The Necklace of Goddess Athena

by Effrosyni Moschoudi

  “Great!” said Ksenia as she stood up. “I’ll just go and get your clothes ready. Give me a half hour, and then I’ll take you to the guesthouse.” She was so elated as she walked away that she seemed to glide out of the room.

  Phevos took the magazine from the table and started leafing through the pages while Daphne treated herself to the last croissant on the plate. She then stood to gather the cups and the cutlery and started to wash them in the sink. It was easy enough to work out how to use the washing up liquid and the sponge, although she used too much and had to rinse the dishes quite well, filling the sink with rich soap suds as she did so.

  Manos watched them both in silence and decided that he definitely liked them being around. He thought of his life alone in the house with his sister. Living without their parents, their social life had suffered. Ksenia spent most of her mornings in the university and then took care of things at the guesthouse in the afternoons while Manos went to school and then studied in his room or played on his computer. He was a bit of a loner. He didn’t socialize with many adults and didn’t make friends easily with other kids either. Ksenia was all he had, and so, he clung to her as if she were not only his sister but both his parents too. It was a mutually strong bond, but in a way, it had robbed them both from all other kinds of human relations. It had escaped them both for years that there’s more to life out there. Friendship, companionship, even romantic love had eluded them as they clung strongly to each other, until now.

  Just a quarter of an hour later, Phevos and Daphne were back in the kitchen dressed in their own clothes that had been washed and ironed. Ksenia was thoughtful enough to lend Daphne a woolen cardigan too, seeing that her dress was sleeveless and the cotton fabric too thin. The two siblings sat at the table again watching Ksenia. She was tidying the kitchen now in her jeans and a sweater, putting the crockery and the cutlery away.

  Manos didn’t feel like escorting the others to the guesthouse but was itching for his day out to start. He’d grown rather impatient by now as he sat with the others. He was begrudgingly suffering the wait, indicating his frustration by drumming his fingers on the kitchen table every now and then, in protest at his sister’s slow pace.

  “You mentioned the guesthouse is a family business. Do your parents live there, if I may ask?” asked Phevos.

  “Yes, it’s a family business, but I’m afraid that Manos and I are the only members left in the family. Unfortunately, we lost our parents eleven years ago . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she lingered by the open cutlery drawer for a few moments before shutting it. She wasn’t sure how to word this for it to sound right. Since last night, the pain of her parents’ loss had been stirring in her soul, hurting her more than usual. She desperately didn’t want to have to explain right now how they’d been lost to her.

  “I am very sorry for your loss,” replied Phevos, a deep frown on his face. Inevitably, he’d misunderstood, thinking they were dead rather than literally lost. He sensed Ksenia’s pain, regardless, and spoke no more about it.

  “Thank you,” replied Ksenia, managing a faint smile. “Anyway, I think you’ll like our guesthouse. It’s an old neoclassic residential building our father inherited from his own father. When he was still young, my father decided to convert it into a guesthouse. The original stately home was refurbished and divided into a set of rooms, most of them with private facilities.”

  “I am sure it has been a very rewarding business venture for your father,” commented Daphne.

  “Oh yes! Our area is very popular among tourists.”

  “We are in Plaka, am I correct?” asked Phevos, who remembered Manos mentioning this the night before. He still winced at the memory of his mistake, suggesting in the orchard they should lead them to the stables.

  “Yes! We’re at the heart of the old quarter of Athens at the base of the Acropolis,” answered Ksenia, sounding like a tourist guide. “Plaka is a popular tourist spot with its picturesque lanes, neoclassic buildings, archaeological sites, antique and souvenir shops, busy tavernas and cafés. You know, tourists come here all year round in droves. We’re very lucky to have our business here.”

  “You must have a steady influx of customers then,” said Daphne.

  “Yes, indeed we do. But I don’t think it’s only due to the location. You see, we have a sign above the entrance. It’s a painting by an old friend of my father’s. We think this is what lures the tourists to come in!” She broke into an easy laugh and Manos joined in.

  “Why is that?” asked Daphne.

  “Well, it seems to intrigue them. They walk in all the time to ask what the painting is about. Then, Mrs. Sofia enlightens them, and they have a good laugh about it, but after that, many of them don’t leave, and actually wind up booking with us. I’ve no idea how many guests that painting has brought us. Over the years, Mrs. Sofia has learned to relay the story to the tourists quite well, despite her limited English. I guess it involves more gesturing rather than talking, and she’s good at that!”

  “I don’t understand. What could possibly be on that painting?” asked Phevos.

  “Well,” Ksenia replied as she savored the moment, “The painting depicts Pallada—”

  “Pallada?” Phevos had been sitting back on the chair in a relaxed manner, but the sound of the word made him jump and spring forward, as if struck by electricity.

  “Yes, Pallada. That is to say, Goddess Athena,” confirmed Ksenia. “Anyway, the painting depicts the moment she’s born, as she springs out of the—”

  “Out of the head of Zeus—” interrupted Daphne in a whisper that was barely audible.

  “While shaking her spear!” said Phevos finishing the sentence. When he turned to look at his sister, his face had an expression of ecstasy. In silence, they shared in that moment the greatest, the most divine revelation.

  “You know,” Manos piped up, “I know a fact about this! Goddess Athena is called Pallada because of the way she was born. The name comes from the word ‘pallein’ which means ‘to shake’. Athena shook her spear, making a fearful noise as she burst forth from Zeus’s forehead. My sister taught me that!” Manos gave a wide grin.

  Phevos and Daphne barely heard Manos’s words. The sign they’d been waiting for had just hit them like a whirlwind. There was no missing and no mistaking such a sign. Manos turned his attention back to his magazine, and Ksenia hurried to store the last few items in the cupboards while Phevos reached out and squeezed his sister’s hand under the table.

  The moment was only theirs to savor as they stared into each other’s eyes, trying to contain in silence the feeling of sheer joy that brewed in their hearts. In Phevos’s mind, the words of Athena from his dream echoed as clearly as a church bell on a Sunday morning. ‘A good hunter knows where to seek refuge. I am going to find one. I command you to come and find me!’

  With this sign, solid hope nestled in their hearts. Their father had taught them that the Gods respond to prayer by guiding people through signs. Their faith in that was strong, and it never failed them as they sought anything in life, no matter how big or small. Simply by looking, they always found signs of guidance whenever they needed them, so, they strongly believed from their experience that there is no such thing as coincidence. They both refused to take life as it is, without ever asking or seeking, knowing that this fatalistic approach never granted anyone any miracles. If anyone were to challenge Phevos and Daphne for their beliefs, they would argue that the world is miraculous, made with infinite wisdom and with an evident abundance in nature to cater for every human need.

  People are born into this world with the freedom of choice and, surely, given the right mindset, this divinely endowed gift can grant them the power to acquire anything they desire. Efimios had passed on to his children the firm belief that, indeed, they had this power. He taught them that the whole world shifts to guide you if you only believe it, and that miraculous things may happen during this shift that are only powered by one thing: one’s own faith.

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sp; Chapter 4

  Ksenia led Phevos and Daphne past the front yard and through the gate where a quaint, narrow street bustled with activity. All three stood for a while to take it in. An elderly man stood behind a stall on the opposite side, inviting passers-by to browse through jewellery and wooden artifacts. Motorbikes and mopeds buzzed past, their riders honking their horns with little patience. Tourists sauntered down the middle of the street, totally oblivious to traffic.

  Across the street, loud bouzouki music echoed from a souvenir shop. Tantalizing scents of roast meat and tomato sauce filled the air from the taverna next to it. Two young waiters were outside unloading beer crates from a delivery van. Behind them, tables with checkered tablecloths stood forlorn under an overhead vine trellis. All of them would be occupied at lunchtime. From then on, the taverna would stay busy till nighttime when the antique-style lanterns in the yard would be lit, illuminating happy faces. There would be sounds of laughter and the perpetual chink of tableware.

  Daphne turned around to look at Ksenia’s house. It was a neoclassic building like all the others in the street. The façade was imposing, its marble steps leading up to an ornate front door made of iron and glass. There was a small balcony on the upper floor. On its black railing, the golden figure of a sphinx glinted in the sunlight. The tall window was open, its curtains blowing gently in the breeze. On the roof, mossy ceramic tiles added character to the gracefully aged structure. On the very top, the figure of a sprightly cockerel made of iron indicated the direction of the wind.

  Daphne drew her brother’s attention to it all, and as they complimented Ksenia for the beauty of her house they moved on, reaching a fruit store next door. Ksenia raised an arm to greet its owner, Mr. Giorgis. He was standing outside, under the green canvas awning that protected his produce from unfavorable weather all year round. He was engaged in conversation with a customer, mimicking one of many Greek politicians whose lack of intellect and ethics begs for the sharp tongue of satire. The customer was still laughing uproariously as Mr. Giorgis raised his arm to greet Ksenia in return, shouting ‘good morning’ with his deep, thunderous voice.

  The burly greengrocer had the looks to match his booming voice. However, what was on the inside matched nothing harsher-looking than a kitten. Mr. Giorgis had a kind, sincere heart. When he spoke, he’d look a person straight in the eyes and pat them on the back. The store was his pride and joy, and the love he’d put in it in the twenty years he’d owned it, was evident in the well-maintained areas inside and out. His merchandise was always fresh, and the best one could find. He was famous all over Plaka for it.

  Mr. Giorgis stepped out to the sidewalk to talk to Ksenia, and as she stopped to greet him, Phevos and Daphne marveled at the wide variety of vegetables and fruit on display. Some of them were totally unknown to them, and they hovered with interest before crates of common potatoes, tomatoes, lemons, and oranges.

  Ksenia beckoned them closer in order to introduce them to Mr. Giorgis, and when they left the store behind them, Daphne jerked her hand, closing it into a fist and opening it again repeatedly. Mr. Giorgis’s handshake was too firm for her liking, and Ksenia confessed she sometimes avoided shaking hands with him for the same reason.

  Phevos gave a titter, just as Ksenia pointed at a beautiful edifice that stood before them, right next door to the fruit store. Above its marble-paneled entrance, the large sign drew attention from afar. Ksenia had been right. In the painting, Pallada stood tall in her helmet and shining armor. She looked beautiful, with dark eyes and wavy hair that flowed in thick strands against a cloudy sky. She stood on top of Zeus’s head, and his eyes were turned upwards in a rather comical way. The creator of the painting had chosen to paint Zeus with a bit of humor, emphasizing by contrast the greatness of his daughter Athena, who had sprouted perfect and strong from his wisdom. Daphne smiled brightly when she saw the sign, and Phevos felt so much awe that his knees almost gave in.

  “You see what I mean?” Ksenia said with a grin. “The tourists keep coming in to ask Mrs. Sofia about it. Wait till you meet her! You’ll love her, everyone does!” With these words, Ksenia hopped up the steps and led the way through the open front door.

  As he crossed the threshold, Phevos thought longingly of his father. This street was full of beautiful, old houses, and he wondered if he had ever been here; if he’d seen or visited these edifices in the past at any time throughout their long history. The very possibility filled his heart with consolation.

  The reception area was unattended. The sunlight that came in through the tall window to the left was still too weak to compete with the bright lights of the antique chandelier. It hung from the center of the ceiling opposite the entrance, adding character and a sense of old grandeur to the large room. Around lunchtime, this electric light would be redundant as the midday sun shone high in the sky and entered the window with greater strength.

  On the reception desk, a bunch of ballpoint pens stood in a pencil holder. The sunlight, filtering through them, projected beams of iridescent light onto a block of lined A4 paper. There was silence in the room, apart from the heavy ticking of a clock on the wall, behind the counter.

  Two big posters of Greek islands decorated the same wall, one on either side of the clock. The one on the left was a picture of a blue-domed church in Santorini, set against the deep blue of the sea and the sky. The volcano crater in the background foamed on its edges. It looked like a giant blackbird about to take flight over the vastness of the Aegean. On the other poster, an aerial picture of the historic square of Corfu town stood witness to the conquerors that had left their marks there through the centuries. The Old Venetian fortress stood on one side of the picture while the middle was a marvel of gardens and monuments. On the right, the Liston with its exquisite arches was packed with wandering tourists.

  Ksenia searched high and low to find this poster. A stunning one of the Zante Shipwreck used to be in its place, but Mrs. Sofia kept insisting on a poster of Corfu. Finally, just a few months ago, Ksenia had managed to get hold of this one through a travel agent. Mrs. Sofia was a Corfiot, and she had a longing for her homeland that was beyond description. She’d often sit behind the desk during idle periods, just looking at the poster of Corfu town, every now and then letting out a deep sigh.

  Daphne and Phevos sat on a couch at the far end of the room while Ksenia disappeared down a corridor to look for Mrs. Sofia. The couch looked just as worn as the two armchairs on either side of it. Their style spoke volumes about their age, and the burden placed on their ornate, worn out legs. On the opposite wall by the window, a wooden bookcase held countless dog-eared paperbacks in various languages of the world. They were unwanted leftovers from customers over the years and had served their purpose many times again in the hands of later travelers.

  The whole room had a timeless feel about it, and it felt strangely familiar. This peculiar feeling was perhaps due to the musty smell of old wood. It was the kind of smell that could take you back in time, like the smell of cotton candy, homemade cookies, or the earth after the rain.

  Ksenia returned to the reception hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Good morning!” she said, breaking the silence, to address the old lady, who was coming down the stairs.

  Mrs. Sofia was halfway down. In her wrinkled hands, she carried a bundle of linen. A heap of used sheets was lying untidily on the floor, at the arched entrance of the corridor that led to the back of the house. The old woman dropped the linen onto the heap and sighed deeply. With a reddish hand on her lower back, she took a deep breath, then smiled at Ksenia, a smile that reflected in her aged, brown eyes.

  “Good morning to you too, kyra mou!” said Mrs Sofia as her melodic voice filled the room. “Hey, these two are new! Just my luck!” She pointed at Phevos and Daphne on the couch. “Agie Spyridona, it’s still too early to let them in the room! I haven’t even started the washing yet, and then I have to make the beds, clean and sweep and tidy up! Can’t you ask them to go f
or a walk or something and come back later? We’ve got some more coming at midday today, have you forgotten?”

  Mrs Sofia carried on talking while gesturing frantically with her hands. She’d thought the newcomers were foreigners, hence speaking to Ksenia and not to them. Ksenia didn’t mind Mrs. Sofia’s outbursts when she talked in this frantic manner. On the contrary, she adored the melodic cadences of her speech that characterize the Corfiot vernacular. It sounded in her ears like a passionate Italian serenade to the sounds of mandolin.

  Perhaps, this is the reason she let her carry on, without explaining that Phevos and Daphne were Greek, and that they were special guests of hers. Ksenia had known Mrs. Sofia all her life and loved her beyond words.

  The old lady had left Corfu with her husband Spyros when they were in their forties to make a fresh start in Athens. Through a friend, Spyros had found a job as a worker at the Skaramangas shipyard. They rented a tiny apartment in the suburbs where Mrs. Sofia raised their little daughter while Spyros worked six days a week. They were very poor. Sometimes, Spyros would bring home scraps of fabric that the workers had at their disposal for cleaning their hands after the dirty work at the shipyard. With those scraps, Mrs. Sofia would make clothes for their little girl.

  Once their son was born, it became even more difficult to make ends meet, but that’s when Mrs. Sofia got the job in Pallada. Ksenia’s father had just refurbished it. The rooms smelled all fresh with new, varnished furniture and light fixtures that sparkled. Ksenia’s father was in his twenties then, working hard to make Pallada a profitable business. In Mrs. Sofia’s kind eyes he saw someone who would put love into their work and, indeed, in time she’d proved to be the best asset Pallada ever had.