by kc dyer
“I want to apologize for my forwardness earlier,” he says to the woman awkwardly. “I haven’t been here for so long, and when I saw your face, it brought back many memories. I hope I didn’t . . .”
Before he can finish his sentence, the woman slides the photograph across the table at him. He lifts it up and then scrambles for his reading glasses, dropping his sunglasses in the process. I scoop them up from the ground and set them on the table before leaning across to look at the photograph.
Then I have to remove my own sunglasses to look at it again.
It’s old, the blacks mostly faded out to grey, but there is no question that it’s a picture of my father as a teenager. He looks like a baby—face still round, no mustache, or at least, when I look closer, maybe only the start of a mustache. Regardless, it’s a very young Aristotle Kostas, and he’s holding the hand of a young woman. Someone who could be this woman’s younger sister.
The color completely drains out of my dad’s face.
“My Pene . . . ?” he whispers, looking up at her. “This is my Penelope.”
The woman nods. “Yes,” she says, her voice sounding stronger. “But this is also my mother.”
chapter twenty-eight
STILL WEDNESDAY
Culurgiones
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the island of Sardinia
These brilliant little pockets are a splendid surprise, fashioned out of durum wheat to form dumplings stuffed to the brim with ricotta, with the startling addition of local mint, plucked fresh from . . .
It might be only eleven o’clock in the morning, but it takes a full bottle of red wine for Aristotle’s color to return. He’s so busy asking questions, the woman, who gives her name as Talia, can barely keep up.
At this point, even I have kissed any thought of productivity on this day goodbye and had a glass of red myself. The wine does a hell of a better job at soothing my burned throat than the water did.
Just saying.
It’s not until Ari has fired every possible question about the health (generally pretty good, with a bit of arthritis in her knees), well-being (same, without the arthritis), and whereabouts (not here, which is all that matters at the moment) of Talia’s mother that she finds time to take a deep breath. She drains her own glass and, with a sideways glance at me, slides the document over to my dad.
His brow furrows as he unfurls the page and stares at it uncomprehendingly.
Even reading upside down, I can tell immediately what it is, though not what it says.
I can see right away it’s a government document.
A birth certificate for a baby, Talia Angelina Natale. The name of the mother is listed: Penelope Assunta Consolata Natale. The name of the father is blank.
My dad looks confused, and after a moment, Talia reaches across and places her finger under the date of birth.
He looks up at her then, and his face is a revelation. He’s still got his sunglasses off, so I watch his expression morph from puzzlement to stunned shock and finally to clarity. And this is how we both learn that yes—I have a half sister.
My dad manages to slide the page over to me before losing it completely, dropping his head onto his arms on the table and sobbing. Over his head, I meet Talia’s eyes and see in them the same stunned shock that I am feeling.
Maybe not quite the same. But it’s shock, no doubt. The two of us sit in silence as our father cries his eyes out.
Inside the café, I see the barista just shaking her head. I’m quite sure she’s had her fill of crying Kostases for the day. And of course, no one—no one cries from the heart like a Greek male. I feel so stunned myself, I don’t know what to think. I mean, his earlier pretty vague belief that this woman, this stranger he spotted on the street and whose face reminded him of his young love—it turns out to be justified.
Talia is her mother’s daughter, and his own too.
I don’t know if it was my earlier outburst or the fact that I’ve just been so angry with him all morning, but in this moment, at least, I don’t feel even a little bit tempted to join in the tears.
The truth is, I really don’t know what to think. I mean, I grew up knowing I had two half brothers, but I only got to see them a few times on family holidays, and trust me when I say it was always awkward.
But a sister? A sister who lives half a world away from me? A sister I had no idea until this moment existed.
I risk looking over at Talia while my dad is still in full flow. She’s sitting beside him, one hand on his arm and the other on his shoulder, just watching him. Not saying a word. He’s been mopping his face with paper napkins from the table, but after a few minutes, she pulls a handkerchief from somewhere and wordlessly places it in one of his hands.
Her eyes have not left his face since she passed him the certificate. I realize that she herself never thought this moment would arrive. A life-changing moment on a day when she had only set out expecting to sell her baskets in the town marketplace.
The handkerchief seems to help in the end, and after mopping his face several times and blowing his nose in a way I would never tolerate under any other circumstances, my dad seems to get a grip on himself.
“I’m sorry,” he says and reaches to take Talia’s hand. She looks a little startled at this but doesn’t pull away. With his other hand, he reaches for mine. “I am so sorry—to both of you. Not for crying—but for all the mistakes I have made that led to this moment.”
He shakes his head, and his eyes well up again. “So many, many mistakes.”
I hastily pull my hand away and, using the handle of a knife, poke the damp handkerchief back toward his hand.
“Do I need to take you back to the guesthouse?” I glance over at Talia. “Should we talk in private?”
He shakes his head. “No, no, I’ll hold it together, koritsi, I promise.”
He doesn’t, of course.
But what the hell? We’ve come this far already, and I desperately want to hear Talia’s story too.
Focusing on her hands, which she folds in front of her, Talia takes a big, shaky breath.
“I don’t know many of details, because my mother, she—she very sad and also angry whenever I ask. A bit better now, but when I was adolescente—a teenager—she almost never want to talk about—about you,” she says, shooting a quick look at Ari. “I think she was around fifteen when you met, yes?”
My dad nods and pats the table. “We met here—right here in this market,” he says. “It’s the reason I came down this morning. To revisit old memories. But I never dreamed . . .”
He smothers a half hiccup, half sob in his sodden handkerchief.
I reach across and pat Talia’s clasped hands, and she looks at me, startled.
“Just carry on,” I whisper. “He’s going to keep doing this. Greek men.”
“Greek men,” she says at the same moment, and the accidental chorus of our voices is so entirely unplanned, we both have to laugh.
She angles her chair then so she can see my face along with my dad’s—our dad’s—and my heart suddenly feels tight in my chest. “Go on.”
I’m more interested in distracting myself than rushing her. But my dad clears his throat.
“I was sixteen, and Pene was eleven months younger,” he says. “I was crewing on a ship, but fishing? It’s not so important here as back in Greece, so after I meet your mama, I quit the ship and take a job at an inn. The building I work was just up the hill, over there.”
He points across to where the hills rise up from the other side of the village. “I wash the dishes and sweep the rooms and change the sheets. And I meet your mama whenever we can.”
Talia nods. “Yes. She told me you work on fishing boat—she say you left and never come back.”
My dad shakes his head suddenly. “No, no, no. I never did that. We we
re in love. One evening, I went to see her after work, to the little shed behind the house where the jars of olive oil were stored. I got to the door, and Pene was not there. Her mother arrived instead with her broom. She beat me like I was a carpet. She was crazy with fury.”
He mimes a madwoman swinging her broom extremely convincingly.
“I pleaded to see Pene, but her mother said she was gone. Gone to a new school, far away.”
Talia nods at this. “My nonna,” she whispers. “She love me so much, but she will never say name of my father. She spit, give sign of evil eye.”
I think about my Dutch oma—who cycles everywhere, wears sensible shoes, and feeds me stroopwafel and milky tea—and feel a moment of strange relief.
“She did go to convent school, I know that,” Talia adds. “Over in Porto Torres, I think. The nuns help when I was born. They want to give me to another family, but my mother refuse.”
My dad wipes his eyes. “I went back to the inn—I boarded there too, you understand, and the innkeeper threw me out. He had heard from Pene’s father, he said. And if I knew what was good for me, I would leave town.”
“So you left?” asks Talia.
My dad shakes his head. “No—not then. I slept in the olive grove, and then when I got caught, I moved my blanket to the cork forest. I stayed for weeks—maybe a month—searching for the school.” He pauses and sighs deeply.
“I never knew—never even guessed that Pene was going to have a baby. I mean—I was so young. She was my first love. In those days . . .”
He sighs again. “But, you know, I had to eat. I tried to make it home to Greece but found a job on Malta and worked there a long time. Later, I got a job on another ship, this one to England. I sent many letters to Pene to tell her that I loved her, but I heard nothing back.”
He pauses to wipe his eyes. “In London, I worked in restaurants and cafés, and I got lucky. I was accepted back into school, and I worked very hard on a scholarship. The only one I could get was in Classics, and it reminded me of all the stories I heard growing up in Greece. When I got an invitation to study in America, I sent one last letter. Still no reply. My heart broke to pieces in my chest, but what could I do? I took a big ship to New York, and there I became me—who I am now. But I never forgot my Pene.”
Talia’s eyes widen. “She wrote you too,” she says softly. “At least, she say she did. But she never spoke to me of your letters. I wonder . . .” She’s quiet a moment.
“When I was small—before school—my mother fight with her family. One night, she pack up all our things, and we move away—to Roma. That was where I grew up and went to school. I only came back here when my grandparents die. They leave me the farm. Not much land left—they had sold the orchards, but I have the old house. My mother would not come with me. She is retired now and has her own place near Santa Maria di Leuca.”
Talia glances at me. “On the heel of Italian boot,” she clarifies and then turns back to Ari.
“When I was growing up, she would tell me of my father living in America. I even saw you once on the television when I was eight—or maybe nine. I beg Mama to call you, but she say no. Again and again, I ask her why she not reach out. ‘I call him when I need him and he did not come,’ she would say. ‘I don’t need him anymore.’ ”
Even I cry, then.
We end up sitting at our little café table for most of that day, sharing stories. Laughing a lot. Crying a bit too. Periodically, food arrives, and we all eat some of it, but not much. I don’t take a single picture or make a single note. As the light of day begins to fade, Talia stands up.
“I’m sorry—I have to go now,” she says quietly. “Perhaps we can have a chance to meet again before you leave?”
We exchange numbers, and then she is gone.
My dad goes in to pay the bill, and I thank the staff for their patience over this long, strange day. As we walk up the hill to our guesthouse, dusk falls, and the stars begin to wink into the sky above our heads. My dad, rather than looking exhausted, has a bit of a feverish glow in his eyes that I don’t like the look of at all. But the wine has made him drowsy, and I manage to convince him to get some rest.
After he goes up to his room, I head back down to the front desk, where the Wi-Fi has been miraculously repaired. On a whim, I send a text to the number Talia gave me earlier.
A strange and wonderful day.
Seconds later, my phone pings.
Is strange you my sister. But also wonderful.
And then, after a moment . . . she adds something more.
My mother tell me very terrible stories about my father.
I laugh a little and type back:
My mother too. And some of them were true. But not all.
There is no reply.
But much later that night, as I brush my teeth, my phone lights up one last time.
No, I read in the darkness. Not all.
chapter twenty-nine
THURSDAY
La Mungetas
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the island of Sardinia
These wonderful arthropods, their twisty secrets hidden within, range in size from the miniature minudda ciuta all the way up to the giant ciogas, and elevate the experience of eating snails to a gourmand’s delight . . .
The sun is streaming through my window as I awaken, and I take a minute to be grateful that my dad decided to embark on this crazy trip at the perfect time of year. The weather has been mostly splendid, and all this sunshine is waking something up inside my skin that I didn’t even know was there.
And not only that—I have a sister!
Even cuddled under the warm duvet, this gives me a little shiver of joy.
I remember asking my mom for a sister when I was really small—maybe the Christmas I was seven? I added her to my list for Santa, along with a selection of Beanie Babies. My mom looked at the list and laughed, which made me sad. It wasn’t a joke. I wanted someone to share everything with. Older half brothers, who lived far away and I never got to see, didn’t fit the bill.
Before I went to sleep last night, I lay in bed and typed the whole story, beginning to end, in an e-mail to Anthony. I tried calling him first, of course, but once again, his phone went straight to voice mail. I reach across to the end table—which in this room is a little wrought iron patio table painted white—and unplug my phone from its charger.
My heart sinks. Nothing from Anthony. I almost dial straight through to him when I remember to check the time—after two a.m. in New York.
Dropping the phone on the bed, my mind wanders back to Talia Natale. Talia Kostas, by rights, not that I hold with the whole old-fashioned patronymic system. And in any case, her last name has no bearing on the fact that she is my sister. Her face floats in my mind’s eye as she was yesterday—beautiful olive-colored skin, rich chestnut hair. She has a tiny streak of grey emerging from one of her temples, which she had neatly tucked behind one ear. I can totally see my dad in the lines at the corner of her eyes, emphasized by her tan. I realize, with a shock, that she must be two or three years older than my own mother. Under normal circumstances, that would feel pretty icky.
But then—nobody knew. And by nobody, I mean my dad.
And if he had known, what are the chances that I would even be here?
I make an executive decision. The joy stays.
Checking my phone, I see there’s still nothing from Anthony. Yeah, yeah, it’s the middle of the night in New York, and I shouldn’t expect anything, but still . . .
The birdsong from outside the window—combined with a too-full bladder—gets me out of bed at last. When I emerge from the shower, I find a text from Talia, offering to meet up later today. She’s got a work commitment until five. I agree immediately and then go down to find my dad to tell him I will come to see the giants’ archeological site with him today, after all.<
br />
* * *
—
Ari has hired a car to take us to the site, which is across the other side of Sardinia from where we are staying. The drive is not too long, and the vistas are incredibly beautiful, but I have to say—I kind of miss Taki. And I really miss Herman. His salient, single-word observations have enlivened my NOSH pieces more than I would like to admit.
The Giants’ Graves at Arzachena are incredible. The island of Sardinia has been inhabited since time immemorial, and the ancient civilizations here put many other world sites to shame. Before the Romans truly made their presence known from across the water, this island was in the clutches of the Nuragic culture, which takes its name from a very specific form of structure built by the ancient Sardinians. These structures—known as nuraghes—are kind of a cross between a monument and a fortress, and can be found all across the island. Upward of seven thousand of these amazing stone towers have been identified in all, though probably at one time, there were many more. The best part is that no one can really agree on what these buildings were used for—military strongholds, residences, meeting places, religious sites—or perhaps any and all of these things. What is known is that they formed an integral part of a culture that was so ruthlessly swept away by the Romans that only mystery remains. Today, we don’t even know what these people called themselves.
But the Tomba dei Giganti are a different form of mystery—and monument—altogether. Whether it was a grave, or even a funerary site at all, is in total dispute. The site is small, not far from a busy roadway, and pretty much surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The boulders that form the gravestones look like giant chipped and crooked teeth lined up around the site of the possible tomb. All the same, it strikes me as more of a tourist attraction than an actual archeological site. There are, in fact, a handful of tourists walking around, but the only language I hear spoken is Italian.
