by Alex A King
"Eh, who can tell? Police always try to not look like the police. Then—" He smacks his hands together. "—they catch you like that. And you go to jail."
"Oh, I know all about jail," she says cheerfully. "I've been there."
"Really? You?" Jaundiced eyes wide and disbelieving. "For what?"
"For assaulting Drina. But she started it."
He spits on the ground. "There is no Drina here."
"Not even one?"
Shrug. "Do I look like a telephone book?"
"No. You look like somebody who knows everything and everyone worth knowing around here."
He stares at her, eyes locked onto hers. Still she gets the feeling that the eye contact is a distraction so he can rifle through her pockets, looking for money and secrets.
Then he laughs. It's a big laugh, but then he's a big man.
"I maybe know a Drina. But could be she does not want to know you. Why you want to make trouble for her?"
"Who says I want to make trouble?"
"What else could you want? It is a rare Greek who wants anything but trouble with a tsignana." He spits out the epithet. Coming from his mouth it's even more uncomfortable than usual.
"I just want answers, not trouble."
A long silence follows—the kind that leaves a person wondering if the other party in the conversation died. Even a donkey twitches its ears when it's ignoring you, but not this guy.
"Come back tomorrow," he says finally. "I will ask if there is a Drina here. And if there is, I will ask if she will speak with you. But I make no promises."
Friendly guy. Helpful.
She's not even being sarcastic. She has a feeling that he's as friendly and helpful as friendly and helpful get around here.
"Tomorrow."
He says, "Tomorrow."
"What time?"
Shrug. "When you are finished with your sunbathing and painting your toenails and whatever else pampered women do."
Soula would bite, but not Kiki. What's the point? Romani-Greek prejudice runs both ways. She saves the sharp edge of her tongue for a battle worth winning, and thanks him for his time.
The Mini is still there. Kiki hates that she's surprised.
But it's not alone.
Leaning against the shiny red paint is a guy who looks like trouble. The kind of guy who looks like he's punched a lot of faces, and maybe has had his punched a few times, too. But he's a big man, stocky and solid, and she'd bet he ends more fights than he starts. Attractive, in a wild kind of way.
A lot like Leo. But then Leo has a killer smile to neutralize his gruffness.
"Nice car," he says. No smile.
"Thanks."
"Yours?"
"No."
"Whose?"
"I'm leaving now. Goodbye."
She unlocks the car, slides inside.
He points at her, doesn't look away. "I know you," he says. "And one day maybe you will know me, eh?"
* * *
Mama and Yiayia are a pair of birds. Parrots. Constantly they chatter, chatter, bicker. Always pecking at each other, unless they have a softer, tastier target.
"Kiki!" Mama calls out from her perch in the yard. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere. Out."
"Which is it? Nowhere or out?"
"Out nowhere."
Yiayia slaps her black-clad leg. "Clever that one. She takes after me."
"Virgin Mary help us if that is true."
May as well use their bickering to her advantage, dart upstairs, shut the door.
Too bad Mama is hip to the ways in which her daughters evade questions. The tornado spins, blocking the stairs. "Where is my answer, eh?"
"When I lose my sunglasses, the first place I check is the top of my head. Have you looked there?"
"Yes, I have looked there," she says dryly. "And your answer is not there. It is still in your mouth. Talk."
Kiki sighs. "Mama, I'm twenty-eight."
"I know how old you are. I was there when you were born, remember?"
"Not really."
"Not really. You sound more like Soula every day. Soon I will have two Soulas, and one is enough trouble."
"As I was saying, I'm twenty-eight. And a grown woman shouldn't have to tell her mother everything."
"Somebody killed your fiancé, Kiki, and I am worried maybe they will kill you, too. So when you disappear without saying a word—first with Kostas, and now with who knows—then I worry you are dead somewhere."
For once, Mama's reasoning is reasonable. Too bad she didn't capture the moment on camera and upload that to YouTube.
"One of these days, you will have children," Mama continues, "and then you will understand the fear mothers feel every moment of every day. Every time you walk out of the room I feel afraid that I will never see you again. That is what it is to be a mother."
"Not me," Yiayia says. "I am happy when your mother leaves the room."
Kiki kisses Mama's cheek. "I went to find answers."
"Answers. Did you get them?"
"Not today."
* * *
The ants have arrived.
Three of them.
And about nine thousand of their closest relatives.
"Ants." Mama assassinates a few with the bottom of her slip-on shoe, but, like the Persians, the ants keep marching. "Kiki," she says, a cold steel edge to her words. "This morning, did you go to see the tsiganes?"
Uh oh. "Maybe."
The hand waving is epic. "What have you done? Get out before you bring disaster into the house. Go. Go and see Kyria Dora."
It's not far to Kyria Dora's house. About a two-minute walk from the high school's back door to her front yard. Along the dirt road, then up a concrete street that looks like it's seen a lot of skirmishes. At the top of the hill sits a yellow BMW that's cultivating rust bubbles.
Rust is everywhere here. The sea air keeps it well-fed.
She treks up to the blue peeling gate and white-washed house standing behind it.
"Kyria Dora?"
A short spell passes, then a graying head of hair pops through the side door. "Who is calling me?"
"It's Kiki. Kiki Andreou."
"Kiki! Come in, my love." She wobbles into the yard, packed loosely into her black dress. "I was doing crochet in my new bathroom. Vivi fixed it for me, you know. Very beautiful. That woman can work better than any man!"
Kiki hopes this visit won't take place in the bathroom.But she's worrying for nothing, because the older woman ushers her inside, past the iconastio—
* * *
Iconastio. Or: icon stand. It's a small table covered in religious icons of the gaudiest kind. If beautiful, harmonious decorating is your thing, look away when you encounter one of these often-present shrines. The most common subjects of these pieces of art are the Virgin Mary and her Son, and maybe a saint the family holds dear.
* * *
—in the hallway, into the guest room, and asks if she wants frappe and maybe a little something sweet to eat. And Kiki is a good Greek girl, so she says yes to both, although it's the idea of a frappe that's making her drool.
When it comes, balanced on a black lacquer tray, she almost hurls herself into the tall glass. Next, Kyria Dora pushes a tiny crystal plate into her hand. On top is what looks like a small, barrel-shaped haystack lying on its side. Kataifi. Almonds, walnuts, shredded pastry, honey syrup, and a splash of heaven.
"Tell me, my love, why have you come to visit this old woman?"
"Mama says I'm matiasmeni."
"Yes, probably you have the evil eye. You have had very bad luck this year, and many people in town say terrible things about you. Not me, of course, but others. Bah!" She reaches for her own damp glass. "All they do here is gossip. You would think it is air the way they scramble for even the smallest news."
Says one of the largest mouths in town. But Kyria Dora isn't a bad woman, just a loud one.
"You eat and drink, Kiki. And I will get everything ready, okay?"
> * * *
Everything means: a bowl of water, olive oil, and Kyria Dora herself. The cursed person—that would be Kiki—is already present and accounted for.
Kyria Dora is one of the chosen ones, a person who believes they can banish curses and the evil eye.
A big piece of Kiki believes in the evil eye, too, otherwise she wouldn't be here. What if everything can be fixed with a simple ancient ritual? She has witnessed fortunes changing at the hands of a Kyria Dora.
* * *
The older woman performs her magic. She combines a barely audible prayer with a frantic crossing over the bowl of water.
Kiki yawns. She could be an anaconda the way her jaw almost unhinges.
"Your mother is right, you have the evil eye! It is a good thing you came to me before you died in a terrible accident."
One drop at a time, oil drips into the bowl.
Kyria Dora gasps, grabs the table's edge. "Never before have I seen this!"
When it comes to vanquishing the evil eye, the oil can do one of two things: it stays neat and tight, zero sprawl, or the drops separate.
The first one means you're a-okay—for now. The second one means you're getting the super-duper evil eye treatment.
But Kiki's oil isn't doing either of those things. All three drops sank. They're sitting on the bottom, defying the laws of physics.
The older woman turns pale. "Panayia mou, what have they done to you?"
"Who?"
"Everybody! This cannot be a good sign. Many people wish terrible things for you."
"Can you fix it?"
Kyria Dora gives her a mildly offended glance. "Of course I can fix it, though it may take time. Then we will turn bad fortune around, yes?"
"I just want the bad luck to go away. I don't want anyone else getting it."
"Kiki, my love, bad luck must go somewhere. It cannot just disappear. Think of this as returning a terrible gift you do not want to the person who gave it to you."
"What will happen to them?"
Kyria Dora shrugs. "Eh, who knows? Most likely a small misfortune. Catching a little toe on the furniture, or bending a fingernail all the way back. One time I turned the evil eye around, and the person who made the evil eye began sprouting hair from her chin. Every morning she had a shadow like a man. She has it still. But sometimes it is a bigger misfortune. I heard of one woman—not here, but in Kala Nera—who was pecked to death by her own chickens."
Kiki winces. Almost nobody deserves to be pecked to death by chickens. "Okay."
"Okay!"
Kyria Dora performs the ritual nine times in total—three is a lucky number. Three times three is an even luckier number.
By the ninth time, the oil drops float like miniature lifesavers.
Kiki swishes her finger in the water three times and licks the oil and water off her finger.
"Good girl. Now we must turn it around, eh? Give the evil eye someone else to look at." She vanishes into the kitchen, reappearing with a fresh bay leaf and a square of paper. She folds the paper over and over, until it's a small triangle. "Keep the leaf and this prayer with you at all times. When you sleep, put them under your pillow or mattress, but do not forget to take them with you. Otherwise the evil eye will find you again. Think of this as a disguise!"
When Kiki leaves it is with lighter shoulders. With luck—and Kyria Dora's help—things will change.
* * *
Kiki doesn't trip, fall, or roll. Which doesn't mean much. She didn't trip, fall, or roll on the way here, either.
What does happen is that somebody calls her name.
Somebody at the bottom of the hill.
Somebody old.
Socrates Karas. AKA Leo's grandfather.
Kiki's heart doesn't skip beats—it makes more. By the time she's face to face with Socrates, she's a sweating, light-headed mess in a wrinkled T-shirt and shorts.
"Yia sou, Kyrios Karas."
He beams at her. "Laki said I would find you here."
Laki. The wooden man of exaggerated proportions.
"You're looking for me?"
"Who else? This street is filled with old crones. Why would I want to see them?"
She hates to say it, but the old man doesn't look well. His leather is on the faded side. "Are you well?"
"Never better. I am like good wine, not that retsina skata. Good wine."
She doesn't point out that wine gets better only if it's kept in controlled temperatures and not left in the sun for prolonged periods. But she does say, "Maybe you should sit in the shade awhile."
"Bah! Shade is for the women and children. Sun is what makes men and crops strong." Then his face blanks and his scaffolding collapses.
"Help!" Kiki yells.
Kyria Dora rushes through her gate, coming at them like a bowling ball. "What is it? What is going on? Kyrios Socrates?"
"Sunstroke, I think," Kiki says.
"Stupid old man." Kyria Dora nods to Kiki. One woman on either side, they lift him and stagger toward the older woman's house. "Put him in the shade," she says.
Kyrios' Socrates's breathing is shallow, fast. He's the color of putty. They place him under the shade of the grapevine that covers most of Kyria Dora's yard.
"Wait there," Kyria Dora says. "If he tries to die, do not let him."
Kiki gets busy popping his buttons, pulling off his sandals and the thick socks he wears with them.
The old man's eyelids flutter. He lifts his head slightly. "I see an angel …" Kyria Dora stomps out with a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol and a glass of water. "And now I see a horrifying demon. I thought there would be a tunnel and light and my Yiayia carrying a plate of her baklava. But no, I get an angel and a monster. Are you going to fight over me? I will not mind dying if I get to see a fight between two women. Loosen your buttons first, eh?"
"Foolish old man," Kyria Dora mutters. She squeezes the plastic bottle, shooting rubbing alcohol all over his chest. "I will rub his chest, you rub his feet."
Socrates lowers his head. "Is this what it takes to get a beautiful woman to rub my feet? I should have died sooner."
"Skasmos!" Kyria Dora tells him. "You are not dying, old man. But if you did it would be your own fault. Who goes for walks in this heat? Fools, that is who."
"And me," Kiki says.
Kyria Dora says confidently, "Fools and Kiki, and sometimes touristas, because they have no sense. Where were you going in such a hurry, eh? To a feta sale?"
"What makes you think I was coming to see you? You flatter yourself, old woman. It was Kiki I wanted to see."
"Me? Why? Is Leo okay?"
"He is fine. He called this morning and asked about you, but that is not why I came. I had a vision!"
"Always he has a vision," Kyria Dora mutters.
He sits up, gulps the glass of water. "Do you have anything sweet?"
"Inside."
He looks at her. "Well, are you going to bring it?"
"After you tell Kiki about the vision. How will I hear if I go inside?"
At least she's honest about her thirst for real-life soaps.
"The vision," Kiki prompts him. Kyria Dora settles herself into a chair; she's not going anywhere.
"Yes, I had a vision that Kyria Bouto would strangle a tsigana. The same tsigana you are looking for."
Kyria Dora throws her hands in the air. "You are crazy! Why would Kiki have any business with those people? Any why would Helena care enough to strangle one of them?" Then she stops, looks at Kiki. "Oh."
The old man shrugs. "I am just the messenger, and it is not a message for you, old woman, so if I hear anyone gossiping about this I will know who to spank, eh?"
"Okay." Kyria Dora heaves herself out of the wood and wicker chair. "I will bring you something sweet, then I will drive you home. Kiki, my love, do you want me to drive you home, too?"
Kiki shakes her head. "Thank you, but I'll walk. It's not far."
She heads toward the gate. Heat rises from the street in s
himmering sheets. Through them, everything is distorted, off-kilter.
Something has been forgotten.
She goes back to the vine-shaded yard. "When?" she asks Kyrios Socrates.
"Eh, soon."
98
Leo
When he left for Europe, Leo said goodbye to a woman. She was whole, vibrant, and the grey threaded through her hair was a suggestion that her end was coming, but not for a good twenty, thirty years—at least.
Now he's in a hospital room, looking at a husk that wears his mother's name on its wrist. But that's not his mother. It can't be. It's not.
She shatters his lie with the smile he has always known. "Leo."
"Mom."
He wants to hug her, but he's afraid she'll shatter in his arms.
Don't let her see you're freaking out, stupid.
"I leave for a couple of months and what happens? You all fall to pieces."
Grief is already practicing its chokehold; when Dad laughs, it's more pain than mirth.
Mom grimaces. "Only your father and brother. I'm as awesome as ever."
He sits on the edge of her bed. She lists slightly his way, so he stands and takes her hand instead. The vampires have been busy punching their holes and draining their pints of blood. Why don't they leave her alone? She can't spare what little she's got. And they've already divined her future from the vials they took: she has no future.
* * *
Leo isn't good with emotions. He feels them, but he's good at packing them in boxes until later. Then later comes and it's too late, he can't remember where he hid the boxes.
Hide your feelings from a woman long enough and she gets tired of never meeting the man behind the wall.
That's what happened with Tracy, more or less. She got tired of being married to a robot after her no-kids tirade. Then they drifted to separate sides of the bed, until they both fell out onto a cold, hard floor.
Yeah, those boxes don't help when it comes to women, but they're great when you're watching someone you love die another inch every day. Cancer isn't swift and merciful. It's a hulking spider that paralyzes its prey and takes one careful bite here, one careful bite there.
