When the Cypress Whispers (12 page)

Sixteen

It had been a glorious, if exhausting, day—the kind of day Daphne knew she and Evie would look back on and cherish. After leaving Nitsa’s, Evie once again climbed on her mother’s back the moment she saw Daphne grab the bamboo stick. They
tap-tap-tapped
their way home to Yia-yia’s, stopping only so Evie could pick the biggest, ripest, and blackest blackberries.

Once back at home, Daphne packed a bag with towels, their swimsuits, water bottles, and the fatty mortadella sandwiches that Daphne had loved as a little girl and now Evie had developed a taste for as well. Off they went, with no plan other than to enjoy the day and each other’s company while exploring the island. But as they left the house, Daphne did make sure they had just one more addition to their explorers’ party.

Knowing that Evie wouldn’t soon forget her snake fixation and that carrying Evie all day long, up and down the island’s many hills and rocky paths, would soon grow tiresome, Daphne untied Jack from his post in the back garden and enlisted the gentle donkey’s help.

“Think of him as our own little island taxicab.” Daphne laughed as she placed Evie on his back and guided them down the stairs to begin their adventure.

Their first stop had been the island’s tiny, picturesque church. With its overgrown cemetery, whitewashed walls, elaborate stained-glass windows, and trough of hand-dipped candles burning continually in its entrance, the church looked exactly as Daphne had remembered it, as if it had been frozen in time. At first Evie was petrified by the idea of dead people buried right there in the cemetery adjacent to the church and refused to get off Jack’s back. Just as Daphne was about to coerce her down, Father Nikolaos spotted them from inside the graveyard, where he had been busy replenishing the olive oil and lighting the wicks of the eternal candles of the dead. With his flowing black robes gathered in his right hand and waving frantically with his left, Father Nikolaos came running out of the cemetery straight at them. This sent Evie into a fit of hysteria: she thought the bearded, black-robed person heading toward them was some sort of demon who had escaped from the grave.

Evie watched as her mother bent down to kiss the priest’s hand. But it wasn’t until Father Nikolaos’s wife and children came running to see what the fuss was about that Evie actually believed there was nothing to be afraid of. Finally, after much coercion, Evie agreed to come down from the donkey’s back. Hand in hand with the priest’s thirteen-year-old daughter, she followed Daphne into the church.

Inside, standing on the altar before an icon of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, Father Nikolaos made the sign of the cross, blessing mother and daughter. Father’s children stood watching, heads bowed and quiet.

“Amen,” Father said when the blessing was done.

Having witnessed this prayer hundreds of times before, the priest’s children knew this was their cue, as well as their escape. “
Ella, ella
—” They tugged at Evie’s arm and pulled her outside to play, leaving the adults to discuss the wedding details.

It would be a simple, traditional ceremony, they all agreed. The priest’s wife, Presbytera, as all priests’ wives are called, offered to weave the betrothal crowns from local wildflowers. “So much prettier and more symbolic than those store-bought ones,” she insisted as she bounced her baby, the youngest of her five children, on her knee.

“We received the baptismal certificate,” Father Nikolaos added. “Your young man is welcome in our church, and we are pleased that you have chosen to be married in Christ’s house.” His wide mouth erupted in a broad smile that peeked out from the thick brush of his beard.

“Daphne,” the priest’s wife said, her long brown hair neatly knotted at the nape of her neck. “Join us for lunch,” Presbytera insisted as the baby gurgled and lifted his arms toward his father.

Father Nikolaos swooped down and snatched the baby from Presbytera’s lap. Once safely snuggled in his father’s arms, the baby reached his chubby hand up and tugged at his father’s beard, eliciting deep belly laughs from both. Presbytera watched, a serene smile on her face.

For a moment, Daphne was tempted to join them. There was something about Father Nikolaos and Presbytera that drew Daphne to them. On the surface, Daphne had absolutely nothing in common with the simple island priest and his lovely, yet haggard wife. Daphne’s urban lifestyle and opinions were so far removed from those of the devout couple who lived and breathed according to the church’s rules and customs. Daphne knew they would be horrified if they ever learned that back at home she rarely stepped inside a church and that Evie associated Easter Sunday with a visit from the Easter bunny rather than a glorious celebration of Christ’s resurrection. And if Father and Presbytera had any idea that Evie had not received Holy Communion since her baptism, they would truly be horrified. Here, as in all Greek Orthodox churches around the world, each Sunday, like a weekly spiritual vitamin, parents made sure their children dutifully lined up before the priest to receive the bread and wine of communion. In and out, in and out, the priest dipped the same golden spoon in the chalice and then into each child’s mouth. It’s not that Daphne didn’t want to believe that the communion was blessed and therefore would sanitize any germs; she did have faith, and she actually did want to partake in the ritual of the sacrament. But once again, the reality of her life as a single mother did not allow for any romanticism whatsoever. Whenever Evie got sick, even just with a cold that required her to stay home from school, Daphne’s world was thrown into chaos. Daphne had decided long ago that until the practice was modernized and sanitized, communion was yet one more element of her own Greek childhood that would remain foreign to Evie’s Americanized world.

Daphne watched as Presbytera took the baby from the priest’s arms. Cooing in the baby’s ear with each step, she walked to the altar and genuflected before the large icon of the Virgin Mary holding a chubby baby Jesus in her arms. Presbytera leaned closer to the icon and kissed the Virgin’s feet before lifting her child to do the same, his drool leaving a streak of wet gloss across the pale blue folds of baby Jesus’ swaddling.

As much as Daphne would have loved to spend more time in the company of the spiritual couple, she knew that once she and Stephen were married, there wouldn’t be as many opportunities for her to spend an entire day alone with Evie. She politely declined with a promise to come back and visit.

From the church, Daphne, Evie, and Jack headed straight for the cove, where they spread a large blanket out just above the waterline and covered it with the food Daphne had brought from home. They didn’t say much as they sat nibbling the sandwiches, just sat on the blanket; Daphne with her feet straight out in front of her and Evie nestled between her mother’s legs, leaning her back against Daphne’s slim torso, the little girl’s curls cascading down Daphne’s body like a dark waterfall. As they sat together, eating their lunch, they looked out toward the horizon and watched as the seabirds performed their soaring ballets, dipping, climbing, and gliding across the cloudless sky.

Daphne thought about telling Evie a story, one of Yia-yia’s stories—maybe the one about Persephone, or perhaps even Cupid and Psyche. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Daphne looked down at Evie and was surprised by the quiet peacefulness of her face—her pink cheeks, her rosebud lips, the dark veil of her long lashes fluttering with each blink. Her little girl seemed happy—truly and honestly happy. Daphne felt a swell of emotion in her chest and an eruption of tears in her eyes.

Evie was happy. And it wasn’t a gift or a toy or anything remotely material that was responsible for the joy she felt. It was this place. It was this moment. It was as Yia-yia had said: the mere fact that Daphne was sitting still long enough for Evie to catch her.

Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, a sudden gust of wind kicked up, blowing sand in her eyes and mouth. As she rubbed her stinging, burning eyes, she looked once again at Evie, who was now sitting straight up and looking behind them toward the veil of trees that lined the beach.

“What is it, honey?” Daphne asked as she rubbed her eyes.

“Did you hear that?” Evie asked as she looked back toward the trees.

“Hear what?”

“I thought I heard singing.” Evie added as she stood, turning her back to Daphne, and looked down the beach. “A woman’s voice.” She took a few steps closer to the trees. “It was pretty and soft . . . and Greek.”

Daphne stood and looked toward the thicket. Impossible, she thought as chills ran up and down her spine. She reached for Evie’s hand. Daphne remembered standing here, on the very same spot, as a young girl herself, straining to hear the faintest whispers of a song on the breeze.

“You know, Evie,” she said as she put her arm around the little girl and pulled her back to the blanket, “when I was a little girl, I would come here every day and swim alone in the cove. I was never afraid of being alone in the sea because Yia-yia told me the story about the cypress whispers. She told me that the island would look after me and speak to me in whispers and songs.”

Evie’s eyes widened as she clutched Daphne’s hand. “Like ghosts?” She shuddered. “You mean I heard a ghost?” She burrowed into her mother’s lap.

“No, Evie, honey. There are no ghosts.” Daphne laughed at the irony—the same thought which terrified Evie now, was the one thing which Daphne had prayed for herself as a child. It was the one thing that she had wanted most of all, but like so many of Daphne’s dreams, it never had materialized.

“It’s just another story like Persephone or Arachne,” Daphne continued, “an old myth for the old women to share by the evening fire. What you heard was just the radio at Nitsa’s. People are always complaining that she plays it too loud.” Daphne watched as the relief washed over Eve’s face.

“But when you told me you heard singing, it reminded me of when I was a little girl, of how many times I would sit here hour after hour, waiting and wondering if I would ever hear the cypress whispers myself.”

“But you never did?”

“No, honey, I never did,” Daphne said as she looked beyond the thicket. “They don’t exist. The cypress whispers don’t exist.”

A
T ABOUT EIGHT IN THE
evening, when the sun’s rays began to lose their dagger-like edge and the oppressive heat of the day finally began to lift, Daphne glanced down at her watch. It was time to gather their things and head for home. As she guided Jack and Evie back home along the blackberry-lined paths, Daphne looked back at her daughter and was once again filled with overpowering emotion. Evie’s face was still as bright and beaming as the midday sun had been.

“That was fun, wasn’t it, honey?” Daphne asked.

“Mommy, that was the most fun I’ve had in my whole entire life,” Evie shouted as she leaned her little body forward and wrapped her arms around Jack’s neck.

“Me, too—the most fun ever.” Daphne nodded in agreement and smiled at her daughter, holding tightly to Jack’s reins as they continued their walk home.
The most fun I’ve had in my entire life
, Daphne repeated to herself again and again.

It was true—she had forgotten how wonderful, how rewarding, a day spent doing virtually nothing could be. But now, Daphne realized, as long as Evie was beside her, there really was no such thing as a day filled with nothing. Even life’s simplest pleasures—a picnic, a sandcastle, a ride on an old, tired donkey—were cause for celebration more joyous than any she could have ever imagined.

Seventeen

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Daphne flinched as she gingerly applied the
lemonita
lotion to her pink shoulders. As she dabbed the final drop of opaque liquid onto her burning skin, Daphne took a deep breath and summoned all the strength left in her aching body to stand up. Still wrapped in her towel, she walked over to the closet and flung it open, scanning the contents before she found what she was looking for. She slipped the strapless blue dress over her shoulders.

“Yia-yia, Evie.
Pame
, let’s go. I’m ready,” Daphne called as she reached across the bed to snatch a flashlight from the bureau, knowing they would need the additional light, since there were still no streetlights along the island’s paths. As she rushed out the door, flashlight in hand, Daphne caught a final glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her feet froze in place as she did, and she turned her head once more to look more closely at her reflection. Gone were the dark circles under her eyes. Gone was the sallow, green-tinged complexion that greeted her when she looked into a mirror back at home. Gone was the frumpy, messy bun that she always wore when she was cooking. Tonight the woman who stared back was younger, happier, more alive and vibrant, than Daphne had felt or looked in years. With her sun-kissed skin, loose, bouncy curls, strapless summer dress, and, most importantly, relaxed, stress-free face, the woman in the mirror was not a bundle of worry and angst. This woman was happy. She was carefree. And she was beautiful. For the first time in a very long time, Daphne
felt
beautiful.

“
Ella
, Evie, Yia-yia,
pame
—let’s go,” she shouted again before she stole one last look in the mirror and practically skipped out the door.

At precisely 10:05 p.m., Daphne, Evie, and Yia-yia walked through the double doors of the Hotel Nitsa. As they stepped inside, they were immediately assaulted by the blaring bouzouki music that filled the reception area. But as loud as the music was, it was intermittently drowned out by a half dozen or so shaggy-haired French tourists who sat at the bar playing a drinking game that consisted of them shouting
“Opa!”
whenever someone did a shot of ouzo—which, from the looks of it, seemed to be every few seconds.

“Daphne!” Popi cried out from the bar stool where she sat between two of the young tourists, shot glass in hand. “
Ella
, come play. Meet my new friends.” Popi brought her hand to her mouth and giggled before shouting,
“Opa!”
and downing the shot. Immediately, her new friends followed suit.

“Opa!”
cried the Frenchmen.

Daphne, Yia-yia, who was shaking her head in disbelief, and even little Evie stood in the center of the room, staring at Popi. Yia-yia brought her hands together in prayer, shaking them back and forth, an exasperated moan escaping from her mouth as she rocked them. Daphne looked at Yia-yia, knowing that this hand-shaking often led to singsonging, and she immediately made up her mind that she would have none of that tonight. As tired as she had been earlier in the evening, Daphne now felt energized. Maybe it was the bouzouki music, maybe it was the flattering glimpse of herself that she’d caught in the mirror, or maybe it was the remnants of a perfect day spent with Evie; whatever it was, she felt alive tonight, and she wasn’t about to let a lament song bring her down. Before Yia-yia could begin her first verse, Daphne scurried over to Popi’s side at the bar, grabbed her under the arm, and practically lifted her off the bar stool.

“Come on, Cousin,” she insisted. “Say good-bye to your new friends.”

“But Daphne . . . ,” Popi protested and leaned in to whisper in Daphne’s ear. “They’re really cute.”

“And they’re about half your age.” Daphne laughed as she pulled Popi away. “Besides, some solid food might do you good.”

She struggled to keep Popi moving and away from a fresh line of shots that were already poured and waiting. With both arms now firmly planted around Popi, Daphne was completely focused on getting her cousin safely away from the bar. As she stumbled and shuffled along, struggling to divert Popi’s attention, Daphne didn’t even notice the person standing in her path with his back to her, immersed in conversation with Yia-yia.

“Owwww,” she shouted as she bumped full force into the hulking back, still clinging to Popi lest her cousin use the collision as an opportunity to escape.

“
Malaka
,” the annoyed man hissed as he turned to see who had jostled him and interrupted his conversation.

Daphne looked up from the strong back, her eyes wandering upward to a pair of broad shoulders. As the man turned, Daphne caught a glimpse of his expansive chest; shirt unbuttoned just enough to catch a glimpse of chest hair, sprinkled with a smattering of grays. Daphne’s eyes continued to linger, wandering upward until they landed on his face.

Damn.
It was Yianni.

“I didn’t see you.” It took restraint for Daphne to bite back the snide, sarcastic comment that she felt he strongly deserved for his past transgressions. But knowing that he was her only option for a ride to Kerkyra tomorrow, Daphne tamped down the impulse. Although she couldn’t quite muster a smile, she did the next best thing. She gritted her teeth and held her tongue.

“You have your hands full, it seems.” He snatched a thick, dog-eared book from the coffee table beside them, turned, and tipped his sailor’s hat to Yia-yia before taking off for a small table at the other end of the reception area, away from the noise and the crowds.

After taking a deep breath and regaining her composure, Daphne led the way from the reception area to the small patio out back. Just as they rounded the corner to the flower-filled deck, Nitsa came bursting out of the kitchen doors balancing four dinner plates on her arm, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“There she is, there’s my
nifee
. Here’s our beautiful bride,” she bellowed as she shuffled past them and out into the courtyard with the steaming plates.

Daphne watched Nitsa sling the dishes on the table of a beautiful Italian couple and their two young children. Nitsa didn’t bother asking who had what. She never forgot a face or an order.

“All right now,
kali orexi
,” Nitsa ordered as she stood over the family, hand on her hip, puffing away at her cigarette. “I have a wonderful surprise for dessert, eh. You little ones will love it.” She tousled the hair of the young boy and pinched the cheek of his younger sister.

“Evangelia, Daphne.
Etho
, come here.” Nitsa waved her arms and motioned for them to join her. “Here, I have a special table ready for you right here.” She shepherded them over to a round table at the very center of the patio, decorated with an overflowing basket of white-and-blue wildflowers.

“Thank you, Nitsa.” Daphne kissed their host on both cheeks.

“Evangelia”—Nitsa laughed, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching into her pocket to pull out another cigarette—“I know that nothing can compare to your cooking, but tonight, I tried.”

“Nitsa,
ella
. . . You are the better cook. I have learned so much from you,” Yia-yia insisted as she took her seat. “Everyone knows that you are the best cook on the island.”

“
Ella
, Evangelia. Come on.” Nitsa flung her arms up into the air, cigarette ashes flurrying in their wake “
Ella
, I cannot begin to compare—”

“Don’t be silly, Nitsa,” Yia-yia insisted, her face nearly obscured by the large bottle of Nitsa’s homemade wine that, along with the basket of flowers, was a staple on all of the tables.

“Enough,” Daphne shouted, her head bobbing back and forth between the old women as if this were some sort of culinary tennis match. She crossed her arms. “Tonight, I’m judge and jury, and I’m starving.”

“
Ahoooo
, the great American chef is calling for a challenge. I am ready for you, chef,” Nitsa bellowed as she pointed her lit cigarette at Daphne. “By the end of this meal you will be begging me to come live in New York City with you and cook for all of your fancy friends.”

“Well, Nitsa,” Daphne said as she poured a little wine into Yia-yia’s glass and then filled Popi’s as well as her own. “All right then, consider this your audition.” Daphne laughed as she lifted her glass toward Nitsa. “
Opa!
” she shouted as she downed the wine in one gulp.

“
Opa!
” Yia-yia and Popi replied. Popi chugged her glass as Yia-yia lifted her wine and took a small sip.

“
Opa!
” The French tourists echoed from inside the bar. Daphne and Popi looked at each other and dissolved into giggles. Daphne poured herself another glass of wine, and Nitsa scurried into the kitchen to begin her audition.

Within moments, Nitsa was once again beside the table, carrying the first of many courses. They began with an assortment of small meze plates; a tangy
melitzanosalata
of fire-roasted eggplants pureed with garlic and vinegar,
taramosalata
,
tzatziki
, succulent grape leaves stuffed with savory rice and pine nuts and Nitsa’s soft and creamy homemade feta, which melted on Daphne’s tongue the moment she put it in her mouth. Next came the
tiropites
—small triangular cheese pies filled with feta and spices, followed by stuffed zucchini flowers whose rice and pork filling were delicate enough not to overpower their slightly sweet casings.

The main course was a masterpiece. Instead of the traditional and expected grilled fish, Nitsa surprised both Yia-yia and Daphne with a large platter of
bakaliaro
, delicately fried medallions of cod along with a heaping bowl of pungent
skordalia
paste made from potatoes, garlic, and olive oil.

“Nitsa!” Daphne cried as she looked up at Nitsa, who was waiting for Daphne to taste the fish. “I haven’t had fried
bakaliaro
in years.”

“Yes, because it’s white.” Yia-yia laughed as she leaned over and pinched Daphne’s arm. “
Ella
, Daphne
mou
. It’s time to live again.”

Daphne’s lips parted to reveal a beautiful, bright smile. She was literally drooling as she placed a dollop of the
skordalia
on a small square of the fried fish, then popped the whole thing in her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the complexity of the flavors and the surreal sensation of the smooth potato paste melting away on her tongue. Its hot, garlicky afterbite was then tempered again as she bit into the fish, its sweet crunchy batter breaking open like a vault to reveal the silky and savory flesh within.

“This, Daphne
mou
, is why I never again want to hear you say that you will not eat white food.” Yia-yia laughed as she dabbed at her mouth with her paper napkin. “Family and food, Daphne
mou
. It’s in your blood, you cannot escape it.”

“I don’t want to escape it. I want another helping.” Daphne laughed as she stabbed another medallion with her fork and dragged it through the
skordalia.

By the time the meal was over, everyone seemed to be sufficiently stuffed as well as slightly drunk. Evie had long abandoned the table of adults and was playing in the corner with the Italian children and the kittens. Their laughter mixed with the music, the chatter of well-fed diners, and the soft undercurrent of waves breaking in the distance. On the other side of the terrace, the French tourists had abandoned the bar for a large table covered with some of Nitsa’s most famous dishes. Even as the last of the dinner dishes were cleared, everyone lingered, drinking, laughing, soaking in the island perfection of the little flower-filled patio.

The later the evening got, the louder the music became. Soon, the small space facing the tables was turned into an impromptu dance floor. The Italian couple were the first to get up, hanging on each other as if in a drunken lovers’ trance, so clearly under the spell of this island paradise and thankful that their children were being kept busy by the basketful of purring kittens. All eyes were on the couple as they took the dance floor. There was something intoxicating about them, the way they moved together in the dim light, the way their hips fit together and followed one another in perfect rhythm, a rhythm clearly perfected by years of lovemaking, by years of spooning one another as they slept. Watching the couple, Daphne was mesmerized and slightly ashamed, as if she were a voyeur intruding on a private lover’s moment. But the couple didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t even notice. They just continued their dance, lost in the magic of Erikousa.

“Look at them, Daphne. It gives you hope, doesn’t it? That two people can be so in love after having children, after so many years together.” Popi sighed, elbows resting on the table, her head in her hands.

“Yes. Yes, it does,” Daphne replied, looking away toward the blackness of the beach. But unlike Popi, for Daphne, watching this couple was not some huge discovery that an epic love affair can actually exist. It was the way she had envisioned her life, the path she had planned.

“Come on, Daphne.” Popi grabbed her cousin’s hand. “Come on, let’s show them how the natives do it.”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Come on. Think of this as your bachelorette party. Get up and dance with me.” Popi tugged at Daphne’s arm and dragged her toward the dance floor. After a few more futile attempts to sit this one out, Popi got her way, and they joined the couple on the tiny dance floor. The Italians glanced over and smiled when they saw the cousins, but quickly returned their full attention to each other. From the other side of the room, the Frenchmen erupted into raucous cheers as the cousins began their belly dance.

Daphne lifted her arms above her head, snapping her fingers and rotating her wrists with the droning beat of the bouzouki music. Popi followed suit, raising her arms and expertly moving her hips in time with the music. As she spun round and round, dancing, thrusting, and laughing with her cousin, Daphne threw her head back, her ringlets reaching to the middle of her back. Deep into her backbend, she shouted a hearty
“Opa!”