When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  “I know it was in here. Where did I put it?” Nitsa mumbled as she continued to look in every drawer and crevice behind the towering wooden bar. “Ahhh, nato, here it is,” she exclaimed, victorious, as she pulled out a long, delicate chain.

  Evie squirmed in her seat to get a better look.

  “Here, put this on, and you will be safe,” Thea Nitsa said as she clasped the chain around Evie’s neck.

  Evie looked down at her chest. There, attached to the delicate chain and lying just against her heart, was a small blue glass eye. She lifted it with her fingers to get a better look.

  “To mati,” Nitsa said. “The eye. It will protect you from the evil eye. Ftoo, ftoo, ftoo.” Nitsa spit at Evie three times.

  Evie flinched. She had actually started to grow fond of Thea Nitsa, but that was before she started spitting.

  “It’s okay, Evie.” Daphne laughed. “Thea Nitsa is making sure that you’ll be safe. The eye protects you from evil spirits and wishes. I had one of these pinned to your crib when you were a baby.”

  Evie looked closer at the eye, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Good. I don’t want to be a spider. I want to stay a little girl.”

  “Well, good. Because I want you to stay a little girl, my little girl.” Daphne scooped Evie up and off the bar stool. It felt good to see Evie’s broad smile, to feel her arms tighten around Daphne’s neck.

  Reluctantly, Daphne pried the tiny fingers off her. “Now, Mommy and Thea Nitsa have some things to talk about—”

  “Ne, Evie. My cat, Katerina, has new kittens; they are out on the patio. Do you want to see?” Nitsa motioned toward the patio.

  Nitsa had found the magic words. Evie skipped out to the flower-covered patio, anxious to see the new kittens for herself.

  “Bravo, Daphne mou.” Nitsa clapped her hands together. “Now, what would you like to eat? Maybe some yemista—I remember how you love my stuffed peppers. I made them this morning with lots of raisins and mint, just the way you like it . . . thelis ligo, do you want some?”

  Nitsa didn’t wait for Daphne’s response. She sprang up and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a large plate filled with yemista before Daphne even had a chance to answer.

  “Thank you, Thea.” Daphne dug her fork into the green pepper. The taste was exquisite; light, fresh, and fragrant—just the way Daphne remembered it.

  They spent the better part of the morning planning the menu. The women agreed that sticking with local delicacies and traditional fare would be the perfect way to celebrate the wedding feast. They decided on a variety of freshly caught local grilled fish embellished with nothing more than lemon, olive oil, oregano, and sea salt. Daphne did, however, insist that after displaying the fish whole, Nitsa would debone them tableside. She knew Stephen’s family wouldn’t know the first thing about filleting a fish and were liable to choke on a mouthful of fish bones if they even tried. The rest of the menu was just as superb in its simplicity. Besides the fish, Nitsa would also make endless platters of appetizers, cheeses, and dips. Once their business was done, Nitsa dove into the other business she was equally famous for—gossiping.

  “Daphne, I tell you. That Sophia is something else.”

  Daphne clearly remembered Sophia, and she could not believe what she was hearing. When they were children Daphne had always felt bad for Sophia, who lived on the island year-round with her family. Sophia was stuck here, knowing she would never see the world, get a proper education, or marry anyone other than a local boy her parents determined to be an acceptable match. And indeed they had, marrying her off to a boy from the other side of the island when she was just sixteen years old.

  “You should see her. She’s not sitting home alone, waiting for her husband to return from America. Ha, it is the ones who play the innocent who are the guiltiest.” Nitsa leaned in, legs apart, elbows on her knees, and lit another Camel Light, eager to share her thoughts on Sophia, who according to Nitsa, had turned into the island’s resident poutana.

  Nitsa took another long, deep drag and looked around to make sure no one was nearby to hear them. “And trust me, Sophia has not been lonely while her husband is in America working in the diners to make enough money to send for her. In the old days, when the men went away, it was they who would cheat. Now look how modern we are—the women cheat as well.”

  Nitsa slapped her knee and emitted yet another guttural laugh. She lit another Camel Light, the ashtray already overflowing with the cigarettes she had smoked just in the past hour with Daphne.

  “Nitsa—” Daphne smiled, realizing that Nitsa might actually be able to shed some light on the mystery of Yianni. Daphne didn’t feel that her prying was actual gossiping—she preferred to think of it as research. After all, she would be placing her life in his hands tomorrow morning on the trip to Kerkyra.

  “Thea Nitsa—”

  “Ne, Daphne.”

  “Thea, what about this Yianni . . . the fisherman? What do you know about him?”

  “Ah, Yianni. Yes, for a man who did not grow up on the sea, he has become quite a magician with his nets. Daphne, I tell you, his catch is always the best of the day. I have become his best customer.” Nitsa nodded as she scratched the inside of her thigh, cigarette dangling dangerously close to the fabric of her skirt.

  “Yes, but what do you know about him? He seems to spend an awful lot of time with Yia-yia. We know he fishes, but what else does he do? He has no family here. He’s not married. Does he have any friends?”

  “Never.” Nitsa shook her head. “I never see him with friends, just your yia-yia, of course. He is something of a mystery, Daphne mou. I remember his yia-yia from many years ago, but she was something of a mystery as well. She showed up here during the war with her daughters, but no husband. There were stories about her, you know. At first people said that her arrival was a bad omen; that your yia-yia never should have taken in more mouths to feed when our own people were starving. But your yia-yia wouldn’t hear of it.” Nitsa leaned in closer to Daphne and raised her right eyebrow. “Some say that a miracle happened here on the island during that time.”

  “A miracle?” Daphne asked. She had heard of miracles attributed to Saint Spyridon back on Corfu, but she had never heard of any here, on Erikousa.

  “Yes, a miracle, Daphne mou.” Nitsa bowed her head. She made the sign of the cross three times and dug her crucifix out from between her breasts, kissing it before continuing with her story.

  “All around us, on Kerkyra and on the mainland, people were murdered, starved, and tortured. But not here. Here, no one was killed. The German soldiers were vicious, evil, I tell you, Daphne. They massacred many innocent people on Corfu. But none here.” She nodded slowly, deliberately.

  “Everyone expected the worst, but your yia-yia, she knew. She had faith. Even when others feared that there would not be enough food, that the soldiers would turn violent, or that in desperate times we would turn against each other—she knew better. Even when everyone on the island was panicked, she remained calm and insisted we would be rewarded for our acts of kindness, for helping each other as well as the young mother who came to live among us. And she was right. Your yia-yia knew, just like she always does.”

  “She never really talked to me about the war.”

  “They were difficult times, Daphne mou. Times best left forgotten, left in the past. We all have deep scars from that time. And as it is with scars, it is often best not to pick and prod at our wounds, but to try and forget they are there. We pray that somehow, eventually, over time we will heal. There is always a reminder, a permanent mark on our skin, on our soul—maybe they will fade with time, but they will never truly disappear—but sometimes it is best to try and pretend they do.”

  Nitsa slapped at the ashes that had dropped on her skirt. “Ella, you were asking me about Yianni, and I went on and on about old times and old women. Just like an old woman, eh? What did you want to know about Yianni?”

  “Why is he here? I mean, if his family
left after the war, why did he come back?”

  “My girl, I have asked myself the same thing. He is an educated man. So what he’s doing here, among the fishermen and the old women? I do not really know. But I do know that he never goes to church.” Nitsa laughed as she picked a piece of tobacco from her tongue.

  “No friends?”

  “None. Just his nets and his books. That is all.”

  “His books?”

  “Yes—when he is not working on his boat, he can be found here, at the bar.” Nitsa motioned toward the bar area. “He comes in—sometimes it’s frappe, sometimes brandy, but no matter what the drink, there is always a book. He inhales those books the way I do these.” She laughed as she lit yet another cigarette.

  “But there is one thing, Daphne,” she continued. “A few weeks ago he was here, sitting at the end of the bar, with his brandy and a book.” She laughed as she waved her lit cigarette in the air, leaving a series of smoke rings in its wake. “It was late, very late, and everyone had had a lot to drink, even me. I was a little drunk,” she admitted with a chuckle, shrugging.

  “I left to go to bed. But I forgot my glasses, and as I came down the stairs a few minutes later to get them, I saw Yianni with his arms around Sophia. He was holding her very, very tight. He stood holding her for a moment, and then he put his arm around her waist and she buried her neck in his shoulder and they walked out into the night together. So while I don’t know if you could call them friends”—Nitsa chortled—“I think Yianni did more than read his book that night.”

  So Yianni’s not as wonderful as Yia-yia would like to believe, Daphne thought to herself. There’s nothing different or special about him at all. She sighed.

  She didn’t quite understand it; as of this morning she’d had nothing but contempt for the man. But now, sitting here as Nitsa divulged this rare glimpse into Yianni’s true character, Daphne was surprised to realize that she actually felt somewhat disappointed. But in what exactly, she wasn’t so sure. Was she disappointed in Yianni, for being the kind of man who would bed a married woman? In Yia-yia, for so blindly having faith in this man who suddenly turned up on her door with nothing but a name and a story from long ago? Or was it in herself, for momentarily wavering, questioning the very strong and very negative first impression she had of the man?

  “Daphne, come tonight for dinner.” Nitsa stabbed her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. “Come, as my guest. I want to give you a gift, a beautiful dinner with your family before your Amerikanos arrives.” She rose from her seat and headed toward the kitchen.

  “That would be wonderful, Thea. Let me just ask Yia-yia—”

  “There is nothing to ask. I will call her for you.” And with that, Thea Nitsa exited the hotel. She stood on the small marble stoop, cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone, and literally called Yia-yia across the island.

  “Evan-ge-liaaaaa. Evan-ge-liaaa!” she shouted.

  It took a few seconds, but the reply came loud and clear from above the olive trees. “Ne?”

  “Evangelia, ella . . . You and Daphne will come to the hotel for dinner tonight, all right?”

  “Ne, entaksi.”

  “There, it is done.” Thea Nitsa wiped her hands on her apron as she came back inside the hotel. “Ten o’clock, eh. This is Greece, we eat at civilized hours, not like your Americans who eat so early.”

  And with that, Nitsa was off to begin her lunch shift, mumbling the entire way as she did. “Eating dinner at five o’clock, what’s wrong with those Americans?” She shook her head. “So uncivilized,” she mumbled, leaning down, cigarette dangling from her fingers as she scratched at her inner thigh before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Fifteen

  ERIKOUSA

  1999

  The drying bundles of oregano hung on every surface, from every rafter of the root cellar. Wrapped in clusters of a dozen or so sprigs, the drying herbs peppered the air with their pungent scent. Daphne felt a tickle in her nose each time she reached up on her toes to pull down one of the fragrant packages. One by one she pulled them from the ceiling and tossed them into the giant white sheet she had laid on the floor.

  Just two weeks ago, soon after Daphne arrived in Greece, Yia-yia had packed a lunch of cold patatopita and they had spent the day side by side on the mountain picking the wild oregano. Now Yia-yia had deemed the oregano sufficiently dried and ready for shredding.

  “Daphne, etho. Bring them here. I’m ready,” Yia-yia called out from the patio.

  With folded towels placed under their knees to protect them from the hard patio below, Daphne and Yia-yia knelt side by side on a second clean white bedsheet. One by one, they placed each bundle on the mesh metal shredder. They rubbed their hands across the drum and watched as the dried tiny leaves fell to the sheet below like a fragrant rainfall.

  The entire ritual took the better part of the morning, taking Daphne away from her customary solitary swim in the cove. But Daphne didn’t mind one bit. She was in heaven right here, down on her knees, up to her elbows in dried oregano, and singing along with her pink radio, which blared Greek music from the kitchen.

  “Daphne mou.” Yia-yia shook her head as she watched Daphne sing along with yet another old, melodramatic love song. “Sometimes I think you were born in the wrong time. You, so modern and American, yet you’re drawn to that drama as if you were a lonely old woman reflecting back on her life, or perhaps an ancient longingly watching the sea for her love to return. These are songs for lonely old women, not beautiful young girls.”

  “Did you do that, Yia-yia?” Daphne reached her hand out and placed it on Yia-yia’s shoulder. She could feel her bones beneath the fabric. “Did you sit here and watch the sea for Papou to return?” Yia-yia rarely spoke of Papou, Daphne’s grandfather, who had disappeared during the war. He had kissed his wife and infant daughter good-bye one morning and boarded a kaiki with eight other men. The plan was for them to pool their money and go to Kerkyra to buy enough supplies to last the winter. But Papou never did make it to Kerkyra. His boat was never found. Papou and the seven other men onboard were never heard from again.

  “Ahhh, Daphne.” Yia-yia sighed. It was a deep mournful sigh that Daphne thought might lead to a lament song, but it did not. “I did,” she confirmed as she continued to sift through the oregano, shredding the leaves as she stared out toward the faraway horizon.

  “I sat here, under the big olive tree, day in and day out, and I watched and waited. First there was hope, hope that he would return. I sat here with your mother at my breast, gazing out to the sea like Aegeus searching for Theseus’s white sail. But no sail emerged from the horizon. No black sail, no white sail. Nothing. And unlike Aegeus, I could not throw myself into the sea below as I dreamed of doing so many times. I was a mother. And then, it seemed, a widow as well.”

  Yia-yia lifted her fingers to straighten her scarf and once again turned her full attention to the oregano. Now, as always, there was work to be done, tasks to be completed, preparations to make for the harsh winter ahead. Now, just as back then, there was no time for mourning the past, for what had happened and what might have been. Now, just as back then, self-pity was unwelcome here. They finished bottling the last of the oregano in silence, Yia-yia’s fingers tightening the lids with no hint of the chronic arthritic pain that permeated each of her joints.

  It had only been a few months since that day in the lecture hall when she first locked eyes with Alex. It had been merely weeks since their hand-holding and kissing were no longer enough, and she finally agreed to go back to the dorm with him, to lie with him in his twin bed and make love until the sun set and it was time to return home. Now that she knew what it was like to lie next to him, twirling her fingers in his hair as he slept, she ached to think of what it must have been like for Yia-yia, reaching her hand out in the bed and finding no one, nothing but emptiness.

  That day, under the olive tree, as her nose twitched from oregano dust, Daphne’s heart broke for the first
time. It broke not because of a boy. She was falling in love with Alex, and falling hard—the only pain she felt right now was the reality of their separation.

  That morning under the olive tree, Daphne’s heart broke because she finally recognized that when Papou failed to come back, Yia-yia had lost not only her husband but any chance of a better life. Unlike the stories of brave Odysseus and stoic and patient Penelope that Yia-yia loved to repeat over and over again, there was no epic myth or legend to be found in what had happened to Yia-yia. When Papou was lost, her future prospects turned as dark as the black uniform she was bound to wear for the rest of her life.

  In that moment, Daphne made a promise to herself. She would make it right somehow. She would make it easier for Yia-yia. She vowed that she would finish her education, get a job, and work her fingers to the bone to provide for Yia-yia. She would do what Papou never had the chance to do, and what her own mother was desperately trying to do—working all the while against the harsh realities of immigrant life.

  After the assorted jars and bottles were safely stored in the kitchen, Yia-yia prepared a simple lunch of broiled octopus and salad. While they had been preparing the oregano, the octopus had been simmering in a pot filled with beer, water, salt, and two whole lemons. After several jabs with her serving fork, Yia-yia finally deemed the octopus sufficiently tenderized. She slathered it with olive oil and sea salt before placing it on the outdoor grill to char.

  “Daphne mou, do you remember the story of Iphigenia?” Yia-yia began as she removed the octopus from the fire.

  “Yes, I love Iphigenia, that poor girl. Can you imagine a father doing that to his own daughter? Tell it to me again, Yia-yia.”

  “Ah, entaksi, koukla mou. Iphigenia.” Yia-yia removed her plate from her lap, placed it on the table, and wiped her mouth with the hem of her white apron. The old woman once again recited the tale of the tragic young girl whose father, King Agamemnon, sacrificed her to the gods in order to make the winds blow so his men could go off to battle. The king had lied to his wife and daughter, telling them the young princess was to be married to Achilles. Only when the bridal procession reached the altar did the young girl realize she was not to be married, but sacrificed instead.