When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  “There you are. Come. Come now. I’m making your supper,” Yia-yia said as she waved her arms up toward the sky.

  Daphne bounded up the steps two by two. Not bothering to change out of her wet swimsuit, she just wrapped her towel around her body and sat on a rickety old chair next to her grandmother. Daphne watched as Yia-yia dipped her wooden spoon into a pan of boiling olive oil and removed a perfectly browned batch of fries. The young girl snatched a crispy specimen from the steaming pile and nibbled as Yia-yia peeled and cut more potatoes with her small, sharp knife. It was incredible to Daphne how her fingers sliced and diced so quickly and effortlessly. Even after all these years of being indulged by Yia-yia’s cooking, Daphne was still amazed by the perfection of Yia-yia’s delicious round fried potatoes. They were divine, so much better than the greasy stick fries sold back home. Making perfect fries was just one of Yia-yia’s many talents.

  “How was the beach?” Yia-yia asked as she carried twigs to the outdoor cooking fire. She knew the oil needed to reach just the right temperature for the fries to come out crispy on the outside and slightly soft on the inside, the way Daphne liked them.

  “It was nice. Quiet. I went to the cove again. I like it when no one’s around,” Daphne replied as she reached over and grabbed another.

  “Why don’t you try the beach tomorrow? The other girls usually go swimming in the afternoon. It would be nice for you to have some friends to spend your day with, instead of always being alone or talking to an old woman like me. Okay, koukla?” Daphne was Yia-yia’s koukla—her little Greek doll.

  Yia-yia knew that Daphne wasn’t like the other American girls who came for the summer and traveled in a pack, sunbathing, swimming, and flirting with the boys. But as much as she craved every moment shared with her granddaughter, Yia-yia didn’t want Daphne to withdraw completely into the rituals and world that they had created these past few years. She wanted more for her koukla.

  “Don’t worry, Yia-yia. I’d much rather hang out with you. You’re more fun anyway.” She gave Yia-yia a wink. “And no one makes potatoes like this.” She popped another in her mouth. In addition to the fries, they would be feasting on one of Daphne’s favorite dishes, fried eggs with fresh tomatoes.

  The young girl watched Yia-yia coat another pan with olive oil and add the freshly chopped tomatoes she had picked from the garden that morning. The bright red mixture sizzled, simmered, and popped until the tomatoes reached the perfect consistency, losing their firm texture and giving way to a sweet, thick paste. With her slightly burned and battle-scarred wooden spoon, Yia-yia cleared four little round holes in the simmering sauce. Daphne knew this was her cue. She reached over to the basket of freshly hatched eggs and cracked them one by one into the holes that Yia-yia had made.

  Then Yia-yia rubbed her finger along the large green leaves of the basil sprig she had just picked. “Here, you’ve never smelled basilico like this.” Yia-yia waved her basil-oil-infused fingers under Daphne’s nose, and they shook their heads in unison.

  “It’s amazing.” Daphne smiled at her grandmother.

  “Let the Parisians have their fancy perfumeries. We know that this is the most priceless scent on earth. And it grows free, right here in my garden.” With her bent fingers she ripped some of the green leaves into delicate ribbons.

  Yia-yia dropped the torn basil into the pan and waited a few moments for the verdant leaves to wilt. She sprinkled the mixture with salt and then divided the eggs and tomatoes between two plates.

  “Daphne!” Yia-yia cried as she saw Daphne reach for another potato. “Leave some for the meal.” She leaned over and swatted Daphne with the basil leaves.

  “Sorry, Yia-yia. I guess it’s all this fresh air. It makes me hungry.”

  “Oh, koukla, it’s okay. Those were all for you. Now eat, eat before your eggs get cold.” Yia-yia handed Daphne her plate along with a thick crusty slice of peasant bread, perfect for dipping into the thick and savory tomato sauce.

  They sat right there, next to the fire, and ate their simple meal. Yia-yia had long given up on the formality of setting a pretty table or eating indoors. She and Daphne knew that food tasted much better out here, in the clean, salty island breeze.

  “Yia-yia—” Daphne shoveled another forkful of eggs in her mouth.

  “Yes, koukla mou.”

  “Yia-yia, tell me about Persephone.”

  “Oh, Persephone. Poor, poor Persephone. What a sin, what happened to Persephone,” Yia-yia replied in the mournful singsong voice the island women instinctively reverted to when talk turned to death or anything remotely tragic. The myth of Persephone had always had a special meaning in the old woman’s heart, and even more so now that she was able to share it with Daphne, this beautiful child she loved more than life itself.

  Daphne clapped her hands in anticipation. “Tell me again. What happened to her?”

  Yia-yia balanced her plate on her knee, wiped her hands on her apron, and then smoothed her headscarf with her sinewy and spotted hands. Slowly and deliberately, she began to speak.

  “There was once a beautiful maiden whose name was Persephone. Her mother was Demeter, the great goddess of grain and crops. One day Persephone and her friends were in the field, picking wildflowers, when she was spotted by Hades, the king of the underworld. Demeter had warned Persephone not to wander away from the other girls. But Persephone was so consumed with finding the best, most perfect flowers for a wreath she was weaving that she forgot her mother’s words of warning and wandered just a little too far down the meadow. Hades saw beautiful Persephone and fell instantly in love. He decided then and there that this maiden would be his queen, the queen of the underworld. In an instant, Hades rode up in his chariot from the bowels of the earth and snatched young Persephone from the earth, taking the sobbing girl back down to the darkness he ruled.”

  Daphne leaned in closer, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to ward off Hades’ cold grip.

  Yia-yia continued. “Demeter heard her daughter’s cries and hurried to the meadow, but all she found when she got there was the unfinished wreath that had fallen from Persephone’s fingers. Demeter was inconsolable. She roamed the earth for months and months looking for her daughter. The goddess was so distraught that she refused to allow the crops to grow. The earth lay barren and the people were starving. But Demeter vowed that nothing would grow until Persephone was returned. Zeus looked down from Mount Olympus, and when he saw that the great famine threatened the existence of mankind, he ordered Hades to return Persephone to her mother. Hades did as he was told, but before he allowed Persephone to go, he laid a great feast before her and told her to eat to prepare for her long journey home. Young Persephone looked at the feast of food before her but managed to eat only six pomegranate seeds. It was those six tiny, blood-red seeds that sealed her fate and that of every human on earth. According to the laws of the underworld, once you feast at the table of Hades, you are bound to return to his dark kingdom. Because she ate six seeds, Persephone would be forever bound to spend six months as Hades’ dark queen. The remainder of the year would be spent on earth with her mother.”

  Yia-yia leaned in closer. “And that is why the earth is cold and barren during the months of winter, Daphne mou. That is when Persephone sits beside Hades in the underworld while Demeter roams the earth, lonely and sad, refusing to allow anything to grow until Persephone is returned to her embrace.”

  Daphne and Yia-yia sat quietly after Yia-yia had finished her story. They both stared into the fire, replaying the myth in their minds. But Daphne and Yia-yia knew this was more than just another myth, fable, or story; it was their story.

  Daphne broke the silence. “I don’t want the summer to end. I wish it wouldn’t end.”

  Yia-yia didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She turned her head away and stared out across the lush green island, listening as the leaves of the cypress trees danced upon the breeze and filled the evening air with their own hushed lament. As she cocked her head toward th
e rustling trees, Yia-yia nodded in agreement.

  She knew they sang for her, that only they could understand the anguish of another winter without her Daphne. Yia-yia lifted her weathered hand to her face and wiped away the tears that one by one began to fall.

  Five

  Daphne leaned out over the railing as the ferry approached Erikousa’s port. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was as if a sea of bodies awaited them onshore, as if the whole island had turned out to welcome the bride-to-be and her little girl. She grasped Evie’s soft little hand in her own as they prepared to disembark from the boat and make their way through the throngs of relatives and well-wishers and the black sea of elderly widows who clogged the dock’s narrow concrete road.

  It felt good to be back. As she held Evie’s hand and looked out over the landscape Daphne marveled at how green it was, how pristine, clean, and undeveloped. There were no tall buildings, skyscrapers, or concrete structures to break up the natural patina of the island. Deep rich colors flowed one into the next, as if a rainbow had fallen from the sky and infused the land and sea with vibrancy normally reserved only for the gods. The cobalt sea spilled rhythmically into the taupe sand, which gave way to the lush greenery of ancient bent olive trees. Shiny lemon trees were dotted with giant golden sunbursts, while blackberry bushes dripped with wine-colored orbs. And of course the tall, slim hunter-green cypresses stood regal sentinel above everything else.

  She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with sea air once again, knowing the salty moistness would soon give way to the island’s signature perfume of rosemary, basil, and roses.

  “Oh, Mommy, it’s so pretty,” Evie cooed beside her.

  “Yes, honey. Yes, it is,” Daphne agreed.

  “Hey, Evie, here you go.” Popi nudged the little girl and slid a tissue into the back pocket of her jeans. “For the slobber sisters. They’re all here,” she said with a wink.

  Evie giggled. She wrinkled her nose, stuck out her tongue, and again mumbled “Ewwwww.” She held tightly to Daphne’s hand as they took the short walk down the boat’s ramp, into the waiting crowd.

  The moment Daphne and Evie’s feet hit the ground, they were surrounded. Dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, and even strangers came at them from all directions; hugging, kissing, pinching, slobbering, and fawning over them. Daphne was overcome by emotion as well as several waves of nausea. The late-morning heat mixed with the often overwhelming and familiar island fragrance of elders who, even in these modern times, still didn’t use deodorant.

  “Daphne, I missed you.”

  “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

  “Evie, look at you. You are beautiful.”

  “Daphne, poor, poor Daphne. I am a widow too. Only I can understand your pain.”

  “Daphne, I’m so happy for you. You are going to make a beautiful bride.”

  “Daphne, are you sick? Why are you so skinny?”

  The salutations were warm, welcoming, endearing, and endless. Daphne made sure to greet each and every well-wisher with a hug and a kiss, even if she had no idea who her greeter was. The last thing she wanted was to appear aloof or ungrateful when really, it felt wonderful to feel so welcomed and so loved.

  She greeted every older woman with a warm “Yia sou, Thea,” and every older man with a joyous “Yia sou, Theo.” “Yia sou, Ksalthelfi” and “Yia sou, Ksalthelfi” were reserved for the younger islanders whose names escaped her. That was the beauty of being from Erikousa—everyone was related somehow, so even if you had no idea who you were speaking to, you could always get away with simply aunt, uncle, or cousin, and no one was ever the wiser.

  After scanning the crowd between the bobbing heads and bodies that were constantly coming at them, it was Daphne who spotted her first. “Yia-yia, Yia-yia!”

  She held tight to Evie’s hand and led her to the other side of the port, where Yia-yia waited. She wore her baggy black dress, headscarf, and black tights, even though it must have been ninety degrees outside already. She stood alone, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, leaning on her bamboo walking stick and holding the reins of Jack—short for Jackass—the donkey that Daphne had named so many summers ago.

  “Yia-yia, oh, Yia-yia,” Daphne sobbed as she clung to her beloved grandmother. The old woman threw down her walking stick and even the reins of her prized donkey and grabbed Daphne as if she would never again let go. They stood there for several moments crying uncontrollably, heaving up and down with each sob—faded and stained black polyester pressed against delicate white linen.

  “Here, Mommy.” Daphne felt a tug at her white eyelet skirt and looked down to see Evie smiling up at her, offering her the tissue that Popi had earlier placed in Evie’s back pocket.

  “Thank you, honey.” Daphne took the tissue from Evie’s hand and wiped her mascara-streaked face. “Evie, this is Yia-yia.” Daphne beamed.

  Without any prompting from Daphne, Evie took two steps forward toward Yia-yia. “Yia sou, Yia-yia. S’agapo.” Evie wrapped her little arms around Yia-yia’s legs and gave the old woman a hug.

  Yia-yia bent down and touched Evie’s angelic face. She lowered her hollow cheek onto her great-granddaughter’s head and stroked Evie’s hair, her tears falling like a sun shower into the dark soil of Evie’s curls. “I love you, Evie mou,” Yia-yia responded, exhausting the extent of her English vocabulary.

  Daphne stared at her daughter and grandmother in amazement. She had been so concerned about Evie’s nervousness around new people. At home, Evie was so withdrawn that Daphne had worried about how she would handle her new, sometimes overbearing family. Evie had always been an introverted child, afraid of new experiences and new people. In fact, it had taken weeks of conniving and cajoling before Evie would even look Stephen in the eye, let alone speak to him. Daphne couldn’t believe it yesterday when Evie took to Popi so quickly in Corfu. But seeing her warm up to Yia-yia immediately like this, taking it upon herself to use the one Greek phrase that she knew by heart, Daphne wondered if the Erikousa air was working its magic on Evie as well.

  “Daphne,” Yia-yia said. “Daphne, this is not a child. This is an angel sent from the heavens.” Yia-yia placed her arthritic fingers under Evie’s chin. The old woman’s hand trembled slightly, but it steadied as it touched Evie’s face.

  “Yes, she is an angel. And so are you,” Daphne said as she bent down to hand Yia-yia her walking stick.

  “You told me on the telephone that she is shy. This child isn’t shy. This child is full of life. Look at her.” Yia-yia clucked and continued to gaze at Evie.

  “Back home she is. But here, ever since we got here, she’s like a different child.”

  “She’s not a different child,” Yia-yia insisted. “She’s the same wonderful child both here and there, Daphne mou. The difference is love. She knows how much love there is for her here.”

  The two women watched as Evie reached her hand out to pet Jack.

  “Children know when they are surrounded by love, Daphne mou,” Yia-yia continued. “They can feel the difference. This child has a gift, Daphne, I can feel it.”

  “A gift?”

  “Yes, she is blessed, Daphne mou. I can see it in her eyes.” Yia-yia lifted her face and smiled as a delicate, almost undetectable breeze wafted through the port. “I can hear it on the breeze.” Yia-yia looked out across the treetops, as if she could hear the cypress whispers serenading them right then and there.

  Daphne inched closer to her grandmother and rested her head on Yia-yia’s shoulder. It had been so long since she had heard Yia-yia profess that the cypress whispers existed, that she could hear the voices of the island. For the longest time, Daphne had believed Yia-yia’s claims; she had begged, prayed, and dreamed that she too would one day hear them. But the whispers never did materialize for Daphne, her hope eventually replaced by the fading echo of Yia-yia’s insistence. After a while, Daphne simply stopped wishing, stopped believing.

  After making a plan to meet for frappe
later that afternoon, Popi went off to the small house she had inherited when her father passed away, on the other side of the port. Daphne and Yia-yia loaded the luggage on Jack’s back, making sure to leave room for Evie to ride up there as well. Cars were a rare commodity on the island, where the roads were still for the most part unpaved and too narrow for a car to pass. Daphne was thrilled to see that donkeys were still a mainstay of transportation. She and her old friend Jack had had many adventures together, and she knew Evie was looking forward to creating some of her own.

  Their little caravan slowly made its way along the main paved road that leads from the port, past the tiny downtown area of the island. The three of them were quite a sight; the black shrouded old woman hunched over and leading the way as she held on to Jack’s reins with one hand and tightly gripped her walking stick with the other. A beaming Evie sat on Jack’s luggage-saddled back, continually patting his neck as he lumbered along the cracked, uneven pavement. Daphne walked right beside Jack and Evie, never taking her eyes off her little girl, arms poised and ready just in case Evie somehow slipped from her happy perch.

  As soon as they reached the white-and-blue-painted sign that read “Welcome to Hotel Nitsa,” Yia-yia stopped and turned to Daphne.

  “Daphne, mou. Do you want to go and say hello to Nitsa? To tell her you are here. She asks me every day when you will be arriving. You should see her, Daphne, the way she buzzes around like she is planning her own daughter’s wedding.” Yia-yia shook her head. The tone of her voice changed as she sighed deeply.

  Daphne knew what was coming next. She braced herself for the lament song she knew would follow. Listening to the wailing and moaning of the island women had always been Daphne’s very own version of fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.

  “Ahhhhaaaa.” Yia-yia shook her head and began to half speak, half sing. “Ahh, poor Nitsa, poor widowed and childless Nitsa. It is as if she is planning her own daughter’s wedding, the daughter she never knew, never could have. Poor lonely and childless Nitsa.”