by Lena Manta
PS: A warm thanks from the bottom of my heart to your special friend, Evanthia, who agreed to be my courier and bring this letter to you.
Your eternal slave,
Simeon Kouyoumdzis
I leaned back in my chair without knowing what to say. I had never read such a passionate letter, and I was overwhelmed. Karim appeared like a deus ex machina bearing a tray with coffee and my cigarettes.
“You’re an angel!” I exclaimed and greedily took the first sip. When I had a cigarette between my lips, my friend hurried to light it.
“What the letter say?” he asked in English.
“It’s a love letter,” I answered.
He didn’t have to express his curiosity. It was written all over his face.
“I don’t know, Karim; it’s very old. But the girl’s name was Smaragda.”
“Smaragda,” he repeated.
“My mother’s name. But her last name? That’s not my mother’s.”
Karim realized that I was mostly talking to myself and left me in peace. Another letter found its way into my hands, the second in the series according to the date inscribed on the envelope. Only a few days had elapsed since the first one.
Precious gem of my life . . .
Your letter transported me to heaven. Now that I know for certain that you love me, I feel strong enough to take on the whole world! I understand your fears about the objections of your family and mine. I won’t pretend to be humble, telling you lies that are not worthy of you. Our love will arouse antipathy. Already my father has mentioned the names of young ladies from among whom I must choose my wife, and yours was never discussed. You see, my darling, all the families he spoke of were those of rich merchants in Constantinople. Except that, for me, the only dowry I can consider is the heart. And mine belongs to you forever.
How I wish we could speak, even briefly. So that I could look into your golden eyes and hold your hand. Miss Evanthia told me that we might be able to meet at her house on Wednesday afternoon. Her mother will be away at a tea party with your mother. I’ll wait for you, my beloved.
Yours forever,
Simeon
There was no time for delay. I carefully opened the third letter. I wanted to see if the lovers had indeed met at the house of this Evanthia, who probably had a romantic spirit and ignored the dangers as she served love itself.
My dear Smaragda,
I still can’t believe what I went through yesterday afternoon. As long as I live, I’ll be deeply indebted to Miss Evanthia, who gave us the opportunity to sit beside each other . . . where I could see the liquid gold of your eyes, where I touched your soft hand. My heart has been pounding since that moment, and I’m sure that everyone around me can hear it, the romantic prelude created only for you!
The only kiss that I dared to place on your tender lips, which have haunted my nights and dogged my days, became lava and burned me. Now I really know you are my destiny and that, if I can’t have you, I will be lost. Very soon I will talk to my father and, if necessary, fall at his feet so that he will permit me to take you as my bride.
Just be patient for a little while, light of my eyes, and afterward we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. I’m preparing a surprise for you with my own hands. Something that will last forever to remember our love.
With devotion,
Simeon
So they did meet! I leaned back in my chair. I needed a little time to take in what I had learned, even if it concerned two people I didn’t know. For my grandmother or grandfather to have hidden them, these letters had to mean something. They certainly weren’t theirs. The dates were too early. Could this Smaragda who shared a name with my mother be my great-grandmother? The thought made me sit up straighter. I felt so helpless. I had no one to tell me what had happened in the past, to tell me my own story. My eyes fell on the box again. There were three more letters. These were different, more recent than the others. I ignored the noises coming from the kitchen as well as the delicious smells that were floating out, as they did whenever Karim cooked food from his country. I reached for the next letter.
A new surprise awaited me. The sender was not Simeon Kouyoumdzis, but someone called Vassilis, with the same last name, and the recipient was my grandmother, Chrysafenia Ververis! With trembling hands, I opened the envelope. The letter was dated 1947.
My dearest,
I wanted to tell you so much yesterday, but I didn’t manage to . . . maybe I’m a coward. And if that sudden thing hadn’t happened with your grandfather, I might still have buried all I feel for you out of fear. What I feel is so strong that I don’t know what I would do if you mocked my feelings. Also, my friendship with your brother is still an obstacle. In no way would I want something to happen that would disturb that relationship, which I respect and honor, but the heart has its own ways and doesn’t calculate. Besides, I know that some mysterious antipathy divides your family, as it does mine. So you can imagine how much trouble I went to trying to keep my feelings for you hidden. In the end, though, I couldn’t manage it.
Yesterday, a dream became reality, a torture came to an end, and now I feel so happy. I won’t hide the fact that I feel very guilty because I’m deceiving your brother, and abusing the trust of your family, who have allowed me to come into your house. But there’s nothing to be done, for the present.
Eternally yours,
Vassilis Kouyoumdzis
My head was spinning, and despite the fact that there were two more letters, I wasn’t in a state to continue reading. Things seemed to be more and more confused. First my great-grandmother, then my grandmother, had fallen in love with someone from the Kouyoumdzis family, but from what I understood, neither of them had married their great loves. Why? What sort of warped repetition of history was this? And why didn’t the two families get along? They must have lived in Constantinople, a closed society, with different ethics and customs. I didn’t know much about history, and perhaps I needed to learn more. Perhaps, I could look it up on the Internet. I made a mental note that I needed to buy a computer and find someone to teach me how to use it. But who would teach me about the history of the family? Certainly not Hecuba. And from what the lawyer told me, my other aunt, Fotini, was in no position to. Had I reached a dead end?
“Madam?”
I raised my lowered eyes to my friend, who was looking at me sheepishly, wondering if he should or shouldn’t rouse me from my confused state.
“Come in, Karim.”
“Everything all right, madam?”
“Bah! I made things worse.”
“My mother tell me always with full stomach thing go better here,” he said pointing to his head.
“And she wasn’t wrong, Karim. Let’s go and eat, and then I’ll see what I’ll do.”
I followed him into the fragrant kitchen. He put a plate in front of me that I looked at curiously. It looked like some sort of pie made of ground meat.
Answering my silent curiosity, he answered: “Roast kibbe.”
“Which is?” I insisted.
“Lamb with onion, pine nuts, spices,” he announced in English.
I translated it back to him, and he nodded his head happily.
To accompany the dish, I’d brought Middle Eastern pitas to the table, which, thanks to Karim, I’d started to substitute for bread in our house and which I liked very much, as well as yogurt, which was essential because the food was tremendously spicy.
“Karim, who taught you to cook?”
“I cook in my country!” he told me proudly in Greek, then continued in English. “My mother has a restaurant. After bombs, madam, she die and my brother. I not there. Whole city ruins, madam. My uncle with his childs. I say leave, I run.”
“And your father, Karim?”
“Die in bombing one month before.” Again he spoke in English. “Karim has no one—only madam.”
His eyes had filled with tears. This young man had lived through horrors that couldn’t fit into human heads, and I felt a he
lpless fury overwhelm me, fury toward all those who made war into a profitable business. They stirred up passions in order to sell weapons, and now the refugees were an excessive burden. What did the warmongers believe? That all these people would wait in line to die and wouldn’t try to save themselves? That they wouldn’t try to escape to the unknown in the hope there wouldn’t be bombs there?
Karim had told me previously that he had walked for whole nights, along with a hundred other people, to cross from Syria into Turkey, and from there to the coastline. He had boarded a boat with many others. He had some money his mother had hidden in their house, and he carried a small bag with all his possessions. But the smugglers threw all the bags overboard to fit more people. Beside him sat a woman with a baby that never stopped crying. The man whose boat it was became irritated and told her that, unless the baby was quiet, he’d throw it in the sea. The woman was afraid. She squeezed so tightly that the baby suffocated.
“And what happened to the woman, Karim?” I had asked, horrified.
“Baby die and man grab and throw into the sea. Woman can’t bear. Sea too. Drown.”
That evening, both of us had wept for that unknown woman and her child who lost their lives so cruelly.
I looked at Karim, who was now wiping tears from his eyes and looking at me guiltily. “I’m sorry, madam. For tell you another bad story. Your eyes full of tears. Next time I tell something, you laugh,” he promised and smiled at me.
“It’s OK, Karim. I understand bad stories. You can tell them to me whenever you need to.”
“You, madam, never tell Karim bad story.”
“I’ll tell you, Karim. One day I’ll tell you. And we’ll both cry again.”
After the meal, I found myself in front of the old box again. There were two more letters. Karim followed me, carrying a tray with coffee flavored with rosewater, and pieces of Turkish delight. He left it beside me and disappeared. Tiger wasn’t there, and I knew he must be pacing the kitchen, hoping that some snack was waiting for him. I lit a cigarette and let my palate enjoy the medley of tastes and smells as the nicotine mixed delightfully with the coffee and the exotic rosewater. I reached out to unfold another piece of my history.
My dearest,
I think I’m living a dream that I never want to wake up from. So much pain around us, so much sadness inside you, and our love, a flower that opens.
I want you to know that everything I have told you is completely true, and I meant every word. You’ll be my wife, Chrysafenia, whatever happens, and whoever I must do battle with! Since you love me too, everything will be all right.
And something else—the secret surprise I’m making for you. I found the design in the drawer of a piece of furniture we sent to the cabinetmaker to repair. It must have been forgotten there years ago. It’s a locket, my dear creature, and it symbolizes our love. It will be the first piece of gold I give you, before the ring that I’ll put on your finger one day. I work on it at night, and I hope to have it ready soon so I can give it to you. Until then, know that you hold my heart in your hands.
Devotedly,
Vassilis
So the piece of jewelry Vassilis’s father designed was never made or given to my great-grandmother. The couple separated, and it was his son’s fate to make it. Probably neither my grandmother nor the man she was in love with knew that their parents had exchanged vows of eternal love before them. It appeared that the Kouyoumdzis and Kantardzis families called out to each other. But why didn’t the union work out in the end? A last letter remained, and I was sure that it would provoke even more questions. When I saw the date, I was filled with foreboding. Months had passed. Either the rest of the letters had been lost or . . . There was only one way to find out.
My beloved,
I know that you are suffering as much as I am. I don’t understand how fate could have been so harsh with us. I feel guilty because I turned out to be weaker than our love. But I can’t, my precious—I was defeated by the only thing I couldn’t fight.
We exchanged vows and letters. Paper and ink, sweetheart. Both perishable. At least I know that one letter will remain forever to remind me that once I loved you as much as my life. And if I seem to be a coward, it is because I can wager and lose my life, but not my father’s. You and I are both children who honor our parents; we respect and love them. I know you, at least, understand this. And if the rumors I’ve heard are true, then it’s better for you. I will help you to forget me, and you must do so.
I love you and will always love you,
Vassilis
I was so upset that I left one cigarette burning in the ashtray and lit a new one. What was all this about? They separated, but why? What happened to Vassilis’s father, and what one letter was he talking about? There was nothing else in the box except the tarnished earrings, and who knew what they were doing there. And what were the rumors Vassilis was talking about?
Karim barely caught a glimpse of my shadow as I snatched the keys and ran out into the street. The sun had just begun to set. The May heat had retreated, but the buildings and the sidewalk still radiated warmth. I couldn’t stay in the house anymore. Its thick walls were pressing in on me. I needed to know my past, and there was no one to help me. My mother had never spoken to me about her family in Greece. She had written them off, probably too full of bitterness. Nor did she ever tell me whether she had loved my father. Even thinking about him made me want to spit on the dirty sidewalk as I walked through the neighborhood. No. I shouldn’t call him Father. I couldn’t even think of him in that capacity. Better to use his name: Renos. That brute!
I wrenched my mind away from that filth. There was no room for it inside me just then. I had other things to think about—most of all, how to go about finding people who could help me. I needed to find my roots and learn the family secrets that had remained hidden for years.
What was wrong with me? Why were all these irrelevant things pestering my mind? Since I’d recovered from madness in my youth, I wasn’t in danger of it now. I looked around at the hunched people hurrying home from a tiring day at work. Thanks to my grandfather, I was no longer anxious about day-to-day survival, yet I had to do something—the dusty old evidence I’d found wasn’t going to get me anywhere on its own. I smiled at my reflection in a shop window, and I headed home. The whole way, I gave myself a severe talking-to that helped me calm down. As soon as I arrived at the house and saw the uneasy expression in Karim’s eyes, I felt guilty.
“Don’t worry, Karim!” I said to him sweetly. “I’m fine. I’ll go and have a bath, and you get the table ready for us to play a card game.”
It was our latest craze. Every evening, we laid the green baize on the table and sat up till midnight among the jacks and the knights, playing gin rummy.
As the bathwater ran over me, I talked to myself.
“What on earth’s the matter with me? How silly I am! Getting miserable because I read some letters. OK, it’s good to find out about my family, but there’s no deadly secret lurking. How ridiculous I am! I was left a house, and because it’s old, I turn into Agatha Christie. Instead, I should be thanking God for taking pity on me before I grew old sitting on some park bench.”
That night, Karim lost every hand.
All my life I’ve had a weakness for sweets. You might manage to take my entrée, but my dessert? No way! Besides being a good cook, Karim was wonderful at making desserts from his home country, and there was never a shortage of delicious things in our house. That evening with the coffee, he presented me with a feast of saffron ice cream with lemon zest. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the heavenly taste with the same delight I had felt in bed with an experienced lover. The interruption of the doorbell grated on my nerves. Karim and I looked at each other in surprise. We never had visitors.
“Angry lady again, madam?” Karim exclaimed.
“I hope not!”
Determined to throw her out if it was, I pressed the buzzer to open the front door and positioned myself at the
top of the stairs, ready for battle. But a very different woman entered and proceeded toward me. She stopped in front of me, out of breath.
“I’ll either have to stop smoking or stop climbing stairs!” she announced.
Her eyes were the color of green olives. She must have been nearly sixty, and wore striking, modern glasses. Her dress was unusual, her makeup careful and distinctive. She wore a long, full dress the color of sand with flat canvas shoes. Around her neck was an impressive necklace that completed the effect. She looked me over with the same care as I had her, but her expression was friendly.
“So, you’re Smaragda’s daughter,” she said, smiling.
I only just managed to nod because immediately came the shock of her embrace. The strange woman opened her arms, hugged me tightly to her, and kissed me on both cheeks.
“Welcome, my girl!” she added to complete my astonishment.
“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say. “I don’t know you.”
“You’re right! My husband tells me I’m like a typhoon: I overwhelm people. I’m Melpo Leontiadis. Your mother’s cousin!”
I stared at her, stunned. For one thing, her name didn’t mean anything to me; for another, my aunt’s nasty visit was still fresh in my mind. At least I managed to behave like a good host and led her into the sitting room. The woman looked around in awe.
“Good Lord! The house is just the same. You haven’t changed anything. Your mother and I used to run and play in here while our mothers were drinking their tea on this very couch. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a time capsule!”
