Aphrodite's Stand

by Sandra Scott

  Paulo hurriedly ended the call. Taking a moment to massage his midsection, he quickly rose from the table in search of bicarbonate soda, which he hoped would appease his churning stomach.

  39

  George’s automobile sailed smoothly along the divided highway, which displayed Athens’s breathtaking scenic coastline on one side, while on the other side, a tall ridge blocked their view for more than a mile. Skillfully, he made his way toward a bend in the road.

  He cleared his throat. “Ladies, behold!”

  The Audi took the curve with ease, clearing the ridge completely. At once, a magnificent view of the Aegean Sea appeared. White foaming waves rolled over a dazzling azure-colored sea, meeting seamlessly with blue skies. As the women gaped, they murmured in unison as floating clouds magically parted to display the grandeur of a distant snowcapped mountain.

  “Simply incredible,” Al said from the front seat. She turned to George, whose face beamed with pride for his country. “Thank you so much for this, sir!”

  “You are most welcome,” he said. Briefly glancing over his shoulder, he pointed eastward toward a distant mountain. “My dears, Mount Olympus, the Greek home to the Olympian gods Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite, to name a few.”

  Grinning, Racine turned to her backseat companion, who looked uncomfortable. “Aphrodite, you say?”

  At Andra’s poke in her side, Racine stuck out her tongue. She then shifted to stare at the rearview mirror, which framed George’s merry eyes. “Do tell.”

  His face, bright with innocence, radiated pure joy at Racine’s request for more information. “Ah yes, Racine—Aphrodite! I am enchanted with her.”

  “So is Stefano,” Racine muttered for Andra’s ears only. She bit her lip at the twisting pinch applied directly to her arm.

  “And her legend,” George continued, his words unbroken. “She is the goddess of love, desire, and sex and is legendary for her beauty. Our folklore states any mortal man who looked upon her beauty fell madly in love with her—only to be lured to his demise.”

  Racine snickered, while Andra simply gazed out her window.

  “Why to his demise, George?” Al asked with all innocence.

  “Well, some say since she is a goddess and therefore unobtainable for mere mortals, men go mad due to the unfulfilled desire Aphrodite evokes within them.”

  “Fascinating,” Racine said, looking over at Andra’s averted head.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to climb a mountain,” Andra said hastily.

  “Since when?” Racine said.

  Andra ignored her, staring past the front seat and out the windshield. “Anyhow, that beautiful mountain looks as good as any to try.”

  “And somehow most appropriate,” Racine quipped. She lowered her voice. “Aphrodite.”

  Andra hit Racine hard on the arm, forcing her to gladly return the favor.

  Their mother turned to stare, her face exhibiting both puzzlement and consternation at the commotion in the backseat. Plastering an innocent expression on her face, Racine plied her mother with a sweet smile and quickly stared out her window at the passing scenery.

  Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the village square. The area was a fascinating mix of both old- and new-world charm, and as George maneuvered the car into an impossibly small parking space, Al ducked to stare through his window. She exclaimed with delight, “Andra, look over there! Freshwater sponges!” As soon as the car came to a complete stop, she jumped out and slammed her door. “I’ve got to get me some to take home. Race you guys!”

  Andra quickly exited the backseat and, with less force than her mother, shut her door. “Be right there, Mom!” she called over the car’s roof. Smiling, she bent to peer into the backseat. “Hey, brat, you coming?”

  Racine shook her head. “Naw, I’m not into that kinda stuff.” Glancing to her left, she looked beyond the window to the bustling cobblestone across the street. She pointed. “I’ll be over there, browsing some clothes. You guys meet me when you’re through. Then we can hang.”

  With a single click of her tongue, Andra straightened to capture George’s eyes as he too exited the car. “Would you like to join us?”

  He graced Andra with a smile. A moment later, his eyes lowered to lock with Racine’s. “If you and your mother do not mind, I believe I will hang with Racine.”

  Startled at hearing slang come from lips that usually spoke words in a carefully modulated accent, Racine and Andra burst out laughing. Their gaiety caused George’s smile to broaden.

  “What is it? I say it correctly, yes?”

  Andra nodded, still chuckling. “Yes, you did. Perfect!” She took a moment to search the busy village square. “Okay, I’ve spotted Mama over by those sponges. Wow, those things are huge!” She shook her head and laughed delightedly. “Anyway, as soon as I can pull her away, we’ll come find you guys.”

  “Sure, you two knock yourselves out.” Racine rolled her eyes George’s way, causing him to chuckle. We’re in Greece, and they’re perusing sponges? Really? Shaking her head at his amused expression, she pulled her purse onto her lap and quickly rummaged through it to make sure she’d remembered to bring money. She then jumped in surprise when her car door opened to reveal an amicable George holding it wide for her.

  At her hesitation, he stretched forth his hand. “Your mother and sister did not give me a chance to be polite—to celebrate them as women.” His hand motioned for her to take it. “I would like to do this for you. Come.”

  Exhaling loudly, Racine placed her hand in his and allowed his strength to pull her from the backseat. “Thank you,” she muttered, embarrassed, although she didn’t quite know why. Rotating her head, she perused the bustling square to take the focus off herself. “Jeez, this place is packed! Okay, lead on, Papa George. I just hope you know where you’re going.”

  “I will try not to get us lost—however, it might be difficult, especially since I have lived here my lifetime.” Laughing with Racine, he too scanned the crowded pavilion. “Well, since you have given me the privilege to decide, let us partake in refreshments before we do actual shopping.”

  Lightly touching the small of her back, George guided Racine across the congested street teeming with natives and tourists alike; they dodged everything from small cars to mopeds to bicycles, only to head for a small, rickety shack-like structure. Varieties of hanging spices, various appetizing colorful fruits, and other strange oddities hung from different vantage points about the tiny restaurant. Hastily, he pointed toward a vacant table on the sidewalk out front. Constructed from a rotund upside-down fish barrel, a heavy circular plank of aged wood served as the tabletop. Four small wooden chairs surrounded it.

  Three similar table-and-chair sets were positioned in tight proximity beside the empty table. Those tables and chairs were occupied.

  A bit reluctant to sit at a table that, by American standards, would have been clearly deemed an unstable health hazard, a virtual lawsuit waiting to happen, Racine felt her breath rush from her lungs as the sprightly older man pushed her into one chair only to quickly slide into the seat across from her.

  “Good! We were able to get a seat.”

  Really? Is this a good thing?

  Soon after, she watched George gesture at two men who meant to take away their table’s empty chairs, spitting out quick-fire Greek to stop them. Once he’d gotten his point across, he granted the departing men a nod of thanks and then turned a victorious smile Racine’s way.

  “They were about to take Al’s and Andra’s seats.” He shook his head in mock grievance. “We cannot have that.”

  Racine chuckled, shaking her head with him. “No, we cannot, Papa George. They’d skin us alive!”

  “Georigios!”

  They both turned toward the deep, melodic voice. A person Racine assumed was the shack’s owner swooped in with boist
erous salutations. Amid Greek hugs and two-cheek kisses, Racine was introduced to Clio, a medium-built, handsome Greek with extremely dark, weather-beaten skin and silver-and-black hair. She decided not to guess the older man’s age—to her, all Athenians projected an agelessness most other people didn’t.

  It wouldn’t have been worth her trouble to guess.

  For a brief period, Racine listened to George and Clio converse in animated Greek as the two men played catch-up concerning who knows what. Content yet bored, she broke from their lively foreign banter to peruse the surrounding area, hoping to spot her family; however, she couldn’t see past the impossible crowds. Bewildered, she shook her head at how so many people could move so quickly from one bartering stand to the next without crashing into each other. Each person’s bulky tote bags swung almost wildly, and small pushcarts zoomed in and out with efficient economy, yet as impossible as it seemed, they managed to avoid major collisions.

  For Racine, time became a contradiction, as it passed by both leisurely and rapidly, until she found her curiosity about the surrounding alien culture gradually turn to concern. She bit her bottom lip, worrying that her mother and Andra had gotten lost in all the crowds and were unable to find her and George.

  Finally clapping George on the back in friendly parting, Clio disappeared into the restaurant. As her table companion returned his attention, Racine endeavored to submerge her uneasiness.

  “There,” he said with a voice pleasantly carefree. “I have ordered us refreshments until Al and Andra find us.”

  Smiling noncommittally, Racine continued her casual search between the tiny gaps the crowds allotted as wave after wave of strolling people flowed by.

  “You think they’re okay?” she finally asked.

  George took a moment to survey the area. “I’m sure they are fine.” He paused to study Racine’s expression before he decidedly rose. “Yet I can see you are worried. If you feel we should search—”

  Racine shook her head. She reached over and tugged on George’s sleeve, coaxing him back in his seat. “You’re right. Sometimes I get a little nutsy over things. I’m sure they’re fine.”

  They sat quietly for a time, both scanning the crowds. The uneasy tension was interrupted when the owner of the restaurant returned.

  “Here we are!” Clio exclaimed in broken, heavily accented English. “Two glasses of ouzo and some meze.”

  With a flourish only a well-seasoned Greek could have accomplished, he rested on their table an extremely used round serving platter that held two goblets and a shot glass filled with wine. A small saucer displaying appetizing sliced ripe tomatoes, black olives, soft white feta and goat cheese, and crackers accompanied their drinks.

  After sliding their drinks and food onto the table, Clio plucked the smaller glass from his serving platter and lifted it in a toast, first to Racine and then to George. “Stin iyia sas!” Quickly, he tossed back his head, guzzling the drink in one gulp. Grinning broadly, he smacked his lips and winked, only to tuck the serving tray under one arm and once again head for the shack.

  Incredulous, Racine stared after the shopkeeper’s retreating frame until he disappeared inside. With her mouth agape, she turned to George. “I just want to know—does he do that with every customer?” she asked. “Because if he does, he’ll be hammered by closing time!”

  George laughed delightedly. “No, my dear, he does it only for the people who are special.” He duplicated Clio’s action by lifting his ouzo to her. “This is for you, my special one, to your health!”

  Up to the challenge, she lifted her glass high. “Stin iyia sas!” she said, her face warming under his pride-filled expression. “To your health!”

  Tentatively, Racine sipped her wine. Although she wasn’t much on drinking alcohol, the ouzo had a mild, not-too-unpleasant taste. She took another sip. Once she witnessed George put his drink down to study his hands, concern made her set hers down too. “What’s on your mind, Papa George?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak but didn’t. Closing his lips, he hesitated again. A second later, he nodded. “Yes, I would speak to you about a personal matter.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Shoot.”

  “You remind me so much of Cecilia, my wife,” he said, his manner forlorn. “I loved her very much. After much time passing, I still do.”

  “Yep, I can see that.”

  “Yes, well, I would like to tell you about my Cecil—how we met and how we loved.”

  Racine produced a vague nod. “Okay.”

  George cleared his throat only to taste his wine again. Carefully placing the glass back on the worn tabletop, which probably had seen much festive—and sorrowful—activity, he stared into her eyes. “Ours was an arranged marriage. We had not met one another prior to our engagement.”

  Racine’s brows lifted. “Yikes—what a bummer!” She shook her head at the foreign concept. “Didn’t it make you angry, being fixed up without having a say?”

  He gave a solemn nod. “I must admit I had rebellion in my young heart because I could not choose my own bride. However, I also knew it was my duty to my parents to do so. In obedience, I remained silent.”

  “Wow!”

  “But you see, the moment I met my Cecil, I immediately fell in love with her.”

  A tiny smile broke across Racine’s face. She bobbed her head. “So that’s good, right?”

  George paused to contemplate the question. He then sighed. “Yes and no. My dilemma surfaced when her feelings did not match mine.”

  Racine’s mouth formed a circle. “I can’t believe that. It’s not possible!” she said indignantly. She searched his distinguished face, which was still quite handsome even at his present age. “Was she blind?”

  Shaking his head at someone else who suddenly came up to claim the empty chairs, George chuckled wistfully. “Thank you, my dear girl. No, she was not blind—simply in love with another. She too did not agree with her parents concerning our match.”

  It was still early in the day, and a slightly intoxicated man looked out of place in the sunlit square as he weaved his way between tables. During his stumbling trek, he accidentally bumped into George’s chair, causing Racine to jump nervously. After blurting out a slurred “Excuse me,” he continued his unsteady quest toward the entrance to the small restaurant.

  On edge, Racine watched the drunk’s progress until he finally disappeared inside. Quaking inside, she attempted to dismiss the inebriated man and focused on her table companion again. “So what happened?”

  George, who had also watched the drunken patron, appeared reluctant to reengage the conversation. Uncharacteristically, he gulped his wine down; directly, his body straightened, as if the purple liquid had fortified him. Still, his face showed reluctance upon his resting his glass on the table.

  He sighed. “I created in my mind to court her and make her understand I could love her as much as the other man. Yet daily, her heart grew cold toward me. And I am ashamed to say I became desperate in my desire for her.”

  Tensing, Racine remained quiet, not wanting to predict the direction his story headed.

  “My desire overcame my logic, until one day …” He stopped.

  “Go on,” Racine said. His reluctance to speak helped her form a conclusion to his story. “You raped her.”

  In the wake of her building anger toward George, she was also surprised to feel conflicting pity for him when, across from her, his eyes promptly filled with tears.

  “As much as I loathe to tell you this, yes, I did.” Nervously, he fidgeted with his glass stem. “My love was strong, and my will was weak. I now know I violated her to force her into marriage with me.”

  Without warning, a manic rage swirled inside her, abruptly manufacturing blinding tears of her own. She sensed more than saw him extend his palm toward her. Angrily, she snatched her trembling hands out of his re
ach and balled them in her lap.

  “How could you do that to her?” she hissed. “To any woman?”

  As if burned, George retracted his arm, his face guilty. He hung his head. “I do not truly understand myself, but my desire for her was strong and my male pride even stronger, which made me believe I had the right.” He looked up with solemn eyes. “Over time, I had to face what was true. If I had truly loved her, truly respected her, I would not have behaved in such a manner.”

  From an emotionally great distance, Racine stared at the older Grecian who sat across from her. She hardened herself against the buried anguish in his voice and the overwhelming genuine repentance of his confession.

  Suddenly, she stared at him in veiled curiosity; she believed his soul-cleansing confession went beyond what he’d done to Cecilia and his need for forgiveness from her—he was extending his apology to Racine as well.

  Why?

  Intrigued despite herself, Racine sighed heavily. “Go on. What happened next with you and Cecil?”

  He nodded, as if they’d gotten far away from the story, and he was glad to get back on track. “Ah, she agreed to marry me. Once I took her for my wife and brought her home, I believed I could convince her of my love. But no, she drew further away. The more I showed her love, the more she appeared to be an imprisoned bird slowly dying in a cage called marriage.”

  Not knowing what to do, Racine moved her wineglass an inch to her right; however, her action threw off the appetizer platter, which she had to shift to the left and up in order to properly center it on the table.

  At the unexpected silence from George, she glanced over to witness him staring mutely at her precision work with a look of melancholy spreading across his face. Her cheeks grew warm at being caught trying to make her environment symmetrically perfect.

  “It started small—the behavior,” he said, as if there’d never been a break in his words. “First, it was her clothing, shoes, jewelry, and perfume bottles. The items had to be in perfect alignment, in a precise place. Next came her table setting, chairs, pictures—everything. They all had to be perfectly arranged. I witness this particular behavior in you.”