The Thread (22 page)

‘Once you forget someone’s face and know that you are never going to see them again, they are dead, aren’t they? Or at least they might as well be.’

‘Yes, but you still didn’t
know
. You couldn’t have done. And anyway, no one knows, even now. That’s what the letter says.’

Katerina thought of her mother. She could hardly recall her face now and wondered if that meant that she was dead too.

The twins continued their argument for some time, bickering about whether or not their father was dead. Eventually Eugenia had had enough.

‘Girls, please stop. Now! It’s time for bed.’

The two of them stomped up the stairs, leaving Katerina to say good night to Eugenia alone.

Katerina gave her a hug. She saw that Eugenia had the handkerchief she had embroidered for her on her lap.

‘Thank you for this, Katerina,’ she said, laying it out to admire the rose and the butterfly. ‘You must have worked so hard to make it and it’s so beautiful.’

Katerina saw there were tears in Eugenia’s eyes and assumed that they were for her lost husband. She was not quite sure what to do.

‘It took me a little while,’ she said brightly. ‘Do you like the edging? I made that stitch up myself. And did you see the butterfly?’

What really caused a lump in Eugenia’s throat was not the news of her husband. That already seemed like something in the past. What stirred her was the utter flawlessness of this embroidery and the innocence of its execution. While there was an urge and an instinct to create such beauty there was hope. In those five years since their flight from Asia Minor, there had been so many dark times, but such moments, such gestures as these, gave it light. The artistry and perfection created by these small hands had moved her beyond words.

‘Yes,’ she managed to say quietly. ‘I love the butterfly.’

B
Y THE TIME
Katerina was thirteen, her prodigious talent for needlework had grown and her passion for it was obsessional. She had been spending more and more time with Kyria Moreno.

She was now embroidering antimacassars, table cloths and pillowcases with inset panels of hand-crafted lace. The edges were crocheted with a hook that was no thicker than a tapestry needle. Once a week, Eugenia would pack them into a bag, walk to one of the wealthier parts of the city and sell them door to door. They were high-quality work and worth far more than people paid for them, but when she returned her bag was always empty and her purse full. Katerina’s talents meant that they were never hungry.

Eugenia had lost the argument with the twins. They had already started work at the tobacco factory on the edge of the city and were happy with their new daily routine. It was demanding but sociable, and kept them busy from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon with a bonus if their manager was impressed by the speed and quality of their work. Sofia often got a few extra coins on pay day, even though her sorting was no different from anyone else’s, and Maria noticed how flirtatious her sister was with their supervisor. She concluded that the two things were probably connected but said nothing, knowing that her sister would be ready with a sharp rebuke.

Life at number 5 Irini Street was very quiet without the twins. Eugenia worried about them being so far away and remained unhappy about the work they were doing. At least she knew that Katerina was unlikely to follow them. Her extraordinary talent would take her on another path.

‘Eugenia,’ said Roza one day, ‘Saul says that as soon as you are ready for her to leave school, Katerina is welcome to come and work with him. Elias started last week and it would be nice to have another youngster joining the business.’

‘I think it should be soon, Roza. It’s what she wants.’

‘He is interested to see how her skills will apply to ladies’ fashions,’ she continued. ‘He has high hopes for her, you know.’

‘Shall we talk to her about it later?’

That evening, the two women raised the idea with Katerina. The child leaped at the idea of leaving school with enthusiasm. The mathematics she had learned would be useful as there were always calculations to be done with patterns, measurements and numbers of stitches, but the other subjects, such as science, history and geography, had always seemed tedious to her. She had never understood how they connected with her life.

The following day, the three of them went to the Moreno workshop in Filipou Street, a fifteen-minute walk from Irini Street. Kyrios Moreno was in the entrance hall to greet them.

‘Ladies, welcome!’ he said with a great flourish.

The workshop was arranged like a school, with big rooms off either side of a corridor. First was the showroom, where the fabrics were displayed and different styles of gentlemen’s suits were worn by headless mannequins. In the corner they saw Isaac engaged in intense conversation with a customer, holding up swatches of fabric towards the light as he helped an elderly gentleman make his selection.

In the next room were the pen-and-ink drawings of the women’s fashions, and these were displayed on the walls like pictures in a gallery. Katerina walked along the row of images and smiled. Every dress illustrated was made to measure, so closely did it fit the wearer’s shape.

‘This is where our lady customers come, to see our designs and to be measured up, but they often want something more bespoke. So on every garment we can create something unique, whether it’s beading, or lace or a particular shape of collar. We are known for two things here, Katerina: our quality and our detail. They are never less than perfect.’

There was a single, spotlit dummy in the room and both Katerina and Eugenia stopped to stare. It displayed a bridal gown of such luminosity that it hardly seemed destined for a human being.

It was long and straight, as was the fashion of the time, and the palest cream
crêpe de Chine
. The bodice was sewn all over with tiny seed pearls that were no bigger than raindrops, and the same pearls had been used to edge the hem. Attached at the shoulders was a gently billowing cape of gauze with little rivers of even finer pearls running through it. The overall effect was of a fairy’s costume and, but for the pearls, which gave it substance, it might have floated away on the wind. It was impossible to imagine a bride beautiful enough to wear it.

Kyrios Moreno saw them admiring it.

‘Isn’t it exceptional?’

Neither of them needed to answer.

‘It has taken three weeks of full-time work just to sew on the pearls,’ he told them proudly. ‘And each one is in its perfect place.’

The light caught their opalescent sheen. It was a magical dress.

‘The bride is coming in this afternoon to take it away,’ said Kyria Moreno. ‘But there’s often a wedding dress on that dummy, and sometimes they are much more elaborate than that. You’d be amazed what the wealthy people of this city dream up for their daughters!’

‘And we try and help them realise their fantasies!’ added her husband. ‘Which is why we need the kind of skills you have.’

‘But I could never make a dress like that!’ said Katerina.

‘Well, you couldn’t yet. But I guarantee that in a few months’ time, you’d be able to sew on those pearls with no trouble! Come on, let me show you the rest.’

In the next room, there were huge cutting tables, and both men and women at work with pairs of shears. Katerina spotted young Elias with a tape measure draped around his neck being shown how to line up the fabric before starting to cut. Like her, he was a new apprentice.

In the room after that, there were rows and rows of people sitting at long benches, each of them with a gleaming Singer sewing machine. The noisy clatter as the needles were treadled up and down precluded further conversation. Everyone looked completely engaged in their work and several of them raised a hand to greet Kyrios and Kyria Moreno. There was a great range of ages, from girls who looked younger than Katerina, to women who might be in their eighties, and the same with the men.

The penultimate room was known as ‘The Store’ and it was where the buttons, threads and edgings were kept in gleaming glass-fronted cabinets and wooden chests, all clearly labelled on the outside so that it was easy to locate the required item. Katerina smiled, reminded of Kyrios Alatzas’ beautiful, ordered ribbon shop that she loved so much.

In the last room, there was a more informal layout. Several dozen women worked with garments on their laps, doing the same kind of finishing work that Kyria Moreno often did at home: buttonholes, beading, hemming, edging and all sorts of complex embroidery stitches. Each of them had a small table and a wooden box by her side and there was a hum of convivial chatter, which continued even when Kyrios Moreno entered the room.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ said Kyrios Moreno, over the hum. ‘May I introduce you to my good neighbour, Kyria Karayanidis, and to Katerina Sarafoglou, one of our city’s rising young needlework stars.’

Saul Moreno’s manners were impeccable and his introduction made Katerina feel taller than the White Tower.

‘Good morning,’ they all chorused without interrupting the flow of their work.

Katerina studied the various things these women were doing. If she could get some more experience with buttonholes, she would be more than capable of joining them.

When they were back in the showroom, Kyrios Moreno turned to face Katerina.

‘Well, young woman, what do you think? Would you like to join us at Moreno and Sons?’

Without a second thought, Katerina nodded.

With warmth and humour, Kyrios Moreno took her hand and shook it firmly.

‘I am so pleased,’ he said. ‘When can you start?’

‘Next week?’

‘There will be a chair waiting for you in the finishing room,’ he said, smiling.

As he turned to show them out, they saw a face they recognised: Konstantinos Komninos. His greeting was formal.

‘Good morning,’ Eugenia said quietly. ‘How is Kyria Komninos?’

‘She is well, thank you. I came to look at some new fabrics for her.’

Eugenia was about to ask why she did not come and look at them herself but stopped. It was five years since Olga had lived in Irini Street, but even then she remembered that she rarely ventured outside her house.

‘This is Katerina, do you remember her?’

‘Not really,’ he said, abruptly. ‘But children do change, don’t they?’

‘And how is Dimitri?’

It was many months since Katerina had seen Dimitri and she was missing him very much. She and the other children had always teased him for being serious, but he was clever and kind, and his absence had left a space.

‘He is doing well at school and working hard,’ responded Konstantinos grandly. ‘He has important exams coming up and then he’ll be starting his law studies.’

‘Please say hello to your family from us,’ Eugenia asked him.

Komninos replaced his hat and nodded.

‘Good day,’ he said turning away and walking out through the main door.

Eugenia was certain that Kyrios Komninos would not pass on any such message and resolved to call on Olga herself. She knew she would be ill at ease in the Niki Street mansion, but felt guilty that she had left it so long without visiting.

Katerina wondered if it was Dimitri’s ambition to study law or just his father’s. As far as she remembered, he had always wanted to be a doctor. Either way, it was not hard to imagine her clever friend deeply immersed in his books.

They said their final goodbye to Kyrios Moreno and the three of them walked back to Irini Street in the sunshine. The city teemed with people and they passed several cafés where elegant women sat enjoying their coffee and sweet pastries.

‘You see those ladies, just to our right,’ whispered Roza. ‘They are all wearing “Moreno” outfits.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Katerina.

‘I can just tell from the fit. You’ll begin to recognise the style too – the generosity of the fabric, the detail. I remember sewing the buttons on the mint-green jacket,’ she said.

Eugenia laughed.

‘You remember everything?’

‘No, not everything. I can’t remember most of the names of the people at the synagogue. They just don’t stay in my head. But stitches – I remember almost every one I’ve ever done!’

Katerina wondered if she would be like that one day. She felt so like a grown-up, so like a woman walking along with Eugenia and Kyria Moreno. Her days of dolls and make-believe were over and she was more than ready to start her working life.

The two women began to gossip.

‘Do you think we should call on Olga?’ mused Eugenia, who had been thinking about Kyria Komninos since their encounter with her husband.

‘I have delivered bits and pieces to her occasionally but usually Pavlina comes to pick things up for her. Apparently she hasn’t been out of the house since she left Irini Street,’ said Kyria Moreno.

‘That’s awful! So who does she see?’

‘Kyrios Komninos invites his clients to the house, which is the reason he keeps her so well dressed.’

‘So he still treats her like his mannequin?’

‘I suppose you could see it that way. They are always working on something or other for her in the workshop but I doubt many of her outfits are worn more than once or twice.’

Katerina’s eyes widened. The idea of wearing something only once was beyond imagining. For most of her life she had one dress on and one that was hanging up to dry, and from the day that she had been looked after by Eugenia, she had worn clothes passed down from the twins. The white cotton frock sprigged with daisies in which she had fled Smyrna was the last brand-new item of clothing she had ever possessed.

‘And what about Dimitri? Has he ever been there when you visited?’

‘No. He’s usually at school,’ Roza mused. ‘Elias goes round there sometimes. You remember how much those two used to love playing
tavli
?’

‘I do,’ replied Eugenia.

‘Well, they haven’t changed. It’s as competitive as ever – a long-drawn-out campaign that neither of them will ever win outright – and if Kyrios Komninos comes in when they are playing, Elias has to leave straight away. He is so ambitious for that poor boy. If he isn’t fluent in five languages before he leaves school, there’ll be trouble.’