From a young age, Phaedra had been dragged to the movies with her mother. Gidget, An Affair to Remember, Jailhouse Rock; from California to New York to everything in between, Dita’s hobby slowly turned into Phaedra’s obsession. Her mother may have been satisfied to see America only in the movies, but Phaedra had grander aspirations.
At the Hilton, most of the American visitors arrived with their wives; the single ones were either old and disgusting or young and ill-mannered. But they all had one thing in common: they wanted sex. Phaedra, a virgin, was saving herself for the perfect American—the one who was young, wealthy, and wellmannered—but she was starting to think that he didn’t exist.
The other receptionists had been talking about a new American guest. Phaedra hadn’t seen him yet, but she was certain she would be disappointed again. The girls at the check-in said that this one was rich, good-looking, and single. Rumor had it that he was spending most of his evenings at Syngrou Boulevard, the place where men found plenty of women to pass the night away. Although they said he was extremely attractive, he was offering something even better than himself. He had a Polaroid camera. None of these Greek girls had ever seen one, but they heard that it was a camera that not only made color photos but delivered them instantly. The girls said that the American was offering a date or a photo to the more attractive hotel employees. With Phaedra’s seductive dark eyes and voluptuous Marilyn Monroe body, she was hopeful she would also receive the offer.
When she rode the bus home that evening, the other passengers’ putrid body odors did not intrude on her dreams. Maybe he was The One. She contemplated saying “yes” to the date if it were offered. Maybe she would fall in love. Maybe he would take her to America.
Phaedra was jarred back into reality when the bus driver yelled at her to get off because they had reached the final destination. She had missed her stop and had to walk the five extra blocks home because of her daydreaming. When she saw her almost-one-hundred-year-old decrepit building, she looked up and cursed the three flights of stairs that led to her home. With heavy footsteps, she finally got to her floor. The front door was open, but no breeze entered. She saw her plump mother hunched over the sink, cleaning the green beans that would be the family’s dinner. Her pepper-gray hair was pulled back, falling sloppily from her bun. Phaedra’s mother wore all black out of respect for her own father, who had died six years before—only her soiled flower apron gave any color to her appearance.
As Phaedra walked through the kitchen, her mother, engrossed in her duties, did not notice her. Phaedra neither admired nor appreciated her mother’s indefatigable nature. Dita was a symbol of what Phaedra refused to become: dependent, overweight, and slovenly. Phaedra had never met the Dita who wore tight dresses and bright lipstick. That woman lived only in a few black and white photos kept in an album deep in a wooden chest.
Phaedra’s father was sitting in the living room, smoking a pipe, and reading the newspaper.
“Fere mou ena Ouzo!” He yelled as her mother scurried to fix him his drink. Phaedra walked right by him, retreated into her bedroom. Not her bedroom really, just a room she shared with her sister and brother, a room suffocating with three beds twelve centimeters away from each other. For almost eighteen years, she had lived in the confines of these walls, and she knew her only salvation would be marriage. Her father had already begun advertising her sexy physique and good teeth, hoping to find her a husband and save her from old maidhood. But she was not going to marry just anyone.
Kicking off her square-toed pumps and tearing away her sticky clothes, Phaedra fell onto her bed. She had a hard time relaxing; beads of sweat on her temples and between her breasts made her wish the fan above did more than just blow the dust around. As she watched the twirling wings, her thoughts drifted back to the American. A photograph or a date? She knew a date would be precisely that: one single date with a vulgar American trying to bed her. If he was as good-looking as the others had said, then an instant photo could prove more exciting. Phaedra could tell her girlfriends that he was her rich fiancé from America. She would say they had met at the hotel, had an affair, but because he was with his dying wife, he could not declare their love, but would send for her when the woman passed away. Phaedra could always say later that the wife had never died because the brilliant American doctors had found some cure, but she would have the photo to prove her story. And from what she heard, it was like no other photo. It re-created all the colors right before one’s eyes, an image appearing instantly. It sounded so odd and so wonderful; after considering and reconsidering her choices, she decided she would choose the photo. She attempted to convince herself that America wasn’t that great after all. Anyway, how could she live in a country where people cut their food with the side of a fork? It would definitely be the photo. She should probably also quit the Hilton and go back to Georgios.
The following day, Phaedra was on the phone at the reception desk when she saw him walk through the baroque archway that led from the elevators to the main lobby. He headed directly for her desk and leaned his Rolex-and-diamond-covered arm on the counter, parallel to her eyes.
Looking up, batting her eyelashes, she asked: “Can I help you?”
“Hi, beautiful. I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find a good, authentic place to eat around here.”
She didn’t answer him right away, trying to decide if he looked more like Elvis Presley or James Dean. He was wearing a business suit, not jeans and a black leather jacket as she had envisioned her American, but he did have thick sideburns and the most perfect baby curl hugging his forehead. Elvis or James, either way, he looked like an actor. And his voice, with a bit of a drawl, was so sexy. His hands were smooth and manicured. On his pinky he wore a diamond ring, and on his wedding finger, nothing. A few seconds passed. He cleared his throat and repeated his question more slowly as though Phaedra did not understand English that well.
“Honey, you look … like a Greek goddess. Want picture? With Polaroid camera? Hell, have dinner with me and I can look at you all night long.”
Phaedra’s mind was reeling. Dinner? Photo? Dinner? Photo? Dinner?
Dinner?
America.
Phaedra sat up, her back erect: “Yes, I understand, and, yes, I would like dinner, Mr.… ?”
“Well, lookee here, she speaks. Gordon’s the name. And you, pretty missus?”
“Phaedra.”
“Well, Phaedra, it’s set. How about I meet you in the lobby when your shift is over?”
At dinner Phaedra spoke about Homer and Delphi, about the unbearable heat in Athens in August. Gordon told her about Las Vegas, Studebakers, and Sears, told her how they all had air-conditioning.
On their second date, she took him to the Acropolis, and then in a fancy store in Plaka, he bought her a gold bracelet.
On their third date, with no ring, but with words, he proposed.
Phaedra told her family that she was going to marry the American. Her brother said she was crazy, her sister’s eyes showed disgust, her mother remained silent, and her father said he would disown her. But she didn’t care. She was young, beautiful, and going to America.
11
Mid July, 2000
I find myself drifting more and more, thinking about James—and Zeus. I was stuck, and if it were not for James leaving me, I still may have been living a half-life with him. That Sunday afternoon, what he had said jarred me out of my complacency. He had said clearly what I couldn’t. We hadn’t found The One. With all our intellectual musings, we had agreed that such a thing was ridiculous, but on that sad day in May, he discarded all our philosophies when he said Thair, we deserve more, and who knows, maybe there is such a thing as The One. We are cheating ourselves because we both know we haven’t found it with each other. I couldn’t believe he was using those words: “The One.” I was furious. My God! After five years with James, I had finally managed to reprogram my heart with logic, finally killing my mother’s stories. There is no such thing as
The Other Half! Zeus did not separate us at the beginning of time. Soccer ball people with two faces, one heart, and one mind! How ridiculous! We simply find good partners, and then we settle down. The End.
So why am I still searching? God damn it. Maybe I could have convinced James to stay and have been happy. Well, happy enough. Just thinking about him and our breakup makes me feel empty. Again.
I find myself spending more time on my coffee reading, more time swimming, more time preparing lunch. And less time writing. I came here to write, not to meet people, but there’s a part of me that thinks it would be healthy to go to the local bar once in a while. Talk to people. Socialize. But I know how I am. This is my only opportunity. I need to go on.
I look at the basket of fruit on the table and the delicious tomatoes. As I begin sinking my teeth into one, my thoughts drift again to a person who has caught my attention here on the island.
Every afternoon, when the local villagers take their naps, she emerges. From my balcony, I have a perfect view of the cove below and a perfect view of her. In the afternoon, the tide comes in, and the beach becomes closed off with water on either side. She comes through the water, around the boulder that provides perfect seclusion to a small stretch of beach. She lifts her long, white skirt to her waist and glides through the still water. Letting down her skirt when she reaches the sand, she continues to walk all the way to the other side of the cove, where a sharp cliff creates a barrier to the outside world—a barrier for all except me. My rental is perfectly perched, providing an unobstructed view from up above.
She takes off her dripping skirt and lays it on the sand. She’s not wearing any underwear. She slips off her tank top and reveals two tiny, perky breasts. From where I sit, her visibility is a bit blurry, but I can still make out bright pink, erect nipples. Her body resembles that of a young boy: slender hips, a flat stomach, and strong, well-defined legs. When she walks naked back into the sea, her long, wavy hair reclaims her femininity. I watch her for an entire hour, always fearful that she will look up and see me. But she never does. I’m always angry at the hour I waste watching her but rationalize that she may turn into a character for a book I may write one day, so this is actually research. Every day I find myself looking up at the clock, waiting for two o’clock, so this woman can appear. I even find myself looking for her when I take short day trips on my moped to nearby villages. But I’ve never seen her anywhere but in this cove, not in the main square, nowhere, and I wouldn’t dare ask anybody about her—not yet anyway. I scold myself for wasting my time. Today, I decide: No distractions. No distractions.
It’s another hot day. I have already had my morning swim and am back and famished. I make myself a breakfast sandwich, put the fan right in front of me, and grab my laptop. I reread the last few pages and picture this young Greek girl who had so many dreams; this Phaedra is starting to dance before my eyes. I know my mom would hate how I have depicted her; no, she would say, I can just hear her, I was not desperate like that. But these stories all came from her—the air-conditioning, the Polaroid, the description of a young Gordon—and, ultimately, it’s my story, so I just need to keep writing.
It’s already 1:30 p.m. I can’t believe the time has slipped by so quickly. Fingers on the keys, I keep looking up at the clock.
At 1:45 p.m. I am antsy and sweating. I’m wearing jean cut-offs that I’ve had since the ’80s and a floral bra. From noon to four, the heat becomes almost unbearable. I get up, grab a tomato from the fridge, refill my water glass, and go out to the balcony to hopefully encounter a breeze. The shorts have cut into my legs from the four hours I was glued to the chair; they feel damp and tight. I unzip them, stand up, and watch them drop to my heels. I step out of them and simply walk away as they lie on the floor. I would never do this in my own home; neatness doesn’t matter here. I lay my towel over a chair and sit down. Stretching my legs over the metal railing, I can feel it burn my skin. The heat radiates into my calves; the sensation feels slightly painful, mostly good. Peering down at the secluded beach, I consider going and taking another dip, but my hair is washed, and for the next hour, the beach will be hers.
At 1:55 p.m. I look at the clock, then the tomato. I haven’t bitten into it yet. I begin rolling it up and down my thigh. I roll it from my knee, up over my protruding hip bone, up the side of my stomach, over my left breast, my neck and just before it reaches my mouth, I pull it away. I tease it around my face. It’s as if my hand and brain aren’t connected: I put it up to my face and when it’s close enough to bite, my hand pulls it away. I’m pretending my hand won’t give up the tomato. “Tomato! Tomato! Give me Tomato!” I say in a small, squeaky voice. Another deeper voice replies: “No tomato for you! You are a bad girl!”
Silence. I haven’t spoken to a real live person in nine days. I figure it’s time I venture into town to buy more supplies and see humanity.
I take the tomato and bring it slowly, calmly, methodically, up to my mouth and bite into it. Some of the juice drips down from my mouth. I don’t wipe it, just letting it drip onto my chest. Taking my index finger, I slide it between my breasts, mixing the sweat with the tomato juice. Putting my finger in my mouth, I taste the sweet saltiness. I glance at the clock—1:59 p.m.—one more minute.
Two o’clock. Perfect clockwork. I see her coming from the side of the boulder. The tide is a bit higher today; the water reaches well above her waist. She holds her skirt higher, but most of it is in the water, drenched. Today she walks more slowly than usual, stopping every few steps and just looking deep into the sea. Finally, she makes her way onto the sand and disrobes. She lies down on her skirt, face down this time.
I imagine going down to the beach. Pretending that I don’t know she’s there. Walking over to her, kneeling down beside her. Running my fingers through her long hair. (What? Did I just think that?) But I can’t control my thoughts. I imagine my hand going down her spine, lightly touching her lower back. I imagine her arching, lifting her pelvis when I do this, slipping her hand under herself as she spreads her legs wider.
I think I’m horny, but that’s no excuse. Watching a stranger—a woman no less—and imagining these things, feels so dirty, so wrong. Where are these crazy thoughts coming from? I have never been attracted to a woman before. What is happening to me?
But I can’t take my eyes off her. Today she seems so different, like a grief-stricken Eurydice waiting to be saved. Her shoulders are shaking. She rolls over and sits up. With her head in her arms, I can see that she’s sobbing. Something deep inside me turns and burns. I pull the chair up closer to the burning rail and cross my underarms on the metal. So hot.
At 3:00 p.m. exactly, she stands up and slowly disappears back into the water. I sit there for another hour staring at the blue sky, watching the seagulls fly, feeling strangely sad.
Late July, 2000
I am on the edge of a swimming pool, but there is no water. I am looking into the bottomless pit, getting ready to dive. No, says logic, there is no water. But my feet prepare to jump. I can’t stop myself; I plunge forward.
I wake up startled, sweating. My heart is pounding. I lie there without moving, eyes wide open. I see the numbers on the digital clock. It’s 4:02 a.m. I can’t go back to sleep, so I get up, go to the four-foot fridge and from the top, grab some bread. It’s stale. I make a mental note that tomorrow I will have to venture into town again. Sitting outside on the porch, I watch the small waves form below. There’s a half moon in the sky and the stars are especially bright. It’s warm despite the time. Maria, the owner of the “mom and pop” store where I get my supplies, said that it’s hotter than previous summers. Tonight, though humid, it’s not uncomfortable; in fact, it feels nice. I look at my tan, shapely legs. Lots of water, tomatoes, and feta, I guess this is the miracle diet. Looking down at my stomach, I can see how flat it’s gotten, making my breasts look fuller. I think about masturbating, but it feels like too much work right now, so I sit like this for about an hour until sleep finally calls again
, and then I go back to bed.
Rolling over, I see the alarm clock. It’s already 12:56 p.m.! I know I need to go into town for supplies, but I figure I can make it to the store and be back by two. When I don’t want to drive the seven kilometers to reach the big, air-conditioned supermarket on the other side of the island, I get everything I need from Maria’s store.
It’s cooler today. As I ride my moped downhill, I enjoy the wind in my hair, the sun on my face. I drive slowly and take in all the sights: the still blue water, the gold beach, the white-washed houses.
“Kalimera,” I say to Maria, the round sixty-something Greek woman behind the counter, when I enter. I come about twice a week for milk, mostly for Tang, and for fresh bread and feta. She knows me now and always greets me warmly.
“Kalimera, koukla,” she responds. On rare occasions Yiayia used to call me that, koukla, her “doll.” It’s a faint memory, but still so powerful. Hearing that word again makes me feel protected, like someone alive and real actually cares about me.
I grab a little red basket, slip it under my arm, and walk down the first aisle where the coffee and jams are. I grab Bravo, the grainy Greek coffee I drink in the morning, Nescafe, my afternoon pick-me-upper, and a strawberry jam. Crouching on my hamstrings, I glance at the other spreads. Deciding to splurge and buy some Nutella instead, I suddenly feel someone brush past me and stop. While I’m still looking down, the first thing I see is a long floral skirt and tan toes in leather sandals. She stands above me, also looking at the jams. I hesitate. My hands are perspiring; the jar almost slips out of my grip. I set my basket down and steadily run my eyes from her fuchsia-colored toenails to the slender ankles, the skirt, and up the side of her leg to her round butt. A curve I know so well. I’ve seen this body—naked—on a daily basis now for almost two months. My eyes wrap around her waist, drown into the two inches of her stomach that teasingly peek through between her top and skirt. I finally look up as she says in perfect English: “Is that jam good?”
The Greek Persuasion Page 6
