She looked out toward the horizon. “I never even knew I had either. I wasn’t supposed to have either, but I did. I found them in the Jewish quarter that terrible, terrible day, Daphne.”

She pulled Daphne closer, and just as she had done earlier to Stephen, Yia-yia looked into the depths of her granddaughter’s black-olive eyes, eyes that were as vibrant and clear yet as confused and searching as her own had once been. “Sometimes facing the devil makes us stronger, Daphne. You’ll never know how strong you are, who you really are and what you are capable of, until you do.”

“So that’s why you and Yianni are so close. He feels indebted to you . . . for saving his family.”

“No, I didn’t save them.” The conviction in Yia-yia’s voice startled Daphne. “They saved me.”

There was so much she did not know about her grandmother, so much she had never bothered to ask. All those years sitting in this very spot, listening to Yia-yia spin her tales of Hades, Medusa, and the unrelenting furies, Daphne had always assumed Yia-yia was repeating old myths for her amusement, a way to pass the evening. But now Daphne realized that there was more to these old stories. Like the greatest heroes in these tales, Yia-yia had come face-to-face with mythic evil herself.

“How did they save you?”

Yia-yia released Daphne’s hands and leaned back in her chair. “How did they save me? How did they save me?” she repeated again and again.

Daphne could detect a melodious undertone to her voice. For a moment, it seemed as if Yia-yia was going to answer in a lament song. But Daphne didn’t care. She just wanted answers. Daphne leaned in closer, wringing her hands together in anticipation of hearing the words that would unravel this great mystery for her. She had been consumed with learning more about this story from the moment Yianni had tossed out the first description of the vibrant Jewish quarter. Now she needed to hear Yia-yia’s version, so she too could better understand the secrets of the island, the secret her grandmother had clung to for so many years—and hopefully, in some way, better understand how their lives and these legends were so inexplicably intertwined.

But as Daphne waited for Yia-yia to unravel this mystery, the voices from below grew louder. She could hear Evie’s giggles more clearly now, and she could make out some of the words of Popi’s prattle; words like
opportunity
and
investment
and
risk.
Words Daphne was shocked to realize that Popi even knew.

“How did they save you?” Daphne asked again, desperate to learn the answer before the others joined them. But it was too late. The patter of Evie’s ballet slippers was upon them as she bounded up the last few steps, raced across the patio, and dove into Yia-yia’s lap.

“Be careful, Evie.” Daphne lurched forward, frustrated that this conversation had come to such a sudden end. There was no way she would learn what Yia-yia was about to say now; it would have to wait for later this evening, when Yia-yia and Daphne were alone—then, and only then, would Daphne broach the subject again.

There were not many secrets on this island, not many whispered conversations. Everything here was shared and shouted across the treetops; news, recipes, weather reports, and gossip. As primal as this method of communication seemed, that was the reality of life here; people needed each other. They needed to know each other’s business, not just for lack of other entertainment but in order to survive. But this conversation was different. Evie was too young, Popi too frivolous, and this culture and its customs were still so new to Stephen. No, this would be a conversation finished over the evening’s last dying embers, reserved for Yia-yia and Daphne alone.

“Can I? Can I? Can I?” Evie asked again and again as she bounced up and down on Yia-yia’s knees, the very knees that Daphne had noticed earlier seemed a bit more swollen than usual.

“Evie, be gentle. Stop it.” Daphne reached her arm out to stop the little girl’s acrobatics. “You’ll hurt Yia-yia. Can you what?”

“It’s all right, Daphne
mou
. This child cannot harm me. She is my best medicine.” Yia-yia wove her crooked fingers through Evie’s hair.

“So can I go for a ride on Jack?” Evie begged.

“Later, honey. I promise. Stephen just got here—it’s not polite to leave him alone. He wants to spend time with you, he missed you.”

“If he missed me so much, then why is he playing with Thea Popi and not me?”

Although Evie spoke in English, Yia-yia nodded in agreement. She didn’t need to speak the language to understand what was happening. The old woman was fluent in reading the faces of those she loved.

“Now, Stephen, don’t let Popi monopolize you, everyone wants to get to know you,” Daphne called out.

“No, it’s okay. Your cousin has some great ideas.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. This is a wedding we are celebrating, after all. Daphne, I really am sorry, you are the bride, and this is your time. My time will come too, I know it will. And now that we are family, there will be plenty of time for business after the wedding. What’s the word”—Popi scanned the recesses of her mind for the elusive word—“merger.” She clapped in celebration of her verbal victory. “Yes, it is a family merger, and great things will come of this for all of us.
Ella
.” Popi lifted her arms and clapped her hands again, this time above her head. “Come, let’s eat.”

Daphne watched Popi sashay to the table. She could swear she noticed a little extra olive oil lubricating her hips as they swung back and forth.

“Thanks for tolerating her. She’s a little overbearing sometimes, but she’s a good person. She means well.” Daphne pulled Stephen closer.

“I’m not tolerating her. She’s pretty amazing, actually.” Stephen watched as Popi took her seat by the table. “She does have some good ideas. Really good ideas.” He laughed as if surprised that this place could spawn more than just chickens, flies, and donkey dung. “She’s a smart girl, Daphne, like you.” He squeezed her hand. “This is going to be some wedding . . . like your cousin said, this is going to be some merger.”

“Come on, it’s time to eat. Enough business for one day.” Daphne clapped her hands and shooed everyone toward the table. “One of the great things about this stew is the smell when you first open the pot lid. It’s incredible. Come on, you’re gonna love it.” She smiled at Stephen and led him to his seat.

“I mean it, Daphne.” He leaned in just inches from her face and placed his hands on her shoulders. “When I’m done, we’ll be the biggest thing New York has ever seen. Hell, that Greece has ever seen. I have big plans for us.”

For generations, as far back as people could remember, island weddings were celebrated for the joyous yet vital merger of two families. Nowhere did the phrase
strength in number
s ring more true than right here, where families joined by marriage would share their crops, their livestock, and all of the essentials of their lives. Daphne remembered attending so many of these festive celebrations with Popi and Yia-yia. There was the summer when Daphne was nine . . . she would never forget the pleasure of dancing along the dirt roads with a colorful parade of women; bundles of clothes, blankets, and towels balanced on their heads as they took part in the
rouha,
a beautiful ritual where the women of the island would carry a bride’s possessions to her new husband’s home. There was the mortification she felt the time, at twelve years old, the kilo of rice she cradled in her arms in anticipation of the bride and groom’s emergence from church slipped out of her hands and down the back of Thea Anna, who had worn her one “good dress” for the occasion and dripped rice from her girdle all over the dance floor for the remainder of the evening. But there was no image of island marriage more seared in Daphne’s memory than the stories Yia-yia had shared of when she was a girl and bloodstained white sheets would hang from an olive tree, billowing in the breeze, the morning after a young couple married.

There would be no dancing women balancing Daphne’s possessions atop their heads, no kilo of rice to throw, since she had insisted on rose petals instead, and certainly no stained sheet to confirm her purity. No dowry, livestock, linens, or land would be changing hands. Hers was by no means a typical Erikousa wedding. It was to be modern and elegant—
Amerikanico
. But after watching Popi work her magic on Stephen, and hearing Stephen’s excitement about the potential for new business ventures ahead, Daphne couldn’t help but feel that in some ways she was far more traditional than she ever could have imagined, that she too was a measure of her dowry.

When the stew was finally ready, Yia-yia insisted they eat on the table under the large olive tree. But that would be Yia-yia’s only concession to American formality. The round loaf of peasant bread was placed in the middle of the table, pieces to be torn away by hand, as was the usual custom. There would be no delicate china or serving dish either; the old, battered pot was placed straight from the fire right at the center of the table as Daphne stood to do the honors.

“It’s ready, you can remove the tape,” Yia-yia announced, signaling to Daphne that she could now peel the charred silver tape from the lid.

“Why are you doing that?” Stephen leaned in to get a better look. He had spent countless hours with Daphne in the kitchen at Koukla, but he had never before seen her prepare a dish using electrical tape.

“It is to keep the flavors in,” Popi answered. “We know special tricks here, wonderful tricks.” She stood, almost knocking over her chair with the sheer force of her hips. She bent forward, bottom pointed straight up, leaned her entire body across the table, grabbed the round, crusty loaf of bread, and shoved it into Stephen’s face. “Here, smell,” she commanded.

Stephen did as he was told. “That’s wonderful.”

“Yes, it is.” Popi nodded furiously. “See, we take hospitality very seriously here, cousin Stephen. There is nothing we don’t do for our guests.”

“This is delicious. Absolutely delicious.” He took a piece of bread and dipped it into the thick sauce. “And I love these little onions.” He plunged his fork into the stew and pulled out a perfect little round pearl onion. “Delicious.” Stephen devoured his stew and dabbed at his mouth with the paper napkin while Daphne refilled his bowl. “Daphne, seriously. You need to put this on the menu at Koukla
.
I mean it, as soon as you get back to work.”

“Just eat, enjoy . . . okay?” Daphne filled his bowl again.