Finding My Olympia, page 24
Gazing at her red fingernail polish and the gold bracelets jingling on her wrist, Stavros then and there dedicated himself to be her man, marriage or not. And he would start immediately.
Grabbing her jacket he gently laid it around her shoulders.
“We go.” Stavros guided her out the door but she stopped abruptly.
“No matter what,” Marika fished in her purse for the car key. “I drive.”
Stavros smirked, knowing that Marika had not completely abandoned her spirit. She slipped into the driver’s seat and, gripping the wheel, turned to look deep into his eyes.
“So, Stavros. Where we go? How we get there?”
If only he could reveal a roadmap for their future together. But first, he had to invent it.
At that moment, Stavros realized they had drunk too much and helped her out of the car. Together they strolled the downtown streets of Woodland.
The rest of the evening, Stavros’ only thought was to cheer Marika and weave an enchanting web around her. In his heart, he knew there would be no relationship if Marika didn’t desire it too. So his plan became simple. He would create a world where she wanted a life only with him. He would be indispensable, a rock of support and lover beyond compare.
Their first stop was a small Italian restaurant off Main Street. At a tiny back table, they each polished off a plate of creamy fettuccini alfredo and another bottle of wine. Outside again, Stavros gently took Marika’s hand and walked with her like a teenager drunk on first love. Glancing at her, he wasn’t sure if she was tipsy or if she felt the same. Remembering a house party nearby, Stavros led Marika a few blocks to seek the warmth and familiarity of an old-fashioned Greek glendi, celebrating a saint’s feast day. They could hear faint music in the distance and walked a few blocks toward it.
The glendi was in celebration of St. Salome, one of the women who, with Mary, had attended Jesus’ body after his death. The glendi celebrated all others named Salome as well. The house was crowded with so many Greeks that men and women had spilled onto the patio. Tables were filled with pastitso, Greek lasagna; dolma, stuffed grape leaves; roasted lamb and chicken, four types of cheese, roasted eggplant and thick slices of ring bread topped with sesame seeds. A separate table offered three kinds of Greek pastry and Stavros recognized the Snowball cookies he baked yesterday. The women wore party dresses and most men sported clean white shirts tucked into their suit pants. On the patio sipping a glass of red, Stavros realized the wine, too, was his own work. He had sold a case from his basement to the host last week.
Lights strung around the patio added a soft glow to Marika’s cheeks while three musicians sat on a riser and burst into a lively hasapiko, the butchers’ dance. The bouzouki, guitar and lilting clarinet were all Stavros needed to pull Marika into the circle of dancers. Stavros danced light-footed and nimbly and Marika smoothly followed his lead, her arms strong across the back of his shoulders.
A few more tunes and the crowd thinned. Then the clarinet player slowly stood and began a haunting Zeibekiko tune, an improvisational song. Usually only one man would dance to this music, showing the world his pain and suffering through his dance. No exact beat, no planned steps and certainly no one would dare to interrupt a man dancing his sorrow in front of a crowd.
But that night the men moved to the food table loading their plates. Suddenly, Stavros saw Marika step out of her pumps and stride forth, all alone, arms up, head down. She began dancing her grief, moving and twisting with anguish and regret. Swaying right and left with torment and sadness, she reached for the floor and swept her hand up and then turned around to begin her solo dance again. Stavros could not keep his eyes from her athletic, graceful body as it twisted, revolved, spun and circled. Marika’s movements sang her life’s sadness and sent a cry to the universe while the rest of the party guests rushed to refill their drinks. Few people noticed the solo female dancer but Stavros’ eyes were fixed on Marika who told more from her dance than she had revealed to Stavros in her bedroom. Her well of sorrow, the black, deep hole Marika masked every day, was plain for all to see.
As the three-piece band finished the tune with one sustained clarinet high-note, Marika returned to Stavros, pulled on her shoes and headed for the bar. She tossed an impish smile to him over her shoulder, the pain seemingly drained temporarily away. He was now fully aware of the infinite sadness Marika had trapped inside her. Rushing to the bar he spun her around amidst the packed throng of party-goers. He needed to become her shield from pain and harsh memories to help heal her soul. Stavros wrapped her in his arms and kissed her deeply. With his heart and every molecule in his body, he would find a way to revive the best part of the woman he knew to be Marika.
FIFTY-THREE
Yianna sat sandwiched tightly between Lula and Eleni in the front seat of a late 1930s Chevy pickup with a battered front grill. The black truck sported shabby wooden rails framing the truck bed and the springs squeaked when the tires hit potholes. They rattled north along rugged U.S. 101 near the Avenue of the Giants, the most ancient redwoods in California’s north country. Camera in hand, Yianna attempted to snap a photo of the colossal trees which were much grander than those in the forest where she struggled only a few days ago.
Snugly crunched next to Eleni in the front passenger seat, Yianna closely observed the two women as the truck hammered along. Lula, intent on her driving, used her muscular arms to wrestle the leather steering wheel into submission. A heavy wool jacket covered her flowered cotton dress and her worn black loafer stomped on the gas pedal to keep the truck moving. On the passenger side, Eleni’s small, rough hands clutched both of Yianna’s. The sky quickly darkened as the redwoods became dense and blocked the sunlight outside the foggy truck windows.
“We go to the religious ladies. Catholic. They live by themselves near the Lost Coast. They do everything. Grow garden, make food, build houses. They choose a hard life in the exohi, wild nature.” Lula turned briefly to Yianna. “People say they take in girls who need help. Pregnant, out in the forest.”
Yianna tried to picture these religious women, hoping they indeed had sheltered and protected Olympia. Her only experience with Catholic nuns was watching them from afar as they walked single file down Main Street in Woodland toward the Holy Rosary Catholic Church. How could women dressed in stiff headdresses and full-length black habits survive in the wild? Yianna shrugged and decided to reserve judgment. She simply hoped they provided a safe path for her sister if she stayed with them.
“We meet them together.” Lula’s energetic voice shook her from her thoughts. “Only hour and a half to go!”
From a basket at her feet, Eleni pulled out a hard-boiled egg, a hunk of feta cheese and a few twisty, toasty Greek cookies. Nodding to Yianna to eat, the old woman sat back contentedly, having accomplished her job of nourishing the youngest in the group.
Suddenly Lula began to sing a plaintive folk song in her low slightly off-tune voice.
Toh yelakaki, pooh forees, to eho ego rameno, meh pikres keh meh vassanah —
The little vest that you wear, it is I who have sewn it with troubles —
Yianna found herself humming along while mentally knitting together memories of this folk song Olympia had sung years ago. Then she joined in with the words she recalled and Eleni nodded her head in rhythm, her voice lost in the shadow of grief.
For most of her life, Yianna reflected, she had been surrounded by old Greek men who had no time and little aptitude for traditions Greek women kept alive decade after decade. If not for Olympia, she would know nothing of sewing, weaving and crocheting, the traditional songs, the home remedies passed from mother to daughter. But now, bumping down the highway in their battered pickup truck, Lula and Eleni filled Yianna with waves of quiet contentment. The age-old traditions of Greek women washed over her.
As she climbed out of the truck, almost two hours later, Yianna came face to face with two hearty-looking women who smiled their welcome. Lula spoke in her heavily accented English.
“Hello, sisters. This is Yianna who need your help. She look for someone. Her sister. Maybe she come here?”
Yianna had no photo of Olympia to show these women. Damn Harry for the horrendous ride and for taking my knapsack!
“My sister’s name is Olympia. Olympia Diamantopoulos. She’s in her late twenties, with long black hair, black eyes and she’s absolutely beautiful. You would remember her. And she might be, probably is —” Yianna stammered, thinking these religious women might think badly of Olympia if she said the word.
Quickly, Lula pantomimed a swollen belly and looked up for recognition. The woman who seemed to be in charge nodded, motioned for them to follow her into the compound and enter a cabin.
Practically running up the steps, Yianna could hardly wait to learn any scrap of information. If Olympia had stayed in this wild place, surely these sisters would know where she’d gone and with whom. Yianna prayed this would be the last stop in her search, desperately hoping these women would produce a solid lead.
The cabin seemed to serve as the kitchen and dining room. The two religious women settled Yianna, Lula and Eleni at one side of a long picnic-style table and served up bowls of steaming vegetable soup and slices of dark rye bread. Taking their places across the table, the women bowed their heads in silent prayer. Everyone but Yianna began to eat.
The woman in charge wore her dark hair awkwardly short, as if cut by a razor. About forty-five, her sweet face was round and Yianna suspected her dark eyes soaked in everything. When standing, Yianna had looked her squarely in the eye which meant she, too, was about six feet tall. The other woman, perhaps the second in command, was older, frail, and wore a rough brown robe over blue jeans. Each women wore a silver cross on a long chain.
“So, yes, my sister might be pregnant.” Yianna looked down at her bowl, avoiding any judgment. “Most likely. Can you tell me, did she stay here? Do you know where she might have gone?”
The tall sister put aside her spoon and rose from her seat. She brought out a slip of paper, old and crumpled from years of service and placed it in front of Yianna, who was sure she would find an address or name she could pounce on. Instead, the words stopped her cold.
We are in seclusion for two weeks. Our order will not speak during this time. We work and we pray. Thank you for respecting our devotion to the Lord.
Seclusion? Not speaking? Now? When she might finally get information, these sisters would not speak? Yianna wanted to respect their godly devotion but her own mission to find Olympia screamed for attention.
“You’re not speaking? Won’t you help me? I’m desperate!” Yianna’s voice was loud in the silent room. “Surely you can talk for a moment, just to help me. Please, just to help my sister!” Hot frustration erupted. “Can’t I write and you could write back? You wouldn’t have to speak!”
The two sisters looked down at their folded hands as their mouths moved in prayer. Feeling more lost than ever, Yianna dropped her head on her arms and let out a wail. Lula rubbed her back and pulled her close for a hug.
“Give them time, Yianna. They will help you. They are servants of God.” As usual, Lula’s voice was strong and comforting.
An hour later, Yianna waited outside on the stairs, knowing Lula would have to return to Pete and the Garberville Café. Lula had lingered with the sisters a few more minutes at the table and she handed Yianna another note the sisters had given her. The note promised anyone in their care would eat well, sleep in safety and would be helped to their next destination.
“You want to come back with us?” Lula fidgeted with her keys. “If you no wanna stay, you come with us now.” Eleni looked expectantly, but Yianna shook her head and hugged both women.
“Go home to Pete.” Yianna cast off the thought of running back to the truck to the security of Lula’s family. “You’re right. I have to wait until they’re ready to tell me what they know about Olympia. They must know something. They’re all I’ve got.”
Yianna watched as Lula and Eleni passed an outdoor chapel under a massive redwood tree. A miniature altar had been placed in a hollow of the tree trunk. Stopping briefly, they softly chanted their Greek Orthodox prayers and kissed the small gold crosses hanging around their necks.
Walking to the truck, Lula murmured in Yianna’s ear, slipping her a five-dollar bill.
“If you need something, have them get you to Petrolia, a little town not so far away. They gotta pay phone at the general store. Call us at the Garberville Café and Eleni and I come. We will help our kukla, doll.” She made the sign of the cross once again as Eleni, standing behind her, followed suit. “May God watch over you.”
And with another goodbye hug, Yianna watched the two women drive away as the sun began to sink below the tree line. Standing in the shadows, Yianna shivered as the temperature dropped ten degrees.
In the flat gray light of late afternoon, the older religious sister showed Yianna to a small sleeping cabin. The matchbox of a room held a cot constructed from rough redwood slabs, and a small table. A stark iron cross over the bed was the only décor. Exhausted, Yianna fell asleep on the cot but was awakened by a deep clanging bell signaling a silent dinner of lentils and rye bread with the entire group of ten sisters. After the meal, Yianna was once again silently shown to the little cabin where the sister lit a small candle for light. She covered herself with coarse brown blankets that Yianna assumed were Army issue.
Lying on the thin mattress, Yianna decided that at first light she would beg these women for any information they kept behind their sealed lips. If the sisters were devoted to God, they certainly should be forthcoming with important information she so desperately needed.
Resting quietly in the dim candlelight, Yianna’s thoughts drifted away from Olympia to her weekend in San Francisco and to Will, the happy surprise of her journey. Until that moment, Yianna had no time to reflect on this new person or her photography that now seemed to be entwined with Will and his work as a journalist. When she was with Will, Yianna felt her photography was important, that she, too, was telling a story. She smiled remembering when he described them as “a good team.” Yianna was unsure of what to make of Will. At least she knew he worked at the San Francisco Examiner. Maybe someday, if she attended the California School of Fine Arts …”
Yianna snapped herself back to reality. Here she was, in a forlorn backwoods location, the Lost Coast of California. Her pregnant sister was still lost. Allowing her mind to selfishly drift to her own work and future shamed her. She forced herself to focus on the quagmire that finding her sister had become.
The handmade candle burning next to the bed was nearly a stub and Yianna decided to make use of the remaining light. She found a neatly folded wash cloth on the little table and began to polish the dirt from her camera, her only remaining possession, her lifeline to her past and future. Looking closely at the Leica, she noticed a few granules lodged around the lens and got to work. Her long fingers popped off the lens cap but she fumbled and the cap dropped with a clatter onto the redwood floor. On her hands and knees now, Yianna reached under the cot, her arm sweeping the floor.
Not locating the lens cap, she peeked under the cot. In the dusty corner, Yianna noticed a small rectangular object. Again, she shoved her arm under the cot but could not reach it. She sprawled spread-eagle on the floor and stretched out her arm. She found the lens cap and pulled it out but thrust her arm again under the cot, stretching more, then a little more, finally grasping something else.
Yianna sat, knees up, on the cold floor to exame the object — a small yet thick handmade book. The volume was bound by strips of woven yarn laced in two holes that punctured the paper. Assuming she would find religious prayers on the pages, Yianna slowly opened the cardboard cover which was the size of the paperback books she had seen at City Lights bookstore. As the candle burned lower and the light dimmed, Yianna squinted to read it. Her stomach flipped as the familiarity of the handwriting melted into recognition.
This was Olympia’s book.
Looking at the candle to gauge how much light was left, she turned to the first page in the book. Yianna gasped.
I’m just an immigrant girl who dropped out of high school with the skills of a seamstress. I write my thoughts on these scraps of paper, hoping to quiet my fears.
Knowing only a minute or two of light remained, Yianna skipped to the last few pages:
I’ve whipped myself for letting it happen but there he was. Stronger than me. He would not stop. Now all I feel is shamed and wonder if Uncle Stavros would ever take me back, pregnant and unmarried.”
Yianna’s heart stopped as she frantically turned a few more pages glancing at the sputtering candle.
This place is dank, gloomy and always cold, but the silence suits me. I love working in the herb garden and somehow feel it soothes my raw nerves. I don’t find it silent anymore. Nature fills the air with bird calls, insect hums and breezes. I could be at home here, away from judgment and heartache. Here I can breathe. Here I could live with no shame.
With only a few moments of light left from the shrinking candle, Yianna jumped to the final entry:
As the baby inside me twists and kicks and hiccups, my heart has thawed, softened and decided to love. Is it an innocent baby’s fault she or he materialized from that horrible night?
At that moment the candle flickered and darkness softly descended. Yianna pulled the book closer to her eyes to hungrily take in Olympia’s handwriting with the last seconds of light. All at once, the candle took its final breath and snuffed itself out.
Palms sweating, sitting in shadows, Yianna clasped Olympia’s handmade diary to her chest. Olympia had revealed she was raped. Yianna’s breath came quickly and she began to shiver. Her mind could not measure her sister’s pain, her torment. Jolted by this new information she wondered where Olympia was now and how she managed to hold on.
Having no one to confer with, Yianna could only cling to the fact she had found Olympia, at least the parts that were left. But her sister was alive! Heart beating like hummingbird’s wings, she hoped daybreak would come soon. Then she would beg the religious sisters for any bit of information they possessed.
