When the Cypress Whispers (3 page)

Three

“Come on, Daphne. Let’s go. We’ll miss the ferry if you don’t hurry up,” Popi yelled as she piled the luggage back in the car for the short drive to the port.

“A ten a.m. ferryboat, too,” Daphne said as she reached the car. “How civilized! I can’t believe we don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn anymore to catch the
kaiki
.” She handed Popi the last piece of luggage and closed the trunk of the car.

It had been a yearly tradition to wake up at 6:00 a.m. (or, as the girls got older, to stay out all night in the discos) for the one-hour drive to the small northern Corfu town of Sidari, where passengers bound for Erikousa boarded the primitive and cramped
kaiki
for the sixty-minute trip to the island. There was no upgrade to first class on the
kaiki
, where everyone was squeezed in among the groceries, farming supplies, livestock, and
yia-yias
who’d lived on the water their entire lives but couldn’t set foot on a boat without getting seasick and throwing up in the bucket that was passed around for all to use. Daphne always believed it was the vile stench from that communal bucket that made the
yia-yias
sick, not the choppy seas.

“It still runs, just not as often. Now we have Big Al, the Alexandros ferryboat,” Popi said as she started the car for the ten-minute drive to the port. “It doesn’t run every day, but I’d rather wait for Big Al than pile on to that old
kaiki
with the chickens.”

“But what about Ari? Don’t tell me Ari is gone?!” Daphne cried. Ari was the infamous islander who tended goats on Erikousa and traveled to Corfu to sell his homemade cheese. As proficient as Ari was in haggling the best price for his feta, he was equally pathetic in his hunt for a wife. Ari’s lecherous stares and inappropriate comments were summer rites of passage for the girls. When he wasn’t milking goats, he was spying on them as they sunbathed or “accidentally” brushing up against them as he walked along the beach. He seemed harmless enough, or so they hoped. But there was always a sense of uncertainty, discomfort, and even a hint of danger whenever he came slithering by. It wasn’t until she reached her late teens that Daphne realized why she sometimes felt as if she were being watched as she swam alone in the cove. She spotted him there once, hiding behind a tree as she emerged from the water. He didn’t come nearer or speak to her, just stood and stared.

Daphne ran all the way home that day and made the mistake of telling Yia-yia about it. Daphne couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched the old woman move like she had been injected with youth serum. There were no signs of bunions, brittle bones, or arthritic joints as Yia-yia grabbed her gardening machete and literally ran down the hillside. She finally found Ari having a smoke and a frappe on the terrace of the only café in town. Yia-yia didn’t care that the entire lunchtime crowd would hear what she had to say. In fact, she rather enjoyed the fact that she had many witnesses to her promise to cut off his manhood if he dared come near her granddaughter again.

Popi broke into her thoughts. “Don’t worry, Daphne, Ari is still around, and he is still looking for a wife. So you can visit him if you like. Maybe you’ll even change your mind and become Kyria Ari instead of Mrs. American Banker.” Popi slapped the steering wheel, amused by the thought of her elegant cousin shacking up in a one-room house and making a living milking goats.

“
That’s certainly something to think about.” Daphne laughed as they pulled up to the port.

The ferry ride was simply glorious. Gone were the cramped conditions and crates from the days of the
kaiki.
Big Al was elegantly appointed, with rows of real seats, a working toilet, and even a snack bar belowdecks. They sat on the upper deck talking and taking in the scenery, both the natural and the human variety.

Evie was entranced by the dolphins that swam and jumped alongside the boat. She leaned on the railing, absorbed by their beautifully synchronized choreography as they leaped out of the water. Daphne couldn’t take her eyes off the kaleidoscope of sunlight and water that glistened on the walls of the caves and grottoes long ago etched into the colossal cliffs of Corfu by the persistent Ionian Sea
.
She held her breath as they passed the Canal d’Amour, where over thousands of years the sea had carved a tunnel through a towering rock. She strained her eyes to look into the canal, biting her lip as she saw the clusters of couples swimming there, remembering how Alex insisted that they swim the canal together so theirs would be an everlasting love, as the legend promised. Daphne wondered if the swimming lovers would one day learn, as she had, that the story was only an old wives’ tale, another empty island promise.

“Daphne, look.” Popi tugged at Daphne’s sleeve. She tilted her head to the left toward a young couple sitting on the far end of the deck. They were tanned, blond, and beautiful in that disheveled backpacker way. He was tall, with shoulder-length hair streaked by the sun and piercing blue eyes. She was even fairer, slim and stunning. He leaned against their backpacks, stroking her hair as she lay against his bare chest.

“Can you imagine being so young and so in love?” Popi whispered.

Daphne watched as the young man leaned down and kissed the girl’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted his hand to her mouth and covered it with a blanket of soft kisses. He kissed her once more before standing up and going downstairs, leaving his beautiful partner to sun herself. Daphne didn’t say anything, but the longing, almost mournful look in her eyes made it quite clear that yes, she could imagine being so young and so in love. In fact, she could remember it quite clearly. But that, like so many other aspects of her life, was simply a memory from a lifetime long ago.

The trance was shattered when Popi jumped from her seat. “Oh. My. God. Daphne, look. Look who it is!”

Daphne followed Popi’s gaze to the stairwell and could not believe her eyes when she spotted Ari. It was as if time had stood still. He still wore a faded denim shirt unbuttoned to his navel, the same frayed cut-off jean shorts and plastic flip-flop
sayonares
, and his hair was still a mass of waves meticulously combed and gelled into a mullet. The only difference Daphne noticed was the generous sprinkling of gray that had invaded his once jet-black hair.

The cousins watched him as he stood at the top of the stairwell, a frappe in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He squinted against the bright sunshine and surveyed the deck before making his move.

Ari turned to his left and began to walk along the railing, intermittently puffing on his cigarette and sipping his drink. Daphne was amused to see that his infamous swagger, in which his hips seemed to roll while his feet shuffled, had also been unchanged by the years. The girls knew that his tour of the upper deck was more than just an aimless stroll. His small black eyes soon found their target in a long-legged German beauty who had no clue her quiet ride was about to be rocked by the legendary lothario.

“He hasn’t changed one bit, has he?” Daphne whispered.

Ari reached the spot where the young woman was lying, leaning against the backpacks with her eyes closed and face turned up toward the sun. There was plenty of room around her, but instead of stepping aside to avoid her golden brown legs, he stepped over them. As he lifted his leg over, he deliberately rubbed his foot against her thigh, his jagged toenails leaving a thin white scratch on her skin. He stumbled a bit to make it appear as if he had tripped and then tipped the frappe. The young girl shot upright.

“
Signomi, signomi
,” Ari muttered and bent down, using his dirty hands to wipe the liquid from the young girl’s legs. “Sorry.
Desole. Traurig
.” Ari went down his repertoire of languages, apologizing as the girl snatched her legs to her chest.

The boyfriend emerged from the snack bar below to find his love being molested before his eyes. He dropped the beers he was carrying and ran to confront the man who had dared to put his hands on her.

The lanky German towered above the soft and stocky Greek and surprised him with a violent shove.

“I am sorry. Accident
.
Accident,” Ari muttered in broken English as he jumped up.

The tourist pushed him until he was pinned against the ship’s railing. “Do not touch her!” he shouted. His English was as perfect as his aim: the first punch landed squarely in Ari’s bloated gut. It knocked the wind out of him, and Daphne and Popi gasped as they watched him jackknife forward. But the boyfriend was not finished. The next punch produced a sharp cracking sound as it connected with Ari’s jaw, snapping his head back as his body leaned back over the railing precariously.

“
Bitte, Anschlag
,” the girl pleaded with her boyfriend, terrified that his temper would land them in a Greek jail.

“He’s going to kill him,” Daphne cried as she attempted to shield Evie’s eyes from the carnage. Evie nuzzled into her mother’s chest and began to cry as the passengers continued to shout. But no one stepped forward.

By this point dozens had gathered round to watch the spectacle. Several of the men yelled for the German to stop but their cries did no good. Many of them had dreamed of doing the same thing to Ari at one time or another. Had Ari’s attacker been one of their own, they might not have protested so loudly.

But it all had no effect on the young man, who was set on making this dark stranger pay for dishonoring his girlfriend, although Ari was already bloodied and in pain.

“This is crazy!” Daphne shouted. Kissing the top of Evie’s head and putting her on Popi’s lap, she stood up and walked toward the chaos. The salty Greek air had gotten under her skin and rekindled the spitfire that had dulled with the years. Chin held high, Daphne marched up to the German.

“Stop it,” she demanded, “you’ll kill him.” She used all her strength to pull at his arms and stop him from throwing another punch, but it was no use.

“
Stamata!
” she yelled as she tugged at him again.

All eyes were on Daphne. The passengers stood silently, watching as she tried to pull the men apart. Finally, shamed by the fact that a woman dared to do what they had not, the men one by one began to step forward.

“That’s enough now.” A gray-haired man in a fisherman’s cap was the first to speak.

The German ignored the stranger and turned once more to Ari.

“I said enough,” the man growled. He stepped behind the German, wrapped his arms around the man in a bear hug, lifted him off the deck, and—although the young man flailed and kicked—calmly carried him to the other side of the deck and dropped him.

The German held his bloodied knuckles in the palm of his left hand. “He deserved it.”

“I know he did,” the Greek replied. He turned his back on the young tourist and walked back to where a disheveled Ari sat crumpled on the floor.

“
Malaka
,” the man spat at Ari.

Daphne made her way back to Evie and Popi. “Nice try, cousin,” Popi said as Daphne took her seat. “Did you really think you were going to stop that man?”

Daphne lifted her trembling arms and pulled Evie close, then buried her head in the girl’s lavender-scented hair. “Are you okay, honey? That was just a silly man behaving very badly. Don’t let it upset you, all right?” Daphne leaned in to speak to Popi. “I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. Look at all those guys sitting over there. None of them did anything until I tried to.”

“Isn’t that the way it is, Daphne?” Popi said. “They think they are the braver, stronger sex, but we know the truth, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes, we do.” Daphne hugged Evie tighter and looked across the water. She could finally see the port of Erikousa getting closer.

Four

E
RIKOUSA

S
UMMER 1992

Daphne had been gone since morning, and she knew that now, as the sun began to set, Yia-yia was beginning to worry. She could picture her grandmother waiting at home on the flower-filled patio, pacing the outdoor kitchen back and forth under the shade of the lemon and olive trees. Mama had always told Daphne that since the Lord had chosen to bless them with only one child, it was Mama and Baba’s divine obligation to keep Daphne safe. Back home in New York, even at fourteen years old, Daphne was never let out of the sight of her overprotective parents, let alone allowed to disappear for an entire day. But this was different. This was Erikousa. This was the island paradise where Daphne could spend her summer exploring, swimming, and doing exactly as she wished, as long as she made it home in time to share a meal with Yia-yia.

“Yia-yia! Yia-yia!” Daphne shouted as she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the patio where her grandmother waited.

Yia-yia stood on the lush patio, her petite body overwhelmed by the shapeless black dress that was her uniform, her salt-and-pepper braids obscured by the black headscarf knotted under her chin. She looked down and scanned the garden path. A wide smile crossed her wrinkled face as she spotted her granddaughter.

“There you are. Come. Come now. I’m making your supper,” Yia-yia said as she waved her arms up toward the sky.

Daphne bounded up the steps two by two. Not bothering to change out of her wet swimsuit, she just wrapped her towel around her body and sat on a rickety old chair next to her grandmother. Daphne watched as Yia-yia dipped her wooden spoon into a pan of boiling olive oil and removed a perfectly browned batch of fries. The young girl snatched a crispy specimen from the steaming pile and nibbled as Yia-yia peeled and cut more potatoes with her small, sharp knife. It was incredible to Daphne how her fingers sliced and diced so quickly and effortlessly. Even after all these years of being indulged by Yia-yia’s cooking, Daphne was still amazed by the perfection of Yia-yia’s delicious round fried potatoes. They were divine, so much better than the greasy stick fries sold back home. Making perfect fries was just one of Yia-yia’s many talents.

“How was the beach?” Yia-yia asked as she carried twigs to the outdoor cooking fire. She knew the oil needed to reach just the right temperature for the fries to come out crispy on the outside and slightly soft on the inside, the way Daphne liked them.

“It was nice. Quiet. I went to the cove again. I like it when no one’s around,” Daphne replied as she reached over and grabbed another.

“Why don’t you try the beach tomorrow? The other girls usually go swimming in the afternoon. It would be nice for you to have some friends to spend your day with, instead of always being alone or talking to an old woman like me. Okay,
koukla
?” Daphne was Yia-yia’s
koukla
—her little Greek doll.

Yia-yia knew that Daphne wasn’t like the other American girls who came for the summer and traveled in a pack, sunbathing, swimming, and flirting with the boys. But as much as she craved every moment shared with her granddaughter, Yia-yia didn’t want Daphne to withdraw completely into the rituals and world that they had created these past few years. She wanted more for her
koukla
.

“Don’t worry, Yia-yia. I’d much rather hang out with you. You’re more fun anyway.” She gave Yia-yia a wink. “And no one makes potatoes like this.” She popped another in her mouth. In addition to the fries, they would be feasting on one of Daphne’s favorite dishes, fried eggs with fresh tomatoes.

The young girl watched Yia-yia coat another pan with olive oil and add the freshly chopped tomatoes she had picked from the garden that morning. The bright red mixture sizzled, simmered, and popped until the tomatoes reached the perfect consistency, losing their firm texture and giving way to a sweet, thick paste. With her slightly burned and battle-scarred wooden spoon, Yia-yia cleared four little round holes in the simmering sauce. Daphne knew this was her cue. She reached over to the basket of freshly hatched eggs and cracked them one by one into the holes that Yia-yia had made.

Then Yia-yia rubbed her finger along the large green leaves of the basil sprig she had just picked. “Here, you’ve never smelled
basilico
like this.” Yia-yia waved her basil-oil-infused fingers under Daphne’s nose, and they shook their heads in unison.

“It’s amazing.” Daphne smiled at her grandmother.

“Let the Parisians have their fancy perfumeries. We know that this is the most priceless scent on earth. And it grows free, right here in my garden.” With her bent fingers she ripped some of the green leaves into delicate ribbons.

Yia-yia dropped the torn basil into the pan and waited a few moments for the verdant leaves to wilt. She sprinkled the mixture with salt and then divided the eggs and tomatoes between two plates.

“Daphne!” Yia-yia cried as she saw Daphne reach for another potato. “Leave some for the meal.” She leaned over and swatted Daphne with the basil leaves.

“Sorry, Yia-yia. I guess it’s all this fresh air. It makes me hungry.”

“Oh,
koukla
, it’s okay. Those were all for you. Now eat, eat before your eggs get cold.” Yia-yia handed Daphne her plate along with a thick crusty slice of peasant bread, perfect for dipping into the thick and savory tomato sauce.

They sat right there, next to the fire, and ate their simple meal. Yia-yia had long given up on the formality of setting a pretty table or eating indoors. She and Daphne knew that food tasted much better out here, in the clean, salty island breeze.

“Yia-yia—” Daphne shoveled another forkful of eggs in her mouth.

“Yes,
koukla
mou
.”

“Yia-yia, tell me about Persephone.”

“Oh, Persephone. Poor, poor Persephone. What a sin, what happened to Persephone,” Yia-yia replied in the mournful singsong voice the island women instinctively reverted to when talk turned to death or anything remotely tragic. The myth of Persephone had always had a special meaning in the old woman’s heart, and even more so now that she was able to share it with Daphne, this beautiful child she loved more than life itself.

Daphne clapped her hands in anticipation. “Tell me again. What happened to her?”

Yia-yia balanced her plate on her knee, wiped her hands on her apron, and then smoothed her headscarf with her sinewy and spotted hands. Slowly and deliberately, she began to speak.

“There was once a beautiful maiden whose name was Persephone. Her mother was Demeter, the great goddess of grain and crops. One day Persephone and her friends were in the field, picking wildflowers, when she was spotted by Hades, the king of the underworld. Demeter had warned Persephone not to wander away from the other girls. But Persephone was so consumed with finding the best, most perfect flowers for a wreath she was weaving that she forgot her mother’s words of warning and wandered just a little too far down the meadow. Hades saw beautiful Persephone and fell instantly in love. He decided then and there that this maiden would be his queen, the queen of the underworld. In an instant, Hades rode up in his chariot from the bowels of the earth and snatched young Persephone from the earth, taking the sobbing girl back down to the darkness he ruled.”

Daphne leaned in closer, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to ward off Hades’ cold grip.

Yia-yia continued. “Demeter heard her daughter’s cries and hurried to the meadow, but all she found when she got there was the unfinished wreath that had fallen from Persephone’s fingers. Demeter was inconsolable. She roamed the earth for months and months looking for her daughter. The goddess was so distraught that she refused to allow the crops to grow. The earth lay barren and the people were starving. But Demeter vowed that nothing would grow until Persephone was returned. Zeus looked down from Mount Olympus, and when he saw that the great famine threatened the existence of mankind, he ordered Hades to return Persephone to her mother. Hades did as he was told, but before he allowed Persephone to go, he laid a great feast before her and told her to eat to prepare for her long journey home. Young Persephone looked at the feast of food before her but managed to eat only six pomegranate seeds. It was those six tiny, blood-red seeds that sealed her fate and that of every human on earth. According to the laws of the underworld, once you feast at the table of Hades, you are bound to return to his dark kingdom. Because she ate six seeds, Persephone would be forever bound to spend six months as Hades’ dark queen. The remainder of the year would be spent on earth with her mother.”

Yia-yia leaned in closer. “And that is why the earth is cold and barren during the months of winter, Daphne
mou
. That is when Persephone sits beside Hades in the underworld while Demeter roams the earth, lonely and sad, refusing to allow anything to grow until Persephone is returned to her embrace.”

Daphne and Yia-yia sat quietly after Yia-yia had finished her story. They both stared into the fire, replaying the myth in their minds. But Daphne and Yia-yia knew this was more than just another myth, fable, or story; it was their story.

Daphne broke the silence. “I don’t want the summer to end. I wish it wouldn’t end.”

Yia-yia didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She turned her head away and stared out across the lush green island, listening as the leaves of the cypress trees danced upon the breeze and filled the evening air with their own hushed lament. As she cocked her head toward the rustling trees, Yia-yia nodded in agreement.

She knew they sang for her, that only they could understand the anguish of another winter without her Daphne. Yia-yia lifted her weathered hand to her face and wiped away the tears that one by one began to fall.