by kc dyer
“The stroke, you mean?” I say brutally. “It was a stroke, Pops. And you took off without your meds. To Greece, for crying out loud. What was I supposed to do?”
He nods, his eyes almost closed in the glare of the morning sun. “Look, I’m telling you now, okay?”
I wait until he actually meets my gaze before nodding. He sips unthinkingly at his empty glass, returns it to the tabletop, and in a voice so low I have to lean forward to hear him, he begins.
Apparently, things kicked off almost a year ago when—in the course of doing research for a book he has been supposedly writing since his retirement—he spotted a video online. The star of the video was an archeologist who’d been documenting a number of projects on a bunch of obscure digs in and around the Mediterranean.
“His program—it was called a vlog,” he says, “which means video log, understand?” He smiles at my expression. “You see? Your old man can learn something new, eh?”
I roll my eyes at this, mostly just to keep myself awake. I can feel one of the famous Ari Kostas lectures coming on, and I’m not sure my sleep-deprived brain can take it.
He goes on to say that, with the help of his assistant, Evan, he reached out to the YouTuber, who turned out to be less of a social media influencer and more of a nerdy scholar. The guy was doing postdoctorate work in a region of the Mediterranean that he—my dad—has always felt held clues relating to the true journey of Odysseus returning home from the Trojan War. Clues that the latest translation of Homer’s classic made even clearer.
“I’d set it all up before the—the TIA,” he admits grudgingly. “I’d already delayed my plans more than a year because of the virus. And damned if I’m going to let some tiny burst blood vessel stand in my way. This trip means everything to me, Gianna.”
Around the same time, he heard of a company called ExLibris Expeditions, which specializes in recreating adventures drawn from the pages of famous literary works. When he reached out to the CEO of ExLibris, Teresa Cipher was so delighted with his idea, that she personally planned and organized the entire trip. Once this was underway, he’d connected with the archeologist to tell him of the decision to retrace Odysseus’s famous journey, and they agreed to meet here to arrange site visits.
“Pops, how is any of this even possible?” I say when he stops at last for breath. “I mean, the story is, like, an allegory, isn’t it? Half of the places Odysseus traveled don’t even exist, right? And was Homer even a real person?”
Maddeningly, my dad shrugs. “This is true. But there are sites in the region that speak to the storytelling history that gave rise to all of the Homeric works. I want to visit the places that are significant to the story, and Gia? If I can find the evidence, I promise you it will be worth all the trouble.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And just how much is all this going to cost?”
My dad’s grin broadens. “That’s the best part,” he says. “Evan pulled off a miracle and arranged a research grant funded through an American-Grecian think tank.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his sport coat, pulls out a crumpled envelope, and thrusts it at me.
I slide the letter back to him with one finger. “Truthfully? I don’t care at all about the financing, Pops. What bothers me is that you’ve taken off on some sketchy project without your meds.”
It takes a full minute of me staring pointedly—and silently—at his pocket before he pulls out the pill bottle.
“I’m sorry, Gianna,” he says, finally. “The last thing I wanted to do was worry you. It’s just . . .” He pauses before the words gush out of him in a sudden torrent. “If I’m going to die—if this thing is going to take me—I need to leave something behind for you. The boys, they have their own lives. But you? You’ve always been different.”
He reaches across the table and clutches my hands in his. “I want to show you that your papa’s work means something. If my theory pans out, I’ll cement my place in history beside Homer—add my voice to his to show the significance of this ancient culture to our modern day. If I can prove with hard evidence that the early transcription I’ve been researching exists, it’ll mean something. It’ll be a legacy that I can—that you can—be proud of. That’s why I came here so suddenly, my darling girl. I don’t know how much time I have left. And I am so, so close.”
As he finishes, his eyes are damp, and suddenly mine are too.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Pops.” I can’t find a tissue in my bag, so I use the cuff of my sleeve to swipe at my eyes. “I don’t care if you’re the world’s foremost expert on Homer, for goodness’ sake. I just want you to take your health seriously. I need you to care whether you live or die—or at least try to do what the doctors tell you, okay?”
He reaches across to squeeze my hand. “Fine. I will take the pills they give. I will not overdo the stress, I promise you. But one way or another, I need to make this journey, darling. It may seem like nothing to you now, but if I’m proved right, it will mean everything, I promise you.”
I slump back in my chair with a sigh. “Okay, Pops. And you’ve got your meds with you, at least, so I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.”
A small, round woman suddenly materializes behind my left elbow, making me jump.
“Your pardon, sir, madam,” she says and slides a platter heavily loaded with something that smells of roasted meat and calories onto our table.
In spite of my exhaustion, my mouth immediately begins to water.
“Madame Konstantin,” my dad cries, “you have outdone yourself!”
The lady, clearly pleased, nods her head and smiles. “I like hear your thoughts, Doctor,” she says. “And of course, your beautiful daughter. She must be hungry after her travels.”
She positions the platter on the table and then lays a fresh, white plate in front of each of us.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Konstantin,” my father says. “I cannot wait to taste your marvelous offering today. Your moussaka last night was simply sublime.”
“I shouldn’t,” I say as the lady quickly pockets the bills my father slips to her. This speedy disappearance of his euros goes a long way toward explaining her husband’s earlier effusiveness. “I need to sort out my flight home as soon as possible.”
“Darling, darling, you have to eat. You must at least try a sample. Madame Konstantin is the most marvelous cook, I promise you.”
Mrs. Konstantin looks like she might burst with pride at this pronouncement and immediately starts spooning hummus into a ramekin beside my plate.
“Is very special bougatsa,” she says. “A savory rather than sweet, yes? Like my yiayia, I make with lamb.” She shoots me a pointed gaze. “My bougatsa melt in mouth, I promise.”
As she spoons hummus onto my father’s plate, the rich aroma of the roasted meat fills all my senses. And I do need to eat, after all. Both of them watch as I stab one of the fine slices of pastry with my fork, dip it, and deliver it to my mouth. At my expression, Mrs. Konstantin’s anxious face melts into a smile.
“You like?” she says, happily pushing the platter nearer my plate.
“I guess a few bites won’t hurt,” I say hastily, sputtering crumbs.
My dad sweeps half the platter onto his own plate, and between us, we devour the entire thing.
* * *
—
Awash in the delicious food and the somnolent atmosphere of the alfresco courtyard, I find the worst of my fears quieting. The frozen, frantic pace of life in New York feels an eternity away from this relaxed, idyllic place. My father’s face has color, and his eyes are animated as he outlines his plans. The fact that he shakes the bottle at me and pops in a pill when Mrs. Konstantin returns with a platter of baklava goes a long way to lulling my fears. My stomach isn’t clenched with anxiety for the first time in days and is instead pleasantly full of Greek delicacies.
Propping my
head on my hand, I angle my face into the light as the lowering rays of the afternoon sun shine down on us. Half my blood might be Greek, but my skin tone is pure, pallid Dutch, and returning home with sun-kissed cheeks will not be the worst thing that comes out of this crazy little jaunt. I’m thoroughly sick of our icy New York winter, and no matter how short, this visit has been a welcome respite. My dad is explaining the significance of ancient pottery to storytelling, and suddenly, without any effort on my part—I’m asleep.
It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. But generally, when I nod off over one of his long stories, it’s usually after a heavy restaurant meal, and I’m sitting in some comfy banquette where, with my dad on his third ouzo, he doesn’t really notice if I tilt a little into a darkened corner.
This time, all I know is that one minute I’m back on the dance floor with the guy from the nightclub who is looking super hot even though he’s wearing Sikka’s silver icicle dress, and the next, my dad is wiping yogurt out of my hair with one corner of the tablecloth.
“I—ah—sorry, Pops—you were saying?” I push aside the plate with a clear imprint of my nose still outlined in yogurt.
He shakes his head and makes the little tut-tutting noise that he usually only brings out when he’s mother-henning me. “I was saying—I am saying—why it is so important that I complete my research now. But you’re too sleepy to think clearly, Gianitsa. Tomorrow is soon enough to sort out your plane home, yes?”
I grab a glass that I’m pretty sure only contains melted ice cubes and drain it. This ends up giving me a piercing brain freeze for a moment, which serves to stab me back into my right mind. I’ve done what I came for. I need to focus on planning my wedding to Anthony, not dreaming about some smoking hot guy in a sparkly dress.
“Our plane, Dad. Why don’t you come home with me? You can return this summer, right after the wedding.”
My dad rolls up the yogurt-stained edge of the tablecloth with a sigh.
“I’ve worked my whole life to prove this theory. I need to see it through.”
“You won’t, Pops, if you get sick again. At the very least, you need to get your plans signed off by your doctor. You left before most of your test results were even in!”
He squeezes my hand. “If you are so worried, my girl, maybe you should stay and keep me company.” He shoots me a sly grin. “Give me a chance to show you where your papa hails from, Gianitsa,” he says, sweeping out a hand to take in the charming garden-bedecked courtyard. “Your roots are here too, remember.”
I raise one hand. “Uh, my roots are half Dutch, Pops. Half of my genetic code is cycling through Amsterdam.”
“How could I forget?” My dad snorts dismissively. “But darling, you know your mother’s family don’t give two figs about their heritage. When they moved to America, they never looked back. This is where I was born—let me show it to you.”
His smile broadens. “Hear me out. You could sell NOSH a story about all the Mediterranean foods you’ll be eating on your journey. On our journey. We can make an adventure of it, Gianna. One last adventure with your papa before you run off to marry your millionaire.”
Above us, a bird trills softly from the bougainvillea that lines the tiny courtyard. Everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours jostles around in my brain.
“Enough talk,” he says before I can muster a reply. Pushing his chair away from the table with a clatter, he offers me his hand. “Sleep on it, darling. We can talk it through later, when your head is not nodding into the dessert course, hmm?”
I can’t find the strength of character to argue any longer, and I’m tired enough to curl up on the flagstones underneath the table. The truth is, any real fight I had in me was gone before my face hit the yogurt. Still, before I close the door to my room, I manage to extract a promise from my dad that he’ll take his medication. He taps the side of his nose and rattles the bottle at me.
I’m asleep before I have time to pull back the floral duvet.
chapter nine
TUESDAY, BEFORE DAWN
Greek Breakfast: Fetoydia
Gia Kostas, former journalist, still jet-lagged
The key to this luscious take on French toast is tsoureki, a delicious braided sweet bread often spotted around Easter time, but a staple in most Greek kitchens year-round. Instead of tossing away the stale leftovers, the best cooks . . .
I awaken in pitch darkness, startled out of restless, uneasy dreams by a sound I can’t identify. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why my room is so dark. It never really gets dark if you live in New York City, which is why we all have blackout curtains. Then the sound comes again. I recognize it this time—the trill of the bird in the bougainvillea. I’m not in New York. I’m in Athens, facing another ten-hour plane ride, complete with an impatient fiancé at the other end. The little clock on my bedside table tells me it’s 4:30 a.m., and I’m suddenly wide awake.
I have somehow managed to sleep my way through almost twelve full hours.
My dream floods back to me. Ridiculously, it was about the guy in the nightclub again. This time, he wasn’t wearing Sikka’s sparkly dress. He wasn’t wearing anything at all, really. Just his skin, dusky and hot against my . . .
I jump out of bed, bolt for the tiny sink, and splash my face with cold water. I need to wash the dream—and the memories of that night—down the drain, where they belong.
Face freshly washed, I flick on the bedside light and grab the tablet out of my bag. The bed has a creaky, wrought iron frame, so I prop a large, mango-colored cushion behind my back, pull my knees up to act as a desk, and start composing an e-mail to Anthony. I need to tell him how much he means to me. That I came here because my dad is important to me, but how he, Anthony, is so important to me too.
This turns out to be harder than it should be.
As I type, delete, and retype, the rosy fingers of dawn begin to slant through the slats of the window blinds. Details of the room around me slowly rise into focus, starting with the shutters themselves, which are cornflower blue and a little dusty. The room’s furniture is old and mostly sturdy, with mismatched wooden end tables and a wrought iron corner table rusted in all the places where the once-white paint has chipped away. There is a faint scent of lemon furniture polish.
By six thirty, I’ve written and erased the e-mail exactly nineteen times. In any case, I can’t stand the feeling of my teeth against my tongue for a single moment longer. I snatch my toothbrush out of my bag and head for the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, teeth clean and wearing my favorite cotton sundress from last summer, I emerge to the warm scents of coffee and baked goods wafting from somewhere down the hall. I turn to follow them without a second thought.
Breakfast is set up in a tiny room that abuts the open courtyard. Outside, a gentle rain is falling on the bougainvillea. Inside, there are three small tables, one of which holds the remains of a recently deserted breakfast. I choose a seat at one of the others and head over to investigate the covered dishes on the sideboard.
“Help yourself, help yourself,” comes a voice from behind me, and I turn to see Konstantin dressed in the same shiny black suit as before. He gestures at the sideboard, which holds a basket filled with croissants and a loaf of braided bread that is still steaming gently. Next to the bread, a platter of sliced cheeses nestles beside a bowl of hard-boiled eggs, and several smaller bowls hold hummus, dill-sprinkled yogurt, and a couple of other sauces I don’t recognize immediately.
As I begin filling a plate, he beams at me and lifts the carafe he carries in one hand. “Coffee, miss? Or you prefer tea?”
“Coffee’s fine,” I say gratefully.
“Of course. Though, your father likes his tea, yes?”
I can’t help grinning back at him as he fills my cup with what smells like black magic. “I guess so. No accounting for tastes.”
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“A good breakfast is just the ticket,” Konstantin replies diplomatically. “I bring you fetoydia. My wife just make a new batch, fresh, with eggs from Sikka’s chickens, yes?”
He vanishes without waiting for an answer. I sit back and think what a Renaissance woman Sikka is. Laundry and chickens and all the Greek boys. A woman bustles over to clear the table next to mine as I take my first steaming sip of the Greek coffee. It’s hot and rich and sears right through to my brain stem.
Perfect.
I’ve just arranged a sliver of cheese onto a slice of the oven-warm bread when the woman clearing the table beside me speaks.
“Oi, Konstantin,” she says to his retreating back. When he doesn’t turn, she holds something up and rattles it to get his attention.
The familiar sound cuts right through my morning fog, and I spin in my seat to look at her. She’s holding a small plastic bottle in one hand.
“Is that my dad’s medication?” I blurt.
The woman smiles over her shoulder at me. “No Engleesh,” she says, handing the bottle to Konstantin. “Sorry, sorry.”
Konstantin glances at the bottle before slipping it into a pocket. “Finish your breakfast, louloudi mou,” he says soothingly. “I will pass these to your father when he returns.”
“Returns? What do you mean, returns? From where?”
This comes out perhaps a shade louder than I intend, and Konstantin takes a hurried step backward. “I—I not sure, miss. Your papa leave not so long ago, but . . .”
I take a deep breath in an effort to keep my voice even. “It’s fine—I’ll give the pills back to him. I just—I can’t believe he’s left them behind again.”
I hold out my hand, and as Konstantin drops the bottle into my palm, the rattle of the pills inside is like the ring of truth finally hitting home. After another fortifying sip of coffee, I pull out my phone and log into the hotel Wi-Fi.
