When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  “Come on, Cousin,” she insisted. “Say good-bye to your new friends.”

  “But Daphne . . . ,” Popi protested and leaned in to whisper in Daphne’s ear. “They’re really cute.”

  “And they’re about half your age.” Daphne laughed as she pulled Popi away. “Besides, some solid food might do you good.”

  She struggled to keep Popi moving and away from a fresh line of shots that were already poured and waiting. With both arms now firmly planted around Popi, Daphne was completely focused on getting her cousin safely away from the bar. As she stumbled and shuffled along, struggling to divert Popi’s attention, Daphne didn’t even notice the person standing in her path with his back to her, immersed in conversation with Yia-yia.

  “Owwww,” she shouted as she bumped full force into the hulking back, still clinging to Popi lest her cousin use the collision as an opportunity to escape.

  “Malaka,” the annoyed man hissed as he turned to see who had jostled him and interrupted his conversation.

  Daphne looked up from the strong back, her eyes wandering upward to a pair of broad shoulders. As the man turned, Daphne caught a glimpse of his expansive chest; shirt unbuttoned just enough to catch a glimpse of chest hair, sprinkled with a smattering of grays. Daphne’s eyes continued to linger, wandering upward until they landed on his face.

  Damn. It was Yianni.

  “I didn’t see you.” It took restraint for Daphne to bite back the snide, sarcastic comment that she felt he strongly deserved for his past transgressions. But knowing that he was her only option for a ride to Kerkyra tomorrow, Daphne tamped down the impulse. Although she couldn’t quite muster a smile, she did the next best thing. She gritted her teeth and held her tongue.

  “You have your hands full, it seems.” He snatched a thick, dog-eared book from the coffee table beside them, turned, and tipped his sailor’s hat to Yia-yia before taking off for a small table at the other end of the reception area, away from the noise and the crowds.

  After taking a deep breath and regaining her composure, Daphne led the way from the reception area to the small patio out back. Just as they rounded the corner to the flower-filled deck, Nitsa came bursting out of the kitchen doors balancing four dinner plates on her arm, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “There she is, there’s my nifee. Here’s our beautiful bride,” she bellowed as she shuffled past them and out into the courtyard with the steaming plates.

  Daphne watched Nitsa sling the dishes on the table of a beautiful Italian couple and their two young children. Nitsa didn’t bother asking who had what. She never forgot a face or an order.

  “All right now, kali orexi,” Nitsa ordered as she stood over the family, hand on her hip, puffing away at her cigarette. “I have a wonderful surprise for dessert, eh. You little ones will love it.” She tousled the hair of the young boy and pinched the cheek of his younger sister.

  “Evangelia, Daphne. Etho, come here.” Nitsa waved her arms and motioned for them to join her. “Here, I have a special table ready for you right here.” She shepherded them over to a round table at the very center of the patio, decorated with an overflowing basket of white-and-blue wildflowers.

  “Thank you, Nitsa.” Daphne kissed their host on both cheeks.

  “Evangelia”—Nitsa laughed, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching into her pocket to pull out another cigarette—“I know that nothing can compare to your cooking, but tonight, I tried.”

  “Nitsa, ella . . . You are the better cook. I have learned so much from you,” Yia-yia insisted as she took her seat. “Everyone knows that you are the best cook on the island.”

  “Ella, Evangelia. Come on.” Nitsa flung her arms up into the air, cigarette ashes flurrying in their wake “Ella, I cannot begin to compare—”

  “Don’t be silly, Nitsa,” Yia-yia insisted, her face nearly obscured by the large bottle of Nitsa’s homemade wine that, along with the basket of flowers, was a staple on all of the tables.

  “Enough,” Daphne shouted, her head bobbing back and forth between the old women as if this were some sort of culinary tennis match. She crossed her arms. “Tonight, I’m judge and jury, and I’m starving.”

  “Ahoooo, the great American chef is calling for a challenge. I am ready for you, chef,” Nitsa bellowed as she pointed her lit cigarette at Daphne. “By the end of this meal you will be begging me to come live in New York City with you and cook for all of your fancy friends.”

  “Well, Nitsa,” Daphne said as she poured a little wine into Yia-yia’s glass and then filled Popi’s as well as her own. “All right then, consider this your audition.” Daphne laughed as she lifted her glass toward Nitsa. “Opa!” she shouted as she downed the wine in one gulp.

  “Opa!” Yia-yia and Popi replied. Popi chugged her glass as Yia-yia lifted her wine and took a small sip.

  “Opa!” The French tourists echoed from inside the bar. Daphne and Popi looked at each other and dissolved into giggles. Daphne poured herself another glass of wine, and Nitsa scurried into the kitchen to begin her audition.

  Within moments, Nitsa was once again beside the table, carrying the first of many courses. They began with an assortment of small meze plates; a tangy melitzanosalata of fire-roasted eggplants pureed with garlic and vinegar, taramosalata, tzatziki, succulent grape leaves stuffed with savory rice and pine nuts and Nitsa’s soft and creamy homemade feta, which melted on Daphne’s tongue the moment she put it in her mouth. Next came the tiropites—small triangular cheese pies filled with feta and spices, followed by stuffed zucchini flowers whose rice and pork filling were delicate enough not to overpower their slightly sweet casings.

  The main course was a masterpiece. Instead of the traditional and expected grilled fish, Nitsa surprised both Yia-yia and Daphne with a large platter of bakaliaro, delicately fried medallions of cod along with a heaping bowl of pungent skordalia paste made from potatoes, garlic, and olive oil.

  “Nitsa!” Daphne cried as she looked up at Nitsa, who was waiting for Daphne to taste the fish. “I haven’t had fried bakaliaro in years.”

  “Yes, because it’s white.” Yia-yia laughed as she leaned over and pinched Daphne’s arm. “Ella, Daphne mou. It’s time to live again.”

  Daphne’s lips parted to reveal a beautiful, bright smile. She was literally drooling as she placed a dollop of the skordalia on a small square of the fried fish, then popped the whole thing in her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the complexity of the flavors and the surreal sensation of the smooth potato paste melting away on her tongue. Its hot, garlicky afterbite was then tempered again as she bit into the fish, its sweet crunchy batter breaking open like a vault to reveal the silky and savory flesh within.

  “This, Daphne mou, is why I never again want to hear you say that you will not eat white food.” Yia-yia laughed as she dabbed at her mouth with her paper napkin. “Family and food, Daphne mou. It’s in your blood, you cannot escape it.”

  “I don’t want to escape it. I want another helping.” Daphne laughed as she stabbed another medallion with her fork and dragged it through the skordalia.

  By the time the meal was over, everyone seemed to be sufficiently stuffed as well as slightly drunk. Evie had long abandoned the table of adults and was playing in the corner with the Italian children and the kittens. Their laughter mixed with the music, the chatter of well-fed diners, and the soft undercurrent of waves breaking in the distance. On the other side of the terrace, the French tourists had abandoned the bar for a large table covered with some of Nitsa’s most famous dishes. Even as the last of the dinner dishes were cleared, everyone lingered, drinking, laughing, soaking in the island perfection of the little flower-filled patio.

  The later the evening got, the louder the music became. Soon, the small space facing the tables was turned into an impromptu dance floor. The Italian couple were the first to get up, hanging on each other as if in a drunken lovers’ trance, so clearly under the spell of this island paradise and thank
ful that their children were being kept busy by the basketful of purring kittens. All eyes were on the couple as they took the dance floor. There was something intoxicating about them, the way they moved together in the dim light, the way their hips fit together and followed one another in perfect rhythm, a rhythm clearly perfected by years of lovemaking, by years of spooning one another as they slept. Watching the couple, Daphne was mesmerized and slightly ashamed, as if she were a voyeur intruding on a private lover’s moment. But the couple didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t even notice. They just continued their dance, lost in the magic of Erikousa.

  “Look at them, Daphne. It gives you hope, doesn’t it? That two people can be so in love after having children, after so many years together.” Popi sighed, elbows resting on the table, her head in her hands.

  “Yes. Yes, it does,” Daphne replied, looking away toward the blackness of the beach. But unlike Popi, for Daphne, watching this couple was not some huge discovery that an epic love affair can actually exist. It was the way she had envisioned her life, the path she had planned.

  “Come on, Daphne.” Popi grabbed her cousin’s hand. “Come on, let’s show them how the natives do it.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Come on. Think of this as your bachelorette party. Get up and dance with me.” Popi tugged at Daphne’s arm and dragged her toward the dance floor. After a few more futile attempts to sit this one out, Popi got her way, and they joined the couple on the tiny dance floor. The Italians glanced over and smiled when they saw the cousins, but quickly returned their full attention to each other. From the other side of the room, the Frenchmen erupted into raucous cheers as the cousins began their belly dance.

  Daphne lifted her arms above her head, snapping her fingers and rotating her wrists with the droning beat of the bouzouki music. Popi followed suit, raising her arms and expertly moving her hips in time with the music. As she spun round and round, dancing, thrusting, and laughing with her cousin, Daphne threw her head back, her ringlets reaching to the middle of her back. Deep into her backbend, she shouted a hearty “Opa!”

  Lifting her head again, laughing at the exhilaration of letting loose, Daphne felt lost in the moment, amazed at how young she felt, how sensual, how sexual. Her hips seemed to feel the rhythm, like they knew the next beat, the next strum of the bouzouki before it escaped the stereo speakers. There was always such drama in Greek music, and tonight Daphne reveled in it, lost in a haze of music, dance, cigarette smoke, and the cheers of a room full of drunken tourists.

  As the music changed from bouzouki to a traditional sailor’s dance, Daphne turned toward her cousin. Her eyes opened wide under the dark veil of hair that partially obscured her face as she danced. She caught Popi’s eye, and the cousins nodded in unison, knowing what was next. They shuffled together, standing hip to hip, arms draped over each other’s shoulders.

  Darararum, darararum . . . The music called to them.

  Snapping her fingers, Daphne dropped her head forward, tapping her toes as she waited for the right note to begin their dance.

  Darra . . . darrararum. Daraaaa . . . darra. . . . darrarrarram. The music began slowly, each note lingering in the air, perfectly spaced to accentuate the drama of the song. For the tourists, this was Zorba’s song, the dance they had seen Anthony Quinn perform countless times on television. But for the locals, the Greeks, this was the sirtaki, the dance performed at every happy occasion in their lives, every wedding, every christening, every Easter Sunday celebration as far back as they could remember. It was as if this song, this music, flowed through their veins like the DNA that linked them to each other and to this island.

  First left, then right, the cousins stepped in unison. With deliberate steps they jumped forward, then back, then forward again. Daphne bent down on one knee, swiping her hand across the floor, then lifted it again in time for the next chord to call them back to both feet and begin the dance again. As the tempo picked up, so did the pace of the dance. Daphne looked over at Yia-yia as she shuffled left again and then right, and noticed that Yia-yia was waving to someone on the other end of the room to join her at the table.

  DARARARAUMMMMM— The cousins jumped forward, higher and with more force this time as the music got faster. Daphne looked to her left as she jumped right to see Yianni taking a seat at the table beside Yia-yia.

  DADADA—DADA—DADADA— Faster and faster Daphne and Popi dove and stepped and jumped to keep time with the now-frenzied pace of the music. All eyes were on the cousins as everyone in the room clapped and cheered them on. Faster and faster they danced, Daphne and Popi leaping forward on one knee just as the first dish came crashing on to the dance floor, followed by another and then another. As her head whipped right and left with the dance, Daphne noticed that it was Nitsa who was lobbing dishes at them as she stood just off to the side with a pile of white dishes in her hand. Finally, just when the music was so fast that Daphne and Popi found it physically impossible to jump or dance any faster, the final dramatic note was hit: DA RA RA RUM. The dance ended with a flourish as the cousins fell into each other’s arms, sweating and exhilarated.

  “That was awesome.” Daphne could barely get the words out. She dragged herself to Yia-yia’s side, leaning her arms against the table and sucking down a tall glass of water.

  “Popi, Daphne—beautiful!” Yia-yia cried as she held her hands together. “Yianni, did you see my girls, how beautiful they dance?” The old woman nudged Yianni with her elbow.

  “Yes, it was a beautiful sirtaki, perfect in fact,” he agreed, lifting his glass and nodding toward Yia-yia.

  The compliment was lost on Popi, who was already beside the table of Frenchmen, accepting their congratulations as well as a glass of wine. But Yianni’s words were not lost on Daphne. In fact, she could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “Thank you,” she said as she wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “I can’t remember the last time I danced like that. I can’t believe I even remember the steps.”

  “Some things stay in our memories forever, only to be reawakened when we need them most,” he replied, looking over at Yia-yia, who was nodding in agreement.

  Daphne looked back and forth from Yianni to Yia-yia. She wanted to tell them that she knew about Yianni’s grandmother, that Nitsa had told her the story, but Yianni opened his mouth to speak before she had the chance.

  “Daphne, your yia-yia tells me I am to take you to Kerkyra tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Daphne replied, still breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. “If it’s not too much trouble for you.” She was still unsettled by the thought of being alone with this man. But knowing she had no other option, she did her best to appear gracious.

  “It is no trouble. I lift my nets at six a.m., and we should be ready to leave by seven thirty. We will go to Sidari. I have work to do there tomorrow. From Sidari you can take a taxi to Kerkyra.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you,” Daphne replied, relieved that Yianni was making the trip anyway and that she was merely tagging along for the ride. Despite what Yia-yia said about Yianni, Daphne still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being indebted to him for any reason. Before she could say another word, Daphne heard her name being called from the other side of the room.

  “Daphne mou. Daphne,” Nitsa called out to her. “Daphne, ella, dance. I dedicate this song to you.” Nitsa pointed her finger at someone behind the bar, someone who clearly had control of the stereo. As the first notes erupted from the speaker, the entire room once again erupted into applause. The tourists had no idea what they were cheering and clapping for, but at this point they were too drunk to care.

  “Ella, dance,” Nitsa shouted and clapped.

  “No, Nitsa, I can’t.” Daphne shook her head in protest. “Really, no.”

  “Ella, Daphne,” Nitsa shouted.

  “Come on, Daphne, do it,” Popi commanded from across the room, standing up, ouzo in hand.

  “Yia-yia . . .” D
aphne looked to her grandmother with pleading eyes.

  “Your host is calling you. Pegene—go, dance for us. You are young and beautiful. Dance,” Yia-yia replied, nudging her head toward the now-empty dance floor.

  Daphne looked at Yia-yia and forced a small smile. She knew there was no turning back now. Protocol called her to heed her host’s wishes, even though she really didn’t want to go out there and make a spectacle of herself. She reached over and grabbed her half-full glass of wine from the table. “Yiamas . . . to our health,” she shouted as she tipped the glass back and downed it with one gulp before heading to the dance floor.

  Once she was on the floor, the music took over as the final gulp of wine helped build her confidence. Round and round she spun, arms over her head, wrists rotating along with her hips. Daphne knew she wasn’t the best dancer; Popi was far superior in that category. But that was the beauty of Greek dancing. It was more about living the music, expressing yourself through movement, than it was about technicalities. And tonight, despite her initial embarrassment, Daphne closed her eyes and felt every note work its way through her body.

  “Opa!” Daphne heard someone cry just as she felt the first sprinkling of flower petals fall on her face and hair as she spun around and around. Eyes still closed, she lifted her chin toward the sky and felt the petals tickle her eyelids and lips, as if she were being kissed by tiny raindrops while running through a sun shower.

  “Opa!” the voice repeated as Daphne felt another wave of petals dance across her body. They flitted across her shoulders and arms like a lover’s gentle touch. She turned and spun again, opening her eyes wide and then wider still. There, standing directly in front of her, was Yianni.