by Mickey Brent
She tried to swallow it away, but the knot in her throat tightened instead.
What a contrast to Marc, Hélène kept thinking as she walked next to Sylvie, recalling her compassionate face as she spoke to the homeless man. Her caring demeanor touched the sensitive poet’s heart on a deeply emotional level. She really feels for him. In just a few seconds, it’s like she transformed him. She’s not simply a swimming teacher; she’s an alchemist, Hélène decided, sneaking a peek at Sylvie’s full lips as she explained the situation of the increasing homeless population in Brussels.
Hélène nodded her head and murmured “Ah bon? Really?” every few sentences. She kept her chin up as they walked, focusing her eyes on the dark clouds above their heads. It was all she could do to keep the tears from dribbling out.
“What in the heck are you doing?” inquired Sylvie, yanking Hélène’s sleeve before she walked into a tree.
“You know I adore plants,” replied Hélène with an embarrassed chuckle, discreetly wiping away a tear.
“Stick with me from now on.” Sylvie pinned her student’s arm under her own.
A soft, light aura surrounded the two women’s figures as they strolled, elbows fused, down the street.
At last, Sylvie stopped in front of Dionysos Taverna. “Here we are.”
“Looks nice,” gushed Hélène, peering through the lace curtains of the blue-and-white painted building. And so quaint. Tiny glass vases with red tulips were nestled amongst massive plates of food on each of the blue-and-white checkered tables. The patrons—all very Greek-looking—gesticulated heavily with their hands as they devoured mysterious delicacies, washing them down with countless carafes of wine.
Ca alors! My boring sandwiches can’t compare to this, Hélène mused, suddenly aware of her gurgling stomach.
“It’s cozy. Especially in winter,” replied Sylvie. “And it’s even nicer out back. There’s a garden and—”
Hélène extended her palm toward the daunting sky. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”
“Ouais, maybe. But I’m cooped up all day. It’s so nice to get some fresh air, non?” Sylvie flashed her a persuasive smile. “And I spend most of my waking hours in the water. So if you think a little moisture in the sky can chase me away, you don’t know me very well.”
Hélène blushed. “Non. Guess I don’t.”
“And now that you’re a swimmer, you should start thinking like this too. Life’s too short to—”
“Guess I didn’t realize.” Hélène nodded bashfully. “D’accord, lead the way.”
“Follow me,” said Sylvie with a wink. She led her past a stream of gregarious diners digging into steaming plates of food. Forks plunged into lamb kebabs. Hearty laughs chased long gulps of white wine.
Hélène couldn’t fathom what the diners were saying, but their vibrant intonation, the way the syllables bunched together—bouncing one “th” off another, and ending with either an “ia” or an “io”—rendered Greek the liveliest, most musical language she had ever heard. Latin may be long dead, but Greek is as alive as ever, she mused.
“Through here,” said Sylvie, grabbing Hélène’s hand.
Hélène shuddered at the touch of her firm grip. Then she noticed two elderly men seated at a back table. One hollered to Sylvie in Greek. The other whispered something to him; both men started laughing.
Ignoring them, Sylvie pushed open a wooden blue door.
Hélène glanced back at the men. The mustached one yelled something to her in Greek. Wonder what he’s saying? Shrugging, she followed Sylvie outdoors. Even after they penetrated the lush garden, the enticing aroma of foreign spices and grilled meat lingered in the air.
*****
“Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves,” whispered Sylvie, approaching a petite iron table wedged in the back, next to a red brick wall. A lofty tree with gnarled branches sprouting tiny white flowers made this spot the most intimate in the garden amongst all the empty tables.
Like a well-groomed gentleman, Sylvie pulled back a chair for Hélène. Then she plopped down next to her.
Hélène stiffened as she felt Sylvie’s body unusually close. Their shoulders were nearly touching. Pretending she didn’t notice, Hélène aimed her nose at the delicate white flowers dangling above their heads and took a deep whiff. Honeysuckle. So sweet, just like this moment.
Sylvie leaned closer and whispered as if someone could overhear her. “It’s so stuffy inside, je déteste. Especially at lunchtime.”
Hélène nodded. “Do you know everyone in there?”
“Of course. We all know each other somehow,” Sylvie said with a sigh. “The Greek community here is like one huge family. Dysfunctional, to be sure, but still a family. It’s a cultural thing.” She paused to take in the beauty of the verdant garden.
“We’re not as reserved as you Belgians. And the older men…Eh bien, they can get really obnoxious at times. Especially after they’ve knocked back a few glasses.”
“I don’t mind,” Hélène was quick to comment. “I didn’t get a word they were saying. Actually, it’s kind of exotic.” Hélène bit down on her lip. Like you. I wonder what you’re like after you’ve knocked back a few.
Sylvie snickered. “Sometimes I think you’re too nice for your own good. You’ve got to learn to protect yourself.” She squeezed Hélène’s arm. “Especially since you’re a poet.”
Hélène felt the tiny hairs at the back of her neck bristle. Sylvie’s hand was still gripping her arm. “Poet? Ha!” she exclaimed, careful not to budge, lest Sylvie remove her hand. She held her breath, feeling Sylvie’s energy radiating through her thick sweater, penetrating her skin. The tingling spread from her arm and raced down her side, heading toward her thigh. “Anyway, sure smells good in there,” she stammered.
“Just wait till you taste it.” Sylvie gave her a squeeze, licking her sensuous lips. “This is by far the best Greek restaurant in Brussels. And I should know. I’ve tried every single one of them.”
*****
Hélène knew she should be at work or home in bed, but for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t feel guilty. Guilt wasn’t what was bothering her, it was something deeper, more…As her mind searched for the precise word, her blue eyes drifted up to the faded parasol, nestled amongst the twisted branches and delicate white flowers, perched like a dainty mushroom over the two women’s heads.
Sylvie leaned over and broke the silence. “Cozy here, n’est-ce pas?”
Hélène sat up abruptly, wincing at the hard iron rods under her thin chair cushion. “Oui. It’s exquisite.”
Sylvie leaned even closer. “I’m so glad you stopped by the pool. What a surprise, finding you on the grass. What kinds of poems were you writing, anyway?”
Hélène pretended to study the bark of a nearby tree. “What? Nothing, really.”
“Come on. It didn’t look like ‘nothing.’ You were burning up the pages. Do you always write like that?”
Hélène grimaced. “I was just jotting down a couple of ideas—”
“A couple of ideas, mon œil! Despite all appearances, I bet you lead an exciting life.” Sylvie chuckled, peering into Hélène’s wide eyes. “Maybe you’re a double agent?”
Now it was Hélène’s turn to laugh. “Just a boring translator. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Alors, in that little book of yours…no dark secrets lurking about?”
Hélène felt her cheeks growing hot. “Not that I know of.” She cleared her throat.
Sylvie’s eyes were sparkling. Before Hélène could stop her, she reached over. “Let’s see what’s in here!”
Hélène intercepted before she could get into her bag. “Hey, you can’t just—”
“Ah, yes, I can!” Sylvie’s shoulder dug into Hélène’s chest. “I’m your teacher, so you have to obey me!” The two women formed a tangled ball of limbs as they struggled against each other. The closeness of their bodies made Hélène dizzy. The smell of chlorine on Sylvie’s skin
drew her in. So familiar. So sexy.
Before Hélène knew what was happening, a hot feeling shot through her body. Pleasure mingling with pain, like a sharp elbow nudging her consciousness, poked her in all the tender spots. What do I do now?
Hélène braced herself as Sylvie’s breath caressed her cheeks.
Chapter Sixteen
Vassilios, the waiter, entered the garden carrying a basket of fresh pita bread, two menus, and a large plate of Kalamata olives. He was whistling a Greek tune, but as soon as he saw the table in the far corner, he stopped. She’ll never change, he concluded, shaking his head.
He lit a cigarette and stood on the porch, watching. After all, it wasn’t every day that he could observe two sexy women grabbing at each other in the garden.
Sylvie’s arm was arched high in the air, ready to swoop into the other woman’s bag. Her prominent nose was an inch away from Hélène’s. Vassilios could imagine Sylvie’s warm breath falling on the blond woman’s lips, her dark eyes boring into the other’s—about to devour her.
Vassilios took another drag on his cigarette. The seconds ticked by until the other woman poked Sylvie in the boob.
“Aaaiieee!” shrieked Sylvie, rubbing her breast as she pulled away.
Vassilios cupped his hand over his mouth to conceal a jubilant snort. Good for you, pitsirika. Time someone taught her a lesson.
*****
With a flustered face, Hélène stammered, “Sorry, but my diary’s private. I don’t show it to anyone.”
“So it’s a diary.” Sylvie maintained her grip on Hélène’s arm. “Not even your husband?”
“You kidding?” Hélène’s eyes went ablaze. “That would be suicide.”
“Fine. But I’m not your husband.” Sylvie lunged toward Hélène’s bag again.
“It’s full of personal stuff. Just stupid ideas. I’d die if someone read it,” retorted Hélène, clutching her bag and turning away.
“Never mind. We’re not here to fight. I brought you here to eat, remember?”
As soon as the words left Sylvie’s mouth, Hélène swung around. “Now you’re talking.”
Sylvie yelled something in Greek. Vassilios stubbed out his cigarette with his shoe and dashed over.
As soon as Hélène saw Vassilios, her body went stiff. The waiter looked more like a Greek statue than a person. He flashed them a gallant smile, but all Hélène noticed were his beefy pectoral muscles protruding from his open shirt. She could almost smell the testosterone in the air.
Vassilios dumped the basket of pita bread and olives on the table and—with his well-defined lips—planted affectionate kisses on Sylvie’s cheeks.
Only a half inch from her lips, Hélène calculated. Her stomach began to rumble. When the waiter draped a bushy arm over Sylvie’s shoulder and whispered something in Greek into her ear, Hélène gripped her chair with angst. I wonder if Sylvie likes hairy chests? She tried to tear her eyes away from the pair but couldn’t.
He’s looking at her like she’s his supper. Hélène pinched her lips together to fight off a scowl.
“So, what have we dragged in from the sea today?” he aked in perfect French, with hardly an accent. Winking at Sylvie, he added something in Greek with lots of th’s and io’s.
Hélène felt stupid for not understanding. She knew they were talking about her. And she was a translator—her job was to detect what other people said. Hélène offered him a saccharine gaze. Why can’t he just act like a normal waiter and drop off the menus? Hélène took in a deep breath to swallow her irritation.
“So, what are you in the mood for?” Sylvie asked abruptly, pointing to the menu.
Hélène blinked twice. All the writing was in incomprehensible Greek characters. “This place certainly is authentic. Whatever you like is fine with me.”
“Non, really. What are your favorite dishes?”
Hélène squirmed. “Actually, um, I’ve never tasted Greek food before.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sylvie looked at Vassilios, who raised a bushy brow. Hélène sunk deeper in her chair.
“Well, you’re in for a real treat. Let’s start with some mezé.” The goddess continued in Greek, “A mezé for two and a half liter of retsina. Thanks, Vassili.”
The waiter jutted his decisive chin at the two women, winked at Sylvie, and left.
Hélène forced a smile at Sylvie. “So you really are Greek. I wasn’t sure,” she stammered. “You hardly have an accent.”
“Really? Are you trying to butter me up? I’m one hundred percent Greek—nutritiously grown on the island of Santorini.” Sylvie pointed to her prominent nose. “See this? It’s sculpted just like a Greek statue. We’ve kept this nose in our family for centuries!”
“Santorini? Vraiment?” Hélène reached into her bag. “Look.” She handed her the small oil painting.
Sylvie examined it with interest. “Where’d you get this?”
Hélène blushed. “I’ve got my connections.”
“It says ‘Santorini 1983.’ Wonder who painted it?”
“There’s no name on it.”
“Look, you can even see my house,” Sylvie gushed.
“Which one?”
“The white one on top of the cliff.”
“But they’re all white,” Hélène said, feeling her anxiety melt as soon as Sylvie chortled along with her.
“Here. Tiens.” Sylvie’s chocolate-colored eyes were glistening.
“Non, you can keep it.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t need it. I’ve got the real Santorini locked in here.” Sylvie put her hand on her heart. “Take it,” she insisted, handing the picture back.
“Now, try some retsina,” Sylvie prodded, filling Hélène’s glass with the pale-yellow liquid. Hélène held up her glass and sniffed.
“Smells like Chanel No. 7,” she declared, scrunching her nose.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sylvie cooed. “Drink up, it’s good for you.”
Hélène pinched her nose and tried a small sip, averting her gaze from Sylvie’s luscious eyes.
“So?”
“Nice,” muttered Hélène. Not only did it reek of Chanel No. 7, it tasted like it. This stuff is lethal, she mused, swirling the yellow liquid in her glass.
*****
While waiting for their food, the two women chatted casually—until Hélène popped the question that had been eating at her for weeks. “Why isn’t your name Greek?” she blurted.
“Because it’s not my real name.”
Hélène’s ears perked.
Sylvie leaned forward. “My grandpa traveled a lot, you see. He settled in France after World War Two. In fact, he traveled so much, and his name was so hard to pronounce, that finally, everyone just ended up calling him Routard.” She inserted an olive into her mouth, then skewered one for Hélène with her toothpick.
“Home-grown,” she offered with a tempting grin.
Hélène shook her head. “S’il te plaît, continue…”
“Your loss,” murmured Sylvie, munching on the olive before resuming her story. “So when I moved to Belgium at age nineteen, I decided to use that name too. I admired my grandpa so much, you see.” She spat out her olive pit.
Vassilios deftly unloaded an armful of aromatic, spicy dishes on their table.
“After a full morning of swimming lessons, I’m famished.” Sylvie heaped an assortment of mezé onto Hélène’s plate, then loaded up her own. “Kalí óreksi…I mean bon appétit,” she added, digging into her food. “Mmm, I adore this stuff.”
Hélène watched with wide eyes as Sylvie ingested three times as much as she did. Incroyable. I’ve never seen a woman take in so much food in one sitting. As for her own appetite, nibbling was the only way to thwart the nausea still lurking in her system. She tried to conceal her uneasiness by wrestling with her fork: rearranging the vine leaves, Kalamata olives, fried squid curls, and unidentified pink-and-white creamy paste gracing her plate.
&nbs
p; Whatever this all is, it must be delicious, she concluded, witnessing the expression of ecstasy on Sylvie’s face. These savory, calorie-filled wonders might look and smell like heaven; unfortunately, they wreaked havoc on Hélène’s queasy intestines after her junk-food binge. To her relief, Sylvie had no qualms about helping her polish off her lunch.
Hélène watched with amusement as Sylvie wrapped the warm pita bread around her fingers and sponged all the excess sauce from Hélène’s plate. Then, ever so slowly, Sylvie brought the pita bread to her luscious lips. They gently parted to expose Sylvie’s white teeth while her tongue ventured out, licking her plump bottom lip.
Hélène watched mutely as Sylvie’s mouth opened just wide enough for her to take a generous bite from the lavishly smothered thin bread. She’s not kidding. She really digs this stuff. Hélène noticed a small trickle of yogurt, garlic, and dill sauce drip onto Sylvie’s muscular wrist. That wrist. That arm. Hélène’s thoughts went back to the car, and Sylvie’s strong forearms as she deftly maneuvered the steering wheel. She’s a sexy driver and a sexy eater. Men must go nuts over her…I’m starting to go crazy myself.
To make up for her quasi-anorexic behavior, Hélène made an effort with the ghastly white wine. After a few swigs, she realized as long as she blocked her nose—ever so subtly—she could get the liquid down. It was just a matter of keeping it there.
“Tiens, let me help you,” Sylvie cooed, inching closer to Hélène. She extended her index finger and painted Hélène’s lips with retsina. “Just pretend it’s a new shade of lipstick.”
Sylvie’s finger traced the contours of Hélène’s lips, moistening them, lingering.
Hélène felt tiny goose bumps rise on her arms. “Greek gloss,” she whispered with a self-conscious grin.
Both wineglasses were empty. Giddy from their Greek gastronomical orgy, the women simply gazed at each other. Temporarily suspended in an intimate, floating bubble, they lost all notion of time. Hélène peered into Sylvie’s dark eyes, which seemed to lure her in, ready to swallow her whole.
