by Lena Manta
“May I not go to heaven if I didn’t tell you the truth!” she hurried to reassure him. “If I hadn’t found the box with the necklace, it would never have entered my head. Have you forgotten that I was suffering beside your mother? My mind was on nothing else. But the girl told me she loves him.”
“And you? Did you remember your youth?”
“To tell you the truth, my pasha, I did. I said that fate is something you can’t cheat, but I forbade her to see him or speak to him again. I said that if he came to ask us for her, you would be the one to decide.”
“But you would want this match?”
Smaragda shrugged helplessly. “She is in love. And I would want this for her if I weren’t certain that it would never end in church. And now that woman came to assure me I’m right,” she finished hopelessly. “I’m afraid for our daughter. She is sensitive, and she’ll be wounded.”
“As you were wounded?”
“Why must you bring that up now? It’s an old story. Anyway, I married you, and you’ve given me so much happiness. That love was forgotten. Nothing even happened between us.”
“What are you saying to me now?” her husband asked, sitting up uneasily. “That things went too far with our daughter? Did he lay a hand on her?”
“Oh no, Fotis! I didn’t say they had reached—the inevitable. But such a long time under our noses, hugging and kissing—does it take much for a girl? Her heart is in his hands.”
“Good Lord, what an awful thing has happened to us,” murmured her husband, lighting another cigarette.
“And I’m afraid of that monster who just left. She’ll make fools of us! From now on, she’ll be gossiping all over town, saying we’ve had our eye on their fortune, that we encouraged our daughter to catch their son.”
“That’s all we need! It was an evil hour when we let that boy set foot in our house.”
“It’s not the boy’s fault; don’t blame him. It’s more my fault. My mother even told me: ‘Don’t put the gunpowder beside the fire.’ I didn’t catch it in time. We had all that upset with sickness and death, and the two of them found an opportunity.”
“Then we shouldn’t have allowed our son to bring his friend here.”
“What happened, happened.”
“Anyway,” Fotis added grimly, “given what we’ve seen of Roza, even if Vassilis were to beg me for Chrysafenia on his knees, I wouldn’t give her to him. Life with a mother-in-law like that would be hell.”
“Do you think he’ll rebel and come to us like a bridegroom?”
“What are you saying, woman? He’s not even twenty. Do you think he’d dare show his face here, against his father and mother’s wishes?”
Smaragda shook her head sadly. So, it was her story all over again.
Chrysafenia read the letter three times. She’d been astonished when she saw Vassilis outside her school. Her heart beat wildly. Days had passed, and now he was right in front of her. She blushed, and when he dropped a piece of paper at her feet as he walked past, giving her a conventional greeting, she pretended her handkerchief had fallen and grabbed it delightedly. She noticed that he seemed a little upset. She didn’t have the patience to reach the safety of her room but walked with one of her fellow students to the entrance of her house before waving good-bye. There, on the marble steps where she had visited with him, she sat down and, with trembling hands, unfolded the sheet of paper. She read it, and as soon as she finished, she read it again. With every word, an invisible knife sliced into her body, cutting her open inch by inch until there wasn’t a drop of blood left in her. It all drained onto the white marble.
A little later, the servant girl stepped out to run an errand. She roused the household with her cries, thinking Chrysafenia was dead. Fotis came down the stairs two at a time, while Smaragda rushed after him. Shocked, the two parents carried their daughter to her bed, and the doctor took the place of a father. He brought his bag and examined her. Immediately afterward, Smaragda was horrified to see him give the girl an injection.
“Don’t worry, it’s just to settle her heart. She’ll recover.”
“But what happened?” his wife asked. “For a girl to faint away just like that!” Then she brought her hand to her mouth. “Fotis”—she turned to her husband—“I don’t suppose—”
“No. There’s no possibility of a pregnancy,” he reassured her. “Something else happened.”
At that moment, the servant appeared weeping.
“What happened to the young lady?” she asked.
“Nothing, just a little dizzy spell,” Smaragda explained. “What are you holding?”
“Her bag. And this too.”
She gave the sheet of paper to the parents and left with her head down. Smaragda looked at it and turned to her husband, disturbed.
“Look! A letter from Vassilis. Listen to what he writes:
‘My dearest, know that I’ll love you as long as I live, but we can’t go on. The dreams will remain dreams, because there’s no path for our love to walk in this life. I told them everything, and the result is that my father is in bed with a troubled heart. My mother is furious, and what is killing me even more is that we’re paying for old sins. I will love you forever. Vassilis.’”
Smaragda raised her head and looked sadly at her husband.
“Didn’t you expect it?” he asked her.
“I did. And I can’t help thinking: The boy is better than his father, even if he’s younger. At least he’s written her a few lines, like a man, so she doesn’t keep waiting for nothing.”
Chrysafenia began to stir, and they turned their attention to the girl. Smaragda hid the letter in her pocket. Fotis sat beside his daughter, who looked at him with a dull gaze.
“Just look at the young lady coming back to us!” he said tenderly.
Smaragda sat on the other side of the bed and held her daughter’s hand.
“Sweetheart, are you all right now?” she asked in agony.
The girl looked first at her father and then at her mother. Despite the dulling of her mind, she remembered his words clearly; they had wounded her, taken her breath away, together with her soul. In her parents’ eyes, she saw that they knew, and she lowered hers. Tears began to flow and quickly lost themselves in her golden curls. She wiped them angrily and sat up with difficulty.
Fotis stood up. The scene felt like a trial to him, and he didn’t like it.
“I’m going into the living room. Smaragda, stay with the child. I’ll ask Anous to fix me a hot drink.”
Mother and daughter were left by themselves. Chrysafenia didn’t raise her eyes from her crossed hands until Smaragda very tenderly lifted her face, obliging her daughter to look at her.
“Are you and Father very angry?” the girl wanted to know.
“Do we look as though we’re angry? But I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that we’re very upset.”
“You knew it would end like this?”
“I prayed to the Virgin that it wouldn’t.”
“And Father? Was it you who told him?”
“Sweetheart, why don’t we leave this conversation for later? You haven’t recovered yet.”
“I want to know!”
“No. I didn’t tell him—I didn’t have time. He came home early and found Vassilis’s mother here.”
“Mrs. Roza? Why did she come?”
“Because Vassilis told them everything, and the household was turned upside down. Didn’t he tell you? We read his message.”
“What did his mother want?”
“To tell me to make you leave her son alone because, as long as she lives, there will never be a wedding. That’s why! That’s why that shrew came first thing in the morning to insult me!” Smaragda burst out, but then she bit her lip seeing the tears in her daughter’s eyes. “Ah, my treasure!” she cried and hugged her. “I don’t want you to cry. You’re still young. Life is waiting for you. Don’t think it will stop with Vassilis.”
Despite her words, she let her daug
hter sob with grief, stroking her hair and kissing her softly as her own eyes continued to fill with tears. She mourned for her daughter, but it was her own memories that came to life, memories of feeling ready to die because of Simeon. She felt powerless to take away her daughter’s pain; she knew that whatever she said, the girl wouldn’t be persuaded. Experience was something no parent could bequeath to their child. She was a powerless observer, suffering and watching her beloved child learn through pain.
Chrysafenia drew back from her mother’s embrace and wiped her eyes.
“I’m ashamed in front of Papa,” she said sadly.
“Your father and I both understand. Not that we like it, but because you kept your self-control and listened to me, no harm was done. It’s just that it makes us feel very sad to see you like this.”
“Mama, I’m hurting”—her voice was filled with more pain—“here.” She pointed to her heart.
“I feel for you, sweetheart,” whispered Smaragda and squeezed her hand. “I’ve known pain and grief too.”
The girl looked at her attentively.
“Mama, when I asked you, back when you found the gold locket, if you ever loved—”
“Yes, my girl. I was in love, and perhaps it’s time for you to learn the whole truth. If I had told you sooner, perhaps we would have been saved your tears now.”
“What happened with Papa?”
Smaragda smiled at the girl. For no child does a parent have a previous existence. To Chrysafenia, her mother was her mother, never a girl like her.
“Nothing happened with your father. But before him, I was like you. Full of dreams. And I loved—”
“Someone other than Papa?” the girl asked in surprise.
“Yes. And I loved that someone with my whole heart, but in those days, my sweet, even love was from afar. He sent me three letters, and I answered him, and we saw each other at some party, and at church. I had a friend, Evanthia. She helped us. And once, we met at her house.”
The girl sat up, listening with great interest. Her own pain subsided as she felt strange, learning details about her mother’s past. She couldn’t imagine her at that age, let alone in love. Her eyes were filled with a strange light as she thought back to her youth.
“Was he handsome, Mama?” she asked.
“Very. For me, he was the handsomest man in the world! That day at Evanthia’s house, he gave me my first kiss.” She looked at her daughter. “Does that seem strange? I was young once too. I thought I would faint. I was in heaven. He told me he’d marry me. He loved me so much, and if I didn’t marry him, he said, he would die! And I accepted it. I believed him with all the strength of my heart.”
“And what happened?”
“His father wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t have as big a dowry as he wanted for his son. And the man had already promised him to a friend. My beloved couldn’t go against his father. He married the woman his father had chosen for him.”
“And you?”
“I thought I would die. I became ill. He didn’t say anything to me, not even two words on a piece of paper that would explain it. I was burning up with fever, and he was engaged.”
“And Father?”
“Your father was the son of our doctor. He had loved me since he was young, and he asked for me.”
“But how could you accept him when you loved someone else?”
“What did it matter to me who I married, since my heart had died? I said to myself, I know Fotis, and I like him. It took me time to realize how much I really did love my husband and how happy he made me. Whatever I tell you, my darling, you won’t understand, but dreams are one thing, and life is another. And the dreams that stay in our heads and don’t come true will only haunt us if we let them. If we keep thinking of what we’ve lost, we can’t enjoy what we have.”
“And the other man? You never saw him again?”
“What gave you that idea? Of course I saw him. At a party with his wife. And then I understood that I no longer felt anything for him, for this man who’d betrayed me, who didn’t fight for our love. He seemed so small compared to my husband, who had given me his whole soul! I was angry with him and with myself. He told me he still loved me.”
“Really?” the girl responded. “He said that?”
“Yes, he did! The nerve of it! A married man with children, the same as me. His wife and my husband were in the room, and there he was telling me he loved me! I nearly gave the wretched fellow a slap on the face to teach him a lesson.”
Chrysafenia’s face was lit by a tiny smile. She couldn’t imagine her mother young, but the feeling she described was very familiar. Smaragda stroked her cheek.
“That’s the way. Smile a little, you who were going to die.”
“And what happened after that, Mama?”
Smaragda hesitated. “This is where the story gets more difficult. You see, my girl, the man I loved when I was young is Simeon Kouyoumdzis, Vassilis’s father!” Smaragda spoke slowly, as if underlining every word, and she saw her daughter’s eyes widen.
“Mama?” she whispered, overcome with questions and shock.
“Now do you know why I was so sure that your love wouldn’t end in marriage? Then, the problem was Simeon’s father. Now it’s Vassilis’s mother. She blames me, as if it was my fault that her husband loved me before he loved her!”
“What are you telling me?”
“What I should have told you at the beginning. But it wasn’t easy to tell a daughter such things. Still, considering where we are now—”
“But how did it happen? You and me both?”
“Your grandmother Kleoniki understood it first. It seems as if our blood attracts his family. But there’s no happiness there. That’s why you have to get him out of your heart, my girl.”
The pain returned, and fresh tears began to fall from Chrysafenia’s eyes. Now she had fate to curse as well.
In the living room, Fotis saw his son run in panting. The servant had managed to get word to him about his sister.
“What happened, Papa?” Nestor asked. “Anous told me Chrysafenia isn’t well. What’s wrong with her?”
“Sit, son, and calm down. Nothing’s wrong medically with your sister. But she will need some time . . .”
He explained everything, and as much as he tried to downplay the situation, he wasn’t surprised to see his son growing furious. It wasn’t only Nestor’s sister’s pain, but his friend’s betrayal. The young man jumped up and left as if he were being chased, indifferent to his father’s shouts. Smaragda appeared in the living room, very upset.
“What’s going on, dear? Why are you shouting?”
“Nestor has heard the news.”
“Lord! And what did you tell him?”
“Anous had already told him about Chrysafenia, so I had to explain everything.”
“Bravo, husband! It’s good that you told him about it. And where did the crazy boy go now? Mercy! Don’t tell me.”
“I fear you’re right. He’s gone to find the other boy to demand an explanation.”
“But Fotis, you should have held him back! He’ll be in their hands now, don’t you understand?”
“Are you going to blame me now? What should I have done? He jumped up like a tiger and raced into the street!”
“Then why are you sitting there, for God’s sake? Go after him! Stop him before he gets there!” she ordered, and then smacked her cheek in despair. “Oh, the shame of it! Virgin Mary, intercede for us so that we don’t have another crisis!” she pleaded and ran back to her daughter, who was crying inconsolably.
Nestor didn’t know how he had reached the Kouyoumdzis house. Without thinking, he began knocking on the door. A servant girl opened it, and before she managed to say a word to him, he had pushed her aside and dashed into the house, shouting his friend’s name. Vassilis appeared to greet him, and Nestor grabbed him by the lapels.
“Aren’t you ashamed, you scum?” he howled. “I brought you into my house, and you fixed your e
yes on my sister!”
“Nestor, I didn’t mean to!” shouted Vassilis, trying to free himself. “Let me go, Nestor! I’ll explain.”
Instead of letting him go, Nestor punched him in the face with all his strength, and Vassilis collapsed on the hall floor. No sooner had he gotten up than Nestor hit him again. Blood began streaming from his friend’s nose, but even that didn’t stop Nestor. He saw the boy trying to find his balance and grabbed him by the lapels again.
“I brought you into my house; I had to fight to make them accept you. I trusted you and thought of you as a brother, and this is the way you repay me?” he shouted, shaking Vassilis like a rag.
Roza came running to the top of the stairs. Her eyes opened wide when she saw her son, covered in blood, being hit by a stranger, and she started screaming. Behind her was Simeon, who pushed her aside and came down the stairs with difficulty. At the same moment, Fotis arrived and grabbed his son, just as he got ready to attack again. His grip immobilized the boy.
“Nestor!” he shouted, and his voice was so loud that the boy seemed to recover his senses.
He remained in his father’s hands without making the slightest movement. Roza took the opportunity to run to her son. She helped him to stand and tried to wipe his face with her handkerchief.
“I’m all right, Mother,” he said, grimacing.
She turned like a wild beast on the two uninvited guests. Fotis stepped between his son and the furious woman.
“You’ll pay for this!” Roza howled. “How dare your son come to my house and hit my child? I’ll call the police to take you away!”
“Mama—” Vassilis tried to stop her.
“Don’t you speak to me!” she said, turning to him now. “You went and got mixed up with a slut, and her hooligan brother beats you up. But what can you expect from—”
“Roza!”
She turned and stared at her husband.
“Here,” Simeon said, still more sharply, “are four men. There’s no place for a woman. Go, and leave us to speak to each other!”
“How dare you say that to me!” she gasped.
