“Uh, yeah … yes.”
She smiles widely and for the first time I can admire her face. A sharp jaw, deep dimples, full red lips, a petite nose, and bamboocolored eyes.
She takes the jar off the shelf, smiles again, and goes to the register to pay. I’m still crouched down, unable to move. I watch as Maria, with a stern look, puts the jar and a few other items in a plastic bag, never looking the woman in the eye. When she opens her wallet, I hear Maria say something under her breath, grab the money, open the cash register, and throw the change on the counter while simultaneously turning away. The woman gently picks up the coins and puts them away, one by one. When she turns sideways, I can finally see her striking face once more, but all I see now are sad eyes. Not the eyes that a few moments ago looked into mine with such deep intensity. She glides out of the store and never looks my way again.
I finally stand up and stretch out my sore legs. Walking to the front, I anxiously look out the door for her, but she’s not there. The silence breaks when I hear, “Etimi?” Maria is smiling, asking me if I am ready. I barely hear her, still in a trance when she repeats herself.
“Ne, ne, etimi,” I tell her and then without thinking, I ask about the woman.
Maria suddenly becomes serious, “Ugh … kakos anthropos!”
A bad person? What does that mean? I don’t feel like I can question Maria too much, so instead I ask, simply, if the woman is from Kythnos.
She hesitates, then tells me that the woman used to have a small private school in town and that she got too close, too close she repeated, to some of the female teachers. I know a part of Maria loves the gossip, but another part seems genuinely repulsed.
She begins to waddle away, huffing and puffing, having decided she will tell me no more. I pay and leave, but I can’t concentrate on anything. I keep seeing the woman’s face in my mind. Questions fill my head. Too close? Am I letting my imagination run wild or could it be what I’m thinking?
In my kitchen I cut up a cucumber, an onion, and three tomatoes. I douse them with olive oil and throw a big slab of feta on top. I pull out a jar of oregano from the cupboard. Sprinkling some oregano on top of the cheese, I look at the salad as my stomach growls.
At 1:55 p.m. I start moving a bit more quickly; I cover the feta and put it back in the fridge, feeling the artificial coolness envelop my body when the door opens. Cover the oregano, back in the cupboard; open the fridge, get a bottle of water; throw everything onto a tray; grab a napkin and a towel. I set everything down on the wooden table on the porch, cover the chair with the towel, slip out of my sundress, and sit down. Finally, I take a deep breath.
Tang is perched on the widest part of the railing, looking into the horizon. He turns his head slightly and acknowledges me, and then faces the direction of the cove once more—almost as if he, too, is taking part in this daily voyeurism.
1:58 p.m. Here she comes. Two minutes early.
3:00 p.m. Exactly. Gone.
3:15 p.m. Time to get back to work.
3:49 p.m. Time to get back to work.
4:17 p.m. Time to get back to work.
Phaedra’s Story
Rancho Fierno, Ca
July 4th, 1988
After more than twenty years in the US, Phaedra spoke English like an American, with a slight accent, but no more strange looks from people, no more asking where she was from. Once in a while, she still mixed up an idiomatic expression, and this gave Gordon the opportunity to put her in her place. “It’s not play it by ‘year’! It’s play it by ear!” He loved to point out her errors when they were with business associates and their blonde wives, loved to tell people that he had saved her from marrying a villager and picking olives all her life. He made these remarks, and the Americans at the table laughed at her expense, but Phaedra just held her head up high and pretended to laugh with them. Twenty-three years of marriage, and Gordon still treated her like a second-class citizen. The only time he acted interested in her life was when he wanted something, for her to host a party or to accompany him on a business trip. Phaedra’s exotic charm and good looks always earned him points with clients. In front of other people, he mocked her, then said, “Ain’t my Phaedra beautiful?” as if she were not present. At home he mostly just ignored her, usually came in late, took his dinner, went into the living room, watched television, and sat in the air-conditioning. After dinner, he ordered a scotch on the rocks, and asked about his daughter, who was already fast asleep.
Sometimes he came home drunk, his beard smelling of women’s juices. His only explanation was that he had been working late. Phaedra swore at him in his native tongue, but her words were a cacophony of fumbled expletives that seemed to carry little weight. Phaedra’s words meant nothing to him, and despite all her yelling and wailing, she had few choices. She had never worked in the United States, and she could not return to her country. Her father had told her not to marry the American, but she had not listened.
At precisely 6:18 p.m. on the day of America’s independence, she sat on the corner of her big bed and decided she would no longer be Gordon’s property. Mr. Wright had been so wrong for her, but because of Thair and tradition, she had stayed. Her daughter was nineteen and going to the local university. It was time. She could feel her heart palpitate, palms clammy as she gripped them tighter and tighter. She knew that this was the end. She caught her suppressed smile reflected in the mirror. She would be free—finally free! But then her reflection told her the truth: she was no longer young. She was forty-one and tired. Her once curvaceous body was now thin and out of shape, her long black hair was cut short; her eyes, dull. She glanced up to a Polaroid photo that was wedged in the corner of the mirror—a Polariod that had lost almost all its color—Phaedra and Gordon in front of the Parthenon more than twenty years ago. She stood up and moved closer to the photo, focused on the man and the girl: his smile seemed too perfect, and she looked like a child. Suddenly, a chill ran up her thighs and into her stomach—the air conditioner blasted air into her big, cold bedroom.
There’s a breeze in the room; a slight wind picks up and keeps blowing the white curtain into my laptop. I don’t want to move because Tang is sprawled on my lap, but I want to close the window. I gently lift him up, set him on the bed, and close the window, leaving it barely cracked open. I need water but need to continue more.
Phaedra’s Story
Late June, 1989
The divorce was final, the house was hers, but as she sat with the calculator, it just would not add up. Gordon had made several bad business decisions and had been out of work for more than a year, so she walked away without any sort of future alimony agreement. Phaedra needed a job, but what could she do?
Thair, apart from studying full-time, had been waiting tables for a few years, and Phaedra saw that her daughter made fast money, but there were no benefits, and Phaedra was getting older. She needed a job with some security, but she had no skills—well, no skills past cooking, cleaning, and gardening. She thought of opening up a business, but with so little savings, it was too big of a risk. So she filled out several applications for the local grocery stores because she heard that medical benefits would be included. Phaedra knew it would not be easy work, but this was the choice she had made. She needed enough money to pay the mortgage, the bills, and help out her mother. And she refused to ask her daughter to pay rent. A good Greek mother would never ask for money from her child. Thair did help out when she could, but the university was not cheap.
Phaedra just hoped that she would land a job because, at almost forty-two years old, she hadn’t worked outside the home since her receptionist position at the Hilton. How would others view her? Would she even be considered? Doubts haunted her as she put on her glasses and continued to look over the application. Work experience? What could she write? Hostess? Gardener? Housewife? She sat there nervously biting the nail on her index finger when Thair walked in wearing an apron and smelling of burritos.
“Hi, Mama.”
�
�Hi, baby.”
“Another application?”
“Yeah, hey, do you have any suggestions what I should write for work experience?”
“Hmm … How about domestic engineer? Head of the purchasing department? Carpool navigation specialist? Or, simply, Greek goddess?”
Both mother and daughter laughed.
“Thair, I’m pathetic.”
Thair walked over to where her mother sat at the kitchen counter. “No, Mom, you’re not. You are an amazing mother who has dedicated her life to a wonderful daughter.” She laughed then continued in a more serious tone, “And I have no doubt when you walk in for the interview, everyone will be smitten with your smile and attitude, and you’ll get the job.”
“Oh, honey, you’re too kind. Do you think so?”
“I am certain. Come on, Mom, seriously, you are a hard worker and if they hire teenagers to bag groceries, why wouldn’t they hire you? I can see it now, week six: employee of the month. Month three: cashier. Year one: supervisor!”
“Thair, you know what … that’s exactly what I needed. You’ll see. You will be proud of me. I’ll get the job, and we will both be fine.”
“Mama, we already are fine. I’m proud of you.”
Thair was not usually very touchy with her mother, but on that day, she sat beside her and leaned her head on Phaedra’s shoulder. Her mother kissed her forehead and then continued to fill out the empty boxes.
12
August 2nd, 2000
It’s been about a week since I’ve gone to the store and although I’m not out of supplies, I debate making a trip just so that I can talk to Maria again. I’ve been watching the woman with the sad eyes every day, and the desire to know more about her has become a strange obsession that pulls me away from my writing. I am working on my mother’s story, but I keep drifting, a bizarre energy drawing me to this woman. I am plundered by memories of my worst English class taught by the dreaded Dr. Sibald. “Memorize, I tell you! Memorize! If you want to pass this class, you must memorize at least ten full-length poems!” The words of one poem won’t leave me; almost like a mantra, they keep repeating themselves in my head:
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me,
“This parting must be endured …”
I find myself reciting this part of Sappho’s poem over and over as if in a trance. Who is this woman? I came here for clarity, and now I’m finding that I’m less focused than ever.
1:59 p.m. I watch her come across the rocks. Then something persuades me to get up. I grab the towel that’s hanging over the railing and walk away from the sight that has intruded into my life. I jump on my moped and ride down the hill to the beach in just my bikini with the towel wrapped around my waist. I leave the towel on the motorbike, slowly walk into the cool water, and without hesitation, swim toward her spot. I’m not thinking. All I can hear is the rapid beating of my heart. I keep swimming, deeper, deeper, past the rocks, and finally I see her. She’s lying face down and doesn’t seem to hear me. I tell myself to turn around, but my arms keep pulling me toward the shore. The water reaches my waist, then knees, ankles, toes; I’m walking out onto the beach. Turn around. Leave. But my legs won’t listen.
This is her time, her space, but now it’s the two of us in this secluded cove.
I walk over to where the woman is lying. She rolls over, looks up—not startled, not embarrassed—and smiles. Almost as if she has been expecting me. “Hello,” she says.
She’s lying sideways now, her head perched in her bent arm. I can see her small breasts, her naked flesh. I catch myself staring. I’m the one who’s embarrassed and doesn’t know what to say. She pats the ground gently, motions for me to come sit beside her.
I am still standing when she repeats, this time with words, “Come,” she says. “Sit.”
I place myself beside her, and she rolls over completely. She’s lying on her back now, with her arms crossed under her head, totally relaxed. I stare forward, then quickly glance over at her; her eyes are closed. I begin to drink in her body. Imbibe her smell. We sit like this for what seems like hours, but is probably only about five minutes. Then, she takes her left hand and rests it beside my thigh. I’m frozen. Then she takes the same hand and puts it on mine, lifts my hand and puts it on her stomach.
“Don’t be nervous,” she whispers.
Her hand slips away. I watch my hand as it begins to have a life of its own. It begins to caress her. My index finger makes circles around her belly button. I watch as it moves up to her breast, and the area between my legs pulsates. With my index finger on her nipple, I hear her let out a little whimper, lightly squeezing it, watching as her body squirms every time I do this. I hate my nipples being touched, and yet I am doing this to another woman; an insane pleasure fills me.
My hand continues to explore her body, touching areas that feel so different than when they are on one’s own body. She takes my exploring hand and puts it in her mouth, licking every finger slowly, tenderly. Still holding my hand, she slowly sits up. Facing me, she brushes a stray hair away from my face; her pupils drive into my eyes, through my face, down my stomach, and another surge of wetness escapes from between my legs. Still with her piercing, hungry eyes, she continues to stare without reserve. It surprisingly makes me feel comfortable, relaxed. I have never felt so desired by another human being.
She motions for me to take off my bikini, and I do. We touch and caress every inch of each other’s body; tasting, kissing, and just looking. I am sacrificing my every inhibition to something that I cannot define. Almost instinctively, I know I am there to make Love. No white-bearded God in the sky has formed this union for procreation—the act is for pleasure’s sake alone. But it is not just sex. I have seen a few Hollywood films where there’s girl-on-girl action, and it’s always so highly sexualized, not about love unless it’s a lesbian movie. This feels like love. But I know I am not a lesbian. I have been fiercely attracted only to men all my life. For a moment—just a fleeting moment—I want to stop. It’s almost too much to take in, but when I look at her, my anxiety dissipates once more. Our parts fit together, not like a puzzle, but harmoniously. She is part angel, part enchantress. At moments I expect her long, dark-blonde locks to turn into snakes, but she remains gentle, amorous, with such longing in her eyes. After more than an hour of love-making, she gets up to leave. I have yet to speak a word. Though it feels right, something inside me needs to question her; a silent part of me is screaming out: Who are you? Where do you live? When will I see you again?
But there are no good-byes. She just kisses me on the top of my head, turns toward the sea and walks into it without looking back. I lay there, not knowing what to do, what to think. After about fifteen minutes, I jump to my feet.
It is twenty-four hours later, but I can still feel her hands on me. I decide I will stay away and just watch today. I know I don’t have to be close to feel her. Maybe I wasn’t an intruder all these weeks, instead, her silent companion. She must have known I was here, up above, watching. Had she been waiting for me?
1:58 p.m. For almost two months she has been my pesky fairy, my Muse of Distraction. But she has also given me a new energy. I am done with my grandmother’s story and my mother’s. I am ready to write my story now.
1:59 p.m. My heart is racing.
2:00 p.m. I watch.
2:01 p.m. Where is she? Calm, be calm. But she has never been late before.
2:08 p.m. Something must be wrong. I stand up. Walk in circles. Where is she? Is she okay? I’m angry, worried.
2:19 p.m. Empty.
2:30 p.m. Angry again. I feel as though I have drunk acid. My insides are on fire. Where is she?
After three days of hopelessly waiting and waiting and waiting, I go into town. I don’t care what people think. Maria, tell me, who is she? Where is she? Where has she gone? Maria does not tell me anything. She just keeps r
epeating: “Kakos anthropos! Kakos anthropos!” Bad person, bad person. Then Maria walks in the back and does not come out again until the bell rings when I exit her store. Tempted to go back in, I’m weak, worn, so my visit into town only leaves me with more unanswered questions.
Exactly fourteen days later and not a single word, not a single sighting. I am dissolving. I have no appetite. My jeans won’t even stay on my body. I sit in front of my laptop day after day and not one miserable word spills out. So many thoughts, so much uncertainty, nothing makes sense, and I can’t seem to write anything. I’m plagued with images that I can’t articulate. Who am I? What am I?
I am leaving in a few days, so I need to try to find her one more time. I will go into town, make one final attempt, maybe this time I can get something out of Maria. When I enter the store, I see a handsome, twenty-something man stocking shelves. Maria’s son. She had introduced me to him months ago when he was home for the weekend. He’s got a law degree and works at a British bank in Athens, his English immaculate. He must be home for Dekapentavgoustos, the 15th of August, one of the most important religious holidays in Greece.
My gods are finally aligned because he is here, and Maria is not.
“Yasou, Yianni,” I remember his name.
“Yasou, um …”
“Thair.”
I then continue in English. I want to make sure and be clear, my imperfect Greek feeling even more fractured now.
“Can I ask you a question?”
But instead he responds with, “Are you okay? You do not look well.”
“Thanks,” I say with too much sarcasm and watch him recoil. “No, I’m fine.” Then I add, not knowing why because I could really give a fuck that I look awful, “I think I may have a summer cold. Anyway, I was wondering if you could help me out.”
The Greek Persuasion Page 7
