by kc dyer
My heart lurches and then drops like a rock.
Shoes? He knows. He’s recognized me.
And worse—he knows I know too.
Paulo’s voice interrupts my frantic thoughts, calling from across the site. “Ten minutes and then eat, yes?”
“Yes,” agrees my father and slaps his hands together enthusiastically. The dust rises off them like a cloud, and he laughs, looking up at me. “Come down here, girlie, come down. Paulo has given us ten minutes. Let us see together what our young friend has uncovered.”
And with a polite smile at my father, as if the whole eyebrow thing hadn’t just happened, “our young friend” replies, “Delighted, Ms. Kostas,” and offers his hand to help me step down.
chapter twelve
TUESDAY EVENING
Ovelias
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to no one, near Makri, Greece
This spit-roasted lamb is not a spontaneous meal but worth every minute of preparation. Hot and delicious, for this delectable feast to taste as good as it deserves, thinking ahead is essential. You begin the day before . . .
I swallow hard at the touch of his hand. “It’s just Gia,” I manage, at last.
“Just Raj, then,” he says, still grinning that wide, white smile at me.
As the enormous man retreats toward a wisp of smoke in the distance, I step into the trench, and Raj Malik releases me at last.
My dad reaches out and puts a hand on each of our shoulders. “There,” he says, beaming. “You finally meet. My two favorite young people. I have the feeling you will hit it off, yes?”
“Do you?” Raj turns to look at my dad. “I think you might be right.”
My stomach muscles cramp at the effort it takes to retain a bray of hysterical laughter.
Instead, I take a deep breath. There’s no use trying to sort out what I’m feeling right now. I need all my resources to just play it cool.
“So—Paulo,” I say, as casually as I can manage. “He works for you?”
“When it suits him,” Raj Malik replies. “He really wanted to meet Dr. Kostas today.”
My dad nods in agreement. “I’ve spent the last hour listening to his stories,” he says. “The man is a positive font of information.”
“The man,” I whisper, “is a giant.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” Raj, still grinning, pats his stomach. “And an excellent cook, besides.”
He squats down near the spot where the boulder had been seated, and my father drops gingerly to one knee beside him. With their attention on the wall of the trench, I can finally unclench my shoulders.
The ground is baked dry here—deeply dry, as if even the idea of falling rain is merely a memory. I glance up to look for my storm cloud, but the sky is a clear, endless blue above us. It’s like the windstorm never even happened.
And, staring at the sky, I’m hit with inspiration. I just have to send the whole nightclub experience off with that vanishing storm. If this guy has recognized me, surely he won’t say anything to my dad. I mean—why would he? I decide to just ride out the rest of the afternoon by pretending nothing happened in that nightclub and staying out of the way as much as possible.
I take another shaky breath and step back as Raj Malik pulls what looks like a paintbrush out of the pocket of his khakis and gestures at the wall of the trench. The place where the giant boulder was seated is now open to the air. The exposed earth, while still quite dry, is a darker color than farther along the trench and is marked with several obvious layers.
“It’s exactly as I thought,” he says quietly. “Look at this line here, Dr. Kostas, and this one. The stratification is very similar to the Ithacan site we were discussing earlier. This is going to make dating any finds a piece of cake.”
The two of them beam at each other like the lines of rock in the dirt are made of solid gold.
“It looks just like a layer of ordinary rock to me.” This comes out a little more snappily than I intend, but neither one of them appears to have even heard me.
In any case, I realize the last thing I want to do is engage at all. Attempting to remove myself from the discussion entirely, I sidle away from the trench. And as I do, my shock begins to morph into annoyance at myself for being such a coward.
It was just one night. This is embarrassing, there’s no doubt about it, but I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I just need to make it through today, and I never have to see this guy again. I’m engaged to be married, and that’s all that matters.
In any case, this guy is so not my type. When I was single, I generally went for blond boys closer to my own height. Tall and gangly is definitely not my jam, and Raj Malik has got to be at least five eleven. My first boyfriend was six feet tall, and I endured a three-month kink in my neck before we finally broke up. Admittedly, the kink came mostly because when we weren’t kissing, he talked about himself incessantly, but still. Anthony is five nine, which makes him a perfect three-inch heel taller than I am.
“. . . evidence that this side has been truly untouched,” continues Raj, the excitement in his voice almost palpable.
I force myself to tune back in.
“Which means locating the piece is a possibility?” My dad leans forward, running a finger along the line of stone in the sand.
Raj’s smile falters. “Now, Dr. Kostas—I have to remind you of what I’ve been saying all along.”
“I know, I know,” my dad says, impatiently. “Context is everything. But . . .”
Raj jams his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “I’m still convinced the other site is more likely,” he insists quietly. “The stratification looks right here, but until we open this section up, we won’t know for sure. Still, the layering is very evident—which makes it measurable. Most important is that this area is quite clearly undisturbed until now. Whatever was left behind then is likely here still. This is going to be huge news for the society.”
My dad’s reply is interrupted, this time by a distant shout.
It’s Paulo.
“Lunch,” says my father, rubbing his hands together again. “Let’s make a plan while we eat, yes?”
I hurriedly reach for his hand, and he helps me out of the trench, still talking over one shoulder to Raj.
As I follow them—at a safe distance—across to the far side of the dig, I spot the site’s cooking facilities for the first time. Paulo is kneeling beside a kind of open brazier, filled at the moment with grey and white-hot coals. He turns and I see he is bearing what looks like an enormous blade with a huge chunk of meat skewered on it, charred and steaming. The aroma of barbecued lamb envelops us, enlivened with hints of rosemary and oregano.
“It smells delicious,” I whisper to my dad, and I realize suddenly that I actually feel hungry.
This is a good sign. I can put the whole nightclub incident behind me. I can focus on other things. I can.
My dad grins broadly. “Paulo had the fire lit long before we arrived, and we have been subject to the torture of these aromas since we got here. Four—almost five hours the lamb has been on this spit, eh? But you know it will be worth the wait.”
As we watch, Paulo slides the contents of the skewer onto a huge metal platter, and I realize that the carcass of an entire lamb, complete with head, is now lying in front of us.
The table, which is the collapsible, plastic variety with metal legs I remember seeing by the hundreds in every exam room at college, is sporting a red gingham cover. Atop the brightly checked cloth, a few small containers have been opened and lined up beside a stack of plates and cutlery. The first is a shallow clay bowl piled with charred, foil-wrapped bundles. Beside this mountain of potatoes are smaller bowls containing condiments and sauces, of which I recognize only hummus and tzatziki.
As Paulo sets the platter down, I see great chunks of meat are already falling away from the b
one. He reaches across to a small square cellar beside the potatoes, dips his enormous fingers into roughly ground sea salt, and sprinkles it across the meat before deftly serving portions onto a stack of mismatched ceramic crockery. He quickly adds fragrant servings of Greek salad and, after carefully wiping the grease from his fingers, offers each of us a plate.
The mingling aromas of lamb and spices combine to ensure even my anxiety over meeting Raj Malik again isn’t enough to stop me from picking up my fork.
It’s only just in time that I remember to grab my phone and document the contents of my plate as he’s laid it out. Of course, there’s been no word from Charlotte, but there are also exactly zero bars on my phone. Harboring the faintest hope she might still agree to my pitch, I start snapping pictures.
On the large, white plate, glistening pieces of roasted lamb dusted in sea salt nestle up to the fluffy, white potatoes flecked in bits of their own skin charred from the fire. The lustrous, fragrant salad adds a brilliant pop of color to complete the presentation.
The lamb is crisply seared on the outside but melts away as soon as I close my mouth around it. Warm flavors of rosemary, oregano, and perhaps even some kind of chili permeate the meat, and I can’t swallow it fast enough. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything better in my life.
No one speaks for at least five minutes as the people who have been doing manual labor all morning dig in. And I, who have not heaved a single boulder, participate no less eagerly.
I do manage to keep myself to only one serving, however, so when Raj and Paulo go back for seconds, I slide over to sit beside my dad.
“I still don’t get it,” I say to him quietly. “Just what is it you are looking for? Surely a few lines in the dirt aren’t going to prove your thesis? I mean, don’t you need Indiana Jones’s holy grail or something?”
My dad shakes his head and says, “Yes,” at the same time as Raj, sitting down beside him, says, “No!”
They both laugh.
“Rajnish is right,” my dad says through a mouthful of food. “That is—he doesn’t believe we’ll find the actual evidence I am looking for.”
“If we find a few sherds of pottery in the right context, that should still prove your point, sir,” Raj says before digging in to his own second helping.
My dad shrugs. “I still hold out hope for an actual intact piece,” he says, a trifle wistfully. “This trip—it is a special one. I’m counting on my girl to bring me a little magic, eh?”
“A little magic?” Raj repeats, and I make the mistake of looking at him. His eyes are twinkling, and I feel my face growing hot again as I hurriedly look away. “Greece is a magical place, no question. You never know what you’re going to find from one day to the next. Or who.”
“Correct!” roars my dad and lifts his water bottle in a toast. “Anything can happen in this magical place.”
Desperate to change the subject, I pull the notebook out of my bag and busy myself jotting down the ingredients and presentation of the meal.
Paulo, who has accumulated a sizeable stack of well-cleaned bones on his plate, looks up.
“Can you tell me the spices you used on the lamb?” I ask him, pen poised.
He pauses, a half-gnawed lamb’s rib in one hand. “Just the usual—rosemary, thyme, a little sage. Why?”
I explain that I am hoping to sell an article about the food I eat while I’m here. “It’s for an American food magazine I interned with. I’d like to know a little about your process—you know—how you came to discover this recipe.”
There is a sound like a roll of thunder deep in his chest, and I realize he is laughing.
“My process is to walk through my flock and select a fat, slow lamb. I take away from the rest and crack his neck, quick-fast, eh? Then I bring here, gut and spear on the souvla over low, hot fire. Then we eat.”
His smile broadens as I take notes. “Why you write? Your father not teach you this? Every good Greek knows how to roast a lamb.”
I look over at my dad, but he’s grinning, and he pauses from refilling his plate yet again to tap the side of his head. “I give her my brains, Paulo. I leave the cooking to her mama.”
I bite back the remark that leaps to my lips at this and turn my face to Paulo. “What’s the most important part of the process? Selecting the fattest lamb? What about the seasoning?”
Paulo shrugs. “The fire’s most important,” he says and leans over to stir the embers with a rusted iron fork. “You need a good, hard wood that hold heat a long time.”
My father nods sagely. “The spits they use in New York?” he says wistfully. “Not the same. Nothing tastes like this does, with the flavor of these gnarly old trees cooked right into the meat.”
Paulo turns and points his fork at me. “Trees bent because of the winds here. Your papa say the wind blow you nearly off cliff on your way down. Is true?”
“Nearly,” I admit. “It was a scary little squall, for sure.”
His large brown eye locks onto mine. “You see a goddess in the wind? The earth spin in the sky?”
I swallow and wipe my chin with a paper napkin, which comes away with a smear of tzatziki.
Of course it does.
“Well, I don’t know about any goddess, but for sure the wind swirled up a bunch of leaves and maybe sand? I couldn’t tell if it came from the ground where I was standing, or if it got blown up from the beach below.”
“Oh, she is blown up from below without a doubt,” he says. “Depending on which of the Furies visits, she will have hair of snakes or perhaps wings of bats.” He drops the bone noisily onto his plate. “Did you see any wings? Bird wings or maybe bats?”
“I—I can’t say that I did.” I am seriously beginning to regret the direction this conversation is taking.
My dad tries to say something but is hampered by a mouthful of lamb from interjecting. Paulo surges to his feet and unearths an unlabeled bottle from under the table. My dad’s eyes light up, and he hurriedly tosses the water out of his plastic bottle onto the dusty earth at his feet.
“They come from the earth—from below the earth—the Erinyes,” Paulo continues, running the blade of his knife around the cork. “The Furies, some call them, they blow up into the sky to take vengeance on those who would swear a false oath or who commit murder.”
“Aha! Well, this is unlikely,” splutters my dad, who has managed to swallow his mouthful. “Unless you have been recently committing murder, Gianitsa?” He holds up his empty bottle to Paulo.
Before I can say a word, Paulo upends his bottle, splashing wine onto the ground behind my chair. “It needn’t be murder,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Alecto, she punishes those who commit moral crimes, and Megaera, those who break oaths or commit infidelity and theft. Have you done anyone wrong, néa gynaíka? Broken any promises?”
I give a little involuntary jump and stare at him, speechless, as he strides with the bottle toward my father. But instead of aiming for his glass, Paulo once again splashes the wine on the ground behind his chair.
“An offering. Appeasement to the Furies,” he rumbles and then puts my dad out of his misery by directing a stream into his upraised water bottle.
“To the Furies!” my dad echoes triumphantly and drains his bottle, while Paulo does the same with the wine bottle.
They both roar with laughter.
Raj shoots me a look across the table and then leans toward the two other men.
“Paulo,” he says suddenly. “Death—that’s Thánatos, right? Or is it Dolofonía?”
“It depends,” Paulo replies, and for the first time, he breaks into a smile. “On whether the death is natural or the result of murder!”
I sit back, relieved of Paulo’s strange attentions for the moment as the two older men get safely sidetracked by Raj. The little windstorm was so unnerving at the time, and
now the word infidelity has seriously shaken me. Paulo’s take on it does nothing to make me feel better. I remind myself that I’ve never given a minute of credibility to all my dad’s Greek mythology stories over the years. I refuse to get freaked out by brief spring weather anomalies that may or may not be related to my own questionable behavior.
Giving myself a shake, I take up my notebook again as the conversation rages on around me. I need to use this time to get as many details of the meal down as I can. Jumping up, I snap a few pictures of Paulo’s fire. For the first time, I see that the spit is attached to a motor. Of course it is. This is twenty-first-century Greece. It’s not like my lunch was just made by a giant who hand-turned his slaughtered lamb over a dragon-spawned fire. Get a grip, Gia.
I close my notebook and return to the table. As an outsider, it sounds like a yelling match, but really? Every conversation my dad has in Greek ends up the same—waving hands, jumping up, slamming the table. Only the fact they are all smiling, my dad often slapping Raj on the back when he pronounces a word correctly, betrays the benign nature of the conversation.
I feel strangely grateful to Raj for his ability to read the room, if nothing else. Of course, I can’t afford to think of anything else. Not now.
As I help myself to a second serving of salad, I watch him continue this halting conversation with Paulo in Greek, my dad interjecting periodically—and loudly—with the correct word. Raj’s hair is sticking straight up from his forehead, cemented skyward by a combination of sweat and dust. I can’t help thinking of Anthony, who would never be caught dead with a hair out of place. Even after his regular noontime game of handball—twice weekly—he emerges from the court with his hair unruffled and little more than a healthy glow along his cheekbones. But I get the feeling that even when Raj Malik isn’t too busy concentrating on his conversational skills, his hair isn’t really a priority. It’s long—not pandemic long, but still—and more windblown than it looked the other night.
