by Dillon, Paul
A monk waved a hand, striking up the brass band. The entourage crossed the shaded portico to the church steps. Fifteen seconds elapsed and the bandsmen fell silent again.
Gerasimos appeared to be inspecting the crowd from the top of the steps. Elena gripped her father’s arm; his stoic expression remained fast.
The bells resumed their hypnotic tempo. Sunlight showered the silver coffin as the bearers edged forward. The band struck up a march and the procession began. An official photographer, crouching on the steps, snapped shot after shot, backing away like a cur as the saint descended.
Elena crossed the portico and squinted in the sun’s glare. She flipped the black hat onto her head, tipping its brim over her eyes and took in the scene. Awash with color, two brass bands led the procession, light blue tunics for the lead, ivory for the vanguard. Banners and standards lined the route, blue and white flags of Greece, yellow of the Orthodox Church. Color and music were one in celebration; the band expressed joy in synchrony with the relentless pealing of bells.
Bearded monks, some in black robes, others white, swung incense burners ahead of the saint. One of the clergymen handed his censer to a young man, picked at random from the crowd. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the man held the smoking orb swinging it back and forth, sending wafts of scent floating in the sweltering air.
“I hope Dad’s okay,” said Elena.
Her mother seemed lost in own thoughts and stared straight ahead without answering.
From her elevated position, Elena looked down at the casket. Solid embossed silver called to mind museums, antiquities, cathedrals… A large cross sat atop a dome which rested on the heavy chunk of a square cornice. As she descended the stairs, the sarcophagus disappeared behind rows of nuns, walking five abreast, in the wake of their saint.
Nicia left her husband’s side, dropping back a few paces.
“It’s quite an occasion,” she said.
“Truly,” said Elena. “How far do we walk?”
“Two, maybe three hundred yards,” Nicia waved her hand. “Over there, past the bell tower to the big plane tree. Gerasimos spent the last twenty years of his life here.” She pointed to the right, over a stonewall. “We call these the threshing fields. This is where he dug the forty wells, raising crops to support the monastery and the poor. This place is sacred to the island.”
“How’s Dad taking it?” asked Elena, “He looks kind of strange.”
“It’s hard to imagine what he’s going through but it’s a necessary process,” said Nicia. “I’m sure it will work out fine.”
“I hope so, I’m still a little concerned.”
“All we can do now is show our love for him.” Nicia returned to Andreas.
A military guard in camouflage dress flanked either side of the saint, their polished rifle barrels poked up above the crowd like itinerant railings. Elena singled out one of the soldiers; tall, strong with close cropped hair under a black beret.
Perhaps, she thought. If my father had never left the island, I’d be a Greek woman and might have married such a man.
It wasn’t long before the procession reached its destination by the magnificent plane tree. Here, in a quiet courtyard, the majesty of the ancient tree inspired Elena. She looked at the silver coffin then imagined Gerasimos, a living man, digging the ground, planting the young seedling in the earth.
More than four centuries old, she found the timescale difficult to conceive and thought only about the leaves, falling, year after year, over generations of monks, toiling in the fields, eking out an austere life. Although a symbol of longevity, she thought the tree a reminder of the fleeting nature of her father’s, and ultimately her own, existence.
A prayer finished, a priest chanted, a monk stepped forward. White bearded, draped in black with flat-topped headdress, two ornate pendants hung from gold chains on his chest.
“Who’s that?” asked Elena.
“The Metropolitan, head of the Kefalonian Church,” answered Nicia. “He’s the equivalent of a bishop.”
The crowd hushed as the man prepared to deliver the litany.
Unable to understand, Elena focused on her father. As the Metropolitan reached the highpoint, tears appeared on her father’s cheeks. Oblivious to his surroundings, Ioannis Katros stared up at the plane tree, his face elated, yet crying like a little boy. Elena interpreted the expression as a struggle between sadness and joy.
The sermon ended with a tumultuous response from the bell tower; the bearers lifted the saint, turning around to begin their march back. For the first time, Elena got an unobstructed view of the silver casket. Painstakingly intricate, its quality appeared to be the work of the finest artisans. Four sculpted feet supported the base. Inside the sarcophagus, the body of Gerasimos stood upright, visible through arched glass panels. Above his head, a dome and cross rested on a molded cornice.
Mrs. Katros spoke. “It’s time to get the boys.”
Elena tugged the sleeve of her brother who took the children from their grandfather as part of a prearranged plan.
With tears in his eyes, Ioannis set off after the bearers, quickly overtaking them on their slow trek back to the church. Elena followed. She wanted to be there when he joined the pilgrims, the sick and the suffering, to lie, face-up, in the path of the saint. When she caught up with him, he was already on the ground.
A woman wailed, beseeching Gerasimos for a miracle. Her sorrowful prayers pierced Elena’s heart but she kept her eyes locked on her father. Finally, she thought, he looked at peace.
The sarcophagus bore down on Ioannis. A man in a green polo shirt swung incense in its path as the saint passed over a young boy. Moments later, the mournful woman, now singing a hymn, pulled the child into her arms, looking for her miracle. Elena turned her head away, as though from an accident, afraid to witness disappointment on the mother’s face.
Incense wafted over her father. The saint was almost within touching distance of Elena; she could see his face clearly. Seconds later, it was all over. Gerasimos granted no extra time, bestowed no visible favor, before moving on to the next pilgrim.
Andreas helped Ioannis to stand. The family gathered round, Nicia touched her brother’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Elena asked.
Her father nodded but did not speak.
Nicia smiled but the gesture did little to reassure Elena.
“There’s still one more ritual,” whispered Nicia.
Kissing the feet of the Saint, thought Elena. “Shall we?” she replied.
As they neared the church, people jostled around the steps. Elena looked up as the Metropolitan opened the casket’s glass door to the chanting of prayers. She had a clear view of the rite.
Perhaps Gerasimos is looking out over his land, storing up its beauty for another year, she thought. Perhaps he’s breathing the air of his beloved fields once more.
The first man in line placed his head inside the sarcophagus and bowed low towards the saint’s feet. He moved away, his place taken by his wife; the crowd inched forward, waiting their turn.
With each step higher, the aura emanating from Gerasimos grew stronger, filling Elena’s senses. As she watched her father stand before the casket, a strange realization struck; the mummified presence overshadowed the living beings around it.
Ioannis made his bow, taking longer than both Andreas and Nicia; stealing a few extra seconds for a secret prayer or to utter some long-prepared words. He turned away, leaving Elena face-to-face with the legend that her father had crossed an ocean to see.
Saint Gerasimos’s face looked towards the heavens, his mouth slightly open. For a split-second, fear gripped Elena; so intense was the moment. Taking a deep breath calmed her, leaving a tingling sensation all over. She tried to imagine her father’s emotions but felt like an intruder interrupting an intimate conversation.
“I’m his daughter.” Her words, spoken in Greek, issued almost imperceptibly.
Elena bowed her head before Gerasimos, down past his faded robes, t
heir original patterns still preserved, down past the thick gold chain hanging round his neck with its large ornate cross, down past the smaller cross and the ceremonial belt, down past the mummified hands. Elena bowed, whispering a prayer for Stamos and her father.
Chapter 29
Elena read the message again.
“Hi hope I didn’t wake you let me know if you can talk now and I’ll call you love you greg”
Stepping off the veranda into her room, Elena prepared to go down to breakfast. She did a quick calculation of the East Coast time difference; it was 1:00am in Boston. Greg was staying up late, trying to catch her before she set out for the day. He was checking up on her. If she didn’t call in the next hour, he’d be asleep.
By the time he wakes up again, I’ll be with Ben.
She mapped out the day, deciding when to slot in a call to Greg.
1:00pm the gallery, maybe some shopping after: the lighthouse at sunset, say 6:00-8:00pm: dinner after that and then… What did I promise last night and was Ben serious about renting a villa?
There’d be time to call Greg in the late afternoon or she could do it now. She sat on the bed to clear her mind. Today or tomorrow, she would have to make travel plans or say goodbye to her job and possibly Greg too.
She looked over the spacious, country-style bedroom, comparing it to her own. Last night’s clothes lay draped over a stool, adding a touch of chaos to the perfectly manicured room. A brown and beige fern-patterned rug covered the center of the wood-planked floor. Laid at a diagonal to the dark green walls, the carpet formed a diamond shape. The bed, dressing table, and chest of drawers were all hand-painted; pale cream with floral designs. Interesting objects littered the dresser; antique perfume bottles, candlestick holders, silver things with unknown uses, an old pewter…
What was that—an incense burner fashioned into a boy’s head?
She got up, tidied her clothes and went out to the balcony, hoping the view would provide inspiration. Her book lay face down on a rustic table. The scene belonged to Ben, not Greg, the courtyard, the pines, the olive orchard, the bench from last night, the bay, Lixouri. Greg would have to wait; she would text him after visiting the gallery.
A knock on the bedroom door reminded her of breakfast; it was probably Sophia.
“Just a minute.”
She checked herself in the mirror. Her deep purple, ruched, halter bra-top showed off just enough cleavage; enough to drive Ben crazy.
She opened the door. Sophia entered.
“Morning,” said Elena.
“Are you coming down?” asked Sophia.
“Yes, I’m just deciding what to wear with this top.”
“White probably.”
“I have the pants from last night or a white mini—he’s seen the pants already, the mini it is.”
“Are you getting serious about him?”
“I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
Elena finished dressing. They went down to the kitchen where Aunt Nicia busied herself making coffee. Food was laid out, buffet-style, on the counter.
“Help yourself to whatever you want. Take one of those trays and go out by the orchard. I’ll bring the coffee to you,” said Nicia.
Two minutes later, the girls sat, chatting, under the pines.
“It seems like forever since we last had breakfast here, before our trip to Fiskardo,” said Elena. “But it was only the day before yesterday.”
She brushed a fly from the edge of her plate.
“I forgot to tell you, I got a message from Dimi,” said Sophia. “He was asking about you.”
“Oh?”
“He wanted to know how you were, and he asked if you wanted to model for him before you go back to the States.”
“Teaser—no he didn’t,” said Elena.
“No really, listen.”
Sophia retrieved the voice message and handed her cousin the phone.
Elena missed the first part, besides it was in Greek. She strained to pick out any familiar words; it was definitely Dimi—his deep voice was unmistakable.
‘Elena’—he’d said her name all right, ‘ómorfo korítsi’—that meant beautiful girl. She couldn’t decipher any more.
“I can’t understand what he’s saying.” She handed the phone back to her cousin.
Sophia listened to the message again, repeating it word for word. “He said, say hello to Elena for me, such a beautiful girl. When is she going back to America? I’d like her to model for me.”
“What’s the Greek word for model, I want to hear for myself.”
“Pozaro.”
She listened to the message again. “Is he serious?”
Elena thought of her reflection in the mirror minutes earlier—before she had put on her skirt. She wondered what it would be like posing, half-dressed, in his studio?
“He sounds serious,” said Sophia.
“He’s crazy, what about his wife?”
“What’s she got to do with it?” Sophia appeared confused. “Anyway, didn’t she suggest it? He told me she never goes into his studio and he never goes into hers.”
“Am I supposed to decide; is he waiting for a reply or something?”
Elena wondered if now was the moment that Sophia would say ‘Fooled you!’.
“You don’t have to get back to him … not unless you want to.”
She wanted to ask Sophia how long the sitting would last but decided against it.
“You were telling me about Ben,” said Sophia.
“Oh yes,” Elena paused, “I need to talk to you … I really need your advice, I have some decisions to make. How much time do we have before you open the gallery?”
Sophia checked her phone, eager to hear more.
“It’s only eight-thirty, we don’t open for another two hours; we’ve plenty of time.”
“He’s really crazy about me—at least I think so.”
“What makes you say that?”
Elena started to say something but checked herself. Sophia was sharp; she needed to be careful.
“Well, I can just tell … and he dropped out of the last leg of the cruise to be with me.”
“You didn’t sleep with him did you?”
“No, of course not.” She thought back to the hotel in Fiskardo. “We stayed in the same room, but there were two beds,” she paused, “I mean we kissed a bit, but nothing serious.”
“What will Greg think?”
“I’m not going to tell him, so he’ll never know,” she quickly corrected herself. “There isn’t anything to tell him, anyway…”
Elena heard footsteps and looked towards the courtyard. Uncle Andreas approached carrying a tray.
“How are my beautiful girls this morning?”
“Fine.” They both spoke at the same time and smiled.
“Coffee is served.”
He placed the tray on the table and bowed in the manner of an old-fashioned butler. After making small talk, he headed back to the house. As soon as Andreas was out of earshot, Sophia and Elena continued their conversation.
“I’m going to look up some flight options,” said Elena.
“You’re going back?”
“I haven’t decided yet. If I stay longer than a few more days, I won’t have a job to go back to. Plus, Greg will drive me crazy. He left a message this morning to call him right away—there’ll probably be another quarrel when we speak. I can’t take much more of that.”
“I can check the flights before I go to the gallery, but I thought you were thinking of staying. I haven’t asked Grandmother, but I’m sure you could stay as long as you want.”
“Ben said we could rent a villa.”
“Why would he say that if you’ve only just met? I thought you said nothing happened between you.”
“It didn’t.”
“How can you be sure he’s serious, you hardly know him? Even if he does rent a place, he might get bored with you in a few weeks and go back to LA. Who knows what he’s got going on there.”
Elena sipped the coffee. “You’re probably right. It’s a bit risky.”
“It sounds like you’ve all but decided to go home then.” Sophia didn’t attempt to mask her disappointment.
“Almost, I’m going to call Greg this afternoon. I’m actually starting to miss him. It’s so funny how you get used to a person. I’m definitely not looking forward to going back to work though, and I’ll miss the island so bad. Still, I’ll have one more look at Ben then, tomorrow morning, I’ll either buy a ticket or…”
She didn’t complete the sentence, a few seconds of silence ensued.
“What about love? Don’t you love either of them?”
“Well Greg … yes, of course. It’s too early to tell about Ben. If I stayed with him, I’m sure I’d fall in love.”
A curious expression crossed Sophia’s face, as if she thought their idea of love differed.
“Even if he does rent a house, you don’t have to move in with him,” Sophia continued. “Just stay here with us and see how it goes.”
Elena didn’t reply.
Ben won’t rent a villa unless I agree to move in, she thought, he’ll just stay at the hotel, until I give in.
“I thought you loved the lifestyle here,” said Sophia. “You said you wanted to try something new.”
“How will I know without deciding on Ben? If I stay, he’ll stay too and I’d want him to. That means I’ve rejected Greg.”
“If you stay, you’re rejecting him anyway; Ben or no Ben.”
“Well, Ben’s just changed the whole situation—what can I say.”
The look of disappointment on Sophia’s face prompted a lame response.
“I can come back with Greg—every summer—we’ll vacation for a month at a time.”
Sophia got up. “I’ll get the laptop.”
Elena dialed Ben’s number. She’d forgotten their arrangements for the day.
As she waited for him to pick up, a snippet of last night’s conversation flashed into her mind.
‘At the moment, you do’—that’s what he’d said. Sophia was right; he’ll stay until he’s bored then go back to LA—Sophia’s always right.
It was beginning to make sense to Elena. She’d met Ben for a reason and that reason was to confirm Greg as the right choice. It would be a wise decision to pick solid and dependable over massive uncertainty.
