Paint the Wind, page 12
“Be good for your grandparents” were his parting words to me.
“Give my love to Mama” were mine to him.
I turned back into the house before he was out of sight.
Chapter Fifteen
I settled into a routine with my grandmother of housework and meal preparation that kept my hands busy and helped me to survive each day without collapsing into despair. My grandmother would not tolerate any idleness. After all, my presence put a burden on the household; I was another mouth to feed, another body in need of a bed and clean clothes. But she also indicated to me in the early days after my father left that my assistance would not only provide her with some relief but also give me an outlet for the frustration and anger that simmered within me as the days between my life in Vienna and my existence on Skiathos multiplied. I had little time or energy to dwell on my loneliness, or my fear that Andreas had already forgotten me and found a new model.
It was only at night when I retreated to my room that I had time to reflect on my situation. I often fell asleep imagining wildly unrealistic scenarios of escaping Skiathos and making my way back to Vienna. During the day, I moved through my chores in silence. I could not blame my grandparents for my imprisonment and didn’t want to inflict my pain on them, so I washed dishes, swept the floor, chopped onions, kneaded bread under my grandmother’s instruction, and learned how to gut a fish. The monotony of my days was endless. Like the mist-shrouded landscape around the house, the colors of my life had seeped away. No more bold strokes of vibrant pigments on Andreas’s canvases, no more passionate embrace of bohemian life in the artists’ quarter.
My very being felt surrounded by a cloak of sadness and despair. I had lost my identity—the strong-willed, passionately curious, clever woman I had once known myself to be.
My isolation was a devastating contrast not only to the intensity and intimacy of my relationship with Andreas, but also to my intellectual life of challenging and often heated conversations over the bitter coffee and Turkish cigarettes that seemed to be the only sustenance of my friends. My life in Vienna was often frenetic and raucous and infuriating, but the energy fed me, made me feel alive in every sense.
Here, I felt my senses had dimmed. I wandered through the house after my chores were done, restless and unable to settle myself. I thought if I found a purposeful task, I might pull myself out of the morass of emptiness into which I had sunk. I had packed my traveling writing desk, an ingenious contraption that held my monogrammed stationery and the fountain pen my parents had given me when I graduated from secondary school and passed the Abitur exam. I decided to write a letter every day to Andreas, despite my inability to send them. My father had left strict instructions forbidding me any contact with Andreas or anyone else in Vienna. He rightly surmised that I might persuade someone to act as a go-between in my efforts to reach Andreas. I thus had no way for my letters to make their way from Skiathos Town across the Aegean, through the Corinth Canal, the Gulfs of Corinth and Patras, and then up the Adriatic coast to Trieste and on to Vienna. I had traced the route on a maritime map Pappou kept in his office at his warehouse. Perhaps not as fraught and complicated as the journey of Odysseus, but still overwhelming in its complexity.
Nevertheless, I began the daily practice of writing to Andreas. In the beginning, the words came easily, despite the trauma of my departure and the devastating aftermath of my arrival on Skiathos. I was still Maya then. My rage sustained me at first. I was furious with my father, of course, but also with myself for my naïveté in thinking I was truly free. But as the days passed and the weather itself locked me in the house, I gradually came to the understanding that my sojourn would last far longer than I anticipated, and that realization drained my anger and left me in a state of emotional paralysis. I was numb, and the sensation served as a form of protection, like the swaddling of an infant to keep it from flailing. The more I withdrew from the painful realization that my life was now bound to Skiathos, the fewer words emerged from my pen every night. It did not take me long to forgo the letters entirely. I had nothing to say. I had no hope to express of one day finding myself once again in Andreas’s studio, Andreas’s arms, Andreas’s bed. The memory of that bed also began to fade, leaving me a shell who could not even recall the exquisite touch of my lover—a touch that had revealed a side of me that had delighted and astonished me.
I bound up the letters with a thin strip of fabric left over from the alterations of my aunts’ dresses. I attached so little value to the letters that they didn’t even deserve a ribbon.
One morning when the foul weather had abated slightly, my grandmother greeted me at breakfast with an announcement.
“Today we go to visit your Aunt Ekaterina. Dress warmly. The wind is strong and may bring more rain.”
We left in the late morning and walked down the hill into the town. My grandmother had a large bundle with her, which I offered to carry, and a tin of her sesame seed cookies that we had baked earlier in the week.
When we arrived at her house, Ekaterina greeted us with enveloping hugs. She was expecting us.
We gathered in a central room that served as both a dining room and a parlor. A fire in the hearth cast warmth over the entire space, and we sat on cushioned benches surrounding the fireplace. I was disappointed to learn that Irini was at school and wondered if Theía Ekaterina and YiaYia had planned the timing of my visit to protect Irini from the modern ideas I had brought with me from Vienna.
Over tea, YiaYia guided the conversation away from any deep probing of why I was on Skiathos. It seemed even close family members like Theía Ekaterina were to be kept from the truth of my shameful behavior. YiaYia directed my attention to a corner of the room.
“Theía Ekaterina is a master weaver.”
I got up to examine the loom that filled nearly a quarter of the room. Shelves around it were filled with skeins of wool. Some were the natural shades shorn from sheep, but several had been dyed in brilliant shades of burgundy and violet and the deep green of the pine forests climbing the hills beyond the town. I stood at the loom and stared in wonder at the intricate pattern taking shape in the frame.
“What will it be when you finish?”
“A wall hanging to keep out the draft in Irini’s bedroom.”
“It’s beautiful!”
I caught the look that passed between my grandmother and my aunt. Was this visit some kind of plot to lift me out of my despondent mood? I could sense the words my grandmother was holding back. You see, Maya, art exists on Skiathos as well as in Vienna.
I turned to my aunt. “How did you learn?”
She laughed and pointed to my grandmother, who held up her arthritic gnarled fingers.
“We moved the loom to Ekaterina about five years ago, when my hands could no longer manage the shuttle. She weaves practical materials like linens for the house and cotton for clothing, but her skills have advanced far beyond what I taught her.”
“Is this a traditional design?” I pointed to the loom.
“It’s a variation of an ancient island pattern.”
Both women looked at me, satisfied smiles on their faces, as if the plan they had hatched was unfolding as expected. They waited for me to ask Ekaterina if she would teach me. But I didn’t. As beautiful as her work was, I saw it as anachronistic, an homage to a past that rigidly defined what was possible. She had called her design a variation, but I imagined if I walked through the town, I’d find several wall hangings with the same colors and shapes as hers. I smiled and offered a concession, disappointing their hopes for an acceptable enterprise for me but acknowledging my admiration for Ekaterina’s craft.
“May I watch you weave someday?”
“Of course, Maya. I could show you how I manipulate the loom, if you like.”
She wasn’t going to give up, but she avoided the word teach.
“Come back tomorrow after dinner.”
We left soon after my grandmother handed Ekaterina the bundle she had brought, which contained raw wool.
“This is from the summer shearing. Dimitri found it in the barn, forgotten under stacked wood. It’s a wonder the mice didn’t discover it.”
“Efcharisto, Mitera. I’ll wash and card it. I have some dried berries I can use to dye it. Maya, you can help when you come tomorrow.”
Before returning home, YiaYia and I stopped at a small shop that offered dry goods and served as a post office and a café.
“I need salt and flour. Your father usually writes ahead to ask what we need, but apparently he didn’t have time for that. Come. Be prepared for the stir it will make. Any stranger’s arrival in town is cause for curiosity, but word has certainly reached those who weren’t at the house for the feast. The appearance of Kostas Sircos’s daughter after ten years will generate enough inquisitiveness to fuel the rumor mill for weeks.”
As my grandmother predicted, our entrance into the shop brought conversations to a standstill. No one bothered to disguise their curiosity, but instead stared openly. I understood more clearly why my grandmother’s first task had been to outfit me as a Skiathan when I had been deposited in her house by my father. I caused enough of a commotion dressed modestly. I could only imagine what the reaction would have been if I had shown up dressed in my bohemian finery. No doubt I’d have been labeled a loose woman fresh from the city of the devil. I expected that impression might still be forthcoming as my sojourn on Skiathos continued, but at least in these early days, I was a proper young granddaughter accompanying her yiayia to the market. My grandmother spoke only to Nota, the shopkeeper, who wrapped our purchases and asked no questions. Without acknowledging any of the other customers, YiaYia and I left the store and returned home.
The next day, I went to Ekaterina’s by myself to help her wash, card, and dye the wool. YiaYia cautioned me to go directly to Ekaterina’s house.
“You remember the way. Don’t wander and don’t stop to speak to anyone you pass. Dimitri will come and get you before nightfall.”
“Not even people I met at Papa’s feast?”
“No one. They will try to engage you with questions, but only to extract information they will use like currency to curry favor or damage your already tenuous reputation. It’s better to just nod a greeting and move on.”
Her warning seemed extreme to me, but I understood enough about island culture to heed her advice. Every household had secrets that were best held close, especially households like that of my grandparents, whose lofty status relied on the reputation of my father. By nature of being his daughter, my behavior on the island or my history, if it became known, could ostracize my family. Consequently, I hurried through the village to Ekaterina’s house, arriving in a state of breathlessness.
“Maya, are you ill? Did a dog chase you? Were you accosted by old Alexis, drunk again?” She looked up and down the street to find the source of my agitation. But of course, nothing was in sight except for some damp leaves caught in the wind.
I shook my head. “Only my imagination. YiaYia put the fear of God in me to come straight here and not be distracted by talking to anyone.”
Ekaterina shook her head in sympathy. “My mother is a suspicious old woman who sees danger around every corner. Don’t let her frighten you. The town is more afraid of her than she has reason to fear them.”
“Why is that?”
“Your grandmother has healing powers, or didn’t you know that? A lot of people here believe she can cast spells or call down curses. However, mostly what she does is prepare remedies for fevers and agues, and serve as the island midwife. She’s delivered more than 500 babies over her lifetime. Even at her age, she still answers the call to births. If it’s out of town to one of the hamlets in the hills, Leo goes with her, over her objections.”
“If she does such good, why is she feared?”
“Some people are jealous. Some people believe she’s privy to the secrets in a family when she goes to help a woman through a difficult birth or sits in death watch with a dying fisherman. It’s what she knows that frightens them.”
“Does it ever worry you? Is she right to be so distrustful? Has anyone ever tried to harm her?”
“Listen to you! So many questions. YiaYia knows how to protect herself and the family. She will protect you here. Now come. We’ve got wool to clean before I can get to my loom.”
We spent a peaceful afternoon washing the raw wool in a galvanized tub and hanging it to dry before Ekaterina sat down at her loom. Once again, I was struck by the difference between my Greek and Viennese aunts. I could not imagine Tante Clara roughening her pampered hands with the kind of physical work that Ekaterina engaged in. But I also knew the hollowness of Clara’s life—her preoccupation with fashion, society balls, and maintaining a façade of propriety and wealth. I knew I didn’t want the life of a Viennese society matron, but I doubted I could be happy confined to life in an island community still trapped in the eighteenth century.
But I did admire Ekaterina for the skill she had acquired and her ability to produce something of value and beauty for her family. She seemed at peace at the loom, a peace my own life lacked. It wasn’t just the disruption of being exiled to Skiathos. I knew that I had also been agitated in Vienna. A growing sense of emptiness had begun to creep into my consciousness. I’d pushed it aside in Vienna, caught up as I was in Andreas’s quest for acceptance by the Secession.
But the longer I remained on Skiathos, the more my unease surfaced.
Not long after working with Ekaterina I was surprised to receive a letter from my mother. My father’s departure had been so final, that I had feared being cut off from my parents as well as Andreas. Although Mama had agreed with Papa to send me away, she was at least reaching out. Her words were mainly ones of admonition—to learn from my exile, especially in thinking about what I wanted in life apart from Andreas. But she also shared news of Vienna. I saw the gesture as a kindness, and wrote back to her. I was still angry, but she was offering me a tentative link to my former life, and I took it. Over the months, her letters continued.
Chapter Sixteen
The rain and grayness that enveloped the island persisted for several days. Except for occasional trips to Nota’s market with YiaYia or visits to Ekaterina to help with carding and dyeing the wool, I spent most of my days in the house. When my chores were done, YiaYia would offer me the pick of her library. After Leo had taught me to write my name in Greek, my father had made sure I could read and write as well as speak his native language. YiaYia’s books were an eclectic mix of Greek literature, poetry, and religious works. It intrigued me that a woman as learned as my grandmother had agreed to settle on a remote island, and that, once there, had transformed herself into the island healer. One day, as I helped her distill some wild herbs we had picked together, I asked her about her past.
“How did you learn to do this?” I waved my hand at the shelves of salves and tinctures that were her stock in trade. “From the books in your library?”
She laughed. “Hardly. I learned to heal the ills of those who come to me from my mother-in-law, your great-grandmother, Afendra. She could neither read nor write, but she had knowledge in her fingertips and her nose. I began to write down what I observed as I assisted her, but not in the beginning. In the early days of my marriage to Pappou, I was skeptical of her remedies. More than a few times when I was in the town with her, I heard the word ‘witch’ muttered as we passed. The speaker would touch the blue Mati amulet everyone seemed to wear, as if to ward off the evil eye. I was an educated woman, not superstitious, but those encounters sent chills up my spine.”
“Why did you change your opinion of her?”
“One day, one of the fishermen was brought to her. He had slipped on the deck of his boat, slick with fish, and had impaled his leg on a large hook. He’d been out at sea, and it was almost two days before he got to her. The wound was already festering, and he was feverish. She cleansed the wound, dressed it with honey, and made him a tea of willow bark to lower his fever. If we’d been in Athens, I believe a surgeon would have amputated the leg, but my mother-in-law understood what the loss of a limb would have meant to the fisherman and his family. She kept him here and nursed him through the night and the next day, and the wound began to heal. After that, I no longer doubted her, and vowed to learn from her everything I could. I became her apprentice.”
“But why did the villagers think she was a witch?”
“They saw her healing as somehow supernatural, miraculous. But when she failed, when someone died, they thought she’d put a curse on him. Primitive beliefs are difficult to uproot here on Skiathos. It still feels very much like the eighteenth century at times. This tincture is ready. Line up those bottles on the table, and we can strain the liquid into them.”
Her eyes flashed with pain, and I thought she had a headache coming on. Ekaterina had told me to watch for signs of distress and encourage YiaYia to rest. But it wasn’t a physical ache that had stabbed her. Instead, it was a bitter memory. Her gaze shifted from the simmering pot in front of us to a spot across the room. She gestured with her spoon.
“The last time I saw my mother-in-law, she was standing over there by the window watching Pappou, her son, saddling the donkeys. A small bundle of her clothing was at her feet.”
“Where was she going?”
“I didn’t know. Pappou thought it better, a protection for me, not to know. Only years later did he tell me he’d brought her to the nuns who live as hermits on Mount Stavros.”
“But why?”
“A young woman’s body had washed up on the shore below the cliffs at Megas Gialos. It was no accident. A fisherman had seen her fling herself into the sea. It was rumored that she was pregnant, her lover an off-islander who had abandoned her. At her mother’s urging, she had gone to Afendra weeks before for help in bringing on her monthly blood, but the tea had failed. Distraught, the girl had taken herself to the cliff, believing she was better off dead than a shameful burden to her family.
