A placard announces the driver’s name is Mr. Dimitris Paxinos, but when I call him Dimitris, he corrects me. “You don’t say the s on the end. Just call me Dimitri. When you write it, you add the s on the end.” He smiles up at me in the rearview mirror.
“So where are we going?” He speaks with the same smooth, sweet Greek-English accent that I hear all around me now. I spread out in the back of the Mercedes, enjoying every minute of this luxurious experience.
I can’t believe it, but I don’t have my godfather’s address! Even worse, I can’t remember his last name. Tears start to fall for real now. Dimitris points to the pocket in my backpack. “Maybe you should check your bag.” He hands me a tissue.
I take it and open the bulging pocket in the side of my bag. The first thing that pops out is a huge wad of euros, and right behind that is a slip of paper with the address and cell phone number for Mr. Janus Giannopoulos. Relief fills me. Looks like my buddy Hal came through for me after all.
I feel like reaching over the front seat to give Dimitris a hug. I read the address out loud. “Salaminos 57 and Paramithias 15, Metaxourgeio.”
Dimitris frowns, surprising me. “Metaxourgeio? You’re sure?” He shakes his head as if he’s uncertain about this. “How about I take you to the Plaka or near the Acropolis? There are nice hotels there.”
“But this is the only address I have for my godfather,” I whisper.
“Metaxourgeio is…well…” – he sighs – “…not the greatest in Athens. You’re sure you want to go there?” he asks in warning. I’m not sure if it’s the sweet sound of his accent, but I feel as if he sincerely cares about what happens to me.
Am I sure that I want to go there? No. I reach into my backpack and find my cell phone. Maybe I can call Janus. I try to turn on the phone, but there’s no service.
I guess I have no choice. I’m going to one of Athens’s worst neighborhoods…lovely. “Yes, let’s go.” I nod, trying to look more confident than I feel.
“Okay, then.” Dimitris plugs the address into his GPS and drives me through Athens, telling me about his life. When he’s not driving, he’s a teacher…a high school teacher, in fact. He tells me all about the school where he works and what the school day is like in Greece.
He seems excited that I’m willing to listen to him. “I like to talk, but hardly anyone whom I drive likes to talk to me,” he says. “You know, mostly wealthy tourists.” Well, they’re missing out. I feel like we are fast friends already.
We drive through the streets of Athens, passing the gorgeous architecture and ancient Greek ruins that I have seen so many times before in my textbooks, and perhaps in my dreams. He points out the Parthenon, sitting high and majestic with its grand pillars of white marble up on a hilltop off in the distance, and other sights like the Temple of Olympian Zeus, the Arch of Hadrian, and the Greek National Library.
My eyes must light up for a moment because Dimitris says, “You like mythology; I can tell.”
I nod with enthusiasm, but then the spark leaves me as all these places remind me of Mom. She always said we’d come here…together.
Dimitris tells me how hard it is for the people of Greece to live with the financial crisis that started here eight years ago. “Most people that I know work two or three jobs just to survive, and often, with the taxes so high, even that is not enough.” His expression is faraway and wistful. “But even in the face of what seems an impossible situation, I know that the Greek people will persevere. Giving up is not in our genes.”
Twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of a rundown two-story building with peeling paint and neoclassical Greek architecture consisting of tall, rectangular windows. Graffiti is scribbled across the front. Once upon a time, this must have been a very nice place to be. As my friend Dimitris opens the Mercedes door for me, he seems uneasy about leaving me.
I hand him forty euros, which he hands right back to me. “Keep your money.” But then he raises an eyebrow in concern. “You’re sure you want me to leave you here?”
His eyes roam across the street to a shadowed alleyway, to where it looks like a prostitute is engaged in some sort of lewd act. This has got to be a mistake! I check the address on the slip of paper. This is definitely the place.
He shrugs. “It’s usually fairly safe around here, but…”.
After helping me haul my large suitcase up to the front door, he patiently waits for me while I ring the bell, which doesn’t seem to work. I nudge the door. Slowly it cracks open, not even locked. The air is filled with a heavy stench of what must be incense mixed with…is that cat urine?! Great. I’m allergic to cats.
Dimitris holds out his hand to shake mine, but I’m so thankful for his incredible compassion that I embrace him in a desperate hug. He smiles, eyes crinkling around the edges. I can’t help but feel sad that I won’t see him again. Tears threaten my eyes again, but then I remember why I’m here. Mom. She’s got to be here somewhere, or at least answers are here. My resolve stiffens, and I remember that I am strong. I can do this.
As I pull back from the hug, I’m shocked by what I see. Dimitris has a tattoo on the inside of his wrist – a double helix symbol with snakes wrapped around a flame - the same symbol that was on the face of the medallion that the police found at the scene of Mom’s explosion. The dying police officer’s words come back to me, “the medallion is the key…”
The sign of the Greek ‘mafia’ network!
The warm feelings I felt for him vanish as survival mode kicks in. He must have a gun. As my heart starts to race out of control, it dawns on me that he hasn’t yet tried to kill me or made any move to do so. He must not know who I am.
I must be staring too long at the tattoo because Dimitris quickly covers his arm. Sudden urgency to find my mom compels me to find out what he knows. Since I feel confident that he doesn’t know who I am, I decide to act like a tourist and ask, “What can you tell me about the mafia?”
His eyes grow wide and I inhale sharply as I anticipate his response. I hope it doesn’t include the use of a gun.
“No. We don’t have the mafia here. That’s in Italy.” He flashes me a wry grin, chuckling softly. Uh-huh, but isn’t organized crime everywhere? Maybe it’s not called the ‘mafia’ here, but it can’t just be in Italy. I can hear from the tone of his voice that he’s not entirely telling me the truth. “But that symbol…on your arm…your tattoo?” I stammer.
He sighs, thinking for a moment, but then his eyes lock on mine in seriousness. “Yes. Many of us who work in tourism here in Greece wear this symbol.”
Why isn’t he telling me the truth? Maybe he’s afraid for his life. He can’t tell me. That must be it. My new life here in Greece is not going to be easy. It’s like I’m trudging through quicksand. At any moment, I can fall through, and who knows what is underneath? I can’t wait to find my mom. Everything will be better when I find her.
He starts to leave, then pulls out a business card, which describes his tutoring services.
“You want to teach me math?” I ask playfully. “I don’t need much help there.”
“Well, Greece is the birthplace of modern mathematics. Pythagoras was Greek, after all” He grins, “This is my number. If you need help, call me.”
“The Pythagorean Theorem started here?” I smile.
“Yes, and Pi too,” he says.
I’m not sure what to think. He works for the people who want me dead. Is this a trick? He doesn’t know who I am, refused my money and now wants to teach me the Pythagorean Theorem. Can’t be a trick.
“But why? Why would you help me?” I ask. “Do you give your card out to all of your passengers?”
He shrugs. “No, not at all. You…you remind me of my sist
er,” he says in a low voice as he turns back to his car. In the next second, he’s gone.
5 – Godfather
I watch the Mercedes disappear around the corner. My trembling hand holds Dimitris’s card. I can’t believe that within my first two hours in Greece, I have already met a member of the Greek ‘mafia’ group that wants to take me out. If it’s this easy to cross their path here, then I’d better be careful. They must be everywhere.
What is up with my godfather? How could he not meet me at the airport with all that I’ve been through? And why is he not here waiting for me now? I’m already mad at him and I haven’t even met him yet. Not a good sign.
Since I know my mom is alive, it should be an easy matter for my godfather to help me find her…if I can find him. I study the shuttered windows on the second floor of the old, crumbling building in front of me. She might be here now. I push the door open, but there’s no sign of anyone.
A strange collection of odd-sized colored jars filled with a variety herbs and dried plants fills a shelf. There is a massage table in the middle of the room next to an oversized Buddha fountain. The walls are filled with African, Chinese, and Indian art depicting different scenes of healing. It’s serene. Up on a counter, there are rocks, crystals, and stones on display. I run my finger across a ledge, and ugh, it’s black with dust. This place hasn’t been cleaned in quite a while, if ever. My godfather must be some sort of healer, herbalist, or massage therapist. I call out his name. “Janus?” No answer.
What if something bad has happened to him? I frown as another even more disturbing theory hits me. What if my Greek assassins got to him?
As I make my way up the stairs, I hear a strange wheezing sound. The room looks like the teeny-tiny living and kitchen area of an apartment. Junk is stacked everywhere. If I thought it was dirty downstairs, this place is far worse. What a dump! The wheezing noise continues but reminds me of snoring. My eyes trace the sound to what appears to be a sleeping bag that is zipped all the way up on the floor in the middle of the room. From the outside, I can see the faint outline of a human shape, a clear indicator that someone is sleeping inside.
A cat is curled up on top, deep in slumber. My nose wrinkles. I’m sure my throat will close at any moment from an allergy attack. But nothing happens. How strange. Very carefully, I nudge the shape in the sleeping bag with my toe. The person inside begins to stir. There’s coughing, sputtering, and then cursing in what must be Greek as the sleeping bag starts to unzip. Disheveled long gray hair and a lopsided headscarf come into view as a very annoyed sixty-something man pops his head and upper body out of the sleeping bag. He glares at me, angrily rambling on. God, I hope he can understand English.
“I’m looking for Janus Giann…uh…oh, sorry! I’m not sure how to say it,” I stammer, scared out of my mind. “Do you…speak English?”
He looks annoyed as he straightens himself out, sitting fully upright, now almost businesslike. “Giannopoulos,” he says. His accent sounds like he could be from New York City. His eyes narrow as he studies me with a sneer, as if I’m some sort of repulsive vermin.
Before I can blink, his hand whips out wicked fast to the counter next to him where he aims a small pistol at me. “Who are you, and how did you get into my house?” His anxiety is obvious as his voice escalates a full octave. The gun shakes in his outstretched hand.
My mouth flies open. How could he not know who I am? There must be some mistake. I stammer, “I…umm…I’m…”
“Just spit it out. I don’t have all day!”
I can’t think straight with the gun pointed at me. The sound of rapid gunfire is still fresh in my ears. “Would you mind putting that away?” I ask.
“Yes, I mind,” he says in a clipped, even tone, “and no, I won’t.”
How can he be so heartless when I’ve lost so much and come so far to see him? I instantly want to tell him to go to hell, but I doubt it would help, so I have no choice but to maintain my cool and try to be nice.
“I’m...Helene Crawford?” I mumble. The blank look on his face is shocking, as he clearly has no idea who I am. My patience runs out. I feel as if I’m slowly losing my mind. “You’re my godfather!” I raise my voice in a fury. “My guardian?!”
I watch as his indifference shifts to sudden recognition. The pistol drops out of his hand onto the floor with a thud. Anxiety overtakes him as his eyes widen as he asks, “Helene? No!” He twists his hands in several directions, fidgeting nervously. “You can’t be here. This is not happening!”
I have no idea what to say.
He stands to his full height, which must be at least six feet. He is skinny, as if he never eats, with pale, almost translucent skin. His eyes are a bold shade of brown and fiercely intelligent, like he is scrutinizing everything about me and not happy with what he sees. As he ties his long hair into a ponytail, his multicolored headscarf falls off, revealing a shiny bald patch, which looks strange considering that the rest of his hair is almost down to his waist.
He shakes his head in irritation. “How did you get here?”
“I…well—” I start to say, but he rudely cuts me off.
“Well, what?!” His tone grows in urgency, but I’ve had it with him and his obnoxious condescension. He can’t treat me like this.
“If you would let me talk, I would tell you!” I yell right in his face.
He looks at me as if just now seeing me for the first time. “Fine.”
“Good,” I say, my arms crossed firmly. More silence.
I can hardly get the words out. I’m choked by sadness. “The police showed up to tell me that my mom died in a fire, most likely arson…but then there was shooting. Whoever it was took out both police officers.” My voice rises. “And then they tried to kill me!”
“No, no, no.” Janus starts to pace. “No!”
I continue, “Thank God my mom’s attorney showed up. He told me that my mom is still alive and sent me here to you, saying that I would be safe in Greece, that you would know where to find her.”
“He said that she’s still alive?” Worry creases his forehead.
“Yes,” I say blankly. “She is, right?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“But he said you would know!” I stomp my foot. “You have to know!”
I sense a growing uneasiness in him. He shakes his head. “But I don’t.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say, my anxiety mounting. “As I said before, this attorney—”
“Wait…stop!” He looks panicked, his voice quivering. “This attorney, what did he look like? Did you notice anything strange about him?”
I try to remember. It’s all so hazy now. My mind feels numb and scattered. “Everything was strange about Harold Avery. Where do I start? Repulsive breath, horrible yellowing teeth,” I say, staring up at the ceiling.
“No, no, no. Not his appearance. Did you see him do anything strange?” Janus clarifies. He waves his hands in a sweeping motion as he speaks, revealing an overly dramatic display of some hidden angst.
“Well…” I think for a moment, but then remember. “Actually, yes. When he first told me that my mom was still alive, I didn’t believe him. But then he gave me this.” I pause as I point to the shimmering charm around my neck.
“He what?” His voice is so loud that I want to jump out of my skin.
“Stop yelling at me already!” I raise my voice in response. He staggers backwards, almost knocking into a table behind him. After a moment, he visibly relaxes, his face now a mask of calm. “You are so much like your mother. Diana was just like this with me. So darned feisty. Always raising my pulse.”. His rapid transition from craziness to serene is unsettling to me.
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“This charm…the cypress tree. My mother always wore it. She would never take it off, unless…”– my voice cracks – “unless she knew she was in trouble and wanted to send me a message.”
“Or in the case that she is dead.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say!” I can’t believe he would say this. Obviously, he doesn’t know my mother very well. She would never give up without a fight.
“Come on now,” Janus sighs. “I didn’t mean it! It’s entirely possible that she’s still alive!”
I shrug, completely silent. Maybe he has some compassion in that Grinch-like heart.
“Oh gods!” he interrupts again, now pacing back and forth as he stares up at the ceiling, eyes widening as he flips open his phone and dials. “I’ve got to find out what happened!”
No answer. He snaps the phone shut.
Janus continues to pace. “What to do?” He turns towards the window, looking outside to the street below. “This can’t be happening! I have no idea how to care for a…” – he turns to sneer at me – “a kid…especially a teenage girl! Why does all the crap always fall in my lap?!”
“I’m not a kid! If I’m such a burden, then why am I here?” I ask.
Ignoring me, he flips around and rushes over to a drawer, from which he pulls out a bunch of mismatched papers. His muttering escalates to a frantic rant. “What about school? Where will she sleep? What will I feed her?”
At last, he finds something on the desk that quiets his rant. The silence in the room seems almost eerie as he studies the paper in his shaking hand.
I stand there, afraid to set him off again.
“Okay…plan B,” he says in a calm, composed voice with that perfect American accent, as if he’s known all along what to do. “Don’t worry; I’m going to find out exactly what happened, and we’ll figure out where Diana is.”
Protogenesis: Before the Beginning Page 4
