“Your old cassettes are in the drawer.” Yia-yia motioned to the old wooden cabinet behind the kitchen table.
With both hands, Daphne grabbed the cabinet handles and pulled. There, on the bottom shelf, was a treasure trove of classic Greek music. Parios, Dalaras, Hatzis, Vissi—they were all there. Daphne searched through the bag and pulled out a white cassette, its black letters faded and rubbed off. It was Marinella, her favorite.
“I haven’t listened to this in so long.” Daphne sat down and pressed play. She leaned her elbows on the table, chin cradled in her palms—and closed her eyes. A smile spread across her face as the first notes escaped from the radio’s tiny speakers.
“Daphne mou, come on—why are you listening to that sad music? It’s depressing,” Yia-yia chided as she crumbled cooled boiled potatoes into a pan.
Like her parents, Daphne had always loved Marinella’s melodrama, her stories of all-consuming love affairs and aching black heartbreak. After Alex died, Daphne found herself swallowed up in her grief, listening to this music over and over again, but everything changed the night she finally said yes to Stephen.
“Ella, Daphne,” Yia-yia said. “We have guests coming for lunch. Enough of lost love affairs; we have a lot to do.”
“I know, Yia-yia.” Daphne stood up and lifted the cassette player from the table. She placed it on a chair in the corner but didn’t turn it off, just lowered the volume a bit.
For the rest of the morning, Yia-yia and Daphne worked side by side. As Yia-yia finished chopping the dill, Daphne grabbed a generous handful of the chopped leaves and tossed them into the pan. She then added the rice and boiled potatoes, which Yia-yia had already crumbled.
“I’ll do the feta.” Yia-yia reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a large white tub.
“Yes, you can do the feta.” Daphne laughed, nodding.
“So, still?” Yia-yia shook her head. She pulled back the lid from the tub and reached into the milky brine with her bare hands. She pulled out a large chunk of white feta cheese. Yia-yia’s hands glistened and dripped with the pungent white juice.
Daphne turned away and gagged. She could clean a whole fish, butcher any type of meat, and even impale a baby lamb on a roasting spit, but there was something about a tub of feta brine that had always made her stomach turn.
“So what do you do in the restaurant?” Yia-yia asked.
“I get someone to do it for me.”
“Ah, you are so modern.” Yia-yia nodded.
“Yes, I’m very modern.” Daphne giggled as she cracked the first egg. A dozen more followed that Daphne scrambled until the liquid turned a pale yellow with just a few frothy bubbles on top. She poured the eggs into the mixture and used a dinner plate to mix the ingredients together, fanning the small dish up and down the length of the pan, making sure the crumbled potatoes, feta, rice, and eggs were all evenly distributed. Several flies buzzed around the kitchen. Daphne did her best to shoo them away, but it was no use.
Yia-yia was almost finished with the filo. She worked the old broom handle quickly and effortlessly, back and forth across the small balls of dough until they spread out paper-thin across the table. Daphne watched as Yia-yia lifted sheet after sheet of filo and draped it over each of the half dozen pans that were scattered over every available surface in the kitchen.
Not one hole, Daphne marveled, thinking of how she was constantly using her wet fingers to mend the tears that always sprang up whenever she rolled out her own filo.
“Entaksi,” Yia-yia said as the last pan was filled with the rich patatopita mixture and topped with a sprinkling of sugar. She placed her hands on her hips, her black dress covered in a film of white flour. “Ella, Daphne mou, let’s have some kafe before we clean this up. I’ll read your cup again.”
“No, Yia-yia. No more kafe for me.” Daphne raised her hand, thinking of the three frappes Evie had insisted on making her before they headed to the cove that morning. “Besides, I like what you saw in my cup yesterday. I don’t want to take a chance that you’ll see something different today.” She darted around the kitchen, sweeping dried bits of dough out the door.
Yia-yia took her kafe and walked outside to her chair under the shade of the olive tree. She drank her coffee, enjoying the occasional breeze and watching as Evie chased salamanders into the patio’s crevices. The day before, when Yia-yia had looked into Daphne’s cup, she had seen that the bottom was covered in deep black mud while the sides of the cup were only thinly streaked with grounds.
“What does that mean?” Daphne had asked.
“The bottom is your past; it shows you had a heavy heart. But see here—” Yia-yia leaned in to show Daphne. “See, you can see how the white of the cup shows through on the sides. That means your skies are clearing. Your heartache will clear.”
Daphne had hugged her arms around her chest and leaned in closer. She sucked in her cheeks as she waited for Yia-yia to continue.
“I see one line toward the top of the cup. That is you. But here—” Yia-yia turned the cup and pointed to a fresh line that appeared halfway down the side. “This is your life’s journey. And you see here, there is another line that appears here with you. The lines suddenly shift to the right. And look how they get clearer, stronger.”
Yia-yia tilted the cup again. She winced as she pulled her shoulders back and straightened her spine. “You see, Daphne, there is someone who will change the course of your life. You’ll be making a journey, a new trip, and he will join you on your journey. He makes you stronger and mends your broken heart. He will walk side by side with you for the rest of your life and show you love like you have never known.”
The words made Daphne glow. In just a few days, Stephen would be arriving, and they would begin their new journey together—their new life, putting the darkness behind her once and for all.
In the past, Daphne had thought these readings were merely another way to pass the hot afternoons. But not this time. This time she needed to believe the cup’s readings could in fact ring true. This time it was too important.
“All right, put your right index finger here, at the bottom of the cup. This is the deepest part of your heart, where all of your dreams are.”
Yia-yia had gestured toward the very bottom of the cup, where the mud was the thickest. Daphne did as she was told. She took her left index finger, the one closest to the heart, and pressed it down.
“Now lift your finger,” Yia-yia commanded.
Daphne removed her finger and turned it toward her. Daphne and Yia-yia both leaned in and looked into the mud. There, smack in the center, was a clear white imprint where her finger had been.
Daphne exhaled.
“See, Daphne mou. You left a clean mark. Your heart is pure, and your deepest wish will come true.”
Now, sitting here on the patio as Evie played at her feet, Yia-yia stared into her own cup. She could hear Daphne singing an old, familiar song in the kitchen. It was the very lullaby that her own daughter, Daphne’s mother, quietly sang years ago as Daphne slept in her cradle under the shade of the very same lemon tree. It was the very song that Yia-yia herself would sing over and over again as she bounced Daphne on her knee, praying the gods would listen to the words and understand what this child meant to her. And now it was Daphne’s turn to sing the same words, to feel their meaning and understand just how they resonated. It was Daphne’s turn to fully understand just how magical and transformative the power of a woman’s love can be.
I love you like no other . . .
I have no gifts to shower upon you
No gold or jewels or riches
But still, I give you all I have
And that, my sweet child, is all my love
I promise you this,
You will always have my love
Yia-yia turned her cup round and round. Staring into the darkness, she thought how she too would give all she had for her Daphne. She was a poor woman, and she had nothing to give her grandchild but some old stories and
a glimpse into a muddy coffee cup. Daphne had been so happy with the reading yesterday that Yia-yia just couldn’t tell her. She didn’t have the heart.
Soon it would be Daphne’s turn to take her place among their ancestors, to hear the voices that had kept Yia-yia company all these years. But it was too soon; Yia-yia knew her granddaughter still was not ready.
“Ohi tora, not now,” Yia-yia said out loud, although she was alone on the patio. The old woman looked across the island, out toward the horizon as she spoke. “Just a little more time, please.” She paused to listen. “She needs more time.”
Yia-yia nodded as she heard the island’s response. The wind picked up and the cypress trees rustled in the wind. The sound carried across the island and across the patio, the muffled sound of women whispering hidden between the vibrations of the leaves. It was the answer she had been waiting for, the answer Yia-yia knew that, for now, she alone could hear.
Yia-yia looked out across the sea and thanked the island for giving her this gift of time. She would keep what she saw to herself, at least a bit longer. She was an old, uneducated woman, but Yia-yia could read a coffee cup like a scholar reads a textbook. She knew that the clean white line that suddenly appeared halfway down the cup indeed meant that Daphne would be going on a journey; but that was not all she saw revealed in Daphne’s grounds.
I have no gifts to shower upon you
No gold or jewels or riches
But still, I give you all I have
For now, Yia-yia chose the gift of silence.
Ten
Later that afternoon Daphne, Evie, Yianni, and Popi all sat under the olive tree on old wooden chairs, feasting on Yia-yia’s patatopita. Daphne had spent the entire morning hoping that Yianni might somehow have forgotten about Yia-yia’s lunch invitation and his promise to join them. But she was not so lucky.
Yianni had shown up right on time, his tales of excruciating hunger sending Yia-yia into a fit of giggles and Daphne running to the kitchen to escape this man who had come to devour the pita along with the peace and tranquillity of her day. She had decided that the best way to deal with Yianni was to simply ignore him.
It appeared that Yianni entered the lunch with the same strategy.
He burst through the gate, holding in one hand a beautiful large tsipoura wrapped in newspaper, fresh from his nets. In the other hand was a large chocolate bar filled with chopped hazelnuts.
“Yia sou Thea!” he shouted as he entered the patio, bending down slightly to kiss Yia-yia on both cheeks and handing her the newspaper-wrapped fish.
“And for you, little Evie,” he said in perfect but heavily accented English as he patted Evie’s dark curls and handed her the chocolate bar. He had nothing for Daphne; no gift, no words, no acknowledgment.
Evie climbed into Daphne’s lap and nuzzled into her shoulder. As Daphne wrapped her arms around her little girl, she marveled at the therapeutic powers of Evie’s skin against her own. She had never been happier to have Evie crawl into her lap and cuddle. She needed Evie’s innocence and affection right now. It was a stark contrast to the cold presence of Yianni, who sat just inches away.
Evie continued to sit there, enjoying the indulgence of Daphne’s time and attention. With the majority of the conversation taking place in Greek, the little girl had quickly lost interest in trying to decipher what the adults were saying and instead turned her attention to twirling her mother’s corkscrew curls around and around her fingers. As Evie lay draped across her mother’s lap, one arm dangling down to the patio, the other tugging, playing with, and twirling Daphne’s dark ringlets, she suddenly jumped out of Daphne’s lap and began to scream.
“Mommy, Mommy. Get it off of me, Mommy.”
“Evie, honey. What is it, what’s wrong?” Daphne cried as she scanned Evie’s body top to bottom.
“It’s a spider, a huge spider, crawling on my arm. Eww . . . Mommy, help.”
There it was, tiny black body and eight spindly legs meandering down the length of Evie’s arm. With one whoosh of her hand, Daphne sent the spider flying off the terrified young girl.
“It’s all right, honey, it was only a spider, nothing to be afraid of.” But of course, knowing her daughter, Daphne knew her words were useless.
“Evie, it is just a spider,” Popi chimed in.
“Yes, honey. It’s nothing,” Daphne agreed as she pulled the little girl back onto her lap, running her hands up and down Evie’s arm as if to wipe away the spider’s tiny footsteps.
“Ah, Evie mou, do not be afraid—it is good luck for a spider to kiss a child. Daphne mou, tell her it is Arachne’s kiss,” Yia-yia added.
Still holding Evie in her lap, Daphne leaned in to her little girl’s ear and explained what Yia-yia had said. “So you see, honey, a visit from a spider is nothing to be afraid of; it’s a gift from Arachne.”
“But who’s Arachne?” the little girl asked. “Is she another cousin? Mommy, why do I have so many cousins with weird names?” Evie huffed. “Why don’t people here have normal names?”
“No, Evie.” Daphne laughed. “Arachne is not a cousin. She’s a spider.”
“Mommy, now you’re just being silly.” Evie planted her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. The sight of her like that, confused and indignant, was enough to send the adults into a fit of laughter.
“Evie”—Daphne leaned in closer to explain.—“Arachne is a spider. When I was a little girl, just about your age, Yia-yia told me the story of Arachne and Athena. Arachne was a young girl who was too proud and far too vain. She was known throughout Greece for her skill at taking different-colored threads and weaving them into beautiful pictures on her loom. She had the nerve to brag that she was better at weaving than the goddess Athena herself. Now Athena got really mad and challenged Arachne to a contest, to see who could weave a better picture. They sat side by side and worked, and finally the contest was finished. Both looms were perfect. But Arachne still had the nerve to insist that hers was better than Athena’s. The goddess got so angry that she cast a spell on Arachne. Athena turned Arachne into the first spider. From that moment on, Arachne would weave forever, and she would forever be attached to her loom.”
“Do you see, Evie?” Popi added as she took another bite of patatopita. She opened her mouth to speak again, crumbs flying out of her mouth as she did. “Athena made Arachne into the first spider because she was a very naughty girl.”
“But why was she so naughty, Thea Popi? All she did was make a picture. So what?” Evie asked.
“Well, Evie . . . ummmm . . . you see . . .” Popi looked up at Daphne for help. “Um, the reason is . . . because . . .” For once Popi seemed to be at a loss for words. It was clear from her stuttering and stammering that she had no idea how to answer her inquisitive little niece.
Daphne sat back in her chair, lifted another piece of patatopita to her mouth, and remained quiet. She was rather enjoying this little exchange between her curious, high-spirited daughter and her know-it-all cousin who just the other day had had the nerve to question Daphne’s parenting.
“Yes, Popi,” Daphne finally spoke. “Tell us, why did Arachne get in trouble?” Daphne broke off a piece of the patatopita’s crust with her thumb and forefinger.
“I will tell you, Evie.” Yianni inched his chair closer to Evie. He leaned in, eye to eye with the little girl.
Yianni’s offer took Daphne by surprise. She glanced over at him. It was the first time she’d dared look straight at him since he arrived for lunch. But now, seated here on the patio, there was no ignoring the ignorant fisherman as he now offered to help Evie. She turned once again and caught another glimpse of his profile: the slightly hooked nose, creased eyes, and scruffy beard, which appeared even more heavily flecked with gray than she had remembered.
“Evie, Arachne got into trouble because she thought she was better than everyone else,” Yianni said. “She had too much pride. In mythology we call this hubris.”
“Yes, that’s right, Evie mou,” Da
phne added. “Yianni seems to know this myth very well. It’s clear he’s well versed in hubris.”
For the first time since he arrived, Yianni turned to look at Daphne. The gentle ease with which he spoke to Evie dissolved as he locked eyes with the Amerikanida. For Daphne he reserved a cocky stare that reeked of challenge. Daphne felt the urge to look away, to escape his black eyes, which felt colder than the dead fish that now lay on a bed of ice on the kitchen counter. But Daphne didn’t look away; she couldn’t and wouldn’t concede defeat—not again.
“Yes,” Yianni said, turning his attention from Daphne back to Evie. “Evie. The ancient Greeks called it hubris. It’s a big word, but it means that someone is too proud. It is never good to be too proud.” He turned toward Daphne as he spoke the words “too proud.”
“Okay,” Evie said as she jumped off her seat to chase a salamander across the patio, clearly finished with hubris and this entire conversation.
“Well, Daphne. You really got her attention that time.” Popi laughed.
“I know.” Daphne shook her head. “She’s not exactly a captive audience, is she?”
“She’s a beautiful little girl,” Yianni added, his eyes following Evie as she skipped away. “It’s no wonder Evie is so beautiful. She is named for Thea Evangelia, isn’t she? She is beautiful like her great-grandmother.”
“Yes, she is.” Popi refilled her glass with beer and clinked glasses with Yianni. “Isn’t that right, Daphne? Isn’t Evie named for your yia-yia?”
Daphne nodded. She turned toward Yianni, who was now watching Evie skip across the patio and flip rocks over with a stick in search of salamanders. Once Evie reached the old cellar door, its blue paint peeling and chipping away, Evie stopped in her tracks. Her mouth dropped and her eyes opened wide when she spotted a spider spinning her web in the corner of the door frame.
“Thea Evangelia, look at Evie. She’s found Arachne.” Yianni pointed to where Evie stood, watching the spider spin her web.
“Just one more piece.” Popi leaned across the table and lifted the last piece of pita from the platter, leaving nothing but a few crumbs on the large white serving dish.
When the Cypress Whispers Page 7
