When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  Daphne stopped directly in front of one old gypsy who had caught her eye. There was no real way of knowing just how old he was, maybe fifty, maybe ninety-five. His skin was dark, shiny, and thick, like leather, his face lined with deep crags. When he made a sale, his wide grin revealed a smattering of missing teeth. Despite the fact that it was still about eighty degrees outside, he wore an old, ill-fitting suit jacket with a scarf knotted around his neck.

  They watched as he tended his corn. He lifted each ear with tarnished tongs, bringing them to his face for inspection and making certain they were caramelized and brown but never burned. When he was convinced that the corn was roasted to perfection, he placed it in another pan and sprinkled it with a generous coating of sea salt.

  “Come on, let’s get some.” Daphne tugged Stephen closer to the corn gypsy.

  “Are you kidding me?” He pulled away. “Daphne, he has no teeth. Did you see his fingernails? They’re black. There’s no way—”

  But Daphne didn’t wait to hear the rest of his protests. She dropped his arm and approached the corn seller with a broad smile. “Two, please,” she said in Greek, reaching into her bag for her wallet.

  The gypsy met Daphne’s order with a broad grin, foamy spittle collecting at the corner of his mouth. “For you, pretty lady, two euro. A special price.” He wrapped the ears in plain brown paper and handed them to Daphne.

  “Efharisto,” she replied, handing the man a twenty-euro bill and walking away before he could make change.

  The old gypsy watched Daphne turn and walk away from him, then looked down at the bill lying faceup in his hand, his small, cloudy eyes wide with disbelief. Crumpling the bill in his fist, he looked around to make sure no one else was watching, then shoved the money into his jacket pocket before turning back to tend his corn.

  “Here,” she said as she held the corn out to Stephen. “Trust me. It’s delicious.” She sank her teeth into the sweet, succulent appetizer. Despite the fact that it had been roasted on hot coals, this corn wasn’t dry. As Daphne bit down again, her mouth exploded with the sugary juice that escaped from each kernel, balanced by just the right amount of savory crunch from the sea salt.

  Still holding the corn in his hands, Stephen continued staring at Daphne. “This from a woman who won’t eat a hot dog from a Manhattan street cart. A licensed and regulated street cart.” He shook his corn at Daphne.

  “Yeah, but those dirty-water dogs are gross. I mean, who knows how long they sit in that rancid water before some sucker tourist comes along and buys them?” She laughed.

  “All right, if you insist. When in Rome—” He bit down on his corn, smiling as the flavors burst in his mouth.

  “May I remind you that this is Greece?” She once again linked her arm under his and continued their walk.

  They stopped once more for something to eat, the next location just as unconventional, unassuming, and yet delicious as the first. Ninos Fast Food had always been a favorite of Daphne and Popi’s. The greasy souvlaki sandwiches piled high with tzatziki sauce, onions, tomatoes, grilled pork cubes, and even French fries were always a staple when the cousins were in town together. Even Yia-yia, who rarely ate out, would insist they bring her home a souvlaki from Ninos whenever she came to Kerkyra.

  “Now this is good, really good,” Stephen said as he took another bite of his souvlaki, tzatziki dripping down his chin. Daphne leaned in and wiped the juice from his face before using the same napkin to clean her own face. “You should serve this at Koukla. Seriously,” he said through a mouthful of souvlaki.

  “No, not at Koukla.” She shook her head. “But something like this would be great downtown, near NYU. There was this little greasy falafel place that did great business when I was a student, but it was a dirty little hole-in-the-wall. Think what you could do with modern Greek fast food. You know, take the classics like this, the roasted corn and spanakopita, and dress them up for those downtown students with some cute packaging.” She stopped talking and looked up at the exterior of Ninos, with its simple wooden sign and line of tourists and locals that went out the door and wound across the sidewalk. “You know, something like Ninos New York.”

  “That could work,” Stephen agreed, sinking his teeth into the sandwich, his second.

  “I know,” Daphne replied, not certain if she should be pleased that Stephen liked her idea or afraid that he did. Yes, with Stephen’s help Koukla had become a huge success, but it was also the genesis of her eighteen-hour workdays away from Evie. Daphne was well aware that success, like everything else, had its price.

  “Come on,” she said as she tugged at his arm, eager to change the subject. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  As Stephen finished his souvlaki, Daphne led him down the narrow maze of alleyways that make up the town’s historic shopping district. Finally, after turning down yet another alley, they came to a stop in a wide square.

  “What’s this?” Stephen asked, wiping the last of the souvlaki from his face.

  “Oh, good, it’s still open.” Daphne sighed when she saw the open double doors. “I wasn’t sure what time they close.”

  “When what closes?”

  “It’s Agios Spyridon, Saint Spyridon. Come on.” She led the way to the old church.

  The familiar scent of smoke and incense welcomed Daphne the moment she approached the church’s wooden double doors. Everything was just as she had remembered it; the large room was dotted with black-clad widows and white-haired men wearing ill-fitting suit jackets and genuflecting toward the icon-adorned altar. She held Stephen’s hand and took it all in, remembering the story Yianni had shared. She imagined Yia-yia, Dora, and the girls hiding here as the bloodthirsty death squads lurked just outside the doors. She tried to imagine the scene and found herself enveloped by grief again. Once again she willed the picture from her mind. Not now. It was too much for her to contemplate, too much to process. She had to will Dora and the girls out of her mind, even if it was just for tonight.

  She turned her gaze to the trough of candles at the church’s entrance, watching mothers hovering over children as their shaky little hands lit candles and placed them in the sand-lined troughs. Inside the church, a silvery glow filled the room. Daphne looked around as other mothers lifted little ones who were still too small to reach the icons. She watched as they whispered into their children’s ears, instructing them to kiss the saint, as they planted the first seeds of tradition and faith in their children, and she realized just how much she missed Evie. She had only left her with Yia-yia for one night, but now, seeing the other mothers with their children, she wished Evie were here with her now.

  She had meant to bring Evie to the church, to teach her about their beloved saint, but there just hadn’t been enough time. After the wedding, she promised, lighting a candle and placing it with the others. She pinched the three fingers of her right hand together, made the sign of the cross three times, as she had been instructed by Yia-yia when she was a child, and held back her hair as she leaned forward to kiss the silver-framed icon of Saint Spyridon. But, unlike the other worshippers, Daphne was careful to plant her kiss away from any lip prints left behind by the faithful.

  Stephen lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking in this mysteriously exotic scene. It was the antithesis of the pristine white Episcopal chapel attended by his family back home.

  “This is some church,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I know.” She nodded. “But this is nothing.” She turned and smiled at him. “Here, come with me.” She took his hand and led him across the church. There, just to the right of the altar, stood a second doorway covered in ornate icons. Stephen tried to get a better look, but dozens of people were filing in and out of the door, and he couldn’t make out what was inside, what everyone was clamoring to see.

  “It’s the saint,” Daphne whispered as she pointed to the open door.

  Stephen craned his neck to see, but he still wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to be lookin
g at.

  “It’s the saint,” Daphne repeated. “Saint Spyridon, our patron saint.”

  “What is it, a shrine or something?”

  “No, he’s in there. His body is in there.”

  He pulled away from her.

  “He’s the protector of the island, our patron saint. He’s very special to the people of Corfu. His body is centuries old, but still intact. He protects the island, protects us, performs miracles for us.”

  “For us?” He turned away from the altar and faced Daphne. “Come on, Daphne. You don’t actually believe in this stuff?”

  Daphne was taken aback. She had never really stopped to think about qualifying her beliefs before. Back home, she never made it to church or discussed religion, so it was no wonder Stephen was surprised by her connection to the saint. But belief in Agios Spyridon was not something anyone from Kerkyra ever questioned. There was no reason to. It was embedded in each and every child born with a connection to the island. It was as if the saint himself blessed every birth and took every step beside that child, protecting her and watching over her for the duration of her life. And yes, now, even more than ever, especially after hearing Yianni’s story, there was no question that Daphne did in fact believe.

  “Yes.” Daphne looked Stephen directly in the eyes. “Yes, I do. I do believe.”

  “Come on, Daphne.” He tilted his head and looked down at her. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I always have, and I always will.”

  The tiny room that held the saint’s remains began to empty before she could say more. Several women and men filed out, some holding the hands of small children, while a few curious tourists straggled behind, confused by what they had just witnessed.

  “Come on.” Daphne linked her arm with Stephen’s. “The service is over. Let’s go in.”

  He seemed unsure, pulling back as Daphne drew him toward the door.

  “Come on.” She gave him a final tug.

  The tiny room had emptied out. Two old women and a priest, deep in conversation, lingered over the open silver casket that held the saint’s remains. Daphne smiled, knowing how lucky they were to find the casket open; it was only opened by the priests for special occasions and special prayer services. Daphne bowed her head at the bearded priest, who did the same in return. Clutching Stephen’s hand, she led him around the small room, dripping in silver lamps and lined with paintings depicting the saint’s life. She stopped first at the far end of the casket and pointed out the red velvet slippers that adorned Agios Spyridon’s feet.

  “Those are his shoes.” Daphne leaned in closer to Stephen as she spoke, so as not to interrupt the other worshippers who had begun filing into the room. “Every year the priests put a new pair of those slippers on his feet,” she whispered. “And at the end of the year they open the casket and find that the slippers are worn out.”

  Stephen squeezed her hand. Daphne knew he was having a hard time believing any of this, but she was determined to continue with her story. “They’re worn because every night, the saint rises and walks the streets of Kerkyra, protecting the island and its people.” She walked around to the other end of the casket. “Here. See.”

  In the dim light it was hard to make out the details, but there it was; the face of Agios Spyridon. His face was mummified, dark gray and dry. His eye sockets were sunken in, his cheeks hollow, a straight indentation where his mouth should be. Those without faith might have recoiled at the sight. But to Daphne and those who believed, the sight of their protector was comforting.

  Daphne said a quick, silent prayer as Stephen continued pressing his face closer to the casket. When she had finished thanking the agios for her good fortune and the health of her daughter and Yia-yia, Daphne also thanked the agios for providing safe refuge for Yia-yia, Dora and the children.

  I know your miracles are many, she prayed. Thank you for always finding a way to help and protect our family. Please, Agios Spyridon, she pleaded, please walk beside me and guide me. Hold my hand and help me make the right decisions on my life. Please help me find strength, the same strength you gave Yia-yia. Please guide me as you have guided her, and help me lead Evie toward a happy and fulfilled life.

  When her prayer was finished, Daphne made the sign of the cross three more times. She knelt down and kissed the casket before taking Stephen’s hand and leading him toward the door.

  “Well. That was something.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “So he gets up and walks around at night.” He raised an eyebrow at Daphne. “In his slippers.”

  His attempt at humor was not lost on Daphne, but not finding it the least bit funny, she decided not to engage. She chose to simply ignore it.

  “Come, we’re not done.” She led him to the main church area and picked up a pencil and a small square piece of paper from a basket left out on a bench.

  “What are you doing?” he asked

  “It’s traditional to write the names of those you want the saint to protect on a piece of paper.” Daphne wrote her list: Evie, Yia-yia, Popi, Nitsa, and Stephen. She kissed the paper, folded it in half, and placed it in another basket, which was quickly filling with the notes of the faithful.

  Daphne turned. She smiled at her fiancé and lifted his hand to her lips for a kiss. She knew he didn’t understand it, that he thought the whole idea of miracles and worshipping a mummified body was somewhat archaic and creepy. He was a man of reason—of facts, not blind faith. Daphne knew there were basic differences between them; their cultures and histories were worlds apart. But in the end, that really was all right. She had long ago given up on the ideal of a perfect companion who understood and adored her every nuance. Daphne had buried that dream the day they placed Alex’s body in the earth.

  “Come on, let’s go.” She tugged at his hand again. “There’s a beautiful rooftop bar at the Hotel Cavalieri I want to show you.”

  “Now that’s more like it. Let’s get out of here. I could use a drink.” He placed his arm around Daphne and led her toward the door.

  “Yeah, me too.” She turned once more before exiting the church. As she glanced back toward the saint’s tomb, Daphne stopped.

  “What is it?” Stephen asked.

  There, standing at the entrance of the tomb, was Yianni. Daphne felt her stomach jump alive. She tried to swallow, but it seemed as if the butterflies had also gathered in her windpipe, their fluttering wings blocking her air passage. She stood there beside Stephen and watched as Yianni bowed his head before the icon. Daphne noticed how unlike the other worshippers, he did not perform the sign of the cross. Of course not, he’s Jewish. But he did lean forward toward the base of the icon and kiss the feet of the saint who had helped save his mother and grandmother so many years ago. He walked through the door and disappeared into the small room where the agios slept.

  “What is it?” Stephen asked again.

  “Nothing.” She smiled up at her fiancé. “Just a guy I know.”

  They walked arm in arm out of the church and into the cool night air of the cobblestone square. She looked back toward the church one last time. “He’s just an old friend from Erikousa.”

  Twenty-two

  NEW YORK

  2001

  “Never.” Mama slammed her fist on the dining room table. “You will never see him again,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  “But Mama, he is not what you think,” Daphne cried. She reached her arms out to her mother, pleading. “Please, he’s not what you think.” Her voice quivered, as did her hands.

  Mama stood. She stared down at Daphne. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to grow three shades darker as Daphne looked up at her.

  Mama brought the knuckle of her right index finger to her mouth and bit down hard. Daphne had only seen Mama do that once before, the time she had dared give her phone number to the sweet, pale, and sweaty-palmed boy she met at the seventh-grade school dance. When he called the next morning and simply asked to speak with Daphne, Baba had hung up on him, slamming the phone dow
n so hard and loud that Daphne came running out of her room to see what was the matter. Baba stormed off to the restaurant without speaking or looking at her. Daphne knew all too well the staggering depths and ramifications of Baba’s temper. It had been twenty years since he had spoken to his own siblings after an argument about the inheritance of his parents’ small garden plot on the neighboring island of Othoni. She wondered how long it would be before he spoke to her again. As the door banged closed behind him, Mama gnawed on her knuckle before slapping Daphne across the face. “Poutana,” she spat before banishing Daphne to her room.

  That was the first and last school dance Daphne ever attended.

  But that was then. She wasn’t that scared and obedient thirteen-year-old anymore. Respectful, yes—but no longer scared. This was too important. This was Alex.

  “Baba, please.” His back was to her. She stood, placing her hand on his shoulder, willing him to turn around and see the honesty in her eyes. “You need to trust me. Alex is a good man.”

  Baba lifted his chin and swallowed hard.

  “Just meet him. You’ll see when you meet him.”

  He walked away from his daughter just as he had the morning after the dance, again—never meeting her eyes. Her limp arm fell to her side as she heard the click of the radio and Greek news blaring too loudly from the next room.

  Mama stood from her seat at the head of the dining room table. She took three steps toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned to face Daphne, wringing her hands. Her black bun, normally so neatly pinned on top of her head, had come undone. Bobby pins are no match for the flailing, chest beating, and gesticulations of a Greek mother whose daughter dares defy her parents and her heritage.

  “You will not do this to your father. You will not do this to me. We did not come to this country to stand on our feet sixteen hours a day, cleaning, cooking, serving, slaving—working like animals until we are so tired that even sleep does not soothe our exhausted bodies—we did not do this, Daphne, for you to be the whore of some American boy you met at school.”