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"I found a ring," said Katerina, and suddenly she wanted to giggle,
in the midst of the embarrassment, the idea of a ring, when
marriage had just been dismissed so emphatically. She swallowed hard.
"An old ring. We thought it might belong to Agamemnon."
"To Odysseus." corrected Stellio. Katerina drew out the ring and handed it to
the priest. He took it without touching her fingers, walked to the window and
turned it doubtfully in the light.
"It is certainly gold," he said, "And there is a lion on it, with lines, no
writing, no mark, it could be any age. Mycenean, maybe, as you say, it is
large enough, but I don't know, gold has always been worked and I am
far from expert in these things." He addressed his words to Stellio and
looked at
Katerina as if she was an empty chair. He did not seem to like to look at
Varvara either.
"Can I see?" Varvara asked. She stood, and Katerina was surprised how tall she
was, much taller than Pappa Thomas. She held out her hand and the priest gave
her the ring. He did not meet her eyes, but walked back across to the desk.
She squinted at the ring, and rolled it in her fingers. Then she smiled and
handed it back to Katerina.
"It is almost pure gold, I think. Hard to say without testing it, but I would
say that it is gold from
Macedon. The lion's head does look Mycenean, in a way, but I think this is
Macedonian goldwork, and much later than that. I think it is Hellenistic,
possibly from the time of Alexander but I would guess a little later."
Katerina could feel her face fall, and saw it echoed in her father's face.
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"Almost new." said Stellio, regretfully. Pappa Thomas laughed.
"You thought it was three and a half thousand years old, and when you find out
that it is only two and a half thousand years old you are disappointed?"
Stellio drew himself up in his chair. "Alexander the Great is like yesterday.
Better than the Romans or the Turks because he was ours, but he is not
History." Varvara giggled, unexpectedly, sounding much younger. Katerina
turned to look, but she was as grave and composed again as if the sound had
come from someone else. All the same, the laugh had given Katerina courage.
She looked at the ring. "It came to me from the water." she said. "From the
guts of a monster-fish. I
think it was sent for my son. I shall call him Leonidas."
"After the king of Sparta?" asked Varvara, speaking into the horrified silence
of the two men.
"He was very brave. And after this lion." Katerina threaded the ring back on
the lace.
"Bravery is not everything in war. One should also have a sense of tactics."
Varvara was smiling a little. "But may he have both. I think that will be an
excellent name for your son. In the name of all that is holy." The two men
looked at each other speechless. Then as they both opened their mouths,
Varvara stood, and lifted a hand in blessing. She sketched a sign in the air
that might have been the sign of the cross, or possibly some more curved sign.
Then the sunlight was brighter where she stood, and brighter still. Katerina
covered her eyes, and Stellio looked away. Pappa Thomas rushed forward towards
the light. Katerina put out a hand to stop him, but he blundered past her.
When he reached the window, there was nobody there. The priest knelt in the
patch of sunlight, sobbing. Stellio and Katerina looked at each other, then
each took an arm and helped him into the chair by the desk.
"I am blinded!" he said.
"It will wear off, Pappa," Katerina said. "You should have looked away."
"Agia Varvara was in my house, and I did not know until it was too late. I
must write to the bishop again. He will believe me now. There'll be no more
talk of little holidays and overworking."
"I think you should lie down, Pappa," Stellio said. He helped the priest to
the sofa. "Do you want a cup of tea?"
"No, nothing thank you. I can see colours, wonderful colours." Tears were
streaming down his cheeks, unheeded.
Stellio turned to Katerina. "You're going to have a baby?"
"Yes, father." She looked straight at him.
"And the father is is Ag. Varvara knows who the father is, and gave the child
her blessing?"
"Yes, father." Stellio frowned.
"You should have told me!"
"Yes, father." said Katerina, because there was nothing else to say. Then
she laughed, and her father laughed too, and embraced her.
On the sofa Pappa Thomas continued to sob. "What is the world coming to?" he
asked.
"A new time, Pappa," said Stellio, gently, patting his shoulder "A new time,
like you told us was coming. I think you ought to rest and calm yourself down
as the bishop says. If you are to be ready for it."
11. XENIA KOPELLA
(Jenny)
The distant fleeing coward's sails are black, my knife is ready for his
father's life and she alone will walk forsaken shores and grow, awaiting other
loves or none.
I sit on the side of the harbour and drink retsina. It tastes like turpentine,
but it helps me sleep.
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Sometimes I don't know why I bother to go on living from one day to the next,
pouring this vile stuff down my throat so I can live to wake up and do it
again. Just another piece of jetsam, washed up by the sea. I drink to avoid
self pity, not to wallow in it. Raise the glass, keep smiling, the world's
still turning and
I'm still turning with it.
Gah, summer, the place is getting crowded. There's a brash American couple
sitting at the next table, going on and on. Not sure I can stand much more
of this. They're stuffing their faces with garithes, making vast piles of
empty shrimp shells on their tabletop. Their voices grate on me. I said I'd
eat a sardine, and it should be nearly done, but the bottle's empty and I'm
tipping back on the wooden chair looking for Yorgo. He spots me waving the
bottle, but he's busy dashing about. I hate it when there get to be so many
tourists, cluttering the place up, leaving no space for the locals. Molivos is
a good place, I
know everyone and everyone knows me. I even have a few people I call friends
here. But it's May already, and already time to leave. This is a good place
to winter, but winter's over.
"Retsinaki, Yenni?" says Yorgo, coming behind me with another bottle, good.
"Not out with the boats tonight?"
"It is a calm night, no need," I reply. He laughs. I'd like to banter with him
a little, but he has no time.
He dashes away, pretending to be a waiter in the European mode. I pour more
wine, more wine, to wash
away my cares. Time to leave, definitely time to be elsewhere. Could wish
there was somewhere else I
wanted to be, but can't have everything. I drink deep, and stare out over the
dark water. Far out to sea I
can see the red and white lights of fishing boats bobbing. I take a piece of
bread from the wicker basket that sits on the table. It is grey and hard.
Stale bread, it must be Sunday, or Yorgo would have brought fresh down from
the bakery. I put it back without tasting it and take another drink.
I wish Americans didn't have such piercing voices. It's impossible to ignore.
If they hate everything so much, if they find it all so inferior to Hometown,
Idaho, why did they come? They're carping and criticising, and eating huge
mouthfuls they look repulsively groomed and cared for, upholstered, red and
bulging. They ooze health without vitality. They make me ashamed of my
nationality. Oh, wonderful, now they're talking about me. Mr. American thinks
I'm German. Not a bad guess, but no cigar, my mother's family were Danish,
from Wisconsin. Mrs. American has heard me speaking Greek to Yorgo.
Yes, madam, I'm well aware I can't pass for Greek, it's the hair. Yes, it is
my natural colour, though I think the ten years of sun on my bare head has
brought out more light in it. I inherited it from my mother. If she hadn't had
naturally flaxen hair my father would never have noticed her he had money but
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