The River Beneath the River

by Susan Tabin

  “I like that, Michael. God remaining anonymous. So there is no coincidence.”

  “Perhaps when you visit us in Spain you’ll meet Ere Zeta.”

  “Is that an invitation, Olivia? Because if it is, the answer is yes —Yes! I love you guys.”

  Olivia’s smile was huge. I could see the little gap between her teeth as she said, “Ah, the heart is opening. A sure sign you are ready.”

  Michael added, “And they say when the student is ready the teacher shall appear.”

  ~

  July 2,1960

  Dear Dad,

  The flight was long. No monsters rising out of the sea. I arrived safely. Olivia sat next to me and has taken me under her wing. I stayed with her family for a few days. Now I’m at a guesthouse on Crete with students from different countries (they all speak English). I’m going to assist with an archeological dig (free room and board). Olivia got me placed on the project. I’m doing great. Hope all is well.

  Love, Darci

  P.S. photo is the Parthenon

  Eleven

  The old whitewashed guesthouse with its flaming purple bougainvillea-covered veranda and red barrel-tiled roof was pleasant and modest—no marble bath, just a shower room with metal hooks on the walls, a few long wood benches and three showerheads. The white paint was crackled, lifting in places, and a slight mildew odor mingled with a hint of bleach came from the drain.

  The five young men waited to clean up until after my roommate and I showered. She was the only other female on the dig. Five-ten, blonde, smart, from Denmark. I liked her and the small tidy room with twin beds we shared on the first floor.

  Our seriously bronze-skinned, curly-haired team leader held a meeting. “On this dig archaeologist will refer to us by our country or city’s name. So call me Mykonos.” He adjusted his sunglasses low down on his Herculean nose and told us he had good news, we were going to see first hand what archaeology had produced. “Comfortable boots and hats are must. Be ready in morning, half-past five. We meet here in dining room. Any questions?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It is surprise, Boston. Tomorrow archaeologist will tell us.”

  ~

  We were noisy, fired up at breakfast, passing plates of feta, juicy tomato slices, dark olives, and the coffeepot which left a trail of steam in our midst.

  Mykonos ripped his hot roll apart, dipped a piece in olive oil and asked, “How many archaeologist it takes to discover buried city?”

  “Seven.”

  “Close, Denmark. Takes one archaeologist to find it, seven assistants to dig up.”

  While Mykonos chowed down on his roll, all the assistants groaned in unison and eyes flicked around the long family-style dining table acknowledging the riddle’s clever answer as a mockery of the truth.

  A stout man of medium height wearing khaki cotton pants, a long sleeve khaki shirt and worn laced boots with a safari hat in one hand and a cigarette in the other introduced himself in a raspy voice, “Young ladies and young gentlemen, good morning.”

  “Good morning, sir,” we echoed back.

  He told us his name was Doctor Joseph Evans, that archaeology ran in his family’s blood. “At the turn of the century, my cousin Sir Arthur Evans started to excavate the palace at Knossos. Today we’ll head off to Knossos on the north central coast.”

  Denmark and France had been flirting with each other all morning. They rushed onto the bus and sat in the last row together. I sat next to Africa on the bus. With wide set eyes that twinkled and short wooly hair, he was handsome, dark, smart and sensitive. We became fast friends.

  “You think I’m tall?”

  “I’d say six-four.”

  “One hundred eighty-three centimeters to feet, you’re correct, America, six feet almost four inches. Some Nilotes stand seven feet and more.”

  “What’s Nilote?” I asked.

  “The tall, slender ones in Africa. My father is Nilote, my mother’s people are Yoruba from Nigeria. Your family?”

  “I’m taller than my mother. She was five-three.” I held my hand sideways across the tip of my nose and thought how different our noses were. Mine long narrow and straight, his broad down the middle and flaring at the nostrils. “My father is my height.”

  “Ah, like the Yoruba. My grandfather is a Yoruba tribal king.”

  “That makes you a prince,” I said somewhat astounded.

  He lowered his twinkling eyes and asked about my father.

  “He builds skyscrapers. He worked on the Empire State Building.”

  “I’ve been to New York City. Have you ever been to Africa?” he asked.

  I laughed, “No, I was never on an airplane before I came here.”

  “Someday you must come to Tanganyika. You have heard of Mount Kilimanjaro?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s in Tanganyika. Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest. On the Serengetti Plain we have giraffes, tall like the Nilotes.” A look of pride came into his eyes. “Elephants, zebras, lions, leopards—all in Tanganyika.”

  “It sounds incredible. I can’t imagine what it’s really like. Your English is great.”

  “English and Swahili are both official. I’m one of the lucky ones to have a good education, to be here.”

  “Me too, Africa.”

  “Now that you’re all secure on the bus, we’re on our way to the palace. I must tell you,” Dr. Evans let out a belch of smoke that trailed alongside his raspy voice. “Legend has it King Minos kept a horrible creature in the labyrinth at Knossos.”

  Africa called out, “The Minotaur.”

  Dr. Evans grinned and nodded. “The Athenians say every year King Minos sacrificed seven young men and seven maidens to the monster with a bull’s head and a man’s body. We have exactly seven assistants. If we add you to the group we sacrificed last summer we’ll meet our quota.”

  Laughter filled the bus.

  France asked, “This monster is mythical, right, Dr. Evans?”

  “Young man, all of Greece is mythical. When you come here, so too are you.”

  There was a moment of profound human stillness that contrasted sharply with the noise of the clacking rattling old school bus. The silence was shouting in my head, America you’re walking with gods and goddesses. You’re part of this great mythological landscape.

  Dr. Evans continued that according to legend Minos was the son of Zeus and Europa. In my mind’s eye I could see Zeus high above Crete, his majestic head carved into the mountain range.

  We reached Knossos around seven AM and walked through the palace remains for hours. So many passageways, I’m transported back thousands of years into the legendary labyrinth. I’m only steps ahead of the Minotaur. I must escape; I have so much to live for, so much to discover. I must find out who I am. I call upon Zeus. The palace artists and skilled craftsmen stop work on their intricate mosaics, pottery, bronze jewelry and elaborate wall frescoes. They cheer and applaud loudly as Zeus steps down from the mountain and carries me to safety.

  The sky spits out crackles of thunder and lighting bringing me crashing back to reality. Rain pelts the north end of the island. Our exploration of Knossos is complete and we’re all psyched for our own dig tomorrow.

  Twelve

  “America, you’re bright eyed, bushy tailed for five-thirty.” “I’m excited, Boston. Are we the first ones?” The fat-cheeked, baby-faced prep school boy answered with

  another inane cliche, the one about the early bird getting the worm. As if that weren’t bad enough I shot back I hoped they weren’t serving worms for breakfast.

  “No, but we’re sure to see some on the dig,” he replied.

  “Yeah, I never thought of that.”

  “I can tell you’re from New York, you say ‘yeah’ instead of ‘yes’.”

  “Why, they don’t say ‘yeah’ in Boston?”

  “We speak the king’s English in Bahston. We pahk our cahs, we

  go to Havahd.” I didn’t like Boston. He had an attit
ude about my friendship with Africa. His judgmental glances when we sat next to each

  other on the bus cast a shadow darker than black skin could ever be. I wanted to tell him to shut up, but I didn’t. I just said, “Yeah, I mean yes. My mother’s friend Pat McGuckin came from Boston. She spoke like that.”

  “Good morning, Miss America.”

  “Good morning, Miss Denmark. You were snoring when I got up.”

  “I do not snore,” she replied in a silly high-pitched voice.

  “No you don’t. I’m kidding, but you were sleeping.”

  “Hi, Denmark, hi, America, Boston.”

  “Good morning, France,” we answered back, then we greeted Istanbul and Africa.

  Even though it was still dark outside, Mykonos was wearing his sunglasses. He strutted into the low-ceilinged dining room, raised his arms and fists in the air and exclaimed, “You’re all here before me, excellent kick ass team!”

  ~

  The excavation is precise, dirty work. We’re all careful not to unduly disturb the site. We’re looking for pottery and potsherds. We dig with small picks, trowels, spoons, sieves and with our hands.

  Dr. Evans says when we come across an artifact to stop immediately and call him. Two weeks into the dig he notices a depression in the ground and calls for a plaster of paris mix. None of the assistants know what’s going on, but everything comes to a halt.

  Dr. Evans pours the quick setting paste into the hole in the ground. We wait for it to harden. He digs around it with a knife. Sweat trickles down his fleshy brow. The assistants are silent. Even the archaeologists are stunned when Dr. Evans reveals the perfect cast of what he identified as a bouzouki. The long-necked stringed instrument resembling a mandolin long ago disintegrated leaving the empty space. Photographs and soil samples are taken. We usually dig in the mornings. Today we work right into the blazing afternoon heat.

  By the time I returned to the three-story guesthouse I was khaki from head to toe, fatigued and the last to the shower. Precariously balancing my clean clothes, underwear, shampoo, soap, comb, washcloth and towel in my arms I backed into the room. I piled everything on the low bench and closed the door with my foot. Floating around somewhere between exhaustion and the Minotaur I was oblivious and didn’t hear the water. I looked up. Africa was there, clear water caressing his darkness. His body was taut, muscular, his penis uncircumcised. He didn’t turn away ashamed. He looked directly at me. His thick eyelashes were two cups holding droplets of water. His black eyes bright, encouraging as beacons in a storm inviting me in.

  “The others don’t shower with me,” he said in a low, tired voice.

  “I’ll shower with you,” I said boldly, despite the lump I was feeling in my throat.

  I stepped under the running water with my clothes on. The lukewarm water swirling around the drain turned a muddy color. I ran my fingertips across his lathered chest. “I love this scent.”

  “The soap, it’s made with African spices, clove oil,” he answered.

  I wanted that scent to permeate my body. To seep down through the familiarity that lived below my skin, deep into the aquifer of my stored memory.

  Africa brought his long, thin fingers to my face. “America, you’ll get in trouble. I must go.”

  I looked into his eyes. “Only if you meet me later down by the bay,” I prompted.

  He paused, then shook his head yes. In one long stride he moved out of the shower and left me to clean myself. I watched him. He’s full in all the right places I mused, his rear, his lips, his penis. Of all the splendid flora and fauna to come out of Africa the black man was by far the most extraordinary.

  ~

  After dinner everyone retired early. By nine the house was asleep. Barefoot and filled with longing, for what I had only fantasized about, I sneaked past Denmark. Outside the air was pregnant with the fragrance of lavender. It reminded me of my grandmother. Damp sand stuck to the bottom of my feet as I made my way under wild fig trees down a winding path to the beach.

  He was waiting with a half-amused smile on his noble face. Any fear I had of being discovered and dismissed from the dig was swept away by a feverish excitement surging through my body. I stepped out of my white cotton shorts and pulled my tee shirt off over my head. I unbuttoned his shirt. He took off his khaki shorts. Under a canopy of Mediterranean stars we bathed together. We splashed and swam and frolicked like a pair of young dolphins in a hidden grotto, a familiar spawning ground. I felt a shell wedged under my foot. Africa dove down and plucked the shell from between my toes. When he broke the surface of the water he was holding the tiny shell, no bigger than the nail of my pinky finger. He placed his hand over my flat belly. Spreading his long fingers like a black coral fan he tucked the shell into the fold of my belly button. He had brought along the bar of spiced soap and we washed each other. Slowly, deliberately my hands explored his body as if it was Africa itself.

  “My people say the first man you’re with is the father of your first born—even if the baby comes many years after. They say the baby is hiding, waiting to be born later from a bisisi, a long pregnancy. It’s said you have a bisisi child. Are you sure you want me to…”

  Of course I was sure. I had wanted to be with a dark-skinned man since I was a child, since my introduction to dirty words. Yes I wanted him to be my first lover, my first man. I wrapped my legs high around him. Buoyed by the water I lay back and floated weightless as sea foam. Long, salty kisses. His breath flowed over my lips like a whisper. He leaned forward and kissed my breasts, circling first one eager nipple with his tongue and then the other. I arched my back and sighed the sounds of pleasure. He ran his hand over the triangular mound of my dark silky hair and tenderly slipped his finger into the juicy passion below. I didn’t say “fuck me” to this ebony prince. He placed his royalty inside of me and in the calm, phosphorescent sea we made love.

  ~

  “America, there’s a chill in the air,” he said gently drying my body

  with his towel.

  “Look, Africa, the North Star.”

  He lifted his gaze and asked me if I knew why the Little Bear’s tail was stretched like that.

  “No,” I shook my head from side to side. “What little bear? That’s the Little Dipper.”

  “Ah, it’s also Ursa Minor.” He told me that Zeus was in love with the nymph Callisto and to protect her from his jealous wife, Hera, who tried to kill her, he turned Callisto into a bear. “But Callisto’s son, Arcas, didn’t know the bear was his mother. He tried to kill it.” Africa paused for a moment.

  “Whoa,” I interjected. “Greek mythology really gets under the covers with family stuff.”

  He broke into a brilliant smile that competed with his twinkling eyes and continued, “Then Zeus turned Arcas into a bear. To keep mother and son safe he pulled them both into the sky by their tails.”

  I pressed against his hard, damp, naked body. “The North Star will always remind me of you, Africa, and of this night, and Crete.”

  He dried my short wet hair and sent me back ahead of himself.

  ~

  In the secrecy of night, under the cover of balmy salt air we meet and make love twice more. Our bodies rise and fall like the undulating sea. And in the bowl between my legs the exquisite pulsing, throbbing, drumming that is Africa stays with me through August, through the summer of my aliveness, the summer of my delight.

  Thirteen

  Sept. 5, 1960

  Dear Dad,

  The dig is over and the archaeologists have returned to their teaching positions. The experience was invaluable and some of the people I’ve met are even more precious than the treasures we unearthed. I’m with friends from Denmark and France on Mykonos. We’re staying with our team leader’s family (they make premium sausages that remind me of the ones at St. Catherine’s Festival). Next week I leave for Spain to visit Olivia. Hope all is well.

  Love, Darci

  P. S. photo is Mykonos Harbor

  ~

&
nbsp; “Darci love, thank you for sausages. Very thoughtful of you.”

  “You’re welcome, Olivia.”

  “They make best sausages on Mykonos. Did you have fun there?” she asked.

  “It was fantastic. We rode all over on scooters. I love the way the whole island… the houses are white, the sea’s so blue. All those little churches… the windmills on the hill overlooking the boats in the harbor. Mykonos is enchanting.”

  “We have a gift for you, too,” Michael said, smiling crookedly and handing me a book.

  “Zorba the Greek. Thanks you guys. I’ll treasure it.”

  “Actually we were hoping you’d read it.”

  “Michael, you are so bad,” Olivia poked him playfully.

  Michael and Olivia Drummond’s house was spectacular. It had been an old bank, a narrow building with a gently sloping roof and three floors, which Michael renovated and Olivia decorated eclectically. The dining room used to be the vault. Now the dining room led into the kitchen, which led into a pantry and the maid’s room. In the central hallway a curved staircase linked the lower and upper levels. The master suite was a complex in itself. The library-study had sky blue silk drapes and upholstery. The bathroom was sumptuous with a floor-to-ceiling mosaic mural of a nude mother and child. The mother giving breast to her infant. The sleeping area was unlike anything I had seen before. The bed was flanked on both sides by tall iron candelabra, and colorful hand-woven Moroccan carpets adorned the white travertine floor. Michael said that the king-size bed’s inlaid mother of pearl headboard had come from a Turkish harem.