When the Cypress Whispers (7 page)

Ten

Later that afternoon Daphne, Evie, Yianni, and Popi all sat under the olive tree on old wooden chairs, feasting on Yia-yia’s
patatopita.
Daphne had spent the entire morning hoping that Yianni might somehow have forgotten about Yia-yia’s lunch invitation and his promise to join them. But she was not so lucky.

Yianni had shown up right on time, his tales of excruciating hunger sending Yia-yia into a fit of giggles and Daphne running to the kitchen to escape this man who had come to devour the pita along with the peace and tranquillity of her day. She had decided that the best way to deal with Yianni was to simply ignore him.

It appeared that Yianni entered the lunch with the same strategy.

He burst through the gate, holding in one hand a beautiful large
tsipoura
wrapped in newspaper, fresh from his nets. In the other hand was a large chocolate bar filled with chopped hazelnuts.

“
Yia sou
Thea!” he shouted as he entered the patio, bending down slightly to kiss Yia-yia on both cheeks and handing her the newspaper-wrapped fish.

“And for you, little Evie,” he said in perfect but heavily accented English as he patted Evie’s dark curls and handed her the chocolate bar. He had nothing for Daphne; no gift, no words, no acknowledgment.

Evie climbed into Daphne’s lap and nuzzled into her shoulder. As Daphne wrapped her arms around her little girl, she marveled at the therapeutic powers of Evie’s skin against her own. She had never been happier to have Evie crawl into her lap and cuddle. She needed Evie’s innocence and affection right now. It was a stark contrast to the cold presence of Yianni, who sat just inches away.

Evie continued to sit there, enjoying the indulgence of Daphne’s time and attention. With the majority of the conversation taking place in Greek, the little girl had quickly lost interest in trying to decipher what the adults were saying and instead turned her attention to twirling her mother’s corkscrew curls around and around her fingers. As Evie lay draped across her mother’s lap, one arm dangling down to the patio, the other tugging, playing with, and twirling Daphne’s dark ringlets, she suddenly jumped out of Daphne’s lap and began to scream.

“Mommy, Mommy. Get it off of me, Mommy.”

“Evie, honey. What is it, what’s wrong?” Daphne cried as she scanned Evie’s body top to bottom.

“It’s a spider, a huge spider, crawling on my arm. Eww . . . Mommy, help.”

There it was, tiny black body and eight spindly legs meandering down the length of Evie’s arm. With one
whoosh
of her hand, Daphne sent the spider flying off the terrified young girl.

“It’s all right, honey, it was only a spider, nothing to be afraid of.” But of course, knowing her daughter, Daphne knew her words were useless.

“Evie, it is just a spider,” Popi chimed in.

“Yes, honey. It’s nothing,” Daphne agreed as she pulled the little girl back onto her lap, running her hands up and down Evie’s arm as if to wipe away the spider’s tiny footsteps.

“Ah, Evie
mou
, do not be afraid—it is good luck for a spider to kiss a child. Daphne
mou
, tell her it is Arachne’s kiss,” Yia-yia added.

Still holding Evie in her lap, Daphne leaned in to her little girl’s ear and explained what Yia-yia had said. “So you see, honey, a visit from a spider is nothing to be afraid of; it’s a gift from Arachne.”

“But who’s Arachne?” the little girl asked. “Is she another cousin? Mommy, why do I have so many cousins with weird names?” Evie huffed. “Why don’t people here have normal names?”

“No, Evie.” Daphne laughed. “Arachne is not a cousin. She’s a spider.”

“Mommy, now you’re just being silly.” Evie planted her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. The sight of her like that, confused and indignant, was enough to send the adults into a fit of laughter.

“Evie”—Daphne leaned in closer to explain.—“Arachne
is
a spider. When I was a little girl, just about your age, Yia-yia told me the story of Arachne and Athena. Arachne was a young girl who was too proud and far too vain. She was known throughout Greece for her skill at taking different-colored threads and weaving them into beautiful pictures on her loom. She had the nerve to brag that she was better at weaving than the goddess Athena herself. Now Athena got really mad and challenged Arachne to a contest, to see who could weave a better picture. They sat side by side and worked, and finally the contest was finished. Both looms were perfect. But Arachne still had the nerve to insist that hers was better than Athena’s. The goddess got so angry that she cast a spell on Arachne. Athena turned Arachne into the first spider. From that moment on, Arachne would weave forever, and she would forever be attached to her loom.”

“Do you see, Evie?” Popi added as she took another bite of
patatopita.
She opened her mouth to speak again, crumbs flying out of her mouth as she did. “Athena made Arachne into the first spider because she was a very naughty girl.”

“But why was she so naughty, Thea Popi? All she did was make a picture. So what?” Evie asked.

“Well, Evie . . . ummmm . . . you see . . .” Popi looked up at Daphne for help. “Um, the reason is . . . because . . .” For once Popi seemed to be at a loss for words. It was clear from her stuttering and stammering that she had no idea how to answer her inquisitive little niece.

Daphne sat back in her chair, lifted another piece of
patatopita
to her mouth, and remained quiet. She was rather enjoying this little exchange between her curious, high-spirited daughter and her know-it-all cousin who just the other day had had the nerve to question Daphne’s parenting.

“Yes, Popi,” Daphne finally spoke. “Tell us, why did Arachne get in trouble?” Daphne broke off a piece of the
patatopita
’s crust with her thumb and forefinger.

“I will tell you, Evie.” Yianni inched his chair closer to Evie. He leaned in, eye to eye with the little girl.

Yianni’s offer took Daphne by surprise. She glanced over at him. It was the first time she’d dared look straight at him since he arrived for lunch. But now, seated here on the patio, there was no ignoring the ignorant fisherman as he now offered to help Evie. She turned once again and caught another glimpse of his profile: the slightly hooked nose, creased eyes, and scruffy beard, which appeared even more heavily flecked with gray than she had remembered.

“Evie, Arachne got into trouble because she thought she was better than everyone else,” Yianni said. “She had too much pride. In mythology we call this hubris.”

“Yes, that’s right, Evie
mou
,” Daphne added. “Yianni seems to know this myth very well. It’s clear he’s well versed in hubris.”

For the first time since he arrived, Yianni turned to look at Daphne. The gentle ease with which he spoke to Evie dissolved as he locked eyes with the
Amerikanida
. For Daphne he reserved a cocky stare that reeked of challenge. Daphne felt the urge to look away, to escape his black eyes, which felt colder than the dead fish that now lay on a bed of ice on the kitchen counter. But Daphne didn’t look away; she couldn’t and wouldn’t concede defeat—not again.

“Yes,” Yianni said, turning his attention from Daphne back to Evie. “Evie. The ancient Greeks called it hubris. It’s a big word, but it means that someone is too proud. It is never good to be too proud.” He turned toward Daphne as he spoke the words “too proud.”

“Okay,” Evie said as she jumped off her seat to chase a salamander across the patio, clearly finished with hubris and this entire conversation.

“Well, Daphne. You really got her attention that time.” Popi laughed.

“I know.” Daphne shook her head. “She’s not exactly a captive audience, is she?”

“She’s a beautiful little girl,” Yianni added, his eyes following Evie as she skipped away. “It’s no wonder Evie is so beautiful. She is named for Thea Evangelia, isn’t she? She is beautiful like her great-grandmother.”

“Yes, she is.” Popi refilled her glass with beer and clinked glasses with Yianni. “Isn’t that right, Daphne? Isn’t Evie named for your
yia-yia
?”

Daphne nodded. She turned toward Yianni, who was now watching Evie skip across the patio and flip rocks over with a stick in search of salamanders. Once Evie reached the old cellar door, its blue paint peeling and chipping away, Evie stopped in her tracks. Her mouth dropped and her eyes opened wide when she spotted a spider spinning her web in the corner of the door frame.

“Thea Evangelia, look at Evie. She’s found Arachne.” Yianni pointed to where Evie stood, watching the spider spin her web.

“Just one more piece.” Popi leaned across the table and lifted the last piece of pita from the platter, leaving nothing but a few crumbs on the large white serving dish.

“Ah, everyone is hungry today. I’ll get some more pita.” Yia-yia lifted the empty platter from the table and shuffled back into the kitchen.

“To Yia-yia,” Popi exclaimed, her words beginning to slur.

“To Thea Evangelia,” Yianni shouted.

“Yes, to Yia-yia,” Daphne concurred, surprised that there was actually something that she and Yianni agreed on.

“There is no one like Thea Evangelia,” Yianni said, shaking his head from side to side. “And there never will be another like her,” he added as he drained his beer, his fourth of the afternoon.

“Daphne,” Popi said as she lifted her glass to her lips. “Daphne, I never asked you this. Why did you name Evie after Yia-yia, and not your own mother? Angeliki is a beautiful name. And that’s our tradition, to name children after their grandmothers, not great-grandmothers. Just like you are named for your father’s mother, Daphne.”

Yianni looked at Daphne, waiting for her to reply.

“I don’t know. I thought about it. But I guess I wanted to honor Yia-yia somehow. To let her know how much she means to me. She was like a second mother to me.” Daphne shivered as she thought of her mother, killed so senselessly, taken from them too soon, just as Evie had begun to toddle her first steps.

“There are many ways to honor someone,” Yianni said as he refilled his beer glass. “And I for one don’t see the great honor in naming a child after someone who is kept separated from this child. One who dreams night and day that she may one day finally meet her. That to me is not honor—that is torture.”

“Excuse me?” Daphne spun to face him.

Popi sat up straighter in her seat, ready for the fireworks that were sure to ensue.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Daphne demanded.

“It means you might be wiser to think of some other ways to
honor
your
yia-yia
, as you call it.” Yianni shrugged.

“You don’t know anything about us, about me.” Daphne could feel the rage simmering to the surface. She felt as red as the tomatoes hanging on the vines and as hot as the Greek coffee Yia-yia was brewing on the stove. This man knew nothing about her, nothing about Yia-yia. How dare he presume to know their story, their history? How dare he presume to have any grasp of the depth of emotion Daphne felt for her
yia-yia
?

“I know more than you think, Daphne,” Yianni replied. “You think naming a child after an old woman is an honor. What good is that honor when the same old woman sits alone day after day and night after night, praying that she might one day be lucky enough to meet this child which carries her name? What good is a name to an old woman who sings songs of lament morning and night and cries that child’s name, all the time knowing her voice is too far away to be heard by the two little ears she longs to caress and kiss?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Daphne hissed. “What the hell do you know?”

“But I do know,” Yianni replied, unfazed by her anger. “I know things that you don’t, Daphne. I see things you can’t see. I know how she misses you. How alone she feels. I know how many times I come to visit her, and I find her staring into the fire, crying. How she pores over the photos you send. I’ve come here silently at night to check on her, and I’ve watched and seen how she sits alone and talks to your photos, whispers your favorite stories into the photos, praying you might somehow still be able to hear them.”

“Stop it.” Daphne jumped from her seat, knocking over the rickety wooden chair. “What is it with you? Haven’t we had enough myths for one day?”

“Me?” Yianni shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done nothing but speak the truth. Whether you like it or not, it is the truth. I see it, Daphne. I know. I may like to tease about how ignorant you Americans can be, but don’t sit here pretending to be blind as well.”

With one shaky hand, Daphne grabbed the table to steady herself. “You don’t know anything,” she growled as she looked him dead in the eyes, expecting to once again be confronted by his cold, callous gaze. But when her eyes found his, Daphne was shocked to catch a fleeting glimpse of what might pass for compassion.

“I take care of her,” she insisted. “I send money. I work from early morning to late at night every single day just so I can take care of Evie and Yia-yia. There’s been no one to help me, no one. I’ve done it all alone, supported us all. You have no right to say those things.” Daphne turned her back on Yianni just as she felt her eyes well up. She would be damned if he was going to see her cry.

“What good is your money, Daphne?” he continued, his voice just a bit softer now. “Do you think your
yia-yia
cares about your money? Do you think that money keeps her company at night when she is lonely? When she is afraid? Do you think it buys her comfort? Speaks to her when she is starved for company?”

Daphne couldn’t listen anymore. Her head was spinning, as if instead of one small glass of Mythos, she had kept pace with Yianni and Popi. She began to walk toward the house.

“I told her once that my boat was giving me trouble, and that I could not afford a new engine. She took me by the hand and brought me into the house. Your
yia-yia
pulled a box filled with dollars from under her bed and told me to take what I needed, that she had no use for it. I took nothing. She keeps it all in that box. That’s where your money goes. See what good it does there.” He grabbed his fisherman’s cap from the back of the chair, placed it on his head, and stomped toward the gate. “
Yia sou
, Thea Evangelia
.
I have to go. Thank you for lunch.”