The Gold Letter

by Lena Manta

  Penelope gave an imperceptible nod to underline her words, and Simeon understood that he had just received a strict order that couldn’t be denied. To make certain, he looked at his father. His expression was icy but clear. With a heavy heart, he approached Roza, who was standing next to her mother, and asked her for a dance. They found themselves whirling to the music without speaking. He faltered in his step when she spoke to him first.

  “Are you always so quiet?”

  “What should I say? Do people talk while they dance?” he answered, then realized how silly he sounded.

  “In our case, I think that’s why we’re dancing under our parents’ supervision. So we can talk before they announce what’s ‘destined to be,’” the girl said flatly.

  “Destined?”

  “I mean our marriage. Didn’t your father tell you?”

  “He said something, but—”

  “Did you think you had a choice?”

  “That’s what I understood.”

  “I didn’t take you for such an innocent! The marriage has already been arranged, Mr. Kouyoumdzis. For form’s sake, he’s waiting for an answer from you and me,” the girl declared, now smiling broadly.

  Simeon looked at her, lost.

  “Are you sure?” he asked finally.

  Roza gestured with her chin.

  “If you look carefully, you’ll see the future in-laws boasting already. Listen, Simeon, let’s go a little farther away and make sure we understand each other. They won’t mind.”

  Stunned, Simeon followed, and Roza sat on a sofa, indicating with her fan that he should sit beside her.

  “Now we can talk in peace. This marriage came as a surprise to me too, to be honest. But I don’t love anyone else. Do you?”

  Simeon hung his head.

  “Ah! I understand. You love someone, but you can’t have her,” the girl said. “Then I’m the luckier one. They told me about you. I’m just relieved you’re not ugly.”

  “But is that how it is? They’ll force us to marry? What sort of world do we live in?”

  “What can I tell you? Money is all that matters to them. You’re like a child. Don’t you know how these things are done?”

  “I’m surprised that you’re talking to me like this!”

  “I’m trying to make you understand how useless it is to object. The Turks call it kismet, and we call it riziko—fate. We can’t avoid this marriage, but we can work together to make it bearable.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Roza, which is why I’m letting you know that I plan to fight this.”

  “Do as you wish, but remember what I said: We have no way out. So, either we marry and make each other miserable, or we decide to be happy. That’s what you get to choose—not your bride. You’ll see. All right now. Let’s go back to the dance floor; our parents are looking at us strangely.”

  Simeon followed obediently, but her words echoed in his brain, drowning out the music. He felt betrayed and angry. Unless Roza was wrong. He stole another glance at her. Respect grew in him, and if it hadn’t been for Smaragda, perhaps he might not have objected to this marriage. At least the woman they had chosen was clever, logical, and attractive, almost beautiful. But she wasn’t Smaragda.

  Ten times in the following days, he began writing his beloved a letter to explain, and as many times he tore up the letter and turned back to his desk in tears. Well hidden in a drawer of that desk was the design for the locket he dreamed of making, a gold envelope, small and hollow. On the front would be an engraved stamp and her initial. On the back, the envelope would open and a thin gold sheet would fall out. On it would be written what his smitten heart was calling out: I love you.

  He couldn’t, he had to admit, go against his father’s wishes. The memory of the conversation he’d had with Roza at the party made him ill. That evening, his father returned home earlier than usual and invited him into the sitting room. His mother was there too. Simeon knew that the hour of battle had come.

  “So, Simeon,” his father began pompously, “I think you owe us an answer.”

  The young man tried to clear his throat, but his voice came out hoarsely: “I have to admit that Miss Karakontaxis is very attractive—”

  “Bravo, my son! I knew you’d turn out to be sensible,” he exclaimed. “Tomorrow we’ll go and ask for her hand.”

  “Wait, Father—please listen to me!” Simeon pleaded, and the other man froze.

  “What more is there to listen to? You like her: it’s finished!”

  Simeon took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he said what he’d wanted to say for so many days: “I love another girl, and I promised I would marry her!”

  The air in the room froze. The couple opposite him remained motionless for a short time, seemingly without breathing. Then his father jumped up, so Simeon did as well. Only Penelope remained seated, her face white with shock.

  “Say it again,” his father ordered, his voice low and cold.

  “I told you, Father. I love another girl. I promised—”

  “And who gave you permission to do such a thing? Who told you you could promise to marry someone without my knowledge?”

  “I didn’t want to provoke you, Father, but I simply fell in love with this girl—”

  “And who is she?”

  “Her name is Smaragda Kantardzis. We’ve met as a family at Mr. Prousalis’s house. Iakovos married her sister.”

  Vassilis Kouyoumdzis remained silent for a while, searching his mind for information about the Kantardzis family, and when he succeeded, his eyes opened wide.

  “You impudent puppy! You want to take the daughter of that nobody?” he shouted.

  “But Father, Smaragda is a very good girl, and her parents are completely respectable.”

  “So why did her other sister run away with a Turk and convert to Islam? Or didn’t you know?”

  Simeon’s jaw dropped. “She did what?”

  “That’s right, you idiot who thinks he knows everything! Just because that father of hers bribed Prousalis to overlook it, you think I’d do the same? I won’t marry my son to such people!”

  “Father, I love Smaragda, and I don’t care what you say about her sister or her father.”

  Bright red in the face now, Vassilis Kouyoumdzis raised his fist, but Penelope leaped between them. She grabbed her son and pulled him back.

  “Don’t, my boy! Don’t go against your father! Ask forgiveness, my pasha. He’ll have a stroke because he’s so upset, and you’ll be responsible. Anyway, the girl we want for you—you saw her—she’s a sweetheart! Say yes, my boy! We want the best for you. Don’t break our hearts out of stubbornness.”

  “Stubbornness! Is that what you call it, Mother? I told you I love her, just as she loves me.”

  “Do you hear your son?” her husband shouted. “Fool, you can be sure her father and mother put her up to it. They’ve just got their eyes on our position and our money!”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “You dare speak to your father like that, you hoodlum?” Vassilis roared.

  This time, Penelope left her son and went to her husband. Summoning all her strength, she took him by the hand, not knowing where she found the courage, and forced him to sit down. Then she turned to her son, and for the first time, she spoke to him in an angry voice.

  “Simeon! What sort of behavior is this? What you just said to your father? Shame on you!”

  Simeon felt her words like a blow. His mother’s eyes had filled with tears. He hung his head and approached his father. He took his hand and kissed it respectfully.

  “Forgive me, Father.”

  Penelope squeezed her husband’s shoulder, and he nodded, accepting his son’s apology.

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” the woman exclaimed. “You’ve both come to your senses. And now let’s sit down and talk nicely like a family.”

  Simeon sat down as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer, and with the last shred of courage he possessed, he tried
once more.

  “I didn’t want to make you angry, Father. But I want you to understand me. I love this girl. And if you wish, I’ll fall at your feet so you’ll give me your blessing!”

  Without thinking, he found himself kneeling in front of his father, but Vassilis recoiled.

  “What’s this now? A full-grown man who talks like a little woman? Men don’t kneel!”

  “But if I don’t have Smaragda, I’ll be lost forever!”

  “Simeon, for your mother’s sake, we said we’d talk nicely. You aren’t cooperating.”

  Again, Penelope went to her son and guided him back to his seat.

  “Simeon, it’s for the best.”

  She took her place beside her husband once again and rested her hand on his shoulder. She had already exceeded her stamina, but she was amazed that her husband, who never paid attention to her, seemed today to respect her.

  Simeon took another deep breath before he spoke, keeping his voice low.

  “Father, please. Smaragda is a very good girl, beautiful and well behaved. She may not have Roza’s money, but she’s not entirely without a dowry. And I’m sure that you would find in her not only a daughter-in-law but a girl who would love you and help you.”

  “Before I answer you,” his father said, “I want you to tell me something else. How far has your acquaintance with this girl progressed?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simeon, don’t play the fool with me; I’m speaking to you as father to son now. I want a straight answer. Is it possible that your relationship with the girl has obliged you to marry her?”

  “No, Father! I told you—she’s an honorable girl. I swear I didn’t touch her.”

  “Bravo. I believe you.” Vassilis seemed satisfied. “So, Simeon, for better or for worse, I gave my word to Aristarhos Karakontaxis that you would marry his daughter. Now I’ll ask you another question, and I want you to answer honestly. Whose word carries more weight? Yours or mine? Whose promise must be kept for us to preserve our honor as a family?”

  Simeon bowed his head and lowered his eyes. His gaze was empty, as was his spirit. He’d been defeated, and he knew it. He couldn’t shame his father; they hadn’t raised him that way. And the blood of revolution didn’t run in his veins. He would have to bury his heart.

  CHAPTER 4

  KANTARDZIS FAMILY

  Constantinople, 1926

  Mrs. Marigo entered Kleoniki’s house with her head down. It wouldn’t be easy to say the words, but she had an ethical obligation to the woman who’d been like a daughter to her for so many years. Kleoniki’s parents lived far away, in Khrysokeramos, that fishing village she’d arrived from, dressed as a bride. Since then, she had only seen them two or three times. It required a long journey, and her mother had another nine children who had married and settled nearby and who now had children of their own.

  The two women sat in the kitchen. Smaragda, as usual, was in her room, with no desire to take part in all the things she used to love, including seeing her friend’s family. At the same time, Evanthia was terrified to see Smaragda after her betrayal and so, for some time, had pretended to be sick.

  “Tell me now, Mrs. Marigo,” Kleoniki asked anxiously. “Did you find anything out?”

  “Yes, my dear, I did! My naughty granddaughter put up quite a fight, but in the end, we got it out of her. The man in question is Greek.”

  “Praise the Virgin!” Kleoniki cried and crossed herself.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart. He may be Greek, but it’s not going to happen! I was pleased at first when I found out, because he’s a handsome, nice young man, with plenty of money.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “Yes, indeed. Lots of money. To tell you the truth, he’s not from our class.”

  “Who is he, then?”

  “The son of Kouyoumdzis.”

  “The goldsmith?”

  “Him.”

  “Bah! Mrs. Marigo, they’re like royalty.”

  “Exactly. Now do you understand? Would such a family accept Smaragda as a bride for their prince?”

  “But if the young man loves her?”

  “Hush, dear, let me finish. A few days ago, my husband came home and said there was a huge to-do in town about a match that had just been made. The wedding’s been arranged for the end of the year.”

  “So, what does that have to do with us? You’re making me dizzy!”

  “Kleoniki, you speak before you think. The match was between the son of Kouyoumdzis and the daughter of Aristarhos Karakontaxis!”

  Kleoniki froze. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “What are you telling me now? Only a sultan could marry a girl with the fortune of Karakontaxis. And the Kouyoumdzis boy took her? Ah, people like that would never look at us!”

  “Goodness, my dear, what you put me through before you understood!”

  “Wait a minute, there’s something else I don’t understand. Kouyoumdzis is engaged, so why is my daughter pining for a man she can’t have?”

  “Is it really so strange? She loves him.”

  “If that’s all it is, fine, but what if my child is—in trouble?”

  “Oh no, my dear. Evanthia didn’t tell us anything like that. Don’t get bad ideas in your head.”

  “If the harm’s been done, Anargyros will skin me alive, and he’ll be right to do it! What was I thinking? How did so much go on right under our noses?”

  “For God’s sake, stop, woman, and don’t make a catastrophe out of it! An innocent flirtation, my granddaughter told me.”

  “What am I to do now, Mrs. Marigo? Her father must not find out.”

  “Shouldn’t you talk to your daughter? She might not have heard about the engagement.”

  It must have been an evil hour. How else could Kleoniki explain what happened next? Her husband, who never came home before the evening, had returned early for once. And heard Mrs. Marigo’s words. He threw open the kitchen door, and the two women turned white. Kleoniki jumped up, and her coffee cup smashed to pieces on the floor.

  “Anargyros!”

  “What’s going on in here, woman? What’s Mrs. Marigo saying? Whose engagement?”

  “Sit down, husband,” Kleoniki said, resigned to her fate. “Sit down, my pasha, and I’ll tell you everything; I won’t hide anything from you.”

  “I’ll be leaving, Kleoniki,” said the visitor, standing up, but Anargyros prevented her from departing.

  “Sit back down, Mrs. Marigo. You were talking to my wife, weren’t you? Now you’ll talk to me.”

  “I’ll get you a cup of coffee first.”

  “I don’t want any!”

  Kleoniki didn’t dare even to pick up the broken cup. She sat down opposite Anargyros with her friend beside her, and they revealed what had happened. With each word, she saw her husband’s expression darken more and more, and as soon as she’d finished, Anargyros jumped up and charged into his daughter’s room.

  Ignorant of everything that was happening, and lost in the wanderings of her lovesick heart, Smaragda was reading and rereading the letters Simeon had sent her, letting the tears run down her face. She couldn’t understand what could have made her love forget her. On her last trip to the church, Evanthia had found nothing waiting under the icon.

  Anargyros nearly tore the door off its hinges. Smaragda froze in terror, the letters in her hands. As soon as her father saw his daughter, her eyes red from the tears that still ran down her cheeks, he stopped himself from striking her. But then his eyes fell on the letters, and he snatched them from her hands. His anger returned, sharper than ever. Anargyros had never hit his daughters, but at that moment, his mind went dark. His hand came down with all its force on Smaragda’s cheek. She thought her head would be severed from her body and she would see it rolling on the carpet. Kleoniki let out a cry and threw herself between them.

  “Anargyros!” she shouted. “What are you doing? You’ll kill her!”

  “If
she’s going to shame me like her sister did, I’d rather see her in the ground! I’ll say I buried another daughter.”

  “I didn’t shame you, Father,” Smaragda managed to whisper, while her mother tried to wipe the blood that was running from the girl’s nose with her handkerchief.

  Mrs. Marigo tried to calm him.

  “Anargyros, my boy, that isn’t the way,” she said to him softly. “I’m not family, but I have a duty to tell you that it’s not right to hit your daughter.”

  “Mrs. Marigo, you know how much I respect you,” answered Anargyros, “but this sort of treachery I cannot accept. Do you see these? He sent her letters, and in one he says he kissed her! And your granddaughter was the go-between! They met at your house!”

  “I know, my pasha, and she’ll be punished by my son-in-law, but that’s not a reason to cripple your daughter. It was a kiss, my bey, nothing more. And since it will remain between us, and no one will find out about it, it’s as if it didn’t happen.”

  “You tramp, how could you do that?” He turned to his daughter again. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “Father,” Smaragda, who was on the point of fainting, dared to say, “he told me he would marry me. He loves me, and he’ll come to ask for me.”

  “Dream on!” her father hollered. He was about to resume the beating, but Kleoniki stopped him with a furious look.

  She took her daughter in her arms, stroked her hair, and began speaking to her in a tender voice. “He won’t come, my darling . . . he won’t come, my treasure . . . don’t wait for him . . .”

  “Why? Has something happened to Simeon?” The panicked girl broke away from her mother’s embrace.

  “Your lover is getting married!” shouted Anargyros. “He’s filled your head with hot air, and now he’s marrying someone else!”

  The news hit Smaragda like a bullet. The color drained from her face, then she staggered and collapsed at her parents’ feet.

  “Holy Virgin! My child!” howled Kleoniki and fell to her knees.

  Mrs. Marigo pulled Anargyros out of the way, snatched the cologne from the girl’s dresser, and knelt beside Kleoniki.