“Welcome, Kyria Victoria,” Georgina said, as she tended to the split-pea soup simmering on the stove. “I’ll be with you in a minute. My mother told me about the letter you plan to send to your daughter in Toronto.”
Victoria pulled the wicker chair out and sat by the round table in her neighbour’s modest kitchen, its bone-coloured walls perspiring from the steam. “Forgive me this intrusion, my dear, but…”
“Please, Kyria Victoria, not another word; you know it’s my pleasure to help in this small way.” With pen in hand, Georgina’s green gaze settled on the page. “Well, are we ready? How shall we begin?”
“Yes, my child. I am thinking. Well, write: To my daughter Eleni and my son-in-law Alexi Manis I send my love, warm regards and parental blessings.” Victoria watched the young girl concentrate as she took her task seriously; the more the old lady scrutinized the young girl’s face, the more she was drawn to her expression of kindness and her desire to please. Her mind wandered to one thing: Why hadn’t she sought Georgina’s help much earlier? Why had Eleni’s elopement to Alexi scandalized her so deeply?
“Done, Madam Victoria, keep going…”
“And I send my best wishes for a Happy Easter. I hope you are in good health with the good Virgin Mary’s help.” Victoria thought for a moment and buried her face in her hands, as she choked on her words. “Yes, hoping you are in good health, please all the saints and our Lord…”
And yet last night Victoria was thinking of telling Eleni how much she missed her, the loneliness she had felt during the last three years, her deprivation and poor health. Was it proper to mention her desperate need? And if so, how? Up till now Victoria had borne it all. She had kept herself to herself; she had maintained a proud face. No one had seen her cry. But with Eleni gone so long!
As the old lady’s eyes swelled, she covered them with her hands. A black kerchief covered most of her face, and the protruding white hair made her look much older than her sixty-five years. She sat in despair which welled up in her throat and made speech impossible.
Georgina stood up and embraced her. “Don’t worry Kyria Victoria. I’ll continue the letter; I’ll tell Eleni and Alexi about the weddings in our village and the baptisms that Father Michael performed recently. I’ll tell them about our new teacher and expatriates from the Diaspora who have come to celebrate Easter…”
Georgina read the letter; Victoria nodded. “It is fine my child, pleasant and polite. God grant you health and thank you for your kindness.” She hugged Georgina and left.
Incapable of losing her remorse and fears, Victoria tossed in bed most of the night. Would Eleni receive the letter and how would she react? Why did she not say how sorry she was for not answering her daughter’s letters three years ago? Why did she not say how much she wanted to embrace Eleni and her grandchildren, if there were any? In the morning she dressed and went to mail the letter. An icy cold engulfed her, and as she hadn’t buttoned her coat yet, a gust of wind blew her apron into a balloon against her face.
Days passed and turned to weeks—no return letter came. Victoria knelt before the icon that rested on a shelf above the fireplace and looked up at Mary holding her infant son:
Mother of our Lord great is thy power and grace.
Whatever has happened to my daughter, help me to receive it with spiritual serenity, and with the confidence that it comes from Thy Holy Will. I pray that she’s in good health. And if she’s well, guide her to send word to her desperate mother.
I implore you…Amen.
Victoria waited. She prayed at all the shrines. Every Saturday at sunset, she trekked towards the harbour to light the candles of St. Nicholas. A hushed silence greeted her when she stepped on the damp tiles of this remote white chapel. The feeble flames of the tiny oil lamps, hanging before the icons barely lighted them, and left the old lady in a somewhat terrifying semi-darkness. Victoria lighted a taper and its flicker created a sensation that St. Nicholas, on the holy altar’s gate, dressed in his flowing gold and red robe and with his crown upon his head, his eyes staring from his lifeless face, began to move and tried to detach himself from the wood on which he was painted. Victoria attached herself to this impression; she had a companion and confidant.
She placed some incense on the glowing charcoal, moved the censer upwards and sideways and watched with reverence as the smoke ascended in circular motions. “Praise to thee, St. Nicholas. I feel as though a dark veil has been lifted from my soul.” Victoria finished her worship, genuflected and closed the iron door behind her.
As she stepped into the chapel’s courtyard, the scent of sea salt reached her nostrils and the sea’s murmurs spoke to her. Infinite voices, some in beseeching tones and others in soothing consolations came from the rippling water. When the glistening, pure azure exhaled, little waves, invisible to Victoria, crashed against the cliff’s base. As their foamy tongues rolled back into the sea, they left behind comforting words, incoherent to her mind, but most welcoming to her soul. “Is my loneliness playing tricks on me, or is it the comfort I feel when I share my pain with St. Nicholas?” Victoria wondered.
II
The hot months approached and there was no word from Eleni. Hundreds of tourists flocked to Plitra. Some had come from Toronto, and soon rumours reached Victoria that Eleni lived shabbily. At first, the old lady dismissed them as malicious lies. “May they eat their tongues all those who spread falsehoods,” she sighed. “My daughter, a hard-working girl, has probably made it and her compatriots envy her.”
Yet, after a while the rumours preyed on her. What if they were true and Eleni was suffering? How could she cross the Atlantic and offer comfort and encouragement to her daughter? Besides writing to Eleni, how else was she to reach her? Plitra did not have a telephone; Molae, located sixteen kilometers away, had some, but even if Victoria went there, she did not have Eleni’s telephone number. Who could she turn to?
Father Michael, Plitra’s ubiquitous priest, came to Victoria’s mind. On Saturday, she baked a Prosforon, the offering bread the priest uses in making communion. The next day she took it to church and waited to speak to Father Michael after the service. To escape the burning sun, as they stepped into the courtyard, they headed towards the shade of the tall cypress trees, which guarded the white church. In his scarlet vestment cape, with his white beard resting on his chest, Father Michael resembled the saints hanging on the church’s walls.
“I’m a sinner, Father, in the Lord’s eyes and he’s punishing me.”
“Come, come, Victoria, tell me what’s wrong?”
“It’s my daughter, I’ve not heard from her. I’m not well and getting older. I’ve turned into a blade of grass beaten by the wind, scorched by the sun and stepped on by every passerby. Whether I’m cooking, picking olives or praying before the Virgin Mary, I only see Eleni’s face and wonder about her health…” Victoria pressed her hand against her lips. Father Michael took both her hands in his. “Have you written to her?”
“Georgina next door wrote a letter for me but no reply has come. My poor child did write to me several times from Toronto after she eloped with Alexi, but my heart was hardened then, Father. God forgive me! I was too angry with her choice for a husband, and now I’ve lost all contact…
“Don’t torment yourself. I know it’s hard to be conscious of a mistake and to feel the necessity of atonement; but remember our Lord is merciful and forgiving. He is just in judging us according to our thoughts and intentions. Tell me something, if you haven’t received a response, did your letter to Eleni return?”
“No, Father.”
“Then your letter must have reached her. It’s strange. Eleni was always a caring, cheerful girl; it’s not possible for her to hold a grudge. But leave it to me. I believe Father Peter, who is from our prefecture, immigrated to Toronto years ago. He could help us, for he’s familiar with every member of his parish and may know Eleni. It’s been quite some time since I corresponded with him, but if they’re both there, we’ll find out w
hat has happened. Please keep in mind that you’re not the only one in this predicament; many of our parishioners have loved ones abroad and for one reason or another have not heard from them.”
“Thank you for your interest and help, Father. May God grant you a long life.”
“Go back to Georgina and get her to draft another letter and bring it to me. In my letter to Father Peter, I’ll enclose your letter and kindly ask him to deliver it to Eleni personally.” Victoria reached for his hand, kissed it and left.
III
It was raining incessantly when Father Peter drove along Danforth Avenue in Toronto’s east end. He stopped in front of the Rhodes Diner, an eatery with twelve red-vinyl booths. As he entered the greasy spoon, the cigarette smoke, combined with the vapours from the grill and deep fryer, thickened the air and overwhelmed the Greek Orthodox priest.
“Father Peter, what a surprise on this rainy day,” Alexi welcomed him warmly; his tight white top and pants accentuated his dark skin and muscular frame.
“It is cold, my boy, not a good day to venture out. Is Eleni in? I must see her.”
“Of course, make yourself comfortable in this booth, I’ll let her know that you’re here, but first let me bring you a bowl of hot chicken soup.”
“Just a little, my boy,” the priest patted his midsection. Plump, with ruddy cheeks and a strikingly bald spot on his head, he appeared uneasy in his tight, clerical collar, as he slid with difficulty in the booth. When he settled comfortably, Alexi came. “Here’s the soup to start with and I’ll bring you something else shortly, but now I’ll help Eleni place the little one in the stroller.”
Within a few minutes Eleni appeared and approached the booth with her baby. “Good afternoon and welcome Father, we haven’t seen you for some time.”
“Well, you would have seen me Eleni, if you came to St. George’s more often.”
“I desperately want to, but it’s so hard now with the little one Father.” Her soiled apron did not diminish her beauty with her dark long hair, olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. Eleni placed a white blanket over the baby and tidied the long strands of hair on his forehead. “Look at you my precious prince, how handsome you are!” As Eleni smothered the baby with kisses, he clutched a tiny carrot in his hand and wagged his tongue trying to lick it. “How wonderful it would be my dear if your yiayia (granny) could see you now, grabbing all things that fall into your hands, and squeezing them like Hercules. If only we could…”
“Here you are. Bon appétit.” Alexi placed a plate with a large hamburger and fries in front of Father Peter. Then he sat in the opposite side of the booth, facing the priest and Eleni.
“Your news Father, what’s happening in the parish?” Alexi enquired.
“I am caught between two factions, one seeking to banish me and the other to retain me, but that’s usual for me; I care more about our adopted country. I pray that this new Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau, who’s popular with so many Canadians, keeps this country together…”
“Maybe after Trudeau’s term is up, Quebec won’t talk about separation,” Alexi quipped. “More coffee, Father?”
“No, thank you, my boy. I have a baptism at four o’clock, and I must leave shortly, because in this weather it will be a long drive back. But before I go, let me show Eleni why I’ve come today.” The priest reached in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here’s a letter from your mother.”
“My mother! How did…”
“It was enclosed in Father Michael’s letter to me, and he says your mother desperately wants to hear from you. She’s only interested in your well-being, my child. Think of her suffering and her hardships—life was always an uphill course to raise you on her own, since your father died in the war. Think of her loneliness, why don’t you write to her occasionally, and give her courage…”
“Write to her! But Father I haven’t forgotten her. How could I? I’ve never stopped writing, even though I haven’t heard from her. Ask Alexi who regularly sends my letters by registered mail, because they always contain a little something for her.” As they turned to Alexi, they both became conscious of a long, oppressive silence.
“Alexi! Tell…” But Alexi did not answer.
“Please, Alexi.”
Eleni’s glance now overpowered Alexi, like a sharp blade, it plunged in his chest. His heart contracted, his blood rushed to his face; it hummed in his ears and forced itself into the veins of his temples. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. Speechless, Alexi bolted the booth, and ran towards the kitchen. Father Peter dashed after him.
Baffled, Eleni wanted to follow Alexi as well. But she couldn’t move. Moving her exhausted body required effort, because her tremor broke into a fit of shaking. She didn’t have the strength to open her mother’s letter.
As Alexi’s back disappeared into the kitchen, Eleni had a sudden vision of their three years together. Those years were her whole life, and even though they were not exactly what she had dreamed, Alexi was the man she loved and the man she thought loved her. Now her life lay at her feet, among the cigarette butts, dried ketchup stains and other rubbish. Alexi’s apparent treachery moved Eleni to the grim edge of reality—the reality her mother had noticed three years ago, that he was a dishonourable man without any loyalty to his family.
Father Peter emerged from the kitchen and walked towards Eleni.
“He never mailed my letters, did he, Father?”
“No, my dear, he confessed to his gambling addiction and said how sorry and worthless he feels. Apparently, instead of going to the post office, he opened your letters, kept the money and went to Toronto’s Woodbine race track, his favourite destination—where he not only gambled your money, but most of the Diner’s profits. More recently, when your mother’s pride yielded and she wrote you a letter, Alexi confessed that it had indeed arrived, but he had discarded it.”
“What a fool I’ve been Father. I feel alone, tired. All this time I’ve lived with the aching assumption that my mother had not forgiven me. God how much she must have suffered, not just from the impression she had of Alexi, but also from the poisonous tongues when we challenged Plitra’s social conventions. I should have suspected something much earlier when not a word came from her.”
“Now, now, my child, stop blaming yourself. I understand your indignation but with peace and prayer you’ll be able to face this. You and your mother enjoy a strong bond—a bond that does not hang by a thin thread but which has a strong foundation. No one can break it. Think only of her for the time being, because you are her whole life! Remember the saying: Obtain a parent’s blessing and you shall climb mountains.”
“You know that I care deeply for her, Father—all the more reason why this feeling of remorse and self-reproach consumes me. In my passion, I only saw Alexi’s sweetness and missed his evasive nature. More recently, his irritable, restless and withdrawn behaviour should have…”
“Leave Alexi to me, Eleni. I promise to do everything possible to help him. It will require time, and it will require all the counsels and even reprimands of the church to bring him to his senses. But for now, I implore you; please write a letter to your mother. Try to imagine the sheer delight she’ll experience when it’s in her hands. She’ll always carry it with her, kiss it and feel as if she has you in person. Will you do that, Eleni?”
“Of course! I promise, Father.”
First Impressions
She was ready. In her navy suit, self-made, Katerina looked at her tanned complexion in the mirror, clear and free of blemishes, so simple and vulnerable; there was a glint in her brown eyes. She parted her chestnut hair on the left side, but, as if she remembered something, abruptly turned her glance away and left her room. If it was at all possible, she would not look at herself in the mirror again—not even to comb her hair. She had become bored with her image. Looking in the mirror every day, you become used to what you see and accept it as the real thing.
Katerina should have thought of this some time ago:
to avoid the mirrors, until she forgot her face completely. Afterwards, she would look at herself some day, and suddenly notice what others were seeing: all her reality without any illusions. This was the only way to change it once and for all. Now, of course, there was no need for these schemes. Now, everything would change on its own. If she was to avoid looking into the mirrors now, it would not be for the same reason, but to be able to see one day the change for the better which would have taken place in between.
With this thought, Katerina’s sprightly disposition was obvious this morning, and she descended the veranda’s grey wooden stairs of her uncle George’s house with a will; sniffed the air and felt the sting of the damp. She glanced at her watch and realized she had about an hour before starting work. It was her first job in Canada and she wanted to make a good impression. Her new life in her adopted country was beginning and she couldn’t stop thinking about this new land, Canada—the beautiful, rich, and incorruptible country, planning to celebrate its Centennial in two years. Unlike Greece, it was free from the burden of a long and complicated past, where it pursues you like a long criminal record and intervenes in your attempts to find the right path. The people here were guileless. According to her uncle, her mother’s brother, who had sponsored her to come to this blessed land, Toronto was a polite and peaceful city and she had nothing to fear, she would be welcomed. And she found it welcoming. Just yesterday her future employer Mr. Hoffman had offered her a job, making clothes in Toronto’s Spadina district. In Greece, she had apprenticed with a successful seamstress in Molae, a regional town in the southeast part of the Peloponnese peninsula, and had demonstrated a passion and skill in working with fabrics. Now in her early twenties, Katerina dreamed of working hard and establishing her own design shop.
To succeed, she was determined to leave everything behind, renounce her past, all of it—the hunger; the fear; her father’s death during the civil war; her mother’s untimely death; the misfortune of her relatives and friends—even her language, yes, the Greek tongue. Language sometimes carries the sins of all the previous generations, and poisons the next; it would be a good thing if one could forget it from time to time and recreate it from the beginning. Besides, she had to learn English right away, for she couldn’t rely on her uncle to be her interpreter forever. He kindly accompanied her to Mr. Hoffman’s factory yesterday and showed her the route she would be taking with the Dundas streetcar every morning. Now it was possible for Katerina to make it by herself; she savoured her first experience with hope. It was an exhiliration new to her, not to depend on others for her worth, and she was prepared to impose the most ascetic disciplinary regime on herself to achieve her dream. She’d always look forward, never back.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 13
