Sure of You (22 page)

M
ONA FELT A TWINGE OF HOMECOMING WHEN HER
cab rounded the seafront bend and Molivos sprang into view. The bright shutters and stone terraces, the smokestack of the old olive oil factory, the Genoese castle crowning the hill—all had lost their exoticism and become suddenly, ancestrally familiar. She had been here before and now she was back, an Amazon returning from the Sapphic Wars.

It pleased her somehow to be able to identify the noise coming from the esplanade. It was the laundry truck, which announced itself by what appeared to be a top-mounted gramophone, and which, once or twice a week, transported the dirty clothes of tourists into Mitilíni, sixty kilometers across the mountains. The people of Molivos were a pround lot, who did their own washing but no one else’s.

The first time she’d heard the blare of that loudspeaker, she’d held her breath and waited for word that a coup had been declared. Even now, almost three weeks later, she suspected it of fascist leanings. Who knew what it was saying, anyway? Maybe it wasn’t
just
a laundry truck. Maybe it was issuing some sort of public edict.

Attention all dykes, attention all dykes. The season is officially over. Please vacate the streets immediately and return to your home countries. This is your last warning. I repeat: This is your last warning…

She smiled and peered out the window. A lot of the shops and restaurants had been boarded up in her absence, now citadels against the coming rains. In the tiny high street, the sea-green grotto of Melinda’s Restaurant harbored the last of the tourists. The men at the Old Guys’ Café—her name for the place where Stratos usually ate—seemed tickled to death that Moliveos was about to be returned to them.

Who can blame them? she thought. I wouldn’t want to share it either.

She disembarked at the wisteria-covered end of the high street and paid her driver. She had chosen this approach to the house, rather than the easier one from the esplanade, for the sheer navigational thrill of threading her way down the maze of cobbled walkways. She enjoyed knowing where she was going in such a completely foreign place.

When she reached the Turkish fountain that identified the base of their terrace, she stopped and, looking up, saw the flutter of silk against the sun. Anna cooed a greeting. “You’re home.”

“I am,” said Mona, and smiled at her, one seasoned traveler to another.

“It was truly elemental.”

They were on the terrace now, under big hats. The waning sun had turned the sea to blue Mylar, and there was a breeze. The wisteria on the terrace had lost its thick coat of dust in what Anna said had been a torrential rainstorm.

“No shit?” remarked Mona. “It barely drizzled in Skala.”

“Indeed?”

“How long did it last?”

“All night. We were giddy on the ozone. We flung open the shutters and let it just tear through the house.” Anna smiled winsomely. “I was quite the madwoman.”

“Did it knock out the electricity?”

“No. Why?”

“There are candles all over the place.”

“Oh. Those were for”—Anna dropped her eyes—“atmosphere.”

“Atmosphere?”

“Yes.”

Mona didn’t pursue this, but the image that leapt to mind was of Anna buck naked in a thunderstorm, head wreathed in laurel, arms aloft, like some transcendental Evita. “Did you enjoy the house?”

Anna nodded.

“You didn’t throw him out, just because I was…”

“No, dear. We both wanted a little distance for a while.”

“A breather,” said Mona.

Her parent glowered.

“He seems nice.”

“He is. Very.”

“How was the birthplace of Dukakis’s father?”

“Lovely.”

Mona tilted her hat and gave Anna a friendly smirk. “You never even went, did you?”

“We most certainly did.”

“For how long?” She wasn’t letting her off the hook this easily.

Anna hesitated, then said: “Most of a day, at least.”

“You could’ve just asked me to leave, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Dear, I
assure
you…”

Mona laughed.

“How was Sappho’s birthplace?”

“Fine.”

“Did you meet any nice people?”

“Several,” said Mona, and let it go at that.

When Mona woke to the three o’clock church bells, the air was much cooler, and there were fat, bruised clouds lolling outside her window. This had been her last siesta; tomorrow she’d be back in Athens, sitting on her luggage, waiting for her flight to Gatwick. Wilfred had insisted on meeting her plane, so she felt compelled to be strict about her schedule.

“What haven’t you done?” Anna asked her over tea.

Mona rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask.”

“I mean here,” said Anna, smiling. “Have you seen the
kastro?
”

“They have gay boys here?”

“The castle, you philistine.”

“I know.”

“It’s extraordinary, if you haven’t seen it. Fourteenth century.”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

“It’s a bit of a walk.”

“Something told me,” said Mona.

Higher and higher they trekked through the cobbled labyrinth, until the houses fell away and the castle gate loomed above them. Two black-sweatered old ladies with apple-doll faces were on their way down, so Anna chirped a cheery “
Kalispera
” before taking Mona’s arm and pointing to the squiggly writing above the gate. “The Turks ruled this place for over four hundred years. They didn’t leave until 1923.”

Mona imagined Stratos on the same spot, telling Anna the same thing. And the goofy look in Anna’s eyes when he said it.

“The
kastro
itself is Genoese, built by a titled Italian family.”

Mona grunted and followed her through the gate and up a scrubby incline to another entrance, more mammoth than the first. Thirty feet above their heads, a gnarled fig tree grew from the very stone itself. The ground was sticky from a recent bombardment of fruit.

The door to the keep was ironclad on the outside, but its wooden inside had proved vulnerable to tourist graffiti. It was Greek, for the most part, and the quaint fraternity lettering of the ancients somehow reduced its offensiveness. The only English word she recognized was AIDS, emblazoned in red against the medieval wood.

She averted her gaze and kept walking, her temples pounding as she strode into the open air of the inner fortifications.

Her parent seemed unaffected. “They use this part for a stage,” she explained. “Stratos says they did a production of
The Trojan Women
several summers ago.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Anna forged ahead, ignoring the lackluster response, climbing until the castle began to resemble an opera set—all turrets and fragments and stony niches framing the sea. There were Wagnerian clouds to match, and the wind had picked up considerably, invading Anna’s hair to create a sort of Medusa effect.

She looked at Mona, then swept her arm toward the distant Turkish coastline. “Troy,” she sighed. “Imagine.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“That’s it.”

Mona leaned against the battlement and studied her parent’s face, struck suddenly by its radiance. “You’ve enjoyed yourself, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’ve never known anyone like him.”

Mona hesitated, surprised at the sudden appearance of “him.”

“He’s asked me to stay, in fact.”

“For how long?”

Blinking at her, Anna made a vague gesture in the direction of Troy. “This long.”

Mona laughed, suddenly tickled. “Really?”

Anna nodded.

“A Lesbian wedding?”

“Heavens, no!”

“O.K., then. A Lesbian shack-up.”

They laughed together, sharing their distrust of institutions.

“Is he rich?”

“Mona!”

“I just meant…”

“He’s comfortable. We’d have plenty between us. His brother-in-law is a Dukakis.”

Mona smiled.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Anna. “He lost.”

“Who?”

“Dukakis. Stratos told me this morning.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t in the least surprised. America was already fucked.

“Stratos is really rather bleak about it.”

“What did you tell him?”

“About the election?”

“About you.” She smiled. “Don’t be coy.”

Anna raked her Medusa locks with her fingers. “I haven’t told him anything yet.”

“Is he…important to you?”

Anna nodded.

“Enough so that…?”

“Oh, yes. More than enough.”

“What would you do?” asked Mona. “Sell the house?”

“I suppose.”

“Could you do that?”

“I don’t know. The Treachers have made me an offer.”

“Who are the Treachers?”

“They’re on the third floor.”

“Oh.”

“They’re a nice young couple. They’re looking for a place to buy. I’m sure they’d take good care of it.”

“You’d probably get a fortune for it.”

“I’m not interested in a fortune.”

“I know, but…it wouldn’t hurt. You could travel all over Europe, visit me at Easley. Hell, I’d come see you here. I’d make the sacrifice.”

Anna chuckled, then held Mona’s arm and gazed down at the toy-boat harbor, the train-set village flung against the mythic hillside.

“I can see you here,” said Mona.

“I am here,” said Anna.

Mona smiled at her. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid he’s not for real?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Don’t you want a companion?”

“In my old age?” A smile darted across Anna’s lips.

“C’mon.”

“I have plenty of companions. Wonderful company. Just like you.”

“You want to do this,” said Mona. “I can tell you do.”

Anna fidgeted with the sleeve of her caftan. “The children would never understand.”

“If you mean Michael, he’s got his own life. You should do the same.”

“And there’s Mary Ann and Brian…”

“They’re all gone, for God’s sake.”

“Nevertheless…I have responsibilities.”

In her mind’s eye Mona saw the writing on the castle wall. She knew exactly what Anna was thinking. “Look,” she said, “Michael would never forgive you if you passed this up on his account.”

“Dear…”

“If that’s the reason, I’ll tell him, so help me.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“You’ve spent your whole life telling other people to live and be free. Why don’t you stop blowing smoke and take a little of your own advice?”

“That’s quite enough.”

“You know I’m right.”

“It’s starting to rain…”

“Go home and tell them. See what they say, at least.”

Her parent didn’t answer as she scurried along the battlement, in flight from the downpour.

Cock-and-Bull Stories

W
HEN BRIAN PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE SUMMIT
, Shawna was downstairs as arranged, scribbling furiously in her coloring book.

“How’s it goin’?” asked the doorman, leaning into the Jeep. He was obviously curious as hell about the change in their daily routine. This was the fourth morning in a row Brian had arrived from somewhere else to pick up his daughter.

“Not bad, not bad.” He made a point of sounding jaunty.

“Hey, are those rumors true?”

“What rumors?”

“Mary Ann taking her act to the Big Apple.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Looks like it.” He opened the door and let Shawna in. “Where’s your lunch box, Puppy?”

“We don’t have to,” Shawna told him. “Solange’s mom is fixing burritos.”

“I guess we’ll be losing you guys.” The doorman wasn’t giving up.

“Well, it hasn’t really been…”

“We don’t have to go with her,” Shawna offered brightly.

“Puppy.” Brian gave his daughter a scolding look before turning back to the doorman. “Nothing’s really definite.”

He pulled away from the curb, causing his interrogator to slap the side of the Jeep and say: “Hang in there.” There was a sympathetic, man-to-man air about this, which made Brian wonder if the guy had already guessed the score.

“What did I do wrong?” his daughter asked.

“Nothing.” He couldn’t bring himself to reprimand her for telling the truth, or at least her slant on it.

“When is she going?”

“Next week, Puppy.”

“Will you come back then?”

“Sure. Of course. I told you that.” He reached across and wiggled one of the tight little braids Nguyet had woven for her. “Where else would I go, silly?”

“I dunno.” Shawna ducked her eyes. “Are you still mad at Mary Ann?”

“No. I’m just…I’ve never been really mad at her, Puppy. We had a misunderstanding. It makes me sad to be around her now, so I’m gonna stay with Michael and Thack until she leaves.”

“Will you be sad when she’s gone?”

He hesitated. “Some. Yes.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

He looked at her. “I’ll give it a shot.”

She was distracted by a passing station wagon. A back Lab was in the back seat, poking his rubbery nose through a crack in the window. She waved at it briefly before turning back to him. “Does Michael have AIDS now?” she asked.

“No, Puppy. Michael is just HIV positive. Remember when he explained that to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you ask, then?”

The child shrugged. “Mary Ann said he was sick. She said you were taking care of him.”

“Oh.” So that was the excuse she’d used. “He had an upset stomach for a while, but he’s fine now.”

“Oh.”

“It was just a regular ol’ upset stomach. Just like you have sometimes.”

She looked out the window again.

“Michael would tell you if he was really sick. Don’t worry about that.”

“O.K.,” she said.

That afternoon, as they clipped the brown spikes off the yuccas, he told Michael about Shawna’s distress. “She was so confused, poor kid.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Michael.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…she’s pretty much in the dark about this, isn’t she?”

There was the suggestion of negligence to this, which annoyed Brian. “Look…I’ve been perfectly straight with her. I wasn’t the one who fed her some cock-and-bull story about taking care of you.”