The Gold Letter

by Lena Manta

  That night, Smaragda tore another page from her calendar—December 23—and then, as she did every night before she went to bed, she checked that all windows and doors were secure and closed the door to her room. She stood by the window and turned her face to the dark sky from which rain fell, filling the streets of the city with mud again. Her thoughts flew to her husband. There were rumors, although people didn’t dare to hope, that the exile of their loved ones was about to end. World opinion had turned against the Turks, particularly in America, about that treacherous blow inflicted on minorities, using an outrageous law.

  She had just put on her nightgown when she heard a knock at the front door. It was so loud her hair stood on end from fear. The household was immediately awakened, and her father-in-law appeared in the corridor in his pajamas. The children jumped out of bed too.

  “Nestor, take your sister and lock yourself in my room,” ordered Smaragda, her voice fierce, and the two children rushed to obey.

  Already their grandfather was holding an old sword in his hands.

  “You hide too, daughter!” he ordered her.

  But Smaragda shook her head. She needed to protect her children; she would not hide like a frightened little woman. She picked up a heavy vase and charged down the stairs.

  “Who is it?” she demanded from behind the door on which someone was now pounding even louder.

  “Smaragda!”

  The vase fell from her hands and smashed to smithereens as she recognized the voice of her husband.

  She flung open the door, and without looking, blinded by tears, she fell into his arms, moaning. She kissed him like a crazy woman and tasted the tears that fell from his eyes too. A few minutes passed before he pushed her away.

  “My Smaragda,” he said hoarsely, “don’t! I’m dirty, covered in fleas.”

  Her hands seized him again, she felt him all over to see that he was all right, and she would not have stopped if a sob behind her had not brought her back to herself. Her father-in-law, until now a silent witness of the scene, could not hold back any longer. Father and son embraced.

  “My boy!” the man whispered as he kissed him. “I didn’t believe I’d see you again.”

  His mother’s frightened voice could be heard at the top of the stairs: “Smaragda? Are you all right? Who is it?”

  Fotis stepped into the house. When his mother saw him, her jaw dropped, her eyes fluttered, and her arms opened wide as she ran to her child.

  “My sweet! My treasure!” she kept saying, as she kissed him and hugged him frantically.

  “Enough hugs!” said Fotis after a time. “The whole household will catch my fleas!”

  “Now wait a minute—there are two more members of the family who need to see you!” Smaragda declared and ran to fetch the children.

  She found her son standing with the fire tongs in his hands, ready to protect his sister, whom he’d hidden in a wardrobe. She looked at him with admiration and pride.

  “Come, son!” she said. “There’s no reason for us to be afraid anymore. The head of the household has come back!”

  Nobody slept that night. They lit the boilers and heated water for Fotis to take a bath, while his mother emptied the kitchen of whatever food there was; she would have fed him with a spoon if he’d let her. With special joy, Smaragda heard that her sister would be welcoming Iakovos home too. They had come back together, one giving the other courage so that their already tortured bodies could endure the long and demanding journey home.

  It was dawn when the couple withdrew to their room to rest, where Smaragda could explore his face and body. He was very thin, his bones nearly poking through his skin. His hair was grayer than his father’s, and his hands were covered in wounds, as were his feet.

  “I’m fine,” he told her calmly. “Everything’s over now.”

  Without saying a word, Smaragda pulled him into bed and took him in her arms as she would a baby. She stroked his hair and hummed softly until he fell asleep.

  The war finally ended a few months later. Everyone, victors and vanquished, had to lick their wounds and get back on their feet. The world had been turned upside down yet again. The dead were countless; the earth had filled with lakes of blood. It would take time to recover.

  At seventeen, Chrysafenia Ververis was a beauty, having inherited her mother’s fine features, her lovely figure, and her thick hair that shone gold in the sun. Her large eyes, with their black lashes that shaded two marbles of liquid gold, enchanted everyone she looked at. Her father called her his “golden girl.”

  Beside her, her brother was the image of his father: tall, dark, well built, with a calm face and a polite smile. His friendship with Vassilis Kouyoumdzis had become an unshakable bond, something that had embarrassed Fotis on his return from Anatolia. But Smaragda had warned him, and Fotis agreed they shouldn’t hold the sins of the parents against the child, so the boy had become almost a member of the family. He came over at any opportunity, and the two boys spent hours together. When they were a little older, they went for their first walks together. Sometimes, if she begged, they even took Chrysafenia with them. Smaragda wondered what was happening at the other house. Simeon had returned a little after Fotis and would certainly have found out about their sons’ friendship. Even more, though, she wanted to know what Roza said about them. Kleoniki Kantardzis, Smaragda’s mother, used to often repeat a phrase when her daughter was young, one that she couldn’t understand: “From one bad thing, thousands follow.” As she grew up, she’d forgotten about it, but now it rang in her ears.

  Completely unexpectedly, her father-in-law died in his sleep. He came home one day for lunch, they ate, and he lay down to rest. When he hadn’t awoken by his usual time, his wife went to check on him, and found her beloved with a smile on his lips, already far away. Everyone was at home. Smaragda and Fotis were drinking their coffee in the sitting room, and her cry made them jump up. They found her kneeling beside the bed, holding her husband’s hand and weeping. The children came running in, Nestor and Vassilis, who was visiting, as well as Chrysafenia, who began to cry pitifully.

  She had been close with her grandfather since she was a baby. She stopped crying when he held her, she learned to take her first steps with him, and she ran to his arms for comfort. Later, when she went to school, her grandfather was the one who patiently helped her, and thanks to him, homework was transformed into happy games. It had never crossed her mind that one day he would leave her, and now she saw him motionless, without a spirit, unable to hug her.

  The young girl threw herself on his body and begged him to wake up. Frozen in shock, none of them knew how to deal with the sudden loss. Smaragda knelt beside her mother-in-law and lamented the death of a man who had treated her perhaps better than her own father. Fotis tried to revive him, but quickly realized medical attention was no longer needed. He sat on the bed, crossing his hands, those hands that had helped so many people but which were now incapable of helping his own father. Nestor sat beside him. Now Chrysafenia was wailing as she begged her grandfather not to leave her, and she reminded him of all the things they had done together. Suddenly, everyone realized that the young girl was in crisis.

  Vassilis, who’d been standing frozen in the doorway, decided to act. He approached Nestor and touched his shoulder. They exchanged a glance and understood each other. The two managed to lead Chrysafenia from the room and splash a little cold water on her face. Nestor gave her a sip of brandy. They took her to her room; she seemed a little calmer now. Her brother, though, was still concerned about his father and the two women.

  Vassilis read his friend’s mind. “Go! Go and be with your family. I’ll stay with her.”

  Nestor didn’t wait to be told twice. Vassilis sat there holding the trembling girl in his arms. He thought he must be dreaming. He had never told anyone about his feelings for this precious burden in his arms. It was as if he had loved her forever, from the first moment he’d set foot in that house. He buried his face in her hair, whi
ch had come loose from its ribbon and fallen over her shoulders and around her face. He raised one hand and pushed her hair aside. With the other, he held her very tightly and felt a great happiness. He was ashamed of the desire burning inside him. A man had died, and his mind was on . . . He dared to plant a kiss on the top of her head. The girl stirred in his arms and looked at him with clouded eyes—the brandy she had drunk, not having had any experience of alcohol, had made her dizzy. The liquid gold of those eyes enveloped him, covered him, turned him into a golden statue. His heart ached with love, and now she was in his arms.

  “Vassilis?” she whispered hoarsely, looking for an explanation.

  He couldn’t speak. He was incapable of articulating a single word. He lowered his head and came closer to the golden eyes that remained fixed on his. He continued his progress until his lips finally touched hers. He covered them with his and began, delightedly, to drink in those rosy folds that had haunted his dreams. He felt her heart beating wildly. Her hand rose, and her fingers hid themselves in his hair.

  Chrysafenia had known for some time how much she loved Vassilis. She didn’t dare to hope, or even allow herself to dream. He was her brother’s friend, and besides that, she knew there was something between her parents and his. If they found out she loved the son of these people they disliked so much, the trouble she would be in was unimaginable. So there was no way. The young girl had pushed this love further and further away, and buried in the darkness, it became stronger, and returned to claim her. In her dreams, free of every restraint, she traveled with him, she heard him confess his love, she felt him kissing her as he was now. The effects of the brandy became stronger; she was dizzy—she felt as if she were flying across the water on a gentle sailboat. With the security that this must be another dream, she decided to enjoy it. How could it be anything but a dream? Vassilis had never revealed that he felt anything special for her. And now he was holding her in his arms, his lips more demanding with every second that passed, threatening to devour her completely. She felt his breath burning as he kissed her neck, then returned to their target once more.

  Suddenly, what she had put aside in the past few moments returned to her mind, and she pulled away, scarlet. In the next room, they were mourning her grandfather, and she . . . She burst into sobs.

  “Don’t! Don’t!” he begged. “Don’t cry—I’m sorry. But I’ve wanted to tell you I love you for so long.”

  The sobs stopped abruptly. She raised her eyes and looked at him.

  “What did you say?”

  “I love you, Chrysafenia, my dear. For years, from when we were all little and you ran behind us begging to play too. And as you grew up, I nearly lost my mind. I had to bite my lip every time I came to your house and had to behave politely, while really I was dying to do what I just did. Forgive me if I’ve offended you. I swear to you, if you don’t love me, I’ll never bother you again.”

  She raised her hand and covered his mouth. He looked in her eyes and saw all his dreams becoming reality before he took her again in his arms.

  From the moment the tragic news of Dr. Ververis’s death spread, the house was filled with people who had come to commiserate, and the family accepted the condolences of many who had been cured by his hands. His wife was a complete wreck; she had stood beside him for more than fifty years, and now she felt that her whole world had died with him. The constant presence of the Kouyoumdzis boy made no impression on anyone because they knew about his friendship with Nestor. Only Chrysafenia felt split in two; her heart danced in a happy cloud, while her soul ached from the absence of the man she worshipped.

  After the funeral service and the burial, when they returned to the house for the customary coffee, Vassilis saw an opportunity to give Chrysafenia a letter. She hid it under her pillow to read when she was alone. She felt a little disturbed by this game, but understood that there was no other way.

  The only person with enough distance and insight to notice was Smaragda’s mother. Kleoniki didn’t say a word, knowing it was not a suitable moment, but not one of the couple’s illicit glances escaped her. She was very upset. Scenes from the past came into her mind, and she crossed herself as she thought of the way history seemed to want to repeat itself. Her daughter had told her what had happened when they ran into Simeon and Roza all those years ago. And now she saw his son with her granddaughter, walking the same path, now even more dangerous.

  She waited a few days before visiting her daughter to warn her. Smaragda wasn’t leaving the house because her mother-in-law wasn’t at all well. She was fading by the day, buried in her grief, and she hardly ate. With a thousand pleas, her daughter-in-law managed to make her drink a few spoonfuls of soup or milk, while Fotis gave her mild sedatives to help her rest and recover her spirits, but her condition continued to deteriorate. The elder Chrysafenia didn’t want to live, and day by day, she slipped away, hurrying to join her husband.

  Mother and daughter sat down in the living room to talk. Smaragda was overwhelmed, as much by her grief as by the struggle of trying to keep someone she loved alive.

  “Daughter, I didn’t come here today just for a visit,” her mother began awkwardly. “I need to speak to you, and I don’t think the subject can wait.”

  “What’s happened, Mother?” she asked anxiously, “Is Father . . . ?”

  “Your father is fine, sweetheart, but it seems that something is happening here right under your nose.”

  “In my house?”

  “In your house. The other day at the funeral, I saw things that will light sparks if you don’t manage to stop them, my dear.”

  “Will you tell me?” Smaragda said impatiently.

  “Kouyoumdzis’s son, daughter, has his eye on our girl!”

  Smaragda stayed still for a moment as she took this in. Then she blushed and sat up straighter. “What are you saying? Vassilis is Nestor’s friend!”

  “Did I say he wasn’t? But the looks he was giving your little girl weren’t just friendly. Anyway, dear, I wanted to warn you about this even before I saw them. It’s not right, sweetheart, to let him in your house. For years, while the children were small, I didn’t speak up, but now—he’s a man, and our girl’s a woman. And what a woman! As they say, the fruit ripens. And he’s not blind!”

  “Mama, you’re making me dizzy! I have so much on my mind—”

  “I know, daughter, but shouldn’t I tell you? They don’t keep gunpowder near a fire, right? Anyway, they’re young, just the right age. Would it take much for something bad to happen?”

  “If it’s true, what you say,” Smaragda began, a bitter smile rising to her lips, “what a cruel trick of fate this is! Like mother, like daughter? Like father, like son?”

  “Eh, it seems the blood of one attracts the other. What can I say?”

  Smaragda didn’t sleep a wink that night, and she didn’t say a word to her husband. First, because she had to confirm everything herself, and second, because she was afraid of Fotis’s reaction. She didn’t know what she’d do if it turned out to be reality and not just a grandmother’s fears. She decided to keep her eyes and ears open before she intervened, but again, events overtook her.

  Twenty days had passed since her father-in-law died, and Smaragda had reached her limit. Her mother-in-law was in such a state now that she could hardly raise herself from her pillow. Sometimes she ran a high fever, and in her delirium, she’d howl for her husband. Smaragda couldn’t even look after herself, let alone work out whether there was a love affair going on.

  Chrysafenia opened her door and listened carefully. Complete quiet reigned in the house. She made her way cautiously along the corridor. The way her heart was beating, she felt like it should have woken everyone. She tiptoed downstairs and opened the door for him. Her father was the first to go to sleep, and her exhausted mother was sleeping beside her grandmother, ready to comfort her when she woke in the night. Her brother was also sleeping heavily.

  Vassilis slipped hurriedly through the open door and
embraced her. He had been waiting for two hours until everyone in his beloved’s household was sleeping. He’d escaped too, without considering the consequences should his absence at midnight be discovered. He had to see her alone, had to kiss her again before he lost his mind completely. Soon, his family would surely figure out what was the matter with him. More and more absentminded, he’d started to make mistakes in his work. He had finished school, and as was expected, he worked beside his father so that he could continue the family business. Despite the fact that he loved his trade and the hours he spent working the gold, recently, it had been impossible for him to focus. The melted metal reminded him of her eyes, the shine of it like the shine of her hair, and every precious stone recalled the clarity of her skin. His father was getting frustrated with him, and Vassilis was afraid that, soon, he would demand an explanation.

  They sat side by side on the steps of the entrance hall so that, if they heard a sound, he would be able to flee. His arms were wrapped around her while his lips sought hers, and time stopped for them both. Chrysafenia felt as though her body had become ethereal, as if her spirit was flying in a sky lit with love. She couldn’t get enough of kissing him; she didn’t want to lose a moment of that tremor that moved her whole being.

  “I love you,” he told her yet again in a small pause between their kisses.

  “I love you too, Vassilis, but I’m very afraid. If they find out, we’re finished. And what we’re doing tonight—I’m ashamed. It’s not right for me to meet you secretly. Here we are kissing, and my parents are sleeping upstairs, unaware.”

  “I know, my precious! I don’t like it either, especially deceiving my friend, but tell me what to do and I’ll do it. You know I’m going to marry you, my love. I’ll speak to my father, and I’ll come to ask for your hand, but how can I right now, when your house is in mourning?”