by kc dyer
Raj had to leave that first night, but he promised to help from afar, and he has. I gave him my dad’s phone, and he’s reached out and notified everyone on it, from my dad’s university colleagues to my half brothers and their families.
I did make the call—FaceTime, actually—to my own mom, who shocked both of us, I think, by offering to fly over. In the end, she agreed that attending the small memorial his department at the university plans to hold in the summer might do just as well.
“But are you sure you’re okay, honey?” she says, her face suddenly looming closer on my phone screen. “Do you have everything you need there?”
“I think so.” I glance down at my list. “It’s likely going to be pretty quiet. And I’ll be heading home the day after tomorrow.”
“We’ll get together for lunch soon, okay?” she offers. “With mimosas or something? Raise a glass to the old reprobate.” I agree this is a fine idea, and we say goodbye.
* * *
—
The morning of the funeral, before I start to get ready, I submit my final column to NOSH. The featured dish is a local sweet called rovani—made from rice, honey, olive oil, and spices—which I tasted for the first time with dinner the night before. It’s sticky enough to pull the fillings out of your mouth and sugary enough to cause a dozen more, but it seems fitting to end this journey with the sweetest possible finale.
I append a quick note to Charlotte telling her about my dad and send it off, awash in mixed feelings. It’s my first real commission as a writer, and in spite of everything, I’m so proud of myself for seeing it through to completion. The few notes I’ve had from Charlotte have all been positive, and—according to Devi, at least—there’s been a pretty good reception.
I pull on the new dress I’ve bought for the funeral. It’s got cute little shoulder ties and is in a pink floral I can wear with my teal cardigan. Shoulder ties are not exactly de rigueur for funeral-wear, but I know my dad would roll over in the grave he’s not quite in yet if I wore black. I’ve only managed one sleeve of the cardigan when an e-mail pings through.
Gianna!
I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your father. I know how important a figure he has been in your life, and his presence is felt in every part of the story you’ve woven through this series. I know he will be dearly missed.
My plan was to save this offer for once you were home and rested, but considering your circumstances, I expect this may be a bit of a hard day for you. Let me lighten it to this extent: we at NOSH would like to extend you the offer of a full-time writing position. We’re in the market for a roving foodie columnist, and we believe the series you’ve just completed shows you are more than up to the task.
Think about it, and once you’re home and have caught up on your sleep, we can talk details.
Sending all my best to you as you celebrate the life of your colorful father,
Charlotte
PS: It might amuse you to note we have been fielding requests to loan you out as a “culinary expert” from some outfit I’ve never heard of before. It’s called ExLibris—apparently they recreate literary journeys? Sounds pretty sketchy to me. Keep a wary eye out!
—C
And with this cheering news, I finish putting on a funeral dress best suited for a person with a colorful father and head out to say goodbye to my dad.
* * *
—
If Ari had died at home in New York City, I expect there would have been hundreds of people at his funeral, all in one way or another beneficiaries of the lifelong Aristotle Kostas charm offensive. By this standard, the ritual that takes place at the tiny chapel in Ithaca is a quiet affair, but the attendees? Are anything but.
The tiny white chapel stands near the harbor mouth to the town of Ithaca. It is walking distance from the little guesthouse where we are staying, and so I walk over, with Talia holding one of my hands and Pene the other. The chapel is painted in the classic Greek colors of white and blue, with a slate roof and a teeny bell tower. The bell is ringing as we approach, and the blue front door, which faces the sea, is flung wide open.
Inside, the chapel has room for perhaps thirty people, and as I walk up the stone steps, it is overflowing with familiar faces. Taki is there, crying already and blowing his nose into a large, red handkerchief. Herman is with him too, perched atop the reading lamp on the pulpit. And at the front of the chapel stands Raj. He looks impossibly handsome, wearing what I’m pretty sure is the same suit he wore the night I met him in Athens, though I suspect it’s been laundered since. He smiles and indicates the front row of seats, and the three of us slide past him and sit down.
At the front of the church on the altar is the picture of my dad taken with both my half brothers on the occasion of Tomas’s university graduation. I was about nine when it was taken, I think, and it’s the only picture I have of the three of us with my dad. The other photo is the tiny snapshot of Ari and Pene as teenagers. I have to take a deep breath when I see these two images, and suddenly, I feel Raj’s hand in my own.
Talia has done her job well, because the service—which, apart from a few words of welcome at the beginning, is entirely conducted in Greek—takes no longer than fifteen minutes. During each of the three hymns, Herman sways on his perch, raising his crest and occasionally rubbing a cheek against one of the framed photos. There is a slight disruption in the middle, when Brother Wilde, trailing a cloud that smells distinctly like a mix of patchouli oil and weed, pushes through from one of the rear pews and offers a prayer in Italian. Other than that, things go pretty much as expected.
After the final hymn, mostly chanted as a solo by the attending priest, there is a stirring at the back, and six enormous men stride forward. At the head of the group is Paulo, his face serious.
I shoot a wide-eyed glance at Raj, and he grins a little sheepishly.
“Paulo offered to carry it by himself, but then I remembered your encounter with the basketball team in Crete. I checked if any of them live nearby. Only five did, but they all wanted to come, so . . .”
The coffin looks ridiculously small in the hands of these giants as they all pause to nod their heads at me on their way out the door. I can’t imagine how even two of them could fold themselves into the Mini Cooper that day, but the sight of them here makes me smile at the memory.
And, strangely enough, I don’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon. Afterward, we follow a collection of almost completely spherical ladies, all dressed in black, to a nearby hall, where a table groans under the weight of the Ithacan equivalent of finger foods. While the men seem to gather in one corner and the ladies in another, one by one, the amazing and wonderful people I’ve met on this crazy journey come up to say hello or to offer a memory of my dad.
Margarita swings up first, accompanied not by Federico of the fishing boat but by Guido the cabbie. She looks lovely in a black dress covered in tiny white polka dots and fitted to flatter her cleavage in a way her orange coveralls could only dream of. Guido has his hair slicked back with enough oil to thoroughly lube his cab and is wearing a black dress shirt, done up right to the neck, and tight jeans. Not once do I spot him letting go of Margarita’s hand.
Most of the basketball players are clustered near the food, and among them, I spot Sikka. Today she is wearing the black sparkly miniskirt, but this time topped with a comparatively modest t-shirt, emblazoned with a Def Leppard logo. Her Ivo sits beside her, his face like thunder, as she chats amiably with one of the players. When she catches my eye, she points silently at Raj and slowly and deliberately performs an unmistakably obscene gesture with her fingers before then pointing at me. Luckily, Raj misses this little display, but the basketball player she’s standing with grins widely and shuffles a little closer, effectively blocking my view.
I worry a little about Ivo, I have to admit.
In a corner near the savory dishes, I spot Paulo holdin
g forth with two or three of the other basketball players. He’s wearing exactly the same clothes I remember from the day by the cave near Mitra, right down to the eye patch. As I watch, he mimes taking a shot at a basket and then spreads his arms wide.
“And who could beat that shot?” he cries.
“NOBODY!” chorus the men around him, and they all roar with laughter.
“It might have been a mistake to call Paulo,” Raj whispers. “I—think he brought some of his wine.”
I grin. “I wouldn’t mind trying some of that . . .” I begin, when there is a stir across the room.
The basketball team uncluster themselves to allow an elegantly clad woman through the door. In her heels, she is as tall as any of them, and she is wearing what I find out later is a Hervé Léger wrap dress in deep red. It would a hundred percent meet with my dad’s approval, knowing his fondness for scarlet on a woman.
Teresa Cipher removes her sunglasses and scans the room before striding toward me.
“Gianna, my dear, I am so sorry,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “I would have been here sooner, but I was at a wedding and couldn’t get away until now.”
She turns to Raj. “Thank you so much for tracking me down, dear boy. I would have been devastated to miss being here.”
He beams back at her. “I remembered you said you were working in London, so I thought it might be worth at least sending you an e-mail.”
“I’m so glad you are able to be here, Ms. Cipher.” I release her gloved hand. “Is the wedding nearby?”
She smiles. “Close enough. It’s a pair of my staff members being married, if you can believe it, in the Eiffel Tower. The service was held in a tiny, private room at the top. I’ve left my partner there guarding the champagne.”
“All the way to Paris? Will you be able to make it back in time?”
She pats my hand. “Darling, jet helicopters were invented for this very situation.” Leaning forward, she places her head beside my ear. There is a sudden faint scent of white roses and bergamot.
“This isn’t the time or place, my dear, but I just want you to know I’ve put in a word at that lovely magazine you work for. I have a little commission in mind that I think might suit you.”
“That—that would be amazing.” I can’t help wondering what Charlotte will make of this blond goddess.
Teresa gives my hand a final squeeze. “I’ll be in touch, darling.”
Then she turns to Raj and offers him her hand. “Lovely to see you again, Dr. Malik.”
“And you, Ms. Cipher,” he says, but as he shakes her hand, I see his eyes widen.
“I was terribly fond of Gianna’s father,” she says quietly. “And I do hope your intentions with his daughter are—noble. I would so hate to see her hurt in any way.”
“Absolutely,” Raj gasps, as she releases him at last. He shoots me a sideways glance and flexes his hand a few times.
“Marvelous,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Until we meet again.”
And with that, she sweeps out of the tiny hall and is gone.
* * *
—
Before we leave the reception, Raj shows me an urn he has found, a near replica of the piece in Circe’s cave that was discovered buried next to the stone tablet. “For the ashes,” he says. “If you want it, that is.”
We leave it with the priest, and Talia promises to pick it up when it’s ready.
“I’ll keep it until you’re set to come back,” she says. “We’ll find the best place for him together, yes?”
I think I’m going to like having a sister.
* * *
—
That night, still wearing my sundress, and with Raj still in his suit, we walk barefoot along the clean, white sands of the beach near the guesthouse. The sea is crowned with a thin golden line, and the stars are just beginning to wink into the sky one by one. There isn’t another soul to be seen in any direction.
“I can see why your dad loved it here so much,” he says quietly. “It’s so incredibly beautiful.”
I sigh a little. “I don’t want to talk about my dad. It’ll make me cry again.”
“It’s okay if you cry,” he says, “if you still need to. It’s good for you.”
“I think I’m done for now. But let’s talk about something else.”
We’re both quiet a moment.
“So,” he says at last, “you’re really through with Anthony, then?”
“Ugh, yes. And I don’t want to talk about him either.”
Raj shoots me a sideways glance. “I once heard your dad say you needed to be with Anthony. That he was good for you.”
I shake my head firmly. “He didn’t know the real Anthony. And anyway, what he actually said was that it didn’t matter who I was with, he just wanted me to be happy.”
“Good,” says Raj. “I just want to make sure you’re not carrying a torch for him.”
I laugh. “No torches. Unless I can have one to burn him at the stake, maybe?”
He slings his arm over my shoulder and pulls me close. “That won’t be necessary. Enough blood has already been spilled.”
I pretend to not notice that he preens a little as he says this.
Instead, I laugh. “Okay, well, speaking of torches—why don’t you tell me about the girl in London. About Sachi?”
He shoots me a startled look. “Seriously? Listen, you don’t need to worry about all of that. It was a long time ago.”
“I know. And I’m not worried about it. But I’m interested. What happened after she went off to New York with Anthony?”
He jams his hand—his other hand, the one not around my shoulders—into his pocket. “She came home after about four months,” he says quietly. “Turns out he’d had a girlfriend in New York he neglected to mention.”
I, of course, have never met this girl, but I fume on her behalf. “So he broke her heart?”
Raj laughs wryly. “Yeah. She broke mine and then he broke hers. I’ll never know, of course, but I get the feeling he only wanted her to get her away from me. After that, I wonder if the thrill was gone.”
“Why didn’t you get back together?”
He sighs. “Ah, it was a long time ago. When she came back, things just weren’t the same. Anyway, last I heard, she’s happily married with twins. And I think she’s doing a play at one of the theaters in the West End.”
“So no torches being held for her, then?”
He shakes his head firmly. “Nary a one.” And then, for the first time since before the funeral, he pulls me close and smiles down at me. “Besides, my parents were relieved. They thought it meant they’d have a shot at choosing for me since I’d done so poorly the first time.”
I look up at him, startled. “Like—like an arranged marriage?”
He laughs. “My family are two generations away from India, Gia. My own parents married purely for love. But they are desi parents, right? They’re more than willing to find me a suitable girlfriend.”
“Which is . . . why you are here and not living in London?”
He laughs again. “You see right through me.”
“Exactly.” I pull away from him into the darkness.
He releases my hand and then takes a few hurried steps back as something flares out between us.
“What was that?” he says. I can’t see his face any longer, but his voice sounds a little startled.
“It’s my blanket from the Forzani brothers. You know—the guys who saved me from the giant squid?”
“You kept it?” he says, sounding incredulous. “As I recall, at the time it smelled pretty ripe.”
I laugh and sit myself down. “It was also covered in Anthony’s blood, thanks to you. I was kind of hoping the bloodstains would stick around, but there’s no denying the skill of Italian laundry ladies.
Clean as a whistle now.”
I pat the blanket beside me and undo the top button of my teal cardigan.
It’s so dark, I sense rather than see him sit down beside me. His arm brushes mine, and the feel of his skin on my own sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“I’m glad you kept it,” he says, tracing a finger down my neck.
“Of course I kept it.” I try not to squeak as his finger travels across my collarbone. “That was, I think, the single strangest day of my life. I might have lost my big hat on this trip, but I plan to keep this blanket forever.”
“It seems pretty useful right now,” he says, and I feel his fingers tracing my wrist under the cuff of my cardigan. I start to yank my arm out of the sleeve, but he stops me.
“Uh, can you leave it on?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. That’s the one you were wearing in the club that night, correct? I have some very—uh—happy memories of the hot girl in the blue cardigan.”
“Literally hot. That place was steaming.”
“I remember,” he whispers, his breath warm on my skin.
And the shoulder ties on my sundress turn out to have been the correct choice, after all.
Somehow we’re lying down, and then he’s running his finger back up and around the outer rim of my ear, which makes me laugh.
He laughs too, low in his throat, and then we stop laughing for a while and concentrate on other, far more important matters that suddenly arise.
* * *
—
Sometime much, much later, Raj’s phone lights up where it’s landed between us on the blanket.
“How are you getting a signal?” I murmur, still drowsy.
“SIM card,” he whispers and then kisses my shoulder as he reaches for the phone.
Seconds later, he gives a little squawk and sits up suddenly. In the light from the screen, I can see the paler skin below his tan line that arcs just beneath his hip bone. I trace my finger along it lightly, which makes him shiver. He drops the phone and rolls back down to kiss me again.
