Anticipation, page 23
I must have thought something—how could I not? I hadn’t hugged anyone other than my sister and Alexander since Oliver’s funeral. But it wasn’t until later that the words to describe being in Elias’s arms came to me: absolute safety and heart-pounding risk. He felt like home and at the same time like a terrifying leap off a cliff. I felt like I could finally rest, that the weight I’d been carrying for two years could be shared by someone else. My insides went liquid and warm, and I ached in a way I’d forgotten I could—with a dizzy, fierce longing that made my legs feel wobbly. And miraculously—especially given that it was my first widowed-mom romantic embrace—I didn’t censor the feelings at all.
“Wow, that was a mind-bogglingly stupendous hug,” I said, after the spinning subsided.
“I absolutely concur,” Elias said into my ear, and then we had another, even better.
* * *
We got back to the Mystras Inn just as Panos was returning with a very sweaty Alexander. “Mom, look how much I picked!” He showed me a basket full of plants with ridged leaves and clusters of tiny green flowers.
“I can’t wait to taste them,” I said. “They smell amazing.”
“Elias! I thought you were sick,” he shouted.
“Well enough to give your mother a tour,” Elias said.
“Did you have fun, Mom?”
“So much fun,” I said, “but I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” Alexander put his basket down and threw his sweaty self at me for a hug.
That night, Alexander and I shared three plates of vleeta at dinner, doused with Panos’s olive oil. Plus two cherry sodas; I had one, too.
HELEN ADLER
July 2015
Historical Site of Mystras
Two days later, I came down with a cold, having proven the germ theory. For the record, Elias and I didn’t kiss (though I’d desperately wanted to, the combination of my celibate mourning and his restraint kept things medievally slow), but we had shared my water. Though comparisons are odious, he was completely unlike Oliver. In many ways, this was a relief.
I wasn’t sick enough to keep us from another tour. Alexander pulled out his own creased map when we got to the gate of the upper town. He pointed to number 17, a square structure halfway up the hill. “What is this?”
I looked at the map’s key. “House of the Castellan.”
Alexander checked my answer. “What’s a castellan?”
Elias looked surprisingly uncomfortable. “A castellan is responsible for the upkeep of a castle. In the early days of Mystras’s founding, the castellan had a great deal of responsibility, but later, after it transferred to Greek hands…” He trailed off.
“Elias?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking. Later, once the governors came from Constantinople, the castellan’s role lessened but he remained, out of respect for his years of service. He had two children.” He went quiet again.
Alexander traced the little square on the map. “I hope I know as much as you do someday. Do you know the castellan’s name?”
“Marceau Lusignan,” Elias said after a pause.
I was overcome by an intense fit of coughing that made my eyes tear. Elias and Alexander ministered to me with water and tissues, then Alexander went back to the topic with the stubbornness of a pit bull. “Lusignan is the name of that man in the museum. But we’d seen him before that.”
Elias touched his throat, as if there were something hanging there. “The name has been in this region for hundreds of years.”
“Well, I don’t like him. And I am usually right about people,” Alexander said firmly. “So be careful.”
“Thank you, I will.” Elias took Alexander’s warning with great seriousness.
As we headed up the hill to number 17, Alexander took Elias’s hand and turned to me.
“Mom, you can hold Elias’s other hand.”
“If he doesn’t mind.” Elias and I exchanged glances.
“Of course I don’t mind,” Elias answered, and we walked up the hill together.
* * *
“There’s hardly anything left.” Alexander looked at the shell of the building.
“Did you expect something else?” Elias asked gently.
Alexander sighed. “Everything is ruins.”
“What if I describe the way it used to be, and you imagine it?”
“Okay.” Alexander closed his eyes. I closed my eyes, too.
Elias cleared his throat. “The house stands on one of the few level areas in the city. All around, steep streets lead up to the fortress atop the hill. The streets are narrow, crowded with people talking, laughing, walking their donkeys and horses, taking their wares to the market to sell—fruit and vegetables, sheep and goats. The house is big and elegant; two stories high with a fancy balcony. From the balcony, you can see the whole city stretching down the hill, and after that the valley, green and gray with the leaves of orange and olive trees, and then lower, the Evrotas river sparkling in the sun.” I heard Alexander sigh. “The front of the house is decorated with arches, and there are smaller arched windows up above. Even the balcony has little arches below it.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve studied,” Elias said.
“What about inside?”
“On the lower floor is a storeroom full of supplies: grain, olive oil, wine in barrels against the walls. After you enter the front door, you walk up a broad staircase. At the top of the stairs is a large, beautiful room. The walls are hung with thick tapestries of flowers and animals, people in long gowns.”
“Women, you mean?” Alexander interrupted Elias’s rhythm. I opened my eyes; he had, too.
“Men, too,” Elias said. “We all wore robes then.”
We, I thought. How funny.
“Weird.” Alexander snorted.
“Not so weird if that’s what you are used to,” Elias said.
I let my mind wander. Maybe historians (and by extension tour guides) are so connected with the past they think of themselves as inseparable from people who lived hundreds of years ago. Or maybe Elias in particular, growing up at the foot of a ruin, felt fully a part of it. If we are wise, we acknowledge the past as our own.
Elias continued his virtual tour. “The floor is mosaic, tiny marble squares set in patterns of leaves and birds. Imagine a carved wooden table set with goblets of thassorofron, a foaming drink of almond milk sweetened with sugar, a bowl of olives gleaming with oil, and a white crusty bread so perfectly baked that you could eat nothing but that every day for the rest of your life and be perfectly content.”
Alexander had started to squirm, bored by the food rhapsody. “So were there battles here or anything?”
Elias looked startled. “All houses have ghosts.”
Alexander perked up. “Are bodies buried here?”
“Adults were not typically buried in houses, no more than they are today.”
Alexander sensed a loophole in Elias’s answer and wouldn’t let the topic go. “Were children buried in houses?”
Elias’s face flushed slightly. “Babies born before their time might be buried under the earthen floor… near the hearth. It is not a happy topic.”
I expected Alexander to back off, but he didn’t. “But that way the baby would always stay with its family. That’s a good thing, right?”
“It is,” Elias said. We all were quiet for a few seconds.
“So, people did die here?”
Elias sighed. “Yes.”
“Like, who?”
“It was probably centuries ago,” I said, trying to give Elias a break from the ruthless questioning.
“Who indeed?” The unexpected voice made me jump.
“Professor Lusignan,” I said unenthusiastically, and dropped Elias’s hand.
“What brings you to number seventeen on the Mystras map? Does the ‘House of the Castellan’ offer particular interest?” He showed his teeth like a bad drawing of a smile.
“Numerical order,” I said.
“You’ve already seen one through sixteen. Your tour guide is quite industrious.” Lusignan looked pointedly at Elias. “I hear from the museum staff that you have been here for quite some time. Extraordinary loyalty.”
“It is a lovely place to work.” Elias’s voice was mild, but I sensed danger.
“I’m sure. Do you have family in the region? Or perhaps ancestors? Local genealogy is of particular interest to me.”
It was almost a staring contest, Lusignan waiting for Elias to respond, Elias not responding.
Alexander broke the silence. “Elias, do you have ancestors from Mystras? That’s almost as cool as being a demigod, like the son of Poseidon.”
Alexander’s version of the question worked better; Elias nodded. “Yes, my family does date back to the beginning of Mystras. We’ve never left, in fact.”
Lusignan inhaled between his teeth, a sibilant sound. “Imagine that. Generation after generation, in the same remote little place.”
“Mystras is amazing,” Alexander said. “I could stay here forever.”
Lusignan raised one eyebrow. “You are too young to understand what forever means.”
“No one can imagine forever except God,” Elias said. His answer gave me chills.
“Doctor Adler,” Lusignan said, turning to me, “what on earth brings a scientist to a ruin of a nearly eight-hundred-year-old city? There can’t be anything informative for your work here.”
“Scientists do have other interests.”
“Is there anything in particular that interests you about number seventeen?”
“It’s all interesting,” Alexander said. I realized Elias hadn’t told us who had died. Maybe he didn’t know.
Lusignan nodded. “So it is. I look forward to more. Dr. Adler, I should be delighted to discuss funding for your promising research. Did I give you my card?” He handed me another one, which I took, being careful not to touch him.
“À bientôt,” he said with a wave, and headed down the hill. We watched his back.
“What does that mean?” Alexander asked, once Lusignan had disappeared.
“It means ‘See you soon,’ ” Elias said.
I knew I probably should see him again soon, given what he knew. But I didn’t want to.
ELIAS OROLOGAS
July 2015
Mystras
Into the uncomfortable silence after Lusignan left, I suggested we visit the Pantanassa. It was the only part of Mystras that still lived in the present, and I wanted Helen and Alexander to glimpse the way the city had once hummed with life.
“The nuns still work and pray in the monastery. It is perfectly restored, even though it is surrounded by ruins. You won’t have to imagine how it might have looked.” I showed Alexander the location on the map so he could lead the way. Helen let the back of her hand brush mine as we climbed the steep steps cut into the hill. Three days ago, I would have thought it an accident.
Sister Iosiphia met us at the arched entryway, a dripping hose in one hand.
“Will she squirt me?” Alexander said, his face red from the climb in the heat.
“No, unfortunately.” Alexander rewarded my humor with a smile.
The long, narrow courtyard of the Pantanassa was lined with flowering plants. Tall, spindly bushes blazed with orange blossoms, honeysuckle vines climbed the crumbling stone walls, and potted magenta geraniums filled the air with their musky scent. I loved to sit here and watch the bees hovering while cats looped around my ankles. Sister Iosiphia turned off the tap and beckoned us to join her.
“I love geraniums,” Helen said, with so much emotion I suspected there must be a story behind it.
“For more than five centuries, the Pantanassa has been the only continuously occupied building in Mystras. There are six nuns here, and Sister Iosiphia is the oldest,” I translated.
“Older than you?” Alexander said. Sometimes an innocent question strikes at the heart of the unimaginable.
Helen gasped. “Alexander, that’s not appropriate.”
“Age is not an insult,” I said.
Alexander apologized grudgingly. “I just meant you know so much, that’s all.”
Sister Iosiphia led us to the reception room of the monastery, where she displayed an array of hand-painted icons for sale. Helen chose one—the Profitis Ilias with his raven. There are no coincidences. Another sister brought us a plate of cookies, which Alexander ignored. Helen shook her head. “He hasn’t developed a taste for Greek sweets.” She took three.
Alexander went to play with the cats in the sun. His absence allowed me to say what I’d been thinking.
“You both seemed afraid of Pierre Lusignan,” I said.
Helen frowned and tipped her head so she could see Alexander through the doorway. “He keeps turning up. He wants to know too much about me.”
“It seems he respects your work.”
“He still gives me the creeps. He’s interested in the disease I study, and he’s told me he has sources of funding, so I should be more receptive. I’ve heard of him. Professionally, that is.” Helen twisted her hands together awkwardly. I didn’t like the thought of them working together, but of course it was not up to me. “I don’t like the way he talks to Alexander. Or to you.”
“Are you anxious on my behalf now?”
Helen sighed loudly. “Oh, brilliant. I’ve taught you my worst feature.”
I had difficulty seeing any bad features at that moment. Helen was wearing a pale green sundress that left her lightly freckled shoulders bare. Perhaps she had more freckles than she did when she arrived, or perhaps I was paying more attention.
She grinned, and I wanted to kiss her. “I feel lucky to be among those you find worth being anxious for,” I said, not sure of the syntax. When she blushed, I knew I had made my point.
* * *
I have lived too many times to believe in coincidences. She studies the chorea, and Lusignan is following her. He is watching me, too. In fact, he is more than watching. The morning after I met him for the first time, the docent Ms. Brathwaite, whose gray curls gripped her head like a helmet, conveyed a message.
“The esteemed Professor Lusignan, renowned for his scholarship at the University of the Peloponnese, extends his most sincere invitation for an in-person meeting to discuss Important Matters of History to which your knowledge might be particularly complementary,” she said, with an intensity that implied too-frequent capitalization, “which, if I were you, I would accept with Enthusiasm, and Gratitude.”
She penned a carefully written note, which included, in addition to the professor’s (unpleasantly familiar) name, his contact information as well. It was written in a flowery script that reminded me of overstuffed velvet couches and lavender sachets.
I thanked Ms. Brathwaite graciously, murmuring vague assent. But I had no intention of returning his call, and certainly not of seeing the professor in person again. Despite my avoidance, he’d already found me twice, the second time on the path to number 17.
After I left Helen and Alexander at the door of the Mystras Inn, the encounter with Pierre Lusignan replayed in my head. Lusignan was not a common name in Greece. And this particular Lusignan found me at the doorstep of the house where a family that shared his name twitched and stumbled into madness, and where my second life ended savagely. It could not be an accident.
I returned to the museum. For me, a museum is a strange place. It keeps the past at a distance, but I know the past lives and breathes. I do find comfort in seeing the artifacts of my earlier lives: a dress like my mother wore, a book from the philosopher Plethon’s time at Mystras, full of wisdom that would challenge and change the world. Today, though, I came not for reminiscence, but for answers. I came back for the Chronicle.
It was near closing time, and the docent, not recognizing me at first, waved me away officiously. She was severely nearsighted, so I forgave her error. Once I greeted her, she blustered apologetically.
“I need to see the Chronicle, out of its stand,” I said.
She frowned. “You’ll have to ask the director.”
I went to find the museum director, who knew my competence in handling historical documents. Soon, hands washed and carefully dried, I was ensconced in a private room with the Chronicle, out of its case and resting in a velvet book stand.
I wanted to put down the pointed white book snake and touch the fragile paper and worn leather binding. I wanted to touch something that had been there, then. But, of course, I did not. First, I read the page about the siege of Monemvasia that I’d seen with Helen and Alexander, and the copyist’s marginal note. I turned the pages. There was, as the docent had said, no information about the building of Mystras in the text. I would have to read the entire book. The writing was faded, but the language easy to understand.
This is the book of the conquest of Constantinople by the Latins, of the empire of the Romaioi, and the land of Achaea. Throughout the world, some people are easily bored, and it annoys them to hear a long history, preferring instead to be told in a few words. Accordingly, I will tell my story as briefly as I can.
For though the fortress and the palace were built in the Villehardouin name, still the kastron’s walls sang out the name of the Profitis Ilias. And they welcomed his namesake…
The text stopped midsentence. I could see the place where pages were missing, torn from the manuscript. The edges were dull with years of wear. Whatever had been taken away had disappeared a long time ago.
I went back and read again.
And they welcomed his namesake…
When I came again to that fragment of a sentence, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. I knew the words referred to me. And someone had made certain the next section would not be found.
