by Lena Manta
Their first child was a girl. She was born on a hot May day, and she was as beautiful as the spring that brought her into the world and the love that engendered her. Even though Theodora had an easy birth, Gerasimos was very anxious throughout it, as he couldn’t forget that his own birth had cost his mother her life. When his wife’s pains came, he began acting so crazily that his aunt turned him out of the room. The midwife, who’d been sent for very quickly, knew her work well, and the woman in labor was by far the calmest person of all. Her mother, who was also there, told her later that she had never seen a person or an animal give birth like that.
“All women let out a cry or two!” she told her, as Theodora held her daughter in her arms. “But you didn’t even let out a groan!”
The only one who didn’t involve himself with the arrival of this new life was Gerasimos’s father, who came home that evening and didn’t even ask about his daughter-in-law. Aunt Tasso gave him his dinner with tight lips. Only when she threw him the bread instead of putting it down beside him did he raise his eyes.
“Do you take me for a dog, throwing me a dry piece of bread?” he asked her angrily.
“You’re worse! A dog would be concerned about something other than himself,” she replied.
“What’s your problem with me this time?” he asked.
“Your daughter-in-law’s pains started today.”
“So? Did she give birth already?”
“No, she’s waiting for you!” Aunt Tasso replied sarcastically.
“My late wife had contractions for two whole days!”
“And that’s why she died straight after. Theodora had the baby earlier this afternoon.”
“And how do you expect me to know?”
“You could have asked me!”
“OK then. I’m asking you now.”
“Your daughter-in-law had a little girl. May your grandchild have a long life!”
“A girl?”
“Yes, does that bother you?”
“Girls get married and leave.”
“Yes. And they turn into the daughters-in-law who look after their fathers-in-law as Theodora has looked after you. Ungrateful man! What’s your problem, and why are you angry with the girl?”
“Why are you lecturing me?”
“Because as soon as you’ve eaten, you’ll wash up and give your blessing to the new mother. A proper blessing, like she deserves, damn you! And furthermore . . .”
“OK. I’ll do it. Leave me in peace now!”
When he went to see the newborn, he even managed to smile at his daughter-in-law under the watchful eye of Tasso. He only seemed bothered when his son told him that the baby would be named after her grandmother, Melissanthi.
Little Melissanthi filled the house by the river with life. From the beginning, she was drawn to the water that snaked its way past the hedge. Her mother often took her on walks to the riverbank and the little girl watched with intense interest. But when she got older, she never went into the water unless someone else was with her. As much as she loved it, she also seemed afraid of it.
Two years later Theodora brought their second child into the world. It too was a daughter, but very small, and at first Theodora was afraid. She remembered her infant brother who had died: he had also been very small. However, it soon became apparent to her that her daughter might be tiny, but she was sturdy, strong, and lively. Perhaps more than they wished and more than they could bear. They baptized her Julia, giving her the name of her other grandmother, who was proud of the little one’s liveliness, if not her irritability and her shouting, which no one could bear. These, combined with her muscular strength, enabled the little girl to boss everyone around, including her grandfather.
Gerasimos’s father, whom everyone was scared of and no one crossed, was a plaything to Julia. As she grew up, she managed to do whatever she wanted with him. She practically gave him orders, and he actually obeyed them—which was something nobody could understand. She was only five when she decided that she wanted a dog, and what’s more, it had to be black. She waited until her grandfather came home in the evening to ask him. Naturally, she couldn’t know that the permanently grumpy old man couldn’t stand dogs, ever since he had been a child and a dog bit him badly on the leg.
As soon as he’d eaten and seated himself beside the fire to smoke a cigarette, the child climbed determinedly up on his knees and settled herself down. Her grandfather looked at her irritably.
“Don’t you have anywhere else to sit?” he asked sharply.
But Julia answered him without a trace of fear in her eyes. “I want to ask you something,” she said. “I want you to bring me a black dog tomorrow!” Tasso, standing behind her, had trouble suppressing a laugh.
“What’s that?” the old man shouted, then scowled. “I don’t like dogs.”
“But it’ll be mine. I’ll look after it. What does it matter to you?”
“It’ll be a nuisance, always underfoot. And maybe it’ll bite.”
“Grandpa, are you afraid of dogs?”
The old man rolled his eyes and Theodora hastened to pull her daughter away, but Julia held on to her grandfather with all her strength.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted to her mother. “I’m not getting down until Grandpa promises to bring me a dog.”
Theodora gave up and turned toward Gerasimos, who was smiling. “Why are you just sitting there?” she scolded. “Why aren’t you trying to put some sense in your daughter’s head?”
“My daughter has a lot of sense,” he replied.
“But she’s stubborn,” his wife answered.
“And everyone knows where she got that from,” added Gerasimos as he looked pointedly at his father. “That’s right, isn’t it, Father? Isn’t pigheadedness inherited?”
The old man looked at his son and then turned to his grandchild. “Why do you ask me and not your father?” he said to her curtly.
“Because you’re my grandpa. Diamando’s grandfather is going to buy her a horse! She told me so today. Why can’t you buy something for me too? I want to tell Diamando, ‘My grandfather bought me a dog!’”
A silence followed the little girl’s words.
“I’ll bring you the dog tomorrow,” the old man answered after a few moments, and Theodora was stunned. “But if it gets near me or if it bites me, I’ll kill it on the spot!” he declared angrily.
Having gotten her way, Julia just smiled broadly, then wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s neck and gave him a loud kiss. Silence fell upon the room once again, and the old man looked at his granddaughter with a severe expression that masked the surprise her impulsive gesture evoked in him.
“Now that you’ve got what you wanted, will you finally get off me so I can roll this cigarette?” he asked Julia, who smiled at him again and calmly got down from his lap.
The dog was indeed all black, and it came the next day in a box. It was a small puppy, and as soon as she saw it, Julia cried out with joy.
“Thank you!” she shouted. “You’re the most wonderful grandfather in the world,” she added, then took the dog in her arms, and, still jumping up and down with excitement, went to look for a place to put him.
“Eh, you hear that?” Tasso said to her brother. “It looks as if you’ve found your boss, brother, and that was something God was saving for you.”
The third child born to Gerasimos and Theodora was yet another girl, and they called her Aspasia. Theodora felt bad that she hadn’t managed to give her husband a son, but it didn’t seem to bother him. When she produced a fourth girl and revealed her sadness, Gerasimos scolded her.
“Have you gone crazy, woman? What difference does it make that we don’t have a son? We have four children and they’re all healthy and very beautiful.”
“Yes, I’m grateful for all that, but a father needs a son. And what’s more, daughters need dowries to get married. Don’t look at me like that—our situation was different.”
“So? I’m sure we’ve
got something or other to give our daughters. And besides, they’re all so beautiful that when we give them away, their intended husbands will certainly give me something extra.” He enjoyed this joke and told it often. He was proud of his girls, each one more beautiful than the one before her.
After their fourth daughter, Polyxeni, was born, a fifth one, Magdalini, followed. This last birth was difficult for Theodora and the doctor advised her not to have another child. But Theodora just looked at him and said, “Until I have a son, I won’t quit having babies, Doctor, so don’t waste your breath any further.”
When Gerasimos announced Magdalini’s birth, his father became quite annoyed and burst out, “This wife of yours certainly knows how to arrange things, doesn’t she?”
Gerasimos frowned. “What’s that you’re saying now?” he asked, matching his father’s angry tone.
“She has saddled us with a bunch of females, and we haven’t seen a son yet!”
“So?”
“Girls marry out. They marry and leave! Who’s going to work the fields?”
“I want children, not servants to work for me.”
“And our name? Who’ll keep that going?”
“Stop worrying about our family name and think about more important things! God decides what He’ll send us, and it seems He likes sending us girls. So let’s be thankful they are healthy—and that we are too and can enjoy them! There are worse things that could happen, Father. My mother had a boy, but died before she could even know me. She never got to enjoy watching me grow up! And what about you? You had a son—but did you enjoy me? Were you ever proud of me? Leave me be, Father.”
But his father didn’t calm down—and neither did Theodora. A few months after Magdalini’s birth, she announced to her husband that she was expecting again. Gerasimos was only worried by the news and cursed himself for not taking precautions. A sense of foreboding nagged at him throughout the pregnancy. When Theodora’s pains began, weeks before her due date, he was overwhelmed with fear. With great difficulty, his aunt managed to persuade him to take the children for a walk by the river while Theodora labored. As it turned out, the child was a boy. But as soon as Theodora saw him, the image of her dead brother came before her eyes and they filled with tears. She knew her son would not live. The doctor diagnosed a serious problem with his heart. Nothing could be done. The baby was condemned. Two weeks after his birth, he died in his sleep, leaving Theodora inconsolable and Gerasimos struggling to bring her back to herself. Even his father didn’t dare say anything.
A few months later, life in the house by the river found its rhythm again, but Gerasimos made it clear to his wife that they wouldn’t have any more children. However much she remonstrated, he was adamant.
Thanks to their mother, who had spoken very calmly to reassure them, the girls had recovered from the death of their brother.
“Death isn’t as bad as we human beings think it is,” she’d explained. “Whoever dies, especially a baby, goes directly to God and becomes an angel with pure white wings. There, beside the Almighty, the baby is happy and laughs all the time. So it’s a sin for us to cry for our little boy who is happy.”
The girls looked at their mother’s eyes and her peaceful gaze calmed them down. Since she wasn’t crying, that’s how it must be. Little did they know that Theodora held on to all her tears until she was alone.
When the youngest daughter, Magdalini, turned one, her grandfather became seriously ill and took to his bed for the first time in his life. The doctor said that his lungs had been attacked by a disease, and they shouldn’t expect him to recover. The old man wouldn’t allow anyone to care for him except his daughter-in-law. Only she was allowed to sit up all night at his bedside. When he asked her to send for a priest to hear his confession, she began to cry. As soon as the priest left, the old man asked to speak with her alone. She approached the bed and sat beside him.
“You asked for me, Father?” Theodora asked him calmly.
“Yes,” he answered, breathing with difficulty. “There’s not much time, and I don’t want to leave with this burden inside me.”
“You shouldn’t tire yourself,” she said, trying to stop him.
But the old man made a gesture with his hand. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest where I’m going. But I haven’t much time left here. So be quiet and listen to me. I owe you an apology.”
“But Father . . .”
“Be quiet, daughter-in-law!” he ordered her. “I know my sins. When I found out about you and my son, I wasn’t pleased. I behaved badly and I turned your father out of his job. When you came back as a bride, I didn’t welcome you as I should have, and if my sister hadn’t stopped me, I would have turned my son out too. I was stupid and cowardly.”
“Cowardly? You?”
“Yes. Because when I saw I’d made a mistake, and that you loved Gerasimos with all your heart—and not for his fortune—I never said I was sorry. I’m saying it now, though. I lost my wife very young—maybe that was the reason I was so wrongheaded and stubborn. Don’t be fooled because we don’t admit it, but we men are stupid and unbending. Without a woman beside us to show us what’s right—”
At that moment, a fit of coughing interrupted him, and Theodora took his hand. “Enough, Father,” she said. “You don’t need to say any more. I’ve never held anything against you. Every parent imagines their child’s wedding, and we deprived you of that.”
“That’s my own fault too. Now that I’m leaving this earth to join my Melissanthi in heaven, I hope she won’t fly at me for the way I behaved to our only son—she was quite a shouter.”
Theodora smiled, as did the old man.
“You women shout a lot,” he observed. “And you complain.”
“Can you keep a secret?” his daughter-in-law asked, smiling slyly. “They’re our weapons against your pigheadedness.”
Both of them were quiet now, and the old man squeezed her hand.
“You’re a good girl,” Theodora’s father-in-law finally said, breaking the silence. “Decent and strong. You’ll need that strength. My son is like all of them. Stubborn and egotistical.”
“And I’m stubborn too, Father . . . and a complainer!”
“I know. And that’s the only way you’ll manage with him. I know I’m doing this very late, but at this moment, I give you my blessing. May you live long, my daughter . . . and always be strong with your husband and children!”
Theodora bent her head and kissed his hand. The old man stroked her hair.
“Call Gerasimos for me now,” he said. “I need to speak to my son before I leave.”
The funeral took place two days later, with the whole village following the sad procession. They buried him beside his wife, and Theodora prayed with all her heart that he was finally reunited with his Melissanthi.
Gerasimos accepted the death of his father calmly. “I lost something I never had,” he told Theodora that same night when they were lying exhausted on their bed. “My father was always a dark figure beside the fireplace. A strange man. Often I asked myself whether it was because of my mother—if she loved him, or if she quarreled with him . . .”
“Before he died, your father told me she shouted a lot.” Theodora smiled at the memory, and Gerasimos looked at her.
“You got on well with each other before he died, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He wanted me to forgive him. What a shame! If that had happened years earlier, we would have been better off. Everyone in the house would have been happier. Do you know something, Gerasimos? There’s nothing stupider than holding words inside you that should have been spoken at the time. Except hiding feelings that should have been expressed as soon as you felt them.”
“My wise wife,” Gerasimos teased her.
“Don’t make fun of me!” Theodora said, glaring at him. “When someone dies, what can you say to them then? Who will you say it to? To his grave? Take my sister Anna and me, for example.”
“Why are you remembering her
now?”
“Every day I think of her and I curse myself for not learning to read and write so I could send her a letter in America. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.”
“Don’t be upset—what’s the ungrateful girl ever done for you? As soon as he asked for her . . . what’s the husband’s name?”
“Peter. Anna was very fortunate to marry him. They say people live differently in America. Maybe she has a better life because of him.”
“Yes, but she left without knowing the place or the people or even the language. It couldn’t have been easy for her. Doesn’t your mother keep in touch with her?”
“Anna wrote to Mother once or twice, and Mother went to the schoolteacher to have him read it to her. He wrote an answer for her too.”
“I could write to her for you if you like.”
“I know you could, but I can’t really speak to her that way. She wouldn’t open her heart to me, because she’d know someone else would read the letter and learn her secrets. And I don’t even know who writes her letters. Anna didn’t go to school either. Is that really how a civilized society is made? Only men get to know how to read and write? Why don’t all people learn to read and write? You know it’s different in the cities. It’s only in the villages that we girls don’t learn. But that’s not right! Gerasimos, I want our girls to go to school.”
“Why are you thinking of that now?”
“I shouldn’t have kept Melissanthi and Julia at home,” she answered as she sat up in bed. “I was wrong to listen to you. I want you to go and enroll them in the school.”
