Nicolai's Daughters (4 page)

Alexia wasn't sure if she should hug Christina or look away. Christina thrust the flowers under Alexia's nose and whimpered in Greek, pulled out a wrinkled hanky from her purse and dabbed her eyes. The sweet smell of the chrysanthemums made Alexia sneeze. Christina smiled. Alexia rummaged through her bag for a Kleenex.

“
Ella
,” Christina shouted and a small mob descended on them. Christina rattled off names and Alexia registered three cousins named Yannis, and one aunt and two cousins with the name Maria. Christina laughed when she saw Alexia's confusion. “Even we have to give them numbers,” she said, and as if expecting the family to agree, she turned to them and said to no one in particular, “no?”

“There are differences,” one of the Marias said. “You will see.”

There were other names: Katarina, Zak and Solon. It was hard to keep them straight. As each of the relatives came forward, Alexia extended her hand. It got crushed against her aunt Maria's plump breasts, ended up inside her uncle Zak's jacket and tapped the cheek of one of the other Marias, who was particularly short and came in too close for a hug. Alexia smiled, and they smiled. She apologized once, and then again, and finally stopped trying to shake anyone's hand. Instead, she let herself be handled.

Alexia's face felt tight, her jaw sore. Maintaining this smile wasn't easy.

“This is just a small part of family,” Christina said. She led Alexia towards the exit. The rest followed.

The doors mechanically fanned open and closed again. Alexia caught a glimpse of the brilliant blue sky wavering like a mirage in the heat.

1986

Nicolai parked the rental car around the corner from his parents' house and walked up Vyronos street towards the sea. Houses hadn't changed here since he'd left. Ten or twelve years ago. The old trails in front of the fields were paved now and a village had grown, but the farms remained. A rooster called out. Grasshoppers knocked in the fields. Nicolai glanced up at one open window, then another, and quickly looked away, hoping no one would recognize him. But it was early morning, he told himself. The farmers would already be in the fields. It was just the women at home.

People didn't change here, either. “Why are you back?” he'd be asked as soon as he was recognized. It wouldn't matter how he responded, the gossip would start. They'd say he couldn't make a go of it in Canada or he missed the homeland or he got into trouble. They'd make up some story or another to pass the time. He knew what his family's reaction would be. They'd ignore the stares and whispers. “He's so successful,” his mother would brag, “he can afford a holiday like this. You should see the gifts he brought.” She'd avoid any mention of his dead wife or the daughter he left behind. All bad luck that reflected badly on the family.

Nicolai passed a tomato field. Stavros was bent over his vines, no doubt checking for worms or whatever ate at tomatoes. Sara would know. He didn't. Someone Nicolai didn't recognize squatted in the field alongside the next house. Chickens pecked aimlessly at the ground beside her. Nicolai picked up his pace and found himself at the end of the road near the channel of water separating Diakofto from northern Greece. He thought he'd left these dead-ends behind.

He turned away from the sea and walked up another side street that led to his old school. Leaning against the chain-link fence, fingers laced through the metal, he stared at the building, the grassy weeds poking through the concrete slab of an outside basketball court where he used to play. Were any of his old friends still in the village?

Back at the car, he got his bag and walked back to his parents' house. Had it always looked so old? Under the whitewash façade, a web of mould clung to the walls. The steps looked like they hadn't been painted since he left. The concrete crumbled, exposing aggregate stone, rusty wire mesh. The peonies beside the steps drooped under the dust.

He'd left his daughter to return to this place? What was he thinking? He'd only wanted escape. From that empty house. Sara's ghost. His anger. He'd become his father. He couldn't do that to Alexia.

And how was he going to face his father? The last time he'd seen him, they'd argued. About his leaving. About who he was. His mother sitting at the table, her head bowed, and her hands over her ears. His father flipping the cupboard doors open and slamming them shut again as he paced.

“Why do you want to go?”

“Canada has opportunities.”

“We have the same things. Look here first,” his father said, tapping hard on Nicolai's head with his index finger. His father scowled, but his tight-lipped grin stayed in place. “Stop filling your head with useless dreams.” He drilled at Nicolai's head again. “Think of someone else.”

Nicolai grabbed his father's finger, bent it away from him.

His father didn't flinch.

“You never wanted to be here either.”

They stood face to face, his father's pupils large and black, the whites of his eyes streaked with angry red veins, his garlic breath laced with a trace of something else. Something dying. He pushed his father away.

“You are not a son of mine.”

“Best news I've heard.”

His father didn't come to the ship the day he sailed from Patras. His mother and sisters rode with him in the taxi, took pictures of him in his new suit and waved goodbye from the pier, their hands choking handkerchiefs.

After he arrived in Canada, he wrote to his mother and sisters when he found the time. When Christina wrote, she said,
Father is well. He never changes.

Nicolai sent his mother and sisters a funeral notice after Sara died, but never told them he was coming home. Once he'd made the decision, there wasn't time to write, and when he thought about phoning them, it was always too early or too late in Greece to call.

A loud yowl made him jump. A striped tomcat with a bloodied eye attacked a larger black one. Nicolai shouted and they ran off, one chasing the other. He rubbed his hands against his pants as if he'd touched the mangy things, smelled himself and caught a whiff of cramped, long-distance travel. Get on with it, he told himself firmly. Get in the house and out of the sun. He heard a noise behind him and turned to the door.

His father opened the screen and stepped forward as if to come out and greet him, but stopped and stood still inside the doorframe, blocking entrance to the house. Nicolai took a step back, dropped his suitcase. They stared at one another.

“The garden looks good,” Nicolai said finally, with a nod to the peonies.

His father scoffed. “The narcissus has already wilted.” He wore what he always wore: a pair of wool pants, the pressed lines shiny with age; underneath his flannel shirt and thin sweater, a bright white undershirt frayed at the edges. The same cross he'd had since Nicolai was a boy hung around his neck.

“Yes.”

“Nicolai!” his mother shouted his name the way she used to when he was a boy. Her face appeared behind his father's shoulder.

She tapped on his back, and when he didn't move she ducked under one of his burly arms, bursting towards her son, wrapping him in her arms. She was shorter than he remembered. Jasmine scented her hair. Nicolai pulled her in closer, held on to her like he used to when he was little, after a nightmare. She patted his back and he tightened his hold briefly, then released her. She led him into the house, her arm around his waist. She told his father to bring Nicolai's suitcase.

His father stood by the sink in the kitchen, gulped his coffee, put his cup down, grabbed his hat and work gloves and headed towards the door. His mother stood beside Nicolai, her arm in his. She took a step towards her husband.

“But why today?” Nicolai's mother asked.

“This woman has a bad memory,” his father said. “This is what I do every day.”

“Your son is home.”

“And this is news?” He shrugged, raised his hands and shook them at her in an exasperated prayer. “
Ella,
what do you want from me? We have to eat.”

The door slammed behind him. Nicolai's mother shouted at him through the screen. “One day is too much to ask from you?” She rubbed her hands on her apron.

She smiled at Nicolai without meeting his eyes. “He can't change.”

She pushed Nicolai towards one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit,
paidi mou
, please.”

It creaked as he sat down. He leaned against the table, cradled his head in his hand, suddenly exhausted. His eyelids closed. He blinked them open. The sleepless night on the plane was catching up with him. If only he could put his head down.

His mother washed grapes in the sink. She found her mother's fine linen napkins in the buffet and rummaged through the drawers for cutlery. As she moved around the kitchen, her black skirt fluttered. She kept talking as if he'd never been away. “Maria's husband was no good, anyway. We knew, but we never said a word. We wonder if Christina will ever marry. She has a nice apartment and a good job at the grocery store, but she's getting old. Solon is a good man. His family is another story. They don't like us. I don't see why not. They're not marrying us.” She lowered her voice. “They want money to marry her.” The change in her tone made him sit up. He rubbed his eyes and wondered how much he'd missed. This was like one of Sara's mystery novels. Read one, and you've read them all. Different characters, same plot.

“Katarina isn't eating again. She is too skinny. This is why she can't have children.” She prepared a coffee as she prattled. “You will remember home when you drink this,” she said, placing the cup in front of him.

The coffee smelled burnt. He took a quick gulp. The bitter flavour made his mouth pucker. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed once and then again to rid himself of the taste.

She opened the oven door, draped a tea towel over her hands and removed the loaf of bread. She put it on the counter and wiped her forehead with the same cloth. “This is what you need,” she said. “Everything will be better soon.” A strand of hair escaped the combs she pushed into the waves to keep the hair off her face. It stuck to her wet cheek.

His head drooped and he lurched up. The chair scraped against the stone floor.

“Maybe you should rest, Nicky. Eat later.”

She led him down the hall to his old room. He thought about taking a shower, but it was more effort than he could manage. The bed squeaked as he lay down, just as it had when he was a boy. She took off his shoes, put a pillow under his head and covered him with the old comforter. It smelled of mildew. As she bent down to kiss the top of his head her hair fell against his cheek.

He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but did remember her coming in to see him. His father stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, his eyes softer. They'd spoken to each other, but he couldn't hear what was said. Nicolai couldn't remember his father ever being tender with his mother and wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing.

In the shower, the spray massaged his neck and shoulders and the hot water surrounded him in a mist he wished he could disappear into. As the water cooled, he turned the cold tap down gradually until there was no hot water left. He got out of the shower, changed and came into the kitchen.

“Water isn't cheap like in your country,” his father said. He put his coffee down and dropped the section of the paper he'd been reading on top of the pile on the floor.

“You must be hungry now, Nicky,” his mother said and got up. “Sit here.”

“He's a man. Stop using his baby name.” He picked up another section of the paper and opened it in front of his face.

She shook her head. “Your father doesn't understand.” She pushed Nicolai onto the chair. “Your sisters are coming tonight for dinner. They came many times in the last day or so, but I told them to let you rest.”

“I've been asleep for a day?”

“Maybe more,” his father said. “The young never understand responsibility.”

“Your sisters will be happy to see you.”

“Maybe they will stop their phone calls. You're back. We know.”

Nicolai sat down across from his father, the newspaper between them. Neither said another word. His mother brought him a coffee. “Now you'll feel better.”

“I have to go.” His father got up and tossed the paper on the floor.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Nicolai asked. He stood up, leaned against the table for support, looked beyond his father to the back door.

“You can help your mother.”

Nicolai sat down on his bed and stared at his feet. His sisters were going to be here soon. They'd want to know his plans. What was he doing here? How long was he staying? Was Alexia going to join him? It tired him to think about questions with no answers. He wasn't going to plan anything again. That much he knew. Life interfered anyway. What was the point?

He told himself he'd lie down for a few minutes until his sisters arrived. The sun jabbed at his eyelids, but he didn't turn his back to the window. Alexia was probably in school right now. She loved school; she loved her godparents. He saw her eager smile. He wished he could bring it on as easily as Sara had. Alexia was fine where she was.

Whispered voices, laughter and the scuff of pans sliding into the oven prodded him awake. Sounds from his childhood. At first, it was just noise. The sky beyond his window was now pinkish blue. He'd slept the afternoon away.

The smell of roasting meat wafted in the air. His stomach growled. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

He smoothed his hands over his pants and shirt. The wrinkles refused to give way so he changed and put his clothes into a heap in the corner of the room.

Nicolai came into the kitchen and stood in the archway out of sight. His mother was chopping cucumbers, his sister Christina beside her. Both spoke quickly and raised their voices so they could be heard over the knock of the blade and the static of the radio.

“How is he?” Christina said.

“He's not like he was.”

“He'll come around.”

She was so like their mother, Nicolai thought. Much taller, but with a similar frame: thin from the waist up, broader through her hips and legs. She wore a dark skirt, a plain white blouse and flat shoes. She was the one who helped their mother manage the house, the one who always thought about everyone else before she thought of herself. He remembered the time their father had beat him with a belt for not coming home right after school. He leaned over the kitchen table and received blow after blow while his sisters huddled in a corner. His mother had shouted, then tried to cajole his father to stop. He pushed her away and she fell. It was Christina who helped her mother up, then grabbed her father's arm. She was sent to her room without supper and wasn't allowed to eat with the family for three days.

“Don't worry so much,” he said, moving from the shadows into hissing fluorescent light.

“Nicky,” Christina yelled and folded him into her arms.

They stood still like this for several minutes, her bony chest chafing his. He noticed a small man sitting at the table and said, “Hello.”

Christina released him and turned around. “This is Solon. I told you about him when I was in Vancouver.” She touched Nicolai's cheek. “I'm sorry, Nicky. How is Alexia? Why didn't you bring her?”

Nicolai moved forward and took Solon's hand. “Good to meet you,” he said. Solon's eyes were soft, kind. He didn't seem to be the kind of guy who would demand a dowry to marry Christina.