When Mama returned from Greece, she brought me even more bad news.
“Thair, I need to talk to you about something,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Okay … ”
“I know how much you love going to Greece … loved spending summers with your yiayia, but—and I hope you can understand—I had to sell your yiayia’s cottage.”
Sell Yiayia’s cottage? My body started shaking. Sand, blue water, sitting, laughing with Yiayia, our little cottage, my sanctuary! I barely heard my mother as she continued.
“ … and I can’t afford to have a house half way across the world. It’s old. And it was falling apart.”
I was livid, screaming at her in a way I never had before: “We could have figured something out! You did not have to sell Yiayia’s house!”
My mother’s eyes welled as she whispered, “I’m sorry. I had to.”
For years, I would not forgive her, but she was right. How could I have afforded to keep up a property on an isolated Greek island? But God knows how I loved that house. The white-washed walls. The red tile roof. The blue door. The balcony with our thatched chairs. The little garden that gave us figs, grapes, plums, crunchy cucumber, gorgeous green peppers. And deep-red, delicious tomatoes.
I grab Vanity Fair from my suitcase, a tomato from a basket, and go out to my small, private balcony. Sitting on a plastic chair, I stretch my legs out in front of me and eat the sweet tomato, just like someone would eat an apple. After just a few minutes, my fruit is finished, my fingers are sticky, but I’m too lazy to get up, so I hang my hand loosely beside me. I watch the beads of sweat form between my breasts; little diamonds nestled in my cleavage. Perspiration drips down the front of my stomach. My thighs are stuck to the chair, moisture pooling between the plastic and my legs. And yet. I don’t wish for air-conditioning. The stifling heat, the suffocating humidity, they allow me to breathe because I am back, after so many years, to the place that makes me feel alive, really alive.
6
Aphrodite’s Story
Alexandria, Egypt
May, 1942
This was the day the Greek fisherman would be coming over. Instead of being tired from the night before, Dita woke up early, feeling anxious, nervous; completely uneasy. She tried smiling at her reflection, but her eyes welled up with tears because it had not been what she had expected. On the beach, sand between her toes, sand everywhere, it was painful, then uncomfortable, and fast. Too fast. She held it for years in her secret pocket, and in a matter of seconds, it was gone.
He sounded like a beast, but he wasn’t rough. Dirk held her in his arms after and told Dita he would be back, but she didn’t believe him, and it didn’t matter. What mattered now was that she was spoiled, and though she mostly felt disgraced and dirty, more than ever before, another emotion sat with her that morning, pressed on her chest, one she had never experienced before: opening her mouth and letting it out, a deep sob with no tears, and suddenly, she was relieved. But that moment was fleeting. She was a mere woman with no hopes for a future, so her relief, her disdain for marriage, quickly turned into fear. The Greek fisherman would not want her now.
When the doorbell finally rang at noon, she ran downstairs and hid behind the large jacquard couch like a schoolgirl. Her father walked over to the door and opened it; the two Greeks exchanged a polite handshake and some other niceties, then walked in and sat at the far end of the room at the small dining room table. Two men ready to do business.
Dita could hear the man talking politely, his words polished, his mannerisms refined. He didn’t sound like a fisherman. She knew he was from an affluent family from the island of Kythnos, but he was a villager nonetheless. His were not educated people, but they had stretches of land all around the island, some for their fig trees, some for the wheat that they harvested every July, other pieces of land for their herds of goats that produced the legendary cheese and milk of Kythnos. If Dita married this man, she would surely be a busy wife.
Dita’s father asked Stavros about his family, how they were managing. The Greek’s responses were slow and calm, his speech not typical, a soft, yet masculine voice (much like her father’s). It was a voice that said: “I can take care of you. Protect you.”
For almost an hour, they talked about the land. About fish. About cheese. About the war. Stavros said that he wanted to finish his studies in Athens that were interrupted when the war broke out, and one day he planned on being an engineer. Dita wanted to peer over the couch so badly but knew how ridiculous she would look (the day before a woman, today acting like a child), so she sat quietly on the floor, knees under her chin, sweat dripping between her thighs and in the crooks of her elbows while her dear father sold her life to this man whom they knew only by name, who was really just a stranger. Stavros would get a wife who would make babies, work the wheat fields, tend the goats alongside his family, and in return, Dita’s parents would get consolation that she would marry and be protected for the rest of her life. The man accepted Dita without ever having met her; her photo and heritage sufficed. Stavros said he did want to meet Aphrodite eventually, but there was no rush. He would inform his family of the upcoming nuptials, so his mother could plan the wedding, and then he would call on Dita while on his next visit to port. The men shook hands once more, sealed the deal, and as he got up and began walking to the door, Dita raised herself just enough to see the manly shoulders of the person she would soon have to marry.
After he left, her father walked over, sat down, and leaned over the couch and looked into Dita’s face: “What do you think? Agape mou, can I persuade you into believing that he is a good man?”
She wanted to start screaming, saying that her life was hers and she would not marry this man! She wanted to tell him her dirty secret and that his plan to marry her off was foiled, but her father’s soft eyes silenced her. How foolish she must have been to think that she could create another destiny for herself. Her life had never been her own. So, instead, Dita succumbed: “Do you think he knew I was here, too? He probably thinks I am a fool.” Eyes cast downward, she surprisingly cared what the fisherman thought of her. She didn’t want to care, but she did.
Her father reached over, took her hand, pulled her up off the ground, onto the couch, and with open arms squeezed her. “No, I don’t think he knew you were there, and if he did, he would not think you a fool. You will never be a fool to anyone, Dita.” His icy blue eyes, so warm, held her gaze as he put his arms around her again. Then his face and tone changed, “Dita, I know you have been going to the Ally Social Clubs, but now that you are an engaged woman, you need to bid farewell to all your … friends.”
Dita’s eyes pooled with tears. “But, Babba, I just got a real job. I won’t go there to change oil anymore or to meet friends. I was offered a position, a real position to work on an assembly line. I want to take this job!” Her voice dropped, her shoulders sagged, “Please … at least until I get … married.”
“Dita, you need to talk to your mother about this. Stavros said that he will write to his parents and you can get married and go to Kythnos within the year. He said there is safe passage for those who want to return to Greece.”
“Within the year! No, Babba, please! I don’t want to leave you and Mama. Please don’t do this to me.” Her voice cracked.
Dita’s father looked immediately frail. He loved his daughter and it broke his heart to imagine her so far away, but his work was here in Egypt, here at the Alexandria port. He loved Greece, a true patriot, but time and circumstance had led him to this country where work was plentiful and pay secure.
His voice was once again gentle, “Dita, didn’t you like him? He looked like a decent young man. He’s only four years older than you and so well spoken.”
“Like him? I don’t know him! Shall I tell you who I like? I like an Englishman named Henry! And I like a South African man named Dirk! And I like the way these men hold me! Kiss me! I like the way—”
Her father should have gotten ang
ry at her outburst, but instead he stopped her from speaking with a finger gently placed on her lips. He did not want her to say something she would later regret. What he did not know was that she had already done something, not something that she necessarily regretted, but something she hoped the Greek would never find out about.
“Dita, please. Stavros is a good man. You will come to love him. I am sure of that. And when the war is over, and when your mother and I have enough money saved, we will move to Kythnos, and then we will all be together. By then, imagine, you will have several children, and I will be a papou.” A large smile beamed off his face, “And we will be a big and glorious family. Won’t that be good?”
Dita did not answer, instead she sobbed and sobbed, sweat mixed with tears. She held onto her father tightly, loving and hating him intensely at that moment.
Her staunch mother stood at the top of the staircase and just listened. As the words poured out of her husband’s mouth, Dita’s large-framed mother quivered slightly. The heat was suffocating, yet she looked chilled as if her big bones ached. She looked down once more without being seen, then disappeared into her bedroom. She had had no choice either.
7
It’s already 10:00 p.m., but I’m not tired; in fact, I’m more alert than ever. I stand up, stretch my legs, get a large glass of water and return to my nook, my pseudo office, my space in the kitchen that has turned into my writing room.
Aphrodite’s Story
Island of Kythnos, Greece
April, 1943
The Italians and Germans occupied several of the neighboring islands, but Kythnos had remained relatively immune with villagers milling around, daily duties taking precedence over anxiety. Dita always listened for news about the war, but the plethora of physical chores left her physically exhausted and mentally drained.
Her days began at dawn. Dita’s first duty was to prepare her husband’s breakfast: coffee boiled in a briki, bread, cheese, olives, and three types of jam set on the table. Stavros sat and ate and spoke very little. Their cold stone house was large in comparison to other properties on the island; she had indeed married well. Not white-washed, not picturesque, not quaint nor delicate, her new home had seven rooms and sprawling spaces, yet Dita felt isolated—ironically so, because her mother- and father-in-law lived in the same house. Family members lived in houses surrounding hers, each house but a stone’s throw away. Her husband was also an only child so there were no brothers-or sisters-in-law, but the Mylopoulos clan was endless: cousins, old aunts and uncles, ancient people in black. Everyone in the village seemed related one way or the other, and like most new brides on the island, everyone expected so much from these young, strong women. Dita needed to invite family members for homemade sweets; that is, after she had tended the chickens, the goats; after she had washed the clothes, the linens; after she had made cheese, bread, and cooked for her husband, his parents, the auntie that was too old, the cousin who was recently widowed. And when all the work was done, and the guests had left, her mother-in-law expected her to hand-embroider intricate lace tablecloths.
Dita was too weary to cry at night, but when she accidentally poked her finger with the horrid thick needle, silent tears often mixed with the blood. She shared none of this with Stavros, who was a kind husband, because he, too, worked hard and was gone almost all day, fishing or tending to his family’s land. He would rarely relax in the corner café with other men drinking Ouzo, discussing the war and other matters of less importance. In fact, he saved all his extra energy to read the pile of books by his bed by the light of a candle and, unlike the other villagers, he saved his conversation for his intelligent wife.
Shortly after Dita and he had met, Stavros decided he liked her. Truly liked her. Yes, she would make a good wife, but he also—quite surprisingly—enjoyed her company. The few dates that they had in Alexandria had surpassed his expectations because she was not only a fashionable, handsome girl, but she was also witty and confident, and he found her amusing. Dita would tell him stories about changing oil on Jeeps and about her short time on the assembly line; her knowledge of the war was extraordinary, especially for a woman, and once in a while, when he least expected it, she would shock him with a dirty joke. He was a serious young man, but Dita could make him laugh. And she found him charming in the way that she felt protected when she was around him, similar to the way she had felt about Henry.
Sometimes she thought about Henry, how life would have been in England, but he was too late because when the letter and the box arrived, she was already on her way back to Greece. She was taken aback when her mother gave her the package years later, but her mother had always surprised her. Sometimes she even thought about Dirk. But from him, she never heard a word—not after that night.
On the island, Dita would usually retire as soon as the sun went down, escaping into her bedroom to avoid her pesky mother-in-law, who was always touching her stomach, telling her: “It is time.” Eidothea would wink at Dita, opening her mouth sideways, two gold incisors protruding from a mouth that only housed six teeth. Dita did not appreciate this swarthy woman who wore all black and had endless energy for gossip, but she knew she had not only married her husband, but his whole family; this was all too clear when Stavros introduced his mother to his wife-to-be. He had stood there with his arm around Eidothea’s shoulder as she beamed with adoration into his eyes; it was obvious she idolized her only son. She was the only woman who could draw Stavros’s attention away from Dita, the one woman he dared not disrespect—until the day she pushed him too far.
The first night Dita and he were to spend together as a wedded couple, his mother presented Dita with a white-embroidered bedsheet. Eidothea told Dita that in the morning she should hang the bloodstained sheet outside of the bedroom window for all to see what a good woman her son had chosen. Dita was horrified and began to shake uncontrollably. Stavros grabbed the bedsheet from his mother, threw it to the ground, and for the first time spoke back to her, telling her that his wife would not be subjected to such antiquated and ridiculous traditions. It was at that moment when Dita opened her heart to Stavros. Eidothea Mylopoulos, on the other hand, was in shock that her son would speak to her that way and disrespect her wishes. She took the bedsheet off the floor, wiped away spurious tears from her dry eyes, glared at Dita, and stomped away.
That night while Dita lay with her husband for the first time, she feigned pain when he entered her, but she suspected that he knew. If he did, he never said a word about it, and for that, Dita worked hard to please Stavros, even trying to be polite to his insufferable mother. She worked the fields and learned to cook; her hands grew coarse, her waist thickened. Famished in the evenings, she found solace in the warm bread that she had made with her own two hands. Those were the same hands that would rub her husband’s shoulders when he told her about his day, and when Stavros would lie with this newly docile wife in bed, she showed him how much she cared, and something would happen. He held Dita and kissed her tenderly. Stavros told her about his hopes and dreams, and for this, she became endeared to him.
Dita accepted that her life had changed forever. She no longer changed oil on Jeeps. The only oil she worked with was the olive oil that she poured onto the deep red tomatoes that adorned her kitchen table.
8
Mid June, 2000
Feeling a bit melancholic, I decide to go for a walk. As I exit the blue door, I see the orange cat again. It looks at me perplexed and, like a dog, follows me down the hill. Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder; it is right there. It stops when I do and continues when I do—the whole thing seems crazy.
I stop at a little bench, half way down, to admire the view. The cat jumps onto the bench and starts rubbing itself against my thigh. While still staring forward, I rub its head as it gets closer and crawls right onto my lap. I have never been a cat person, but this furry animal is quickly entering my heart with its friendly ways.
“Okay, Tang, are you ready to start moving again?” I say,
giving my new companion a name while gently lifting the cat up and setting it on the ground. It looks at me once more, and then disappears the other way. A smile covers my face, independent little fellow.
I pass a few houses and greet people as I snake my way down the hill. An old woman dressed completely in black, someone’s yiayia I am certain, is sitting in the corner of a patio, crocheting a whitelace-something. The mama is probably in the kitchen cooking; the men of the house sit on the balcony drinking Ouzo even though it’s only 10:00 a.m., their newspapers spread on the table. I can hear other family members scream at each other on the other side of the house, but it is clear that they are not fighting: it is just their form of communication. Then the man yells something to the lady of the house, and she brings out another tray with what looks like rusks, jelly, and butter. After she sets down the tray, she scurries back into the kitchen. The familiar, vociferous Greek clamor rings joyfully in my ears.
“Kalimera,” I say when the men look over in my direction. They return my good morning and ask me if I am Calliope Papadimitriou’s niece from America. I say “oxi,” but I am Aphrodite Mylopoulos’s granddaughter and, yes, from America. They act excited with my response though it’s clear with their raised eyebrows and mumblings to one another that they don’t know my grandmother. Yiayia lived on the other side of the village and kept to herself. The older, squat man stands and invites me up the few steps for an Ouzo, “Ella!” his hand waves in the air, gesticulating “Come!” But I politely decline, a bit too much noise for my quiet mood. Also, alcohol first thing in the morning is not my cup of tea. While leaning on the railing, he asks me more about my yiayia, and I am happy to oblige. Right here, right now, nothing gives me more pleasure than talking about my yiayia. While we are chatting, kids, so many, run up and down the stairs, jump on their bicycles, and then zoom off. Before my conversation with the men ends, the kids are back. They throw the bikes in the yard and run into the house. BAM! A door slams. They scream something to the mama who also screams back, then BAM! The door slams again. Jumping back on their bicycles, sans hat or sunscreen, only in their bathing suits, they wheel away once more. A toddler in the yard is playing with a dog, a situation that looks neither sanitary nor safe as the husky pet licks the child’s face. I wave at the toddler, then the men, and make my exit.
The Greek Persuasion Page 3
