When the Cypress Whispers (4 page)

Five

Daphne leaned out over the railing as the ferry approached Erikousa’s port. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was as if a sea of bodies awaited them onshore, as if the whole island had turned out to welcome the bride-to-be and her little girl. She grasped Evie’s soft little hand in her own as they prepared to disembark from the boat and make their way through the throngs of relatives and well-wishers and the black sea of elderly widows who clogged the dock’s narrow concrete road.

It felt good to be back. As she held Evie’s hand and looked out over the landscape Daphne marveled at how green it was, how pristine, clean, and undeveloped. There were no tall buildings, skyscrapers, or concrete structures to break up the natural patina of the island. Deep rich colors flowed one into the next, as if a rainbow had fallen from the sky and infused the land and sea with vibrancy normally reserved only for the gods. The cobalt sea spilled rhythmically into the taupe sand, which gave way to the lush greenery of ancient bent olive trees. Shiny lemon trees were dotted with giant golden sunbursts, while blackberry bushes dripped with wine-colored orbs. And of course the tall, slim hunter-green cypresses stood regal sentinel above everything else.

She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with sea air once again, knowing the salty moistness would soon give way to the island’s signature perfume of rosemary, basil, and roses.

“Oh, Mommy, it’s so pretty,” Evie cooed beside her.

“Yes, honey. Yes, it is,” Daphne agreed.

“Hey, Evie, here you go.” Popi nudged the little girl and slid a tissue into the back pocket of her jeans. “For the slobber sisters. They’re all here,” she said with a wink.

Evie giggled. She wrinkled her nose, stuck out her tongue, and again mumbled “Ewwwww.” She held tightly to Daphne’s hand as they took the short walk down the boat’s ramp, into the waiting crowd.

The moment Daphne and Evie’s feet hit the ground, they were surrounded. Dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, and even strangers came at them from all directions; hugging, kissing, pinching, slobbering, and fawning over them. Daphne was overcome by emotion as well as several waves of nausea. The late-morning heat mixed with the often overwhelming and familiar island fragrance of elders who, even in these modern times, still didn’t use deodorant.

“Daphne, I missed you.”

“It’s so wonderful to see you.”

“Evie, look at you. You are beautiful.”

“Daphne, poor, poor Daphne. I am a widow too. Only I can understand your pain.”

“Daphne, I’m so happy for you. You are going to make a beautiful bride.”

“Daphne, are you sick? Why are you so skinny?”

The salutations were warm, welcoming, endearing, and endless. Daphne made sure to greet each and every well-wisher with a hug and a kiss, even if she had no idea who her greeter was. The last thing she wanted was to appear aloof or ungrateful when really, it felt wonderful to feel so welcomed and so loved.

She greeted every older woman with a warm “
Yia
sou,
Thea
,” and every older man with a joyous “
Yia sou,
Theo
.” “
Yia sou
,
Ksalthelfi
” and “
Yia sou
,
Ksalthelfi
” were reserved for the younger islanders whose names escaped her. That was the beauty of being from Erikousa—everyone was related somehow, so even if you had no idea who you were speaking to, you could always get away with simply aunt, uncle, or cousin, and no one was ever the wiser.

After scanning the crowd between the bobbing heads and bodies that were constantly coming at them, it was Daphne who spotted her first. “Yia-yia, Yia-yia!”

She held tight to Evie’s hand and led her to the other side of the port, where Yia-yia waited. She wore her baggy black dress, headscarf, and black tights, even though it must have been ninety degrees outside already. She stood alone, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, leaning on her bamboo walking stick and holding the reins of Jack—short for Jackass—the donkey that Daphne had named so many summers ago.

“Yia-yia, oh, Yia-yia,” Daphne sobbed as she clung to her beloved grandmother. The old woman threw down her walking stick and even the reins of her prized donkey and grabbed Daphne as if she would never again let go. They stood there for several moments crying uncontrollably, heaving up and down with each sob—faded and stained black polyester pressed against delicate white linen.

“Here, Mommy.” Daphne felt a tug at her white eyelet skirt and looked down to see Evie smiling up at her, offering her the tissue that Popi had earlier placed in Evie’s back pocket.

“Thank you, honey.” Daphne took the tissue from Evie’s hand and wiped her mascara-streaked face. “Evie, this is Yia-yia.” Daphne beamed.

Without any prompting from Daphne, Evie took two steps forward toward Yia-yia. “
Yia sou
, Yia-yia
. S’agapo
.” Evie wrapped her little arms around Yia-yia’s legs and gave the old woman a hug.

Yia-yia bent down and touched Evie’s angelic face. She lowered her hollow cheek onto her great-granddaughter’s head and stroked Evie’s hair, her tears falling like a sun shower into the dark soil of Evie’s curls. “I love you, Evie
mou
,” Yia-yia responded, exhausting the extent of her English vocabulary.

Daphne stared at her daughter and grandmother in amazement. She had been so concerned about Evie’s nervousness around new people. At home, Evie was so withdrawn that Daphne had worried about how she would handle her new, sometimes overbearing family. Evie had always been an introverted child, afraid of new experiences and new people. In fact, it had taken weeks of conniving and cajoling before Evie would even look Stephen in the eye, let alone speak to him. Daphne couldn’t believe it yesterday when Evie took to Popi so quickly in Corfu. But seeing her warm up to Yia-yia immediately like this, taking it upon herself to use the one Greek phrase that she knew by heart, Daphne wondered if the Erikousa air was working its magic on Evie as well.

“Daphne,” Yia-yia said. “Daphne, this is not a child. This is an angel sent from the heavens.” Yia-yia placed her arthritic fingers under Evie’s chin. The old woman’s hand trembled slightly, but it steadied as it touched Evie’s face.

“Yes, she is an angel. And so are you,” Daphne said as she bent down to hand Yia-yia her walking stick.

“You told me on the telephone that she is shy. This child isn’t shy. This child is full of life. Look at her.” Yia-yia clucked and continued to gaze at Evie.

“Back home she is. But here, ever since we got here, she’s like a different child.”

“She’s not a different child,” Yia-yia insisted. “She’s the same wonderful child both here and there, Daphne
mou
. The difference is love. She knows how much love there is for her here.”

The two women watched as Evie reached her hand out to pet Jack.

“Children know when they are surrounded by love, Daphne
mou
,” Yia-yia continued. “They can feel the difference. This child has a gift, Daphne, I can feel it.”

“A gift?”

“Yes, she is blessed, Daphne
mou
. I can see it in her eyes.” Yia-yia lifted her face and smiled as a delicate, almost undetectable breeze wafted through the port. “I can hear it on the breeze.” Yia-yia looked out across the treetops, as if she could hear the cypress whispers serenading them right then and there.

Daphne inched closer to her grandmother and rested her head on Yia-yia’s shoulder. It had been so long since she had heard Yia-yia profess that the cypress whispers existed, that she could hear the voices of the island. For the longest time, Daphne had believed Yia-yia’s claims; she had begged, prayed, and dreamed that she too would one day hear them. But the whispers never did materialize for Daphne, her hope eventually replaced by the fading echo of Yia-yia’s insistence. After a while, Daphne simply stopped wishing, stopped believing.

After making a plan to meet for frappe later that afternoon, Popi went off to the small house she had inherited when her father passed away, on the other side of the port. Daphne and Yia-yia loaded the luggage on Jack’s back, making sure to leave room for Evie to ride up there as well. Cars were a rare commodity on the island, where the roads were still for the most part unpaved and too narrow for a car to pass. Daphne was thrilled to see that donkeys were still a mainstay of transportation. She and her old friend Jack had had many adventures together, and she knew Evie was looking forward to creating some of her own.

Their little caravan slowly made its way along the main paved road that leads from the port, past the tiny downtown area of the island. The three of them were quite a sight; the black shrouded old woman hunched over and leading the way as she held on to Jack’s reins with one hand and tightly gripped her walking stick with the other. A beaming Evie sat on Jack’s luggage-saddled back, continually patting his neck as he lumbered along the cracked, uneven pavement. Daphne walked right beside Jack and Evie, never taking her eyes off her little girl, arms poised and ready just in case Evie somehow slipped from her happy perch.

As soon as they reached the white-and-blue-painted sign that read “Welcome to Hotel Nitsa,” Yia-yia stopped and turned to Daphne.

“Daphne,
mou
. Do you want to go and say hello to Nitsa? To tell her you are here. She asks me every day when you will be arriving. You should see her, Daphne, the way she buzzes around like she is planning her own daughter’s wedding.” Yia-yia shook her head. The tone of her voice changed as she sighed deeply.

Daphne knew what was coming next. She braced herself for the lament song she knew would follow. Listening to the wailing and moaning of the island women had always been Daphne’s very own version of fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.

“Ahhhhaaaa.” Yia-yia shook her head and began to half speak, half sing. “Ahh, poor Nitsa, poor widowed and childless Nitsa. It is as if she is planning her own daughter’s wedding, the daughter she never knew, never could have. Poor lonely and childless Nitsa.”

Nitsa was the lovely grandmotherly woman who ran the small rustic hotel with more care than if it was a Ritz-Carlton resort. It was the only hotel on the island and the simplest of accommodations. But what Hotel Nitsa lacked in luxury, it more than made up for in cleanliness and hospitality. Inside the lobby, the small reception/bar area opened to a flower-filled terrace that Daphne knew would be the perfect location for her wedding reception.

Nitsa had been thrilled when Daphne called with the news and a request to book the entire hotel for the celebration. Business had been slow lately, and this windfall was a lifesaver to Nitsa, who was a widow herself and relied on the fickle tourist trade to make ends meet.

Daphne looked from Yia-yia to the hotel’s front doors. As much as she was looking forward to seeing Nitsa, Daphne didn’t really want to talk business right now. All she wanted to do was get home, kick off her shoes, sit under the lemon tree, and dive into whatever feast Yia-yia had prepared.

“Let’s just go home, Yia-yia. I can go visit Nitsa later.”

“All right,” Yia-yia replied. “You must be tired and hungry, let’s get home. I have many wonderful surprises waiting for you. We can see Nitsa later. Jack,
ella
, let’s go.” Yia-yia clicked her tongue several times as a signal to her four-legged companion to get moving again. But just as Yia-yia was about to lift her walking stick and take her first step, the doors to the hotel burst open.

He was tall, deeply tanned, and bearded—handsome, but not in the traditional sense of the word. There was something unkempt about his appearance: the crooked nose that looked as if it might have been broken in a bar brawl, the weathered face with its dense, gray-streaked facial hair, which made him attractive in the most primal way. Daphne had never seen him before.

He rushed down the stairs and into Yia-yia’s path.

“Yianni
mou
!” Yia-yia shouted, lifting her walking stick into the air.

“Thea Evangelia.” A warm smile spread across his face as he spotted her. He stepped into her arms and kissed her on each cheek.

“Yianni
mou
. I was worried about you. I have not seen you in days. I thought you forgot about me,” Yia-yia teased.

“Thea Evangelia, how could I possibly forget about you, the most unforgettable woman on the island? I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave without saying good-bye, but I didn’t think I would be gone this long. I had to pick up a part for my boat in Kerkyra
.
That
malaka
sent me the wrong propeller last time, and I lost two days collecting my nets. But now—” Yianni held up a plain brown paper package in his hand as if it were a trophy. “Now I can get back to my nets and my boat.” Yianni never looked away from Yia-yia’s face as she held his hand to her cheek.

Daphne stood there and stared at Yianni and Yia-yia. She had no idea who this man was; she had never even heard Yia-yia utter his name.

“Yianni
mou
.” Yia-yia used her walking stick to gesture behind her, never letting go of Yianni’s hand. “This is my great-granddaughter Evie—isn’t she beautiful?” Yia-yia glowed as she gestured to Jack’s back, where Evie was perched, petting and caressing Jack as if he were a new kitten.

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” Yianni agreed. He looked over at Evie but never once made eye contact or even acknowledged Daphne’s presence.

“And this . . . ,” Yia-yia announced. “This is my Daphne, my granddaughter. She is the one, the very famous chef in New York that I have been telling you about.”

“Yes,” he said, still never glancing her way. “The
Amerikanida
.”

Daphne stared at him, confused. It was the way he said the word
Amerikanida.
Her parents had struggled for her to wear that title, and she wore it proudly. But the way the word had slithered across his tongue had nothing to do with pride. The way he said it sounded more like an accusation.

Yia-yia continued, “Yes, she is my
Amerikanida
. And a smart one, too. The same things we give to our friends and family for free here, she charges hundreds of dollars for in New York.”