by Lena Manta
“What have you done, Anargyros? You’ll kill my daughter!” shouted Kleoniki, rubbing her daughter’s wrists while Mrs. Marigo got water and sprinkled it on the girl’s face.
The man stood numb now, watching the efforts of the two women to bring his deathly pale daughter around. With a great effort, she opened her eyes.
“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Marigo.
“Come, sweetheart,” her mother said, and nearly lay down beside her to hold her in her arms. “Don’t upset yourself. In time, everything will get better.”
Smaragda hid herself in her mother’s embrace, curled like an embryo, and began to cry softly, but so miserably that even Anargyros softened. Mrs. Marigo stood up with difficulty and took him by the hand.
“Come, Anargyros, my son. Let’s go, and I’ll make you a coffee so you can recover from the shock. Leave those two—at times like this, a mother’s embrace is the best medicine.”
A few minutes later, sitting in the kitchen with his coffee, Anargyros lit a cigarette while Mrs. Marigo swept up Kleoniki’s broken cup.
“The blood rushed to my head!” he admitted.
“I understand, my bey, but that’s the way these things happen. Your daughter didn’t do something bad. She fell in love. Is there anything more beautiful than love? And the young man said he’d marry her.”
“Then why is he marrying someone else?”
“Because he’s a respectful son and didn’t go against his parents, that’s why. Should we blame him? He loved your daughter, he wanted her for his wife, but Kouyoumdzis wouldn’t allow it. And to tell you the truth, I don’t say he was wrong. Wouldn’t you, in your place, have done the same if you had a son and a fortune like that? He’s marrying the daughter of Karakontaxis, not just anyone. Drink your coffee now, my pasha, and I’ll go home. And when your daughter recovers, sit down and talk to her, and I’m sure she’ll tell you that nothing bad happened—nothing to make you ashamed of your lovely Smaragda.”
She stroked his shoulder like a mother and left. Anargyros smoked cigarette after cigarette until he disappeared in the smoke that filled the room.
During the week that followed, he was unable to speak to his daughter. Smaragda ran such a high fever that they called the doctor, and Kleoniki never left her side, dampening her face with a towel dipped in water and vinegar. On the day the fever broke, her mother ran to light a candle, to thank the Virgin for saving her child.
Smaragda began very slowly to get up, to sit in an armchair in her room, and she seemed calmer. In the wanderings of her mind, hazy with fever, she had found a way to accept what had happened. As soon as she felt strong enough, she wrapped Simeon’s letters in a silk handkerchief, put them in a box, and hid the box in her wardrobe. As her fever came down, she had heard her mother speaking to her, trying to explain what had happened. Simeon had been brought up with principles like her own. He would never go against the wishes of his father, however much he loved her. With understanding and patience, Kleoniki helped her to understand and even forgive her father for his attack.
Dorothea’s visit almost made things worse. She arrived full of happiness, ignorant of everything that had happened, to tell her mother that she and her husband had been invited to the marriage of Simeon Kouyoumdzis. As soon as she heard, Kleoniki cast a frightened glance toward Smaragda’s room, grabbed her oldest daughter, and pushed her into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.
“What are you pushing me around like that, Mother?” the girl complained, straightening her hat.
“Hush, girl—you’ll make a mess of things! Coming here like that and boasting about the invitation.”
“Why? What harm did I do? Don’t you know this is the wedding of the century? And they’ve invited my father-in-law and us. I’ll go to the dressmaker tomorrow so she can start sewing my dress.”
“Can she sew your mouth shut instead?” Kleoniki scolded. “We don’t say those names here.”
Dorothea’s mother grabbed her by the hand and sat her down. In a barely audible voice, she explained to her firstborn daughter what had happened. When she finished, Dorothea’s mouth was hanging open.
“Are you serious? Kouyoumdzis with our Smaragda? And you didn’t tell me?” she complained.
“Pull yourself together, girl. We’ve been scared stiff, trying to bring your sister around. And we still are, but at least the fever’s gone down.”
“I’ll go and see her, Mother.”
“You stay where you are. She doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t want to see anyone. She won’t even see Evanthia!”
“Eh, I understand that. Evanthia might feel bad now; after all, she betrayed her. And I don’t blame my sister.”
“That’s not fair. Mrs. Marigo put her through a real inquisition. Do you have any idea what Mrs. Marigo is like?”
Mother and daughter smiled at the idea, but soon became serious again.
“And Father?” Dorothea asked.
“What can I tell you? He was very upset by all this.”
“I can’t believe he raised his hand to the little one! He never hit us.”
“Eh, that’s why things are as they are. And let me tell you, I was very angry with him when I saw the girl falling like a log at my feet. And afterward, so many days with a fever. My baby was destroyed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to come, dear Mama?”
“What should I have said? You have your own home now. Anyway, don’t think I don’t know that you’re still angry with us about the wedding. You didn’t want Iakovos, but your father—”
“Let’s not get into that now. Just as well he found me a good husband. I don’t have any complaints.”
“Is that the truth?” Kleoniki asked, encouraged, and squeezed her daughter’s hand.
“It is, Mother.”
“Blessed be the Virgin’s name!” the woman said, crossing herself.
“Yes, but now I must see my sister,” Dorothea insisted. “She may not speak to you, but I know she’ll speak to me.”
Kleoniki never found out what was said between the two sisters. Dorothea spent a long time in the room that used to belong to all three girls. She may have been the more distant of the elder two, but Smaragda respected and loved her oldest sister. After Dorothea left, Smaragda even came out of her room and sat at the table with her mother, who hurried to make coffee and give her a sweet treat. Silently, Kleoniki sent blessings to her oldest child for having achieved such a miracle.
When Anargyros returned in the evening and found his youngest daughter reading a book beside the stove, he was embarrassed. It was the first time they had seen each other since the episode, and he didn’t know what to do or say. Kleoniki appeared with his slippers in hand, smiling, but her eyes told him to be careful.
They sat down to eat, but each bite went down with difficulty until Smaragda broke the silence. She had thought it over for so many days. She’d accepted what had happened, and she wanted to make things right.
“Can I speak to you, Father?” she asked as soon as Anargyros lit a cigarette and Kleoniki brought him his coffee.
“It depends what you want to say,” he answered curtly, more because he was nervous about what his daughter might reveal than because he was angry.
“Smaragda, sweetheart, why don’t we leave such conversations for the daytime?” Kleoniki said.
“Don’t worry, Mother. It’s just, we can’t go on like this.” She turned to her father and continued: “I want you to know that I didn’t do anything bad, nothing vulgar, nothing to dirty our name. We only met once, and Evanthia was with us. He sent me three letters, and I sent him two.”
“Does he have your letters?” Anargyros asked in alarm.
“Now that he’s getting married? I very much doubt it. I imagine he tore them up. I won’t deceive you: I love him still, and I know he loves me, but he can’t do anything about it. It’s over, Father. As if it never happened.”
“And you aren’t angry with him?” Kleoniki asked.
“No.” She looked at her mother, and something like a faint smile rose to her lips. “What are you afraid of? That I’ll go to the church and throw acid in his face?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Kleoniki admitted.
“Why would I do him such harm? I told you, I love him. I think I’ll love him forever.”
Smaragda finished what she had to say and then disappeared into her room to cry in peace. The wound had reopened, and it was bleeding . . .
When 1927 arrived, Anargyros seemed to be deep in thought. Kleoniki watched him come and go, but she couldn’t get a word out of him. They had spent a lovely New Year’s Day visiting Dorothea’s house in Galata. Even Smaragda seemed to be finding her old self again, slowly but surely. She embroidered, she read, she helped her mother with the housework, and she even began to spend time with Evanthia once more, having first made it clear that they wouldn’t talk about the past.
At that New Year’s dinner table, Kleoniki received her first happy news in a long while: Dorothea was expecting a child.
After the holidays, Smaragda went to stay with her sister for a few weeks. Dorothea was suffering from dizziness and nausea and had to spend most of her time lying down. Smaragda read to her in a soothing voice, and the pregnant girl settled down and slept. During that period, Smaragda had the opportunity to get to know her brother-in-law, to admire his calm personality, and to see how much he loved her sister. Dorothea may have been more or less forced to marry, and certainly she wasn’t in love with her husband, but she respected him and admired his obvious affection. Their relationship was sweet, calm, even tender, and when Smaragda realized this, it made an enormous impression on her. She had always believed that, without passion, no marriage could be successful. Now she saw another side of it.
Back home, Kleoniki looked at her husband, who sighed as he played with his worry beads. She put aside the little quilt she was knitting for her first grandchild.
“Won’t you tell me,” she asked abruptly, “what’s making you sigh like a foghorn? I’ve tried to hold my tongue, but where’s this all leading? Has something happened at the shop?”
“No, woman—everything’s fine at the shop.”
“So, what’s going on? Thank God we’re all healthy, and we’re expecting a grandchild, so what’s worrying you?”
“There’s something I want to tell you, but I don’t know if I should.”
“Now you’ve really got me worried!”
“Hush, woman, for God’s sake. It’s not something bad.”
“Tell me then, and I’ll be the judge.”
“You know Ververis’s son, Fotis?”
“Our doctor’s son? Pah! Of course. What’s the matter with the lad?”
“Nothing’s the matter with him, but his father told me he wants our daughter as his bride.”
Kleoniki blinked at him blankly.
“Do you understand what I said?” he asked.
“Ha! So that’s why you’ve been looking at me like that for days.”
“I was flabbergasted too!”
“But just like that, out of the blue? Anargyros, I don’t suppose you said anything to the man? Look me in the eye—did you, by any chance, send a matchmaker?”
“No, I didn’t, woman. On my oath! Given what’s happened, I’d have to be a blithering idiot to do such a thing. The doctor himself came to my office and said his son saw our daughter and wanted her.”
“Our daughter is young, Anargyros. I imagine he knows that.”
“He knows that, but he says he loves her. And what am I to say, wife? Smaragda’s still only seventeen, but how can you turn away such good fortune? Fotis is the son of a doctor and a doctor himself. Money, name, and the young man is good, handsome, honorable, strong! Like a lion!”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“I asked for a little time to think it over. I blamed my hesitance on her youth, and told him we’d have to speak with her first. If she accepted him, I said, I would as well, with all my heart, but only if she herself consented.”
“Bravo, husband! You told him the truth.”
“But how are we going to tell Smaragda such a thing when she’s still crying over the other one? The doctor came today and asked me again. I made an excuse and told him she was at her sister’s.”
“Wait till she comes back, and with God’s grace, my pasha, I’ll work out how to tell her. These are things a mother knows better how to say. Don’t do it like with our oldest, when you shouted and told her who to marry.”
“Hey, don’t tell me Iakovos was a poor match. What a boy! He treats her like a sultana!”
“Yes, dear, I don’t disagree, but it’s one thing for the eldest, another for the youngest. Dorothea wasn’t in love with someone else. How strange that this Fotis suddenly turns up. Couldn’t he have waited a little bit longer for her to forget Simeon?”
The couple were silent, buried in their own thoughts. Deep down, Kleoniki felt a great satisfaction. She’d never spoken to anyone about it, not even to Mrs. Marigo, but her motherly pride had been wounded when Simeon took the rich girl instead of her daughter. Such a marriage, now, to a doctor, would come to the attention of that snob Kouyoumdzis. Her Smaragda would live like a real lady, she’d attend the salons, she’d have a name. Kleoniki waited till her husband was asleep and then knelt at the icon to beg the Virgin for courage, so she could speak to her daughter and convince her to accept.
When Smaragda returned from her sister’s house, Kleoniki told her as sweetly and carefully as she could, without making her own desire obvious, about the proposal. Smaragda had met Fotis a number of times at the gatherings of family friends and at church. She listened carefully to what her mother had to say and calmly asked her for a few days to think it over. Then she shut herself in her room. On the evening of the second day, she sat down with her parents at the table and announced to her father that he could accept the proposal. The wedding of Fotis Ververis and Smaragda Kantardzis took place a little before the Easter of 1927.
CHAPTER 5
Kypseli, 2016
Melpo closed the first of the albums we had been leafing through for so many hours. The last black-and-white photograph was of Smaragda and Fotis’s wedding. In it, my great-grandmother was standing beside a very tall and handsome man. She wore a bridal gown and carried a bouquet. Both looked into the lens, their lips smiling gently, but in the end, I couldn’t determine if she looked happy.
I turned to Melpo, who was greedily drinking a glass of water.
“So, she married the doctor after all,” I remarked calmly.
“Yes, and had two children by him. My father and your grandmother.”
“But what about the gold letter? How did Simeon’s son make it, and how did I end up with it?”
“Patience, sweetie. You can’t learn the history of an era in a single day!” complained the woman. “Take a look around you. We’ve even tired out the cat!”
She was right. Tiger had fallen asleep at our feet, bored and seeing no prospect of more treats. Melpo stood up stiffly.
“Wait? Are you leaving?”
“Do you expect me to sleep on this couch? Haven’t you realized how many hours we’ve been sitting here? My tongue’s gone furry from talking, and my husband will think I’ve been abducted.”
“No, he won’t! You called him.” I pouted.
“Yes, but that was two hours ago.”
She was right. She had arrived in the afternoon, and now the street was quite dark. Karim must have switched on the light without my noticing it, as I was too absorbed in Melpo’s story. Now, surely, my faithful friend must have withdrawn to his room to sleep. Melpo stood beside the window and lit another cigarette.
“One for the road,” she apologized.
“Can I ask you one more thing? How do you know all this with such detail?”
She smiled. “My girl, since I was a child, I’ve loved the old stories. The society of Constantinople was closed, and tales were han
ded down by word of mouth; it wasn’t hard to find out about my family.”
“But why did my great-grandmother agree to be married?”
“Pride, I guess. Simeon wounded her, but in the end, she managed to shame him for not resisting, not fighting harder—for not running away with her if necessary. Don’t forget that after denial, lament, and self-pity comes anger. It’s one of the stages of grief.”
I nodded. I knew something about that.
“And Simeon? What happened to him?”
“He and Roza lived well together, but Smaragda was always between them, especially for Roza, who finally found out who her husband’s beloved was and never forgave her.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s in the next part of our story.”
“And when will I find that out?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll come back.”
“Their children?”
“Simeon and Roza had three children: Vassilis, Penelope, and Aristos.”
“And Vassilis is . . .”
“I’m leaving, Fenia! If I stay any longer, we’ll talk until morning and my husband will have a nervous breakdown. He hates to be alone in the house, and I’ve left him for so many hours.”
“Why don’t you bring him with you tomorrow?”
“You and I should talk more first. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know your uncles and cousins.”
I hugged her on the doorstep, and it felt wonderful. I was holding something of my own in my arms. A person whose veins flowed with the same blood as mine.
As soon as I got into bed, I realized how tired I really was. So much information had piled up in my brain. My hand touched the locket. It may not have brought luck to its owners, but it was just right for my neck. I too had been unlucky in life. I thought of my mother. I was ten years old when she died. At first, I took comfort in the thought that she had become an angel and was watching over me, but later I rejected the idea. If she’d become an angel, she wouldn’t have left me like that: prey in his hands.
I closed my eyes, trying to drive away the bad thoughts. Tonight, I needed to sleep with only sweetness in my mind. I remembered her arms embracing me, her lips smiling, her voice singing. But uninvited and unwanted images came into my mind. My mother trying to smile at me, even with her lip split, her face covered in bruises. I remembered her hugging me even when her body ached after the beatings and the abuse. I raised my hands and covered my ears so as not to hear her cries when my father grabbed her, making some meaningless excuse. Every time, her only concern was to shut the two of them in their room so that I wouldn’t see, but however much she tried to shield me, I knew that it was not a bedroom, but a place of martyrdom. However she tried to disguise her cries as laughter so I wouldn’t understand, however much she tried to silently endure, he would grow wilder, and the blows would come harder and fiercer; there was no end to the torture.
