The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  All alone in my rented kitchen, I remember how our morning visits were the times when I felt closest to her. On the straw-thatched chair, I sat, telling her all my stories, how every night of the week, I found my friends on the main street in town where people—young and old—gathered. I told her how I had spent the evenings talking to boys and dancing. She would sit, cut, nod, and I would continue.

  I told her who was dating, who was kissing, who was disappearing during the night, and Yiayia pretended she didn’t want to hear anymore, “No more, Thair!” But every morning while she prepared the day’s lunch, she always asked me about my night out. I was only a teenager, but life was so different in Greece, so much freer than the US with its many laws and regulations.

  Our morning ritual consisted of me drinking Greek coffee and telling her all the local gossip. “I met a nice boy, Yiayia, at Aleko’s bar.”

  “Who is his papou? What name he has?” She always asked me whose grandson he was; as if a last name would explain the boy’s complete family genealogy—it almost did, on this island of only 1,500 residents.

  “He’s not local, Yiayia.” Her eyes always flickered when I said I spent the night flirting with a foreigner, a xeno.

  “He a German? Italian? A South African?” she asked, then added: “A good British boy?”

  “He’s Italian.”

  Her face turned downwards, “Why not English? You never like English?”

  “Yiayia, I think I really like this one. His name is Sandro.” She got up and walked out of the kitchen, onto the balcony, with her bowl of beans. The conversation was over.

  So many memories, so long ago, and yet her raspy voice still penetrates the air.

  As I take my coffee outside onto the balcony, I picture Sandro, my final summer love. His family had rented a villa on the island for a few months. Sandro was tall with dark eyes and olive skin. Very, very handsome, but sex was beige ceilings—me lying there, staring up, waiting for him to finish. He was memorable with his gallant manner and sexy accent, but it was simply young love.

  When I would tell Yiayia my stories, she never asked if I cared for these boys. I think they were just characters to her, but one day plans about my life with Sandro spilled from my young mouth, and, for the first time, her body twitched and her face contorted in a way I had never seen before. I had kept talking, explaining how Sandro said that he wanted to marry me; that I was a mature woman, he a man who knew what he wanted. But what did we know? I was only twenty-one and he, just a twenty-four-year-old boy. Sandro wanted me to come back after I graduated from college, live with my yiayia for a while; he would open a café on the island, I could teach English, and we could be together forever. Finally, I could not ignore the look in her eyes. It’s still with me today, peering deep into mine, so deep, I felt her dive and drown in them, then resurface as she said slowly: “Thair, you no marry. You no love this Sandro. And you so young. You not know what love is.”

  As I sit here now, I feel as frustrated as I did back then.

  I had pleaded with her, “What is agape then, Yiayia? Tell me!” If my grandmother, Aphrodite, named after the goddess of love, didn’t have the answers, then who did? “What is love, Yiayia?” I begged her to tell me about my grandfather. Was the love she shared with Papou real love? Instead she took my hand, leading me to the bedroom. She opened a drawer, handed me a small velvet box, and gave me a simple gold band that was inscribed with a man’s name. Henry Archibald Hadley. And then she began—finally—to tell me her story.

  4

  Aphrodite’s Story

  Alexandria, Egypt

  May, 1942

  Aphrodite, or Dita as she was called, looked her parents directly in their eyes and with a vehement “Oxi!” said, no! She would not marry the young Greek fisherman. She was seventeen, having the time of her life, and would not spoil it with marriage. Dita said this as she slammed the door of the thin, two-floor building that was her home. She walked a few blocks, her body still shaking, knowing the wrath of her own voice would be paralleled by her mother’s once she returned home. Unlike most seventeen-year-old girls, she was not afraid of her father. She worried about her mother, the towering woman whom she adored, but also feared.

  Walking down the dusty street, she made her way to the military base. It wasn’t Saturday, but she would see if they had any work for her. She loved her weekend volunteer work. The Allies had several bases in Egypt and since she couldn’t enlist (what she would have preferred doing) she would wear her old overalls, a tight red blouse, a pretty checkered scarf, and every Saturday show up to change the oil of the Jeeps at the base. It was a novelty for the young men to see this buxom Greek broad offer her “services.” The first day she showed up, Dita said she was handy with a wrench, could do almost anything on a car, could also change electrical outlets, knew how to build a wall—and how to tear it down. Dita’s mom had a less than subtle way of introducing her daughter to activities that were anything but feminine. “Show her how to be useful!” she would bellow to her meek husband, who dragged himself off the couch, to show Dita the difference between a starter and a generator. And Dita loved learning those things. She loved pretty dresses but loved getting dirty more.

  When Dita went to the base for the first time, the officer directed her towards the Red Crescent office. She responded that she couldn’t stand the sight of blood, but give her an oil pan: she would show them what she could do. So that’s how she came to be the local oil-changer. She loved sliding under a Jeep, feeling the oil drip on her face, the grease under her fingernails. Of course, she also loved the attention. Men would come to see the young girl in overalls who was working under their vehicles, and without trying too hard, she got dates; lots of dates with Americans, with Australians, with South Africans. And with a unique, young gent from England. In fact, she had become the most popular girl on the base. Her knowledge of cultures grew quickly as did her appetite. But she wanted more—more of what, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she definitely wanted more. So when her parents told her she was betrothed to the Greek, she just would not accept it.

  That afternoon when Dita went home, she found her mother, a large woman whose size equaled her patience, sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. She said nothing to Dita, put down the paper, walked upstairs, and shut the door. Dita could feel her heart beat faster; she knew that her mother would end up getting her way, but Dita decided that afternoon she would not think about her upcoming doom. She was supposed to meet the Greek any day now. They wanted her to marry someone she had never even met! Instead of worrying about a possible betrothal, Dita opened her armoire and selected a yellow dress with small daisies on it. It looked a bit too summery and light, but she wore it anyway and put on bright red lipstick that didn’t really go with the dress but went with the times. Then she quietly went downstairs and sat in the living room. If her mother came down, Dita would say she was going out with a group of friends, but her mother never descended when the doorbell rang. As she sat there staring at the floor, a long “Diiiiing” and a short, but loud “DONG” echoed through the house. Dita opened the door quickly, and in front of her stood a gallant Englishman by the name of Henry. Henry Archibald Hadley. Despite his lean contexture, squirrel-looking face, and intensely small hands, he was dashing. Though awkward at times, he was certainly perfect—and a real gentleman.

  Smiling with his exaggerated front teeth, he asked Dita if she felt like going to the theatre or to the ice cream parlor. She didn’t feel like talking. Gone with the Wind was playing again, having finally made it to Egypt years after being released, and even though Dita had already seen it twice with other dates, she chose the theatre. She loved Scarlett, hated Rhett. When Rhett had the gall to ask Scarlett if she ever thought “of marrying just for fun,” Dita squirmed in her seat. Dita wished she had the courage to tell her mother what Scarlett had replied: “Marriage, fun? Fun for men you mean.” Marriage. It was too much to think about, so, like Scarlett, she decided she would not th
ink about it—at least not on that day.

  The sun burned the afternoon sky as she escaped into the dark theatre with Henry. His arm immediately wrapped around the seat behind her, making her feel secure; then lifting it slowly, he laid his arm on her shoulder. His hand hung like a dead fish, his fingers dangling dangerously close to her perked-up breasts. She lost track of the movie and enjoyed the warmth of his embrace. After a few minutes, he moved his arm, put his hand timidly on her leg while the heat of his sweaty palm radiated up her thigh, settling between her legs to a spot that was getting hotter and wetter by the moment. Then she heard Rhett’s voice: “With enough courage, you can do without a reputation.” Dita leaned over and peered into the Englishman’s eyes, without any hesitation, kissed him long and hard. They necked through the whole movie, tongues in a wrestling match, his gentle hands, cautiously, sliding up and down her legs—but never too far up. Dita could feel him trembling; she was pushing him to his limit, so before the final scene, he asked her: “Shall we leave and go for a drive?” Dita nodded, yes, that would be a good idea.

  They walked, with urgency yet respect, arm-in-arm out of the theatre and to his Jeep. Once they got in, the necking started all over. She kissed him hard. He responded. He was pushing against her. She could feel him getting bigger. She pushed back. His arms unwrapped. Time slowed down while Henry delicately began unbuttoning the bodice of her dress, looking, so genuinely into Dita’s eyes, begging for permission, and she could feel her insides throbbing. It felt so good and so right, so why was she suddenly pushing him away? Why were girls told over and over that these feelings were wrong? That only bad girls did these things? Bad girls, dirty girls; girls who men would not marry? It was only a few weeks before when she was doing these things with the South African. The only difference was that Dirk hadn’t taken so kindly in the same situation, and when Dita told Dirk to stop, he grew angry and took her home. But Henry was different. He was wholesome. He was English. Suddenly he pulled back and said: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my dear Dita. I don’t know what got into me. I want you to know that you are very special. And when this war is over, I plan on marrying you.” Her smile faded as she heard those dreadful words that she had been trying to escape all day. From feelings of guilt, she was instantly irritated. She coyly kissed him again and asked him to drive her home. Despite being a bit annoyed, she knew Henry was genuine, but it didn’t matter and she didn’t care; it was getting late, and there would be no time to change if she didn’t bid adieu to Henry immediately.

  Just as she was walking in the front door, with one last tender kiss on Henry’s lips, she could hear the back doorbell ringing. Some houses in Alexandria had two entrances: guests entered from the front, hired help from the back. The back entrance came complete with a porch, door, doorbell, and number, so most foreigners confused the front for the back and the back for the front. For Dita it was perfect. Good-bye to English suitor at the front door, hello Dirk at the back. She had barely shut the door on hapless Henry when the second bell rang again, and again, sounding more anxious with every ring. Dita worried her parents would come downstairs, and her father almost did, until she heard her mother say to him, “It’s probably a late delivery. Stay here. Dita can get it.” Did her mother really expect a delivery at this time of the night, or was she in essence delivering Dita? Either way, she didn’t have time to contemplate it further. It was Saturday night. There were social clubs, free food, and lots of young, strong Allies. She was having the time of her life.

  Dita knew she didn’t have time to change after all, but before going to the other door, she glanced over at the mirror, wiping her mouth where another man’s kisses had been, and quickly reapplied her lipstick. She opened the back door as Dirk grabbed her and began to kiss her voraciously. He immediately slid his hand between her legs and under her dress—rude, savage—but she loved it.

  “Stop …” she whispered, “We must go. My parents will come down.” She knew she was in for a wild night because Dirk would not like being shut out three times. He was her bold South African “boyfriend,” tall, rugged with Popeye arms. He had been away for a few weeks, but now he was back. He stared at her and smacked her bottom as they moved away from the house. Dita laughed. Dirk jumped on his motorcycle, patted the seat behind him, and Dita smiled as she spread her legs and got on, lacing her arms tightly around his waist, laying her head on his back. This was freedom. This was happiness. Dirk reached back and ran his calloused hand alongside her leg as far up as it would go in that position.

  “Are you ready, Doll?”

  “Yes!” And inside she heard herself say: yes, yes, yes! She would be courageous, and she would not allow others to dictate her reputation. She had decided. It was her body, her choice—one of the few choices she had left.

  Tonight would be the night.

  5

  Early June, 2000

  While making my breakfast, I put on a Parios CD in an ancient boom box that is on the kitchen counter. It skips a few times and then, as a familiar song begins, I see myself, nineteen years old, tan, svelte, dancing in front of my yiayia. My knees bend to a hasapiko dance, and she tells me that I look funny, that I am bastardizing the dance by “Americanizing” it with the slight shake of my booty. Then I dance tsifteteli for her; my arms are like snakes in the air, my hips move like a belly dancer’s, and she pretends to look away, “You look like poutana!” She tells me the neighbors might see you and know that Dita’s granddaughter from the US is indeed a “whore.” I know she doesn’t mean it, using the word poutana playfully, but—one thing is true—appearances always matter here.

  I get winded dancing a short sirtaki. Anthony Quinn has entered my body; I am Zorba—free, powerful, with an insatiable zest for life. Then, finally, I dance the zeibekiko. The man’s dance. A strange look crosses Yiayia’s face, one that I will never forget, reminding me of the faces of women I have seen in pictures who were marching for women’s suffrage: looks of defiance, strength, determination. She is still in this kitchen with me, her commanding expression so vivid. The words out of her mouth say: “Thair, stop! That dance only for a man!” But her eyes betray her real feelings, so I continue. I’m circling wildly with my arms outstretched; with each tapping of my hand to the ground, her strange look turns to one of inward pride at my stubbornness. Still pretending to be upset, as she stifles her smile, she exclaims: “You no listen to Yiayia, huh? You do what you want!” I jump to my feet as the song ends and run to her, planting a big kiss on the top of her head as she pushes me away and wipes her forehead.

  But Yiayia is not sitting on the chair. Instead I am twirling around in an empty kitchen and I am alone. Just an orange cat lies on the cool tile floor, watching me as if I have gone insane.

  Even though it’s been years since Yiayia died, it feels like yesterday. She never made it to my college graduation. Days before the ceremony, she called to say that she was so proud of me and “Yiayia sew a dress to wear.” She said it was green oyster silk, material that she had saved from after the war. “Yiayia save it for something special. Good I wear it for your diploma, not for wedding.”

  She hated to fly, but for me, she said in her husky voice: “I come to the land of big cars and air-conditioning.” A few days before she was supposed to travel, a neighbor found her dead. Probably her heart, probably too much excitement, no one really knew, no one was there, all alone, on a cold kitchen floor with a piece of stale bread lying beside her, the stench of feta cheese and Kalamata olives on the table. Yiayia was strong, vibrant, only sixty-six years old. Her heart expired and mine broke.

  “Can you meet me in Athens?” Lena asked through a buzzing phone line.

  “Of course, I’ll look for a ticket right away,” I heard my mother say to her older sister. She looked over at me and her hands shook a bit, but she was calm, in control, and after the short conversation, she sat down quietly in the living room and held her head in her hands. But she never cried. I cried enough for the two of us. I had so many plans:
I was going to return to Greece with Yiayia, live with her on the island, get a job teaching English.

  The next day my mother flew to Athens, took the ferry to Kythnos, and buried her mother, missing my graduation, too. The only person there for the ceremony was Gordon Wright—the man I saw a few times a year, the man who would show up, take me out to lunch, buy me something expensive, then disappear again. As we sat in The Acropolis Garden, ate souvlakia and toasted my milestone with a bottle of Retsina, I tried to be cordial to my father.

  “Honey, do you like it?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said while looking down at the diamond tennis bracelet that was indeed pretty but did nothing to raise my spirits.

  Then there was the typical silence. “So what’s next for you?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  He was trying, but I didn’t care. I was in a fog. I just wished I could have gone with my mother to see my dear yiayia one more time. Instead, I was in a tacky Greek restaurant with pictures of Santorini plastered on every wall as if that were the only island in Greece. And the food wasn’t even good; the wine was worse.

  After two miserable hours of small talk, he dropped me off. I opened the door to my mother’s home, the one I had shared with her for the last twenty-two years of my life, and plopped down on my awful pink comforter that had covered my bed since I was twelve.