An Accidental Odyssey

by kc dyer

  Before I can react, he is on his feet, reaching out the window. Raj grabs hastily at his sleeve, but the top of the wrought iron rail is high enough to ensure there’s no danger of a fall. Luckily, he doesn’t fight us and returns compliantly to his chair almost immediately.

  “Pops,” I say again. “What did you eat for lunch?”

  “The future meets the past,” my dad says, beaming. “Magda—this is my Gia.” He gestures to me and then out the window. “Gia, this is Magdalena. And of course, you both know Consolata.”

  Raj looks from the open window to my father and then back at me. He raises his hands, palms up.

  Do you want me to go find a doctor? he mouths. Out loud he says, “We had those prosciutto sandwiches for lunch, remember, Ari? And what about the olives? Weren’t they delicious?”

  My dad just beams his gentle smile into the ether, communing with ghosts.

  I sigh and force myself to meet Raj’s eyes. “I think he’s eaten mushrooms. We—we had a little problem with this already, back in Crete.”

  My dad clutches at Raj’s sleeve. “It’s great stuff, dude,” he says and then dissolves into helpless laughter.

  “Mushrooms?” Raj says, slowly. “As in . . .”

  “Psilocybin. Magic mushrooms.”

  And then, before I can stop myself, I tell him the whole story. Even though I try to keep it short, this is no easy task, as my dad keeps interrupting us with tales of crossing the River Styx and introductions to various ancestors, visible—of course—only to him.

  “That’s—quite a story,” says Raj, his voice low. “Was this inside the caves? It’s a miracle you found your way out.”

  I nod. “I thought he’d finished all of them in Crete.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, this sounds like I’m making an excuse. “I mean, I didn’t even ask him at the time. I thought they all went into the omelet that morning.”

  “Consolata knows,” Ari hisses suddenly. He holds one hand to the side of his mouth, like someone trying to sell you something out of the trunk of a car. “She’s shown me the way.”

  “The way to . . . ?” Raj asks, politely.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t try to talk to him. He’s not going to make any sense at all until this stuff wears off.”

  “The way to the answer, of course,” replies my father, the stoner. “The route. The path. The artifact. The answer.” He waves his hands in Raj’s face, sketching out an elaborate pattern that means absolutely nothing to either of us.

  “This is pure nonsense, Pops, and you know it.”

  I’ve clearly reached the point of peak humiliation when I’m forced to castigate my stoned father. He’s not hearing a word I say anyway and, ignoring me completely, launches back into a conversation with whoever is speaking to him out of the now purpling sky.

  I rub my eyes and turn back to Raj, but I’m too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “I can take it from here. He should be back to normal by the morning.”

  Raj clears his throat. “Are you—ah—sure there are no medical implications?”

  I shake my head. “Apparently not. I mean, beyond him trying to throw himself out that window to talk to—to Consolata, whoever she is.”

  “She is Magdalena’s great-grandmother,” my dad says from his chair. His eyes are, once again, tightly closed. “She has come to show me the way.”

  Walking across the room, I swing the door open for Raj, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Instead, he squats down by my dad’s chair, dropping his hands onto the old man’s knees. “It’s been a long day, Ari,” he says quietly. “Perhaps we can chat about things over breakfast in the morning?”

  My dad pats one of Raj’s hands. “A fine idea. By then, I should have the exact location for you. And we can find the answer together, yes?”

  “For crying out loud, Pops!” My patience is entirely gone, but Raj just stands up and smiles at him.

  “Good. See you in the morning, then,” he says. By the time he’s made the three strides over to the door, my dad’s head has fallen back into the wing of the chair, and he is snoring gently.

  “I am so sorry,” I find myself whispering, but Raj shakes his head.

  “You didn’t know. Anyway, it’s my fault. I watched him cleaning out the contents of a little plastic bag just as we walked into the cave. I thought it was granola or something, but when he didn’t offer me any, I didn’t ask.”

  “Oh, thank god he didn’t.” I stare at him wide-eyed, horrified at the very thought.

  Raj shrugs. “It doesn’t look like it’s done you any long-term damage,” he says and, for the first time, gives me a real smile. He turns to leave.

  “Listen.” I reach out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the mushrooms before. I was just so embarrassed. After the situation with Paulo and the wine at your site that time—I mean, this is not the norm, is all I’m saying.”

  “I know that,” Raj says, quietly. “I’ve worked with your dad for over a year, remember.”

  I follow him out into the corridor. “Okay. It’s just—the mushrooms really were just an accident, at least the first time. I don’t want you to think he’s some old hippie, tripping out and wasting your time.”

  Raj laughs then. “It’s okay. I don’t think that at all.”

  A wave of relief washes over me. “Good. And thank you very much for looking after him so well.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. See you then.”

  I watch him walk down the hallway toward the stairs and then close the door. I spend the next hour searching my dad’s things like a hound dog on the scent of an escaped convict. I start with the room, looking through every drawer and under the mattress like an FBI pro.

  At some point about halfway into my search, my dad rises and goes into the bathroom. I redouble my efforts, but after searching every bag and the dividers in his briefcase twice, all I find is a single plastic baggie, tattered now, and jammed into the pocket of his jacket.

  Emerging from the bathroom smelling like toothpaste, my dad wanders over to his bed and collapses into it. He is completely oblivious to me going through all his stuff.

  “G’night, koritsi,” he mumbles into his pillow. “Don’t forget to kiss your great-grandmother, eh?”

  This reminds me to close—and lock—the enormous shutters and pocket the tiny brass key.

  Jamming the tattered baggie into my pocket, I head for my own room.

  I never want to see another mushroom again as long as I live.

  chapter thirty-two

  SATURDAY

  Amargoso Amaretti

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, near San Felice Circeo, Italy

  These sweet nothings are the most delectable macaroons you’ll ever taste. They cross the boundary from bitter almond to sweet and back again in a way that makes the palate sing. Begin with . . .

  I wake up to a text from Devi in reply to one I’d fired off to her after getting my dad to bed the night before. After hearing the whole story, she is clearly just as amused as Raj had been and insists that there is likely no contraindication from the hallucinogen in the mushrooms to my dad’s blood thinners.

  Did you read that article I sent you? If anything, he probably had a better trip.

  I can hear the chortle in her words, which does nothing for my mood.

  My dad is waiting for me, looking fresh as a daisy, at a table on the patio. Beside the table, the server has driven over a cart bearing a complete coffee service, still steaming, and a selection of biscotti.

  “You look very well this morning, Ari,” I say, pouring myself coffee from the carafe. I sit across from him, my back to the splendid view of the Mediterranean.

  He looks hurt. “Ar
i? What is this Ari? You are my baby, don’t forget. The last of my children to call me Papa.”

  I snort and reach across for a biscotti to dunk in my coffee. “You’re not acting much like a papa these days. Taking unregulated hallucinogens. Scaring your colleagues—and me.”

  The biscotti melts away into the coffee, and I have to retrieve it with a spoon. It is absolutely delicious and even improves the flavor of the coffee. Tilting the remaining biscotti on the saucer, I manage to snap a shot or two before my dad scoops it up to eat.

  “Darling,” he says, dunking thoughtfully. “You know that before everything, I am a scientist. Science rules my every decision. Yes, I made a mistake in Crete. It was an honest one, I promise you.”

  I sigh and sip my coffee. “I believe you.”

  “I should hope so. I abhor drug use, you know that. It’s never crossed my mind to ingest any hallucinogenic substance, let alone psilocybin—well, ever. And I certainly would never have given it to you, my baby girl, knowingly.”

  This makes me laugh. “Oh, I’m sure of that. All those lectures when I was in high school. You even made me watch Reefer Madness—remember that?”

  He laughs too, then. “Guilty as charged. But look at the result!”

  He stretches an arm out toward me proudly.

  “Thanks a lot. You make it sound like I’m a prize heifer brought to the market. Just so you know, most kids rebel against that kind of hard line. It just wasn’t my thing, is all.” I drain my coffee. “And anyway, what happened to you, Mister High and Mighty?”

  “That’s Dr. High and Mighty, thank you very much,” he says, grinning.

  “Well?”

  He’s quiet a minute, finishing his coffee. “I did some research.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Online. And I e-mailed Dr. Elle.”

  At this moment, the server arrives, replacing the carafe and bringing a fresh basket of biscotti. The Italian tradition of breakfast being the least important meal of the day is definitely upheld here, but the biscotti are divine.

  When the server leaves, I pounce on my dad’s remark.

  “Dr. Elle? You mean Teresa Cipher’s friend? Just to be clear, she brought that doctor in strictly to check on your health because I was worried about you. Until you decided to—you know—hit on her.”

  He shoots me a haughty look. “You mistake me, my girl. I love women, yes, of course I do. I love them because they are strong and beautiful but, above all, because they are smart. Take your mother, for example. She is a terribly clever woman.”

  “That’s true, though I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say it before.”

  He shrugs. “She is too clever to stay with me.”

  “Also true. But quit changing the subject. Are you telling me you’ve been in touch with Dr. Elle since that day on Crete?”

  He nods. “She sent me some information. A few articles and a piece from The Lancet.”

  Pulling his phone from his pocket, he flicks through the screen for a moment and then holds it out to me.

  “Since when have you been doing e-mail on your phone?”

  He chuckles. “Your papa might be an old dog, but . . .”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  I glance down at his screen and then scroll to the top and take a closer look. It’s the very same paper Devi sent to me. Speechless, I hand his phone back.

  “This research raises some very interesting theories on brain function and the role of the human conscious.” He shrugs. “So, I want to raise my consciousness. Who cares? My brain’s not very trustworthy these days. Who knows when it’s going to give out on me for good?”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  He reaches across to pat the back of my hand. “This journey—every stop I make is for a reason, koritsi. All these years, I’ve felt like something is missing. Somehow, somewhere, there is proof—hard proof—that so far, everyone has missed. Again and again in my work, I find references to a piece that depicts Odysseus’s story that is contemporaneous to his journey.”

  “A piece? Like a piece of writing?”

  He lifts his shoulders. “It could be a depiction of the journey on an amphora or other vessel. It may be the words themselves pressed into the side of an everyday object. But somewhere, those early verses of Homer’s exist as written proof. Proof that the journey—or at least the story of the journey—took place in the third century, or perhaps even earlier.”

  I shoot him a skeptical glance.

  “That’s your holy grail? Somebody’s old stew pot etched with a story told by an ancient blind poet who may or may not have even existed?”

  His smile is sad. “For the past year, my girl, I plan to come here. All my hopes are pinned on finding the key—the final puzzle piece to cement my research. And you know what I got so far?”

  “No . . .”

  “Nothing, that’s what. A big, fat zero. And time is running out, if not for me, for this journey. So yesterday, I visited the cave, and I am sure—so sure—that the evidence will be there. I looked through all morning with Raj, but we find nothing. So I think—I maybe am looking at things the wrong way. I might need some new insight. And then I remember that I have a few—just a few—of those special mushrooms left.”

  He sets his coffee cup into the saucer with a clatter. “And what can I say? I was right. So I send what I learned to Raj this morning, and he tells me he can go once more through his site near Circe’s cave.” He sighs. “Perhaps we shall find nothing. But once I complete this journey, in my heart, I will know that I have given the theory my all. If I can’t cement my place in history beside Homer, at least I will have tried my best.”

  “So, is the site here the last of the digs, then? What about—don’t you plan to visit Malta on the way back to Greece?”

  His eyes twinkle. “Ah, yes, at first, but no longer. Last night, I sent a message to Teresa, and she agreed to a little change of plan.”

  Change of plan. Those words have never bothered me before, but after this trip, I hope I never hear them again.

  “And that means?”

  He shrugs. “I spent the unhappiest days of my life in Malta. After I lost Pene, I crewed on a ship back to Greece, but it was a disaster. One night, when the ship stopped in Malta, I was robbed and beaten up and thrown in jail for fighting. By the time I got out, my ship had sailed. I lost all will to do anything after losing Pene, and so I ended up staying there seven years. It’s where I met Helena and where Tomas was born.”

  “Tomas? My brother Tomas? Doesn’t he live in London?”

  He nods. “Helena and I took a chance to make things better, and we moved to England, but—well, long story. It didn’t work out.”

  He falls silent.

  “So, we’re not going to Malta, after all?”

  His face brightens. “No. Instead, we take the train from Napoli across to Taranto, and we pick up the boat to Ithaca there. It’s quicker, and we can stop on the way in Santa Maria.”

  “Okay, I finally get it. Santa Maria di Leuca. Where Pene lives.”

  “Where Pene lives.” His smile lights up his face. “I have so much to tell her.”

  “Pops, I love to see you so happy. It’s—it’s amazing. I can see how much meeting up with Pene means to you. But you’ve got to remember what we talked about. She may not even want to see you again.”

  “No, no, you are right. I remember what you said, and I have turned a new leaf. This decision must be completely hers. I cannot plan her life for her, I know that. But just to see her again will be enough. It means everything.”

  “I can tell.”

  “And for you—we complete our circle of the Mediterranean, and you can finish your assignment, yes?”

  “Okay—yes, that still works for me.” I pause a moment, then smile at him. “Thanks for thinking of th
at, Pops. It means a lot. I finished my latest piece last night. I just need to submit it this morning, and I might actually be able to take a day off to explore Capri.”

  “Good, good.” He claps his hands and then rubs them together. “It’s a beautiful place, you’ll see. You can lie on the beach or even climb the Via Krupp while I visit with this new colleague. And the day after that, we take the train from Naples, eh?”

  The thought of a day on the beach is too good to miss. It’s a matter of seconds to log in and send the piece off to Charlotte, and ten minutes after that, we’re striding down toward the docks and the water taxi that will buzz us over to what the tourist brochures all call “the magical Isle of Capri.”

  In retrospect, I’m guessing that reads better than “Capri—site of one disaster after another.”

  It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

  chapter thirty-three

  STILL SATURDAY MORNING

  Parmigiana Melanzane

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Naples, Italy

  Mythology has it that nothing is more powerful than the siren’s call to the sea, but in this case alone, it might be worth holding out. When this Neapolitan wonder is served without shrimp or scampi, this dish makes a delicious option for vegetarians. The secret is a delicate pairing of eggplant with a version of local mozzarella called fiordelatte, combined with . . .

  Raj Malik is waiting for us by the water taxi when we arrive, as it is to his friend that my dad is to be introduced today. Apparently Raj also needs to collect a piece of equipment from the guy to use on the excavation of his site at San Felice. My dad, while technically sobered up, is still completely unrepentant about his mushroom-fueled adventure of the day before. He spends the trip across the water explaining to Raj how the vision that was carried to him in the form of one or another of his great-grandmothers might prove his theory after all.