When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

“That’s Pontikonisi.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Popi interrupted. “Cousin, I know she’s not fluent, but don’t tell me she doesn’t know any Greek?” She took her eyes off the road just long enough to look at her cousin.

  Daphne ignored Popi’s question and answered Evie’s instead.

  “It means Mouse Island in Greek, honey. You see that long white path that leads to the old monastery? People say that path looks like a mouse’s tail.”

  Daphne laughed, remembering how as a young girl she thought the island’s name meant that it was home to giant mice. But as a teenager, she had been delighted to learn that instead it was where Odysseus had been shipwrecked in The Odyssey. She had loved visiting the island, walking its ancient paths, daydreaming under its majestic cypress trees—wondering if they would finally whisper their secrets to her. But the cypress whispers, like the story of Odysseus’s travels, proved to be nothing more than another island legend.

  “And over there, that is my café.” Popi pointed to a sprawling outdoor café located along the water’s edge where she had worked as a waitress for the past ten years. The tables were packed with tourists and locals. “Evie, you will come, and I will serve you the biggest and best ice cream in all of Corfu. It will be as large as your head and topped with not one but two sparklers for you.”

  “Really, as big as my head?” Evie touched her hands to the side of her head to measure just how big this special ice cream would be.

  “If not bigger.” Popi laughed as she glanced at Evie in the rearview mirror.

  “Is that a castle up there?” Evie bounced in her seat, pointing up at Corfu’s old fort on top of its craggy gray peninsula.

  “Yes, it is our Frourio,” Popi answered. “It was built many, many years ago to protect our island from pirates.”

  “Pirates!” Evie shouted, her long dark lashes fluttering. “Are there pirates here?”

  “No, there are no more pirates, Evie mou,” Popi told her. “But a long, long time ago my mama told me that if you walk through the Frourio at night, sometimes you can hear the ghosts.”

  Daphne coughed in an effort to get her cousin to stop, but it was no use. Popi continued with her story.

  “She said that sometimes you can hear souls crying for mercy, begging for their lives. Even little children crying out for their mothers.”

  Evie whimpered.

  “Evie, honey, those are just silly old island stories,” Daphne said. “Don’t worry.” She was already concerned that jet lag would keep Evie awake all hours. And now, thanks to Popi’s eagerness to tell ghost stories, she’d probably have nightmares to contend with as well.

  Daphne had never told Popi about the nightmares that had haunted Evie’s sleep these past few years. How could she, a single woman, understand what it was like to comfort a frightened child each night? How could she understand the loneliness of having no one to nudge awake and murmur, “It’s your turn to go to her”? Daphne had longed for someone to share her bed and keep Evie’s as well as her own nightmares at bay. For the longest time, when she heard Evie’s nightly cries, she’d reach her arm across the bed, but she felt only emptiness and the faintest dip in the mattress where Alex used to sleep.

  It still didn’t seem real—one night Alex and Daphne had been standing side by side, holding hands over their daughter’s bassinet, and the next, he was gone. Taken too soon. Daphne found herself alone, wondering how she would ever survive, how she would ever raise Evie without him. But she had managed somehow. The past few years had been so lonely and difficult. But that was then. She was getting married now. She would soon become Mrs. Stephen Heatherton. Daphne prayed that the nightmares and tears would finally be behind them.

  “We got rid of all of the pirates long, long ago,” Popi told Evie as Daphne left her reverie behind. “Now we only have giant sea monsters to worry about.” Popi laughed, but Evie whimpered again.

  “Popi, stop!” Daphne pleaded. “It’s not funny.” The hint of desperation in her voice made it clear that Daphne wasn’t joking.

  “Evie, mou,” Popi began, “Thea Popi was only joking. There are no sea monsters here, I promise.” Popi looked at Evie in the rearview mirror before turning to face Daphne.

  “Daphne mou, ti eheis?”—What’s wrong?—Popi asked in Greek, knowing Evie could not understand.

  Daphne knew there was no way Popi could grasp what she had been through and how much things had changed, how much she had changed. When Alex died, there was no more laughter in Daphne’s world, only a demanding, inconsolable baby, a growing stack of bills, and a persistent fear that she wouldn’t be able to manage it all herself.

  Daphne put her hand on her cousin’s leg. “I’m sorry, Popi. I’m just nervous about everything,” was all she told Popi now. Perhaps there would be another time to tell her more, or perhaps it was better to leave all the heartache in the past.

  Popi took her hand from the wheel and waved the misunderstanding away. “Darling, it’s all right. But I am starting to wonder what you’ve done with my cousin. In our family we always find a way to laugh, even through our tears.”

  The two women locked fingers, just as they had as children skipping down island paths. Daphne turned her face away and leaned out the window, as if the island air could cleanse away the misunderstanding and the all-too-familiar sadness.

  Soon they were at Popi’s.

  “Just like you remember it, eh, Daphne?” Popi said as they parked and got out of the car. “Come on, Evie. Let me take you inside.” Popi opened the back door, grabbed Evie’s bag, and once again tucked the garment bag under her arm before taking Evie’s hand. “This is where your mother used to come when she visited. We had so much fun together. We really do have to find me a husband so I can give you cousins to play with, like your mother and I did. Maybe Mr. Stephen will bring some handsome Amerikanos to the wedding. What do you think?”

  Evie smiled, giggling softly as they stepped up the white marble staircase and into the cool dimness of the lobby.

  “If you meet a boy, you might have to kiss him.”

  “You think so?” Popi leaned in, happy to take the delicious bait Evie had just dangled before her.

  “Does your mommy kiss Stephen?”

  “No! Ewwwwwwww!” Evie shrieked as she ran up the curved stairs, her laughter reverberating around the marble lobby.

  Daphne rode the creaky elevator to the second floor and wheeled the suitcases into the sunlit foyer of the apartment.

  When everything had been brought inside, Popi led everyone into the living room. She smiled at the little girl and said, “Ella, Evie. Your mother and I could use a nice cup of kafe and I’m too tired to make it. Will you make a nice cup of kafe for us? I bet you are a great chef like your mama.”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” Evie replied as she shrugged her shoulders.

  “Come on, Evie.” Popi placed her hands on her hips. “Every Greek must know how to make kafes, even the little ones like you.”

  “But I’m not Greek. I’m from New York,” Evie replied.

  Popi put her hands together as if in prayer. A soft moan escaped her lips. “Evie, promise me you will never let Yia-yia hear you say that.” She turned to Daphne. “Cousin, Yia-yia is going to kill you if she hears this.” Popi made the sign of the cross and muttered just loud enough for Daphne to hear, “No Greek at all, this child. Nothing.”

  Daphne twirled her engagement ring round and round on her finger. She had never imagined that Evie would grow up like this. She had always intended to speak to Evie in Greek, knowing it was the only way she would grow up bilingual, as Daphne had. But Greek-speaking nannies are a rare commodity in Manhattan. And with Daphne out of the house twelve hours a day, getting home in time to say kali nichta instead of good night didn’t seem like it would make much of a difference anyway. After a while, she stopped trying.

  “Come.” Popi narrowed her eyes and motioned for Evie to follow her into the large, bright kitchen.
“Your Thea will teach you. Now you will become an expert in making frappe.”

  “I thought we were making coffee.”

  “Frappe is coffee. It’s cold and delicious and very fun to make. You’ll see.”

  Popi tugged at the handles of a hulking cabinet whose glass front was covered in a pristine white doily, and the doors opened with a jingle of glass. She took three tall glasses from the top shelf and placed them on the table, which was covered with a plastic tablecloth. Then she took out a container of Nescafé and two dome-covered plastic tumblers and handed them to Evie, one at a time.

  “Here, put these on the table for me.”

  Finally, she waddled over to the icebox and took out a bucket of ice and a large bottle of filtered water.

  “Your mother may be a famous chef, Evie, but I am famous for frappe. I will show you my secret recipe.”

  Daphne had stayed behind to organize the luggage, but Evie’s frappe lesson was too entertaining to miss. She removed her black slingbacks, not wanting the click of her heels to give her away as she tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen. She made it to the doorway and stood hidden under the wooden archway as Popi directed Evie to place a teaspoonful of the Nescafé into each of the plastic containers along with water, ice, and a little bit of sugar.

  “Now, put the cover on the cups and make sure they are on really, really tight. We don’t want any accidents in my nice clean kitchen,” Popi commanded.

  Evie did as she was told, then pressed down on the lids with her little pink painted fingernails. She lifted the cups toward Thea Popi for inspection.

  “Good. Perfect. Nice and tight. Now comes the fun part. Now we shake.”

  Popi took one cup in each hand and shook them, like a volcanic eruption of feminine flesh, arms, feet, hips, legs, black curls, and breasts moving up and down and around in every direction. Evie’s face lit up.

  “Evie mou, the secret to great frappe is to shake it properly.” Then to please her willing audience she held her arms up in the air, hoisted the plastic frappe cups toward the ceiling, and gyrated and shook and shimmied as if she were the main act at a bouzouki nightclub. Evie was delighted.

  Daphne attempted to stifle her laughter as she watched Popi’s frappe frenzy. She was glad to see that twenty years and twenty pounds had not slowed Popi down. Daphne could not remember the last time she had felt that uninhibited.

  It was time to jump in. “That’s not how you make frappe,” she challenged. “This is how you make frappe.” She took a container from Popi’s hand, then took her daughter’s hand and twirled her little girl and the cup around and around until Evie fell on the floor in a heap of giggles. She turned to Popi and held out her hand as the cousins snapped their fingers, circled their wrists, and rotated their hips as expertly as they had done the night they had worked a group of Italian tourists into a belly-dance-induced trance.

  “Opa, Cousin,” Popi shouted, clapping her hands over her head.

  “Opa, Popi mou,” Daphne cried. Already she felt freer, happier, and more full of life than she had in years.

  Two

  As she was falling asleep, Daphne remembered a night just a few short months ago. The dream that Yia-yia was with her had felt so real. Yia-yia had been so close that Daphne could see her face and smell the lingering scent of the kitchen fire on her clothes. When Stephen shook her awake, she had been sitting up in bed, arms stretched out into the darkness as if she were reaching out to stroke Yia-yia’s weathered skin. Even in the madness of the dinner rush the next night at the restaurant, Daphne had felt at peace just thinking Yia-yia had been with her. She knew it seemed silly, but it was as if she could feel Yia-yia’s hand guiding every slice of her knife, each sprinkle of seasoning and toss of her pan.

  Daphne knew in her bones what she had to do. She didn’t understand why, but she just couldn’t shake the need to go home to Yia-yia. She had always been a diligent, responsible granddaughter, calling Yia-yia weekly and never missing a monthly trip to the post office, hiding wads of twenty-dollar bills between cards and photos. She was startled to realize it had been six years since she’d visited Yia-yia. She’d always meant to come back, to bring Evie home. But between the demands of being a single mother and running a restaurant on her own, the time had slipped by.

  It had taken a bit of convincing to get Stephen onboard with canceling the formal wedding for two hundred and trading it for a simple island affair on Erikousa, but now she was here.

  They had circled around the conversation for days. Stephen always appeared to listen patiently, to understand Daphne’s need to go to Yia-yia, but he was adamant about not wanting to trade New England pomp and circumstance for a peasant island wedding. Finally, he agreed. It was the caldera that did it. Daphne had shown Stephen photos of spectacular Santorini sunsets taken from a gorgeous private villa perched on whitewashed cliffs above the sea, overlooking the island’s caldera. During Minoan times, a catastrophic volcanic eruption had decimated the island, transforming it into the stunning crescent-shaped tourist favorite of today. When she told him they could rent the villa for their honeymoon, and that her cousin Popi would be available to keep Evie so they could actually honeymoon alone, he finally agreed to move the wedding to Greece. Stephen got what he wanted—precious time alone with his new wife—and Daphne got to go home to Yia-yia. Everyone won.

  Despite the threadbare mattress in the sparse back bedroom of Popi’s apartment and the clanging dishes from the restaurant below, Daphne had slept better and sounder than she had in years.

  She would have slept even later had the familiar ring tone of Stephen’s call not awakened her.

  “Good morning, honey.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I woke you. You must be exhausted.” She could hear him typing at his computer as he spoke.

  “No, I’m good—great, actually. How are things in New York?”

  “Busy. Lonely. I hate sleeping in that big bed without you. I’m trying to wrap things up here so I can come make an honest woman of you already. Is there anything you’ve forgotten, or want me to bring? Anything you need?”

  “Nothing but you. I can’t wait for you to get here and meet everyone.”

  Popi entered the bedroom carrying a tray holding frappe, fresh figs, and tsoureki, the sweet braided bread that Daphne adored but hadn’t indulged in since the nutritionist she hired ordered her to cut out anything white from her diet. Daphne noticed the ease with which her cousin balanced the heavy tray with one hand and served Daphne her coffee with the other. Popi’s movements were smooth, seemingly effortless, but Daphne knew better. There was nothing effortless or easy about the years of backbreaking restaurant work it took to develop those skills.

  “I’ll call you once we get to Erikousa. I love you,” Daphne added before hanging up the phone and sitting up in bed. She patted the space beside her.

  “What did my new cousin have to say?” Popi asked, placing the tray on the bed.

  “He was just checking in, making sure we’re okay.” Daphne took a bite of the tsoureki as Popi sat down next to her. “And wondering which of his very rich, very handsome, and very single friends to introduce you to,” Daphne joked as she brushed crumbs from her lap.

  “Come, ella, Daphne. This is not a joke, eh,” Popi said.

  “Hmm, who’s lost her sense of humor now?” Daphne laughed as Evie came into the room, clutching her stuffed dog.

  “Ella, Evie. Come to your Thea.” Popi patted the bed for the little girl to join her. “There are a few things you must learn about Erikousa before we go there. Our tiny island is just a few miles from here, but it is very different.”

  Daphne had always described Yia-yia’s island as a beautiful and magical place, and Evie was eager to hear what Popi had to say about it. She looked up at her aunt expectantly.

  “First of all, you must watch out for the black widows,” Popi warned.

  “I hate spiders.” Evie’s nails dug into the dog’s fur as she pulled it c
loser.

  “Not spiders!” Daphne laughed. “Popi means the slobber sisters.” She turned to Popi. “Are they still around?”

  “Yes, of course they are,” Popi told her. “Evie, you must always have a napkin in your pocket. This is very important.”

  “Why, Thea Popi?”

  “When you get off the boat in Erikousa, you will see many yia-yias waiting at the port. They all come out of their houses when the ferryboat arrives so they can see who is coming and who is going. Now this is so they can go home and gossip about everyone later. They like to welcome everyone who comes to the island by kissing them two times on the cheek.” Popi leaned over and kissed each of Evie’s soft pink cheeks. “Like that. But, unlike your Thea Popi, many of the yia-yias give juicy wet kisses.” Evie made the appropriate face as Popi continued. “That is why you need a napkin, to wipe the wet yia-yia kisses off. Okay?”

  “That’s gross,” Evie crinkled her nose. “I’m going to watch TV,” she announced before skipping out of the room. Daphne and Popi heard the television come on. Evie giggled as Bugs Bunny chomped on karrota instead of carrots.

  “That’s one way to get her to learn the language. What her mother doesn’t do, maybe Bugs Bunny can.” Popi smiled one of her wicked grins.

  Daphne just shook her head and managed a slight, tight smile back. To change the subject, she jumped out of bed and sprang over to the white garment bag, which was hanging above the closet door. “I can’t believe I haven’t shown you my dress yet,” she said as she unzipped the bag and revealed the cream silk and lace gown. She turned to her cousin for approval.

  “Oh, Daphne, it’s the most beautiful dress I have ever seen.”

  Daphne removed the gown from the garment bag and laid it on the bed. “Do you really think so? It’s not a bit much?” Daphne bit her lip as she carefully fanned out the fabric so Popi could inspect every detail of the strapless lace bodice, lightly corseted waist, and straight silk skirt, which was adorned with the slightest spray of tiny sea pearls and crystal beads.

  “Too much?” Popi asked. “Too much for what? It’s your wedding dress. It should be special. And this”—Popi glanced up at Daphne as she ran her fingers along the dress’s delicate lace trim—“this is very, very special.”