When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  Nitsa was the lovely grandmotherly woman who ran the small rustic hotel with more care than if it was a Ritz-Carlton resort. It was the only hotel on the island and the simplest of accommodations. But what Hotel Nitsa lacked in luxury, it more than made up for in cleanliness and hospitality. Inside the lobby, the small reception/bar area opened to a flower-filled terrace that Daphne knew would be the perfect location for her wedding reception.

  Nitsa had been thrilled when Daphne called with the news and a request to book the entire hotel for the celebration. Business had been slow lately, and this windfall was a lifesaver to Nitsa, who was a widow herself and relied on the fickle tourist trade to make ends meet.

  Daphne looked from Yia-yia to the hotel’s front doors. As much as she was looking forward to seeing Nitsa, Daphne didn’t really want to talk business right now. All she wanted to do was get home, kick off her shoes, sit under the lemon tree, and dive into whatever feast Yia-yia had prepared.

  “Let’s just go home, Yia-yia. I can go visit Nitsa later.”

  “All right,” Yia-yia replied. “You must be tired and hungry, let’s get home. I have many wonderful surprises waiting for you. We can see Nitsa later. Jack, ella, let’s go.” Yia-yia clicked her tongue several times as a signal to her four-legged companion to get moving again. But just as Yia-yia was about to lift her walking stick and take her first step, the doors to the hotel burst open.

  He was tall, deeply tanned, and bearded—handsome, but not in the traditional sense of the word. There was something unkempt about his appearance: the crooked nose that looked as if it might have been broken in a bar brawl, the weathered face with its dense, gray-streaked facial hair, which made him attractive in the most primal way. Daphne had never seen him before.

  He rushed down the stairs and into Yia-yia’s path.

  “Yianni mou!” Yia-yia shouted, lifting her walking stick into the air.

  “Thea Evangelia.” A warm smile spread across his face as he spotted her. He stepped into her arms and kissed her on each cheek.

  “Yianni mou. I was worried about you. I have not seen you in days. I thought you forgot about me,” Yia-yia teased.

  “Thea Evangelia, how could I possibly forget about you, the most unforgettable woman on the island? I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave without saying good-bye, but I didn’t think I would be gone this long. I had to pick up a part for my boat in Kerkyra. That malaka sent me the wrong propeller last time, and I lost two days collecting my nets. But now—” Yianni held up a plain brown paper package in his hand as if it were a trophy. “Now I can get back to my nets and my boat.” Yianni never looked away from Yia-yia’s face as she held his hand to her cheek.

  Daphne stood there and stared at Yianni and Yia-yia. She had no idea who this man was; she had never even heard Yia-yia utter his name.

  “Yianni mou.” Yia-yia used her walking stick to gesture behind her, never letting go of Yianni’s hand. “This is my great-granddaughter Evie—isn’t she beautiful?” Yia-yia glowed as she gestured to Jack’s back, where Evie was perched, petting and caressing Jack as if he were a new kitten.

  “Yes, she is very beautiful,” Yianni agreed. He looked over at Evie but never once made eye contact or even acknowledged Daphne’s presence.

  “And this . . . ,” Yia-yia announced. “This is my Daphne, my granddaughter. She is the one, the very famous chef in New York that I have been telling you about.”

  “Yes,” he said, still never glancing her way. “The Amerikanida.”

  Daphne stared at him, confused. It was the way he said the word Amerikanida. Her parents had struggled for her to wear that title, and she wore it proudly. But the way the word had slithered across his tongue had nothing to do with pride. The way he said it sounded more like an accusation.

  Yia-yia continued, “Yes, she is my Amerikanida. And a smart one, too. The same things we give to our friends and family for free here, she charges hundreds of dollars for in New York.”

  It usually made Daphne uncomfortable when Yia-yia bragged about her so openly, but she didn’t care this time. She wanted this man to know exactly who she was and what she was, the Amerikanida.

  “Yes, I know how they are in New York, Thea Evangelia.” Yianni snorted. “You could put a piece of shit on a stick, give it a fancy name, and people would line up down the street to pay for the privilege of eating it. They have so much but know so little,” Yianni continued, reaching once again for Yia-yia’s shoulder and giving her a gentle squeeze, as if they were sharing some sort of private joke that Daphne didn’t find funny in the least.

  “Actually, New York is known for its excellent restaurants,” Daphne snapped. “But I imagine you must not know much about fine dining, or New York.” Even as the words came out of her mouth, Daphne couldn’t believe she had actually said them out loud. It was so unlike her to be downright rude like this.

  “You are mistaken, American chef. I know more about New York than you think.” Yianni finally turned to look at Daphne. “And I also know that the people who claim to be the most cosmopolitan are often the most ignorant.”

  His verbal assault hit its mark with exacting precision. Daphne inhaled sharply, the words literally taking her breath away. She searched for a worthy retort, but Yia-yia spoke before Daphne could summon the appropriate insult.

  “Ah, Yianni, you always have such a way with words. I agree with you. I have no need for those big cities full of strangers when everything I want and everyone I love is right here.” Yia-yia laughed, throwing her head back, her headscarf slipping off her hair and to her shoulders, revealing the braids that she perpetually wore hanging down her back.

  “Yianni, I will say a special prayer to ensure your nets are full.” Yia-yia turned to face Daphne. “Yianni is a gifted fisherman, Daphne. He is somewhat new to Erikousa, but he loves our island like we do. Be extra nice to him, as he will be the one feeding your wedding guests with his gifts from the sea.” Yia-yia linked her arm with his.

  Daphne couldn’t believe what she was witnessing as Yia-yia continued to giggle and beam at Yianni. This man had so casually insulted Daphne right in front of Yia-yia, the one person Daphne would expect to always fiercely come to her defense. It was as if the laws of nature were being rewritten before her very eyes.

  “Ella, Yianni. We are going home to eat. Will you join us? I made boureki and spourthopita. I know how you love them both,” Yia-yia said temptingly as she lightly tapped his legs with her walking stick.

  Daphne could not wait to get home and dive into Yia-yia’s rich and creamy chicken boureki pie, or sweet pumpkin spourthopita. But the thought of this rude man intruding on their meal was simply too much. She had come thousands of miles to sit and feast with Yia-yia, not this ill-mannered stranger. But before she had the chance to protest, Yianni stepped in.

  “Thea, thank you. No, I have to go. But save me a piece of spourthopita. You know I could eat a whole pan of it myself.” Yianni kissed Yia-yia’s cheek and turned to walk away.

  “All right, Yianni. But promise me you’ll come tomorrow for lunch. I’ll make something special for you,” Yia-yia called out.

  “Entaksi, yes, Thea. I promise I will come.” Yianni waved good-bye to Yia-yia before turning and walking directly toward Daphne on the narrow road.

  There was barely room for him to pass. Reason told her to step aside, to make way and avoid another awkward confrontation. But anger and frustration had shoved reason right out of the way. Daphne stood her ground.

  Let him move. She didn’t budge as he walked toward her, directly into her path.

  He walked right past her, skimming by so close that the wiry hairs on his arm brushed against hers—close enough to smell the Greek coffee on his breath and the scent of seawater and sweat on his skin. Once he was several feet clear of Daphne he finally turned and looked at her, a smile etched across his face.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch, stubborn Amerikanida,” he announced as he placed a sun-bleached old fisherman’s
cap on his head and began his walk back to the port.

  Daphne watched him walk away. She could feel the telltale burning in her cheeks, as if they were on fire. “Malaka,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

  But there was no reply from the fisherman, just the rustling of the cypress trees in the early-afternoon breeze.

  Six

  As she ascended the cracked stone steps to Yia-yia’s house and closed the creaky patio gate behind her, Daphne was expecting to be comforted by the familiar sights—the large lemon tree whose branches bent downward with the weight of their fruit, the glazed blue-and-white-painted pots that housed Yia-yia’s overgrown basil plants and the old wooden carved stools that still sat by the fire as if they were anticipating another one of Yia-yia’s all-night storytelling sessions.

  From the time she was a little girl, Daphne had burst through this gate in a fit of excited giggles. But as happy and excited as she was to be here again, this time it was different.

  Their encounter had not lasted long, but it was as if with each second she was in Yianni’s presence, with each exasperating moment, her frustration had grown incrementally stronger. Daphne felt as if she had stepped back into ancient times, when the winged furies would buzz about and torment mortals. She remembered trying to imagine what the tiny beasts might look like as she read Aeschylus’s Oresteia over and over again as a teenager.

  Is this what Orestes felt like? she wondered.

  Unlike Orestes, Daphne knew she had committed no sin, no offense against the gods or nature. This wasn’t the fabled and fallen house of Agamemnon, and she was not a mythological hero, or even a young maiden whose marriage or sacrifice could turn the tide of war. Daphne was merely a mortal—a lonely woman who had lost the love of her life far too young and finally, after years of mourning, was ready to open her heart again. This place was supposed to be her refuge, her reward. Daphne felt she had earned the right to come back here, to remember and maybe even in some way relive the pure and simple pleasures of her youth.

  As she walked along the patio, she reached out and skimmed the basil plant’s gargantuan leaves as she passed. When she reached the last plant, she lifted her fingers to her nose and inhaled the deep, familiar scent. Leaning in, she snapped off a branch and waved the leaves back and forth under her nose. In ancient times, it was believed that a basil sprig was powerful enough to open the gates of heaven.

  Enough. That’s enough, Daphne thought to herself as she exhaled deeply, opened her eyes, and held her hand out to Evie.

  “Come on, Evie.” Right then and there Daphne promised herself that although that man had managed to ruin her morning, she would not allow him to ruin her entire day, or Evie’s for that matter.

  “Come on, koukla, let me show you around before we have lunch,” she announced, surprising herself with just how chipper and cheerful she managed to sound.

  Hand in hand, Evie and Daphne walked through the garden, past endless rows of tomato vines covered with earth-scented globes that looked ready to burst. They continued down the back stairs, past a wall of honeysuckle whose tiny blossoms blanketed the area with a chorus of buzzing bees. They made their way to where Yia-yia kept Jack tied, under a hulking olive tree with plenty of lush branches to keep her old friend shaded and cool.

  As if on cue, Jack once again bent his head as Evie approached. Evie reached her little arm forward to pat the soft spot right above the donkey’s nose. As she did, Jack leaned in even farther and gave Evie a little nuzzle just under her neck.

  “Oh, Mommy, he just gave me a kiss. He likes me.” Evie giggled.

  “Yes, honey. He sure does.” They had only been in Erikousa for less than two hours, and it seemed Evie had already made a dear friend.

  “Come on, sweetie, I want to show you something else.” Daphne pried her daughter’s hands from around Jack’s neck.

  She led Evie past the back patio, through the garden, and down the back stone staircase toward the chaos and cacophony of Yia-yia’s bustling chicken coop. Daphne opened the wire lattice gate and ushered Evie inside before slamming the gate shut behind them. Once inside, Evie looked down, and her feet froze in place as she spotted half a dozen tiny yellow baby chicks running around like little drunken sailors at her feet. Daphne slowly bent down, picked up a newly hatched chick, and placed it in Evie’s cupped hands. She stood there silently watching Evie’s face, contorted with delight as she reached her tiny fingers out to stroke the baby bird’s downy fur.

  Daphne didn’t dare budge. She just stood there watching as Evie made it her mission to nuzzle each and every one of the chicks. It seemed as if her little girl wanted to make sure all of the little baby birds felt loved, that none felt slighted or left out.

  “Elllla ellllla. Daphne, Evie. Ellllla.” Yia-yia’s singsong cry could barely be heard over the clamor of wings flapping, chickens clucking, and Evie’s squeals of delight.

  Daphne lifted her head and squinted into the sun.

  “Daphhneeee, Evieeeeee . . . Ellllaaaaaa,” Yia-yia sang again.

  Daphne held her hand up just above her forehead to shield her eyes from the blazing sunshine. But it was no use. With the sun directly above the house, all she could see was Yia-yia’s backlit silhouette high above them on the terrace as she raised her trusty old wooden spoon toward the sky and sang out for her granddaughter and great-granddaughter to join her at the table.

  “Coming, Yia-yia. Erhomaste,” Daphne replied.

  “Can I bring her with me?” Evie begged as her mother held open the gate for her to pass. “Please. Oh, please, Mommy,” she pleaded as she softly nuzzled the baby chick, which she still held cupped in her hands.

  “No, honey. You have to leave her here. But you can come back and play after lunch,” Daphne assured her.

  “Promise? Do you really, really promise?” Evie asked with an almost imperceptible accusatory tone in her voice. No one else listening to the conversation between mother and daughter would have picked up on it, but it was there. Daphne knew it was. She had heard it many times before, and it broke her heart just a little bit more each and every time she did.

  “Yes, I promise,” Daphne said as she crouched down to look Evie directly in the eyes. She reached both hands out and planted them on Evie’s deliciously rosy and plump cheeks. “This is your house, honey. These are your baby chicks. You can come here whenever you like and play here as much as you want. Okay?” She placed a delicate kiss on the tip of Evie’s nose. “Okay?” she repeated as she squeezed her hands just a little tighter on Evie’s cheeks.

  Daphne did her best to reassure her little girl, and outwardly, anyway, it seemed to be working. For a child who usually spent her days holed up in an apartment playing alone with her stuffed animals, having free rein here in the outdoors—in a chicken coop with real live chickens, no less—was like a dream come true. It was a taste of fresh air and freedom that Daphne knew her daughter craved. And it was a craving that Daphne wanted nothing more than to satisfy.

  Daphne had always had the best intentions when it came to Evie; she was constantly planning trips to the Bronx Zoo and picnics in Central Park. But Daphne’s best intentions were never enough to compensate for the bad timing when the sous chef at Koukla would call in sick or when the health inspector would show up for a surprise visit. There was always some reason for Daphne to once again put her plans with Evie on hold and race to the restaurant with a disappointed Evie in tow.

  Daphne felt that familiar ache in her heart every time she glanced over to see her disappointed little girl fidgeting at a back table. Each time she caught a glimpse of her Evie sitting there alone, it so clearly reminded her of all the times her parents had done the same to her. On the surface a four-star estiatorio in Manhattan sounded a whole lot different than a little greasy spoon in Yonkers. But Daphne knew that to a lonely little girl, they were really one and the same.

  Yia-yia had shooed Daphne away from the kitchen when they first arrived at the house and refused any offer to help with
lunch. Now, as she stood on the patio watching Yia-yia’s final preparations, Daphne’s mouth began to water as she spotted the banquet that Yia-yia had prepared. There were mountains of food: platters of spanakopita, spourthopita, a freshly baked chicken doused with lemon and sprinkled with oregano, an overflowing platter of Yia-yia’s signature fried potatoes, a deep bowl of glorious Greek horiatiki salad of ruby-red chopped tomatoes, freshly cut cucumbers, and newly unearthed red onions so intense that Daphne felt her eyes sting.

  “Daphne mou. What’s wrong? I made your favorite dishes, yet you still cannot manage a smile for your yia-yia,” Yia-yia said as she piled the last of the steaming potatoes on the platter. “Sit down. Eat, koukla mou. Eat. Men like a little something to hold on to. You are skin and bones,” Yia-yia teased as she leaned across the table and set a plate before Daphne.

  “I’m fine, Yia-yia. Just hungry, I guess.” Not wanting to worry Yia-yia, Daphne began piling her plate high. As much as she didn’t want to admit out loud how Yianni had gotten under her skin, she knew she had to come clean. If she could be honest with anyone, she could be honest with Yia-yia.

  “It’s just that man,” Daphne finally blurted out. She let out a deep sigh before reaching over, picking up a plump, slick olive, and popping it into her mouth.

  “What man, koukla?” Yia-yia asked, clearly confused. “Stephen? Your Stephen? What has he done to you? Is there a problem?” Yia-yia straightened herself and leaned on the table as if to brace for bad news.

  “No, not Stephen.” Daphne shook away the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “There’s no problem with Stephen.” She reached across the table and grabbed another slippery olive.

  “Ah, entaksi. All right.”

  “It’s that Yianni,” Daphne blurted out.

  “Yianni?”