The River Beneath the River

by Susan Tabin

  “Mom, wait here. I’ll get you another sandwich.”

  Behind the counter the stocky man with short arms has sliced his pointer finger with a knife and blood is leaking out the sides of the band-aid wrapped around his swollen finger. The cafeteria lady working alongside the bleeding man quickly prepares another tuna fish sandwich. I return to the table but I do not tell my mother that the first tuna fish sandwich squirted her face with blood. My mother always says the chemo sessions leave her feeling like a slaughtered chicken without a head. I’m not going to add to my mother’s queasiness.

  The agonizing pain from the laceration in my heart of hearts was with me all day into the dark night. When I finally fell asleep in my pink bedroom, my dreams were filled with pink-breasted mourning doves, their gentle voices cooing sadly. I dreamt of Indian widows, draped in silk saris, throwing themselves on their dead husband’s funeral pyres; of my mother’s friend Pat McGuckin who threw herself on her husband Robert’s grave and four months later married another man. I dreamt of the Egyptian pharaoh-god Osiris, who was murdered by the jealous god Set, his body cut into pieces and put into a box. His Queen, the goddess Isis, found his remains floating on the Nile. She put his body back together and Osiris was alive again.

  My mother has not cheated death like Osiris, and my father and I sit shiva, the Jewish period of mourning, on low hard backless stools. For five days we receive visitors, food and condolences. I’m pleasant, even congenial, but I can’t be here anymore. I simply can’t. My aunts, uncles, high school friends—I need to be someplace else. I don’t belong here. I’m going to explode, evaporate, tumble into an underground world like Alice, drink cough medicine like my mother.

  Eight

  I graduated from high school without fanfare. My aunts and uncles acknowledged my accomplishment with cash. And with the forty-seven dollars I’d saved from my dollar an hour job at the Five and Dime, I had one hundred and seven dollars. I was feeling stuck, planted like an old deep-rooted maple tree on Milford Street.

  A week after graduation my father and I were eating breakfast together. It seemed so odd, we had room for three chairs at our table, but the one with my mother’s imprint was empty. Dad reached across the pink faux marble formica top of the wrought iron table and placed a worn manila envelope in my hand.

  “Darci, mother wanted you to have a nice… a special wedding. She was saving money since you were little. This is from mother for you.”

  My breathing turned shallow even before I knew that envelope contained summer camp, music lessons, and an instrument never to be played. I managed a closed lip smile and peered inside to a boodle of money. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were hundred dollar bills, which in my mind represented a hundred ways my mother deprived herself. I excused myself to the bathroom; stood with my back against the door and counted the money. Three, four, six... seven one hundred dollar bills. This is unbelievable and clearly my way out of the past into the future. I loved my father and I was concerned about him. But I knew his sister and brothers would look after him. Besides, I was being guided to the edge of a different experience. Sorry, Mom, but I’m not using this money for a wedding. I’m using it for a divorce, from Queens, from New York. Even my parent’s look-a-likes Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, television’s golden couple, are no longer married. It appears that if life is about anything it’s about change.

  I lay in bed that night like a flightless bird whose deficient wings would soon be full and perfect, imagining where I’d go. I didn’t consider what I’d do when I got there.

  ~

  My entire family had its feathers ruffled. The aunts and uncles were holding a powwow at our apartment in Queens. Aunt Anna, seated next to my father on the rose sofa, looked a lot like papa, with pasty pale gray skin. Her brown hair was almost all silver and a few gray chin whiskers stood out stiffly. She was about my height, five-six.

  Her blue veined legs were dangling and her tapping feet called attention to the twined rose fringe edging the bottom of the sofa. It had been my grandparent’s sofa and had seen better days. The damn fringe wouldn’t stay attached; it kept coming down. I’d sit on the floor and sew it up before we had company. I wasn’t doing that anymore and part of the fringe was lying on the rose carpet.

  “Your mother’s not cold in the ground yet and you’re leaving her,” Aunt Anna stormed.

  As if my staying could alter my mother’s temperature.

  “The Mediterranean—mama left to come here—you’re going back to the Old World. Why, why would you do such a thing?” Uncle Sy asked incredulously.

  “Greenwich Village is so cool. Why would you leave New York?” my cousin May asked, pop-eyed.

  “I have to leave here. I have to find out who I am.”

  “You don’t know who you are,” my aunt said. “Ask me, I’ll tell you who you are. Darci Beriman, that’s who. Queens College is walking distance from this apartment and you’re going to the Mediterranean. Flowers bloom where they’re planted.”

  I wonder whose life is more tainted, my cousin May’s with her domineering insufferable mother or my new existence as a motherless daughter.

  Aunt Anna gave me a look. The look seemed to carry with it some Beriman ancestral intervention into the affairs of the living. I didn’t back down. I tried to explain that I was restless, that I was like a bird summoned to a far off spring, but I couldn’t explain. Not even to myself.

  Grandma Riva once told me that someday I should go to the basin. She called it that. “The basin is a special place. You might discover the river beneath the river there.”

  I protested, “Grandma, the Mediterranean’s a sea, not a river.”

  She elevated her rotund chest in her inimitable way, pointed her finger at me and said, “Child, this is true, but it’s a sea that has one current on the surface and another that flows deep beneath, just like with people. Darcilah, you go, you’ll learn many things.”

  “I learn a lot at the library, in school.”

  “There are schools in the basin, too.” Then she added, almost imperceptibly, “Mystery schools.”

  Wagging his long narrow Beriman nose, Uncle Joe said, “It’s a shame, a young girl goes off on her own.”

  “A foreign country to boot,” his wife, Aunt Sid said.

  And from Uncle Ben, Aunt Anna’s nervous husband, a whining, “Oy vey, never a dull moment in this family.”

  My indignant relatives left, the smell of cigarette smoke lingered, and fear moved across my father’s face like an eclipse.

  “I’m worried about you goin’ so far away on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ll send postcards from all over.” I stroked his thick arm. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Darci,” he said uneasily as he got up and walked out of the rose colored living room.

  Nine

  I climbed up the steel ramp. A warm breeze caught the bib of my sailor blouse and lifted it up around my shoulders like flapping wings. A bird flies away leaving it’s nest behind. I wasn’t connected enough to feel as if I were leaving my home behind. I still identified with turtles, hatched out of eggs, never knowing their parents and carrying their shelter with them. But for the first time it really occurred to me that birds too are born out of eggs. My heart was pumping excitedly, my stomach a quivering slab of nervous energy, and my own wings took form when I boarded the Boeing 707 at Idlewild, headed for Greece. No more ponytail; my dark brown hair was in a short stylish pixie. The knee length black and white check gingham straight skirt, the white sailor-blouse with matching black and white tie and the black patent leather pumps were new, not hand-me-downs. The two seats next to mine were already occupied. I stowed my black

  leather shoulder bag under the aisle seat.

  “Hi, I’m Darci Beriman.”

  “Darci love, it’s a pleasure,” said the gorgeous raven-haired woman seated next to me. “This is my husband, Michael Drummond.” She turned to the good-looking man, then back to me. “I’m Olivia Drum
mond.”

  Michael gave me a de luxe welcoming smile, locked eyes with mine and said, “We’re delighted to meet you.”

  His smile was slightly crooked. It made him look rugged. They both looked twenty-two, -three or -four. Olivia’s glossy black straight hair was parted in the middle and reached her shoulders. She was wearing black Cleopatra eyeliner that accentuated her black eyes, and on her full lips baby pink lipstick, the color of her silk suit. There was a little space between her upper two front teeth, and her teeth were the whitest I’d ever seen. Her husband had light brown hair and deep blue almost indigo eyes.

  “Are you New Yorkers?” I asked.

  “I grew up in Los Angeles,” Michael answered.

  “Oh, that’s why your hair is so cool looking.”

  He chuckled, “Actually we were in England, saw these musicians …McCartney, Lennon, Harrison and this other guy, Browne. The Quarreymen. Talk about cool. Their hair was like this.”

  “I love their hair and convinced Michael it’s his style,” Olivia added in an elegant accent.

  “Where are you from, Olivia?”

  “Crete.”

  “Crete! That’s where my grandmother was from.”

  “It is special place.” She touched her heart.

  I couldn’t help noticing the huge solitaire diamond ring she wore. It made my mother’s engagement diamond look like a speck, not that I’d seen my mother’s ring all that often. It was in hock at the pawnbroker’s shop more then it was on her finger.

  “My parents have olive orchards on Crete and Michael exports olive oil.” She raised her dark eyes. “The rest is history.”

  “Olivia of the olive orchards and the olive husband—that makes you the olive queen.”

  Olivia pressed her baby pink lips together. Michael readjusted himself in his window seat. My mouth went dry embarrassed by its own voice.

  “Sorry, I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with you guys. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Darci love, don’t be upset,” she said. “Please, is nothing, is okay. We try to stay away from sour jokes. Remember our mouths are attached to our brains, hopefully also to our hearts. Believe me, we are not always successful.”

  I began reading The Fountainhead; Olivia was reading too. Michael pointed out the familiar New York City skyline. I leaned forward and craned to see through the small window. How peculiar, now that I’m leaving New York, from this perspective it looks fascinating.

  “One of a kind, you can always recognize it,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I’m happy to be leaving. I’ve wanted to get away from here forever.”

  “You might consider being happy about going toward Greece and not away from New York.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “That’s interesting, Michael. I’ve never thought of it that way, happy about goin’ toward something and not away from something. Yeah, I like that.”

  “You’re quick,” he said, covering a yawn with his hand.

  We read, we napped, we shared snacks, we talked. We talked a lot. Michael was asleep now. Olivia and I chatted on.

  “What are your plans when you get to Greece?” she asked.

  “I wanna visit the Acropolis, stand in that history; visit the old city.”

  “Ah, the Plaka, this is a must, so lively.”

  “And of course Crete where my grandmother was. . .”

  “Do you speak any Greek?”

  “Only a few words. My grandmother spoke several languages, but she favored Spanish. . . taught it to me. Her family was Jewish, expelled from Spain. Scattered to Morocco, Turkey, ended up on Crete.”

  Olivia lowered her black Cleopatra-lined eyelids. “Another sad chapter in history, all in name of religion. Well, at least you can follow Jewish or whatever you want in America.”

  “I’m still searching for something that feels right. I’m not practicing Judaism. What about you?”

  “I was raised in Greek Orthodox, and Michael in Catholic Church. We enjoy the traditions, also we honor spirit in our own way.”

  I wondered what she meant by honoring spirit in her own way but I didn’t want to be rude and pry beyond the information she had offered.

  I awoke from a nap. Olivia offered me a piece of chocolate. “Thanks, I love chocolate.” I bit down on the small dark mound and sighed at the sweet sensation on my tongue. “Please have some raisins.” I handed the bag to Olivia. She took some, then passed the bag on to Michael who was awake now.

  “Love, we are stay in Athens for two days; then we go on to Crete. Why don’t you join us? We stay with my parents. They have plenty of room and they adore visitors.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course!” she said, then turned to her husband, “Michael, you . . . ”

  “Join us, you’ll have fun,” he answered before she could finish.

  I folded my hands in my lap and sat very still. Here I was flying all by myself, with limited money, to a strange country. This couple was a godsend. I felt so comfortable with them, like I’d known them forever. I knew I could trust them. I thought about my family’s concern and how my life was like a jigsaw puzzle that somehow would all fit together, but I certainly didn’t know that one of the pieces would be the Drummond’s.

  “Darci love, in Athens my parents keep a suite at Grande Bretagne. You can stay with us, has two bedrooms, two baths. We can show you around the Plaka, after you visit Acropolis.”

  “I’d love to stay with you.”

  “Yes, then you must. We’ll be on Crete for one month before we return home.”

  “Oh, I thought you lived on Crete.”

  “No, my parents are there. Michael has business to take care of and this way I go see my family. We were in America because, sadly, Michael’s father died. We go to help his mother. So now we visit my family, then back to Barcelona.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father, Michael.”

  “Thanks. . . it’s not easy. . . but only people die, the loving

  remains.” “Yeah, the loving does remain. How’s your mother?” I asked. “It’s been tough on her. They were high school sweethearts.” Suddenly the plane jolted. Startled, I jumped. It felt as if the

  plane was falling out under me. “That’s the wheels coming down. We’ll be landing soon.”

  Michael spoke with the ease of someone comfortable flying. “Darci, why don’t you change seats with me so you can see.” “Efaristo, Michael.” “Parakalo. You’re welcome.” The plane descends into Athens. I see at once the luminous break of day and a pale crescent moon on the horizon. The blue Mediterranean sky oozes into infinity. It takes my breath away.

  Ten

  Lately everything takes my breath away. The afternoon sun places its hand upon Crete, fingerpaints it with a dazzling white-blue light. The Acropolis rises above Athens, its Doric columned Parthenon, temple to Athena, stands tall amongst her people who bow perpetually to the goddess. The marble bath at the Grande Bretagne. Only a week ago I was in my parent’s, my father’s small bathroom with its cracked pink floor tiles.

  ~

  “It is Kazantzakis.”

  “That’s a hard one.”

  “No, it is easy, Darci. Listen… Ka-zan-tsah-kis.”

  “Easy for you, Olivia,” I laughed. “Okay, I got it —Nikos Kazan-tsah-kis.”

  “That is it, love, perfect. He was one of our great writers, born here on Crete. He wrote Zorba the Greek.”

  “I’ve heard of that book. I see he died three years ago.”

  We were standing under a cross tall as a telephone pole, at his lone gravesite by the side of a road near a bluff overlooking the Mediterranean.

  “Look at the mountains over there, what do you see?” Michael asked.

  I turned and looked. “A man’s head.”

  Michael smiled. “They say that’s the head of Zeus. You can only see it from this place on the island.”

  “Amazing… what does this say?”

  Olivia translat
ed the inscription on the simple gray memorial stone, “I am afraid of nothing, I want nothing, I am free.”

  The epitaph roared through my mind, reverberating as though it were in an echo chamber. I could feel his liberation, his exemption from fear. A chill went up my spine. When it reached the nape of my neck my head jerked quickly in a tight counterclockwise stir. I was having an epiphany of sorts.

  “Someday,” I said, “I’m gonna live those words: I am afraid of nothing, I want nothing, I am free.”

  Michael smiled, he smiled a lot, and as always his mouth was a tad off kilter. “I’m sure you will. Ere Zeta says spirit meets us at the point of our action. Your being here, it’s a step on your journey toward freedom, enlightenment. Of course, he says we’re already enlightened, we just don’t know it.”

  “Is Ere Zeta a Spanish author?” I asked.

  “He’s a teacher and he writes books.”

  “What does he teach?”

  “About spirit, about the soul. Some say it as the teachings of the mystery schools.”

  I stood frozen for several long seconds, then I took a step forward and repeated Michael’s words. “The mystery schools. My grandmother once spoke of them. Of all the people in the world I could sit next to, how’d I get so lucky to sit next to you two?”

  “They say coincidence is God working and preferring to remain anonymous.”