“Mira?” Aris’s voice quivered. I knew him so well on the phone: after all those years, it had become our greatest intimacy.
“Hi, Aris,” I said. I kept my voice low, gentle. Something was wrong. There was silence, and he then began to sob. How can I explain to you how I felt at that moment? I did not feel rancor or spite or jealousy. Whatever I felt of that was long gone. I felt a great warmth, to be honest. I may have been angry at Aris, and hurt by the breakup that felt so sudden, but I realized I had already forgiven him, forgiven him the way you’d forgive a parent who frequently disappoints you. Despite the pain, it was the right thing between us, to part ways. I think that accounts for so many problems between people. The insistence that there should be no pain. For me he became mentor, parent, lover, friend. But even with all that, or maybe because of all that, little room remained for that mysterious, continuous thing.
The knot in my throat blocked me from speaking. The truth of life is always stranger than the truth of fiction, and all this I’m telling you is true. I listened to Aris sob into the phone. It seemed the right thing to do. It seemed the right thing, period, talking to him right after he had held his daughter for the first time. This was love, too: so open and generous and alive. There are so many ways to love. How is it we have only one word for it? I might not have been his great love, if there was such a thing. That was okay. The demand for reciprocity was bizarre, insane. And impossible.
“Eva’s okay?” I asked. It was the first time I had said her name.
“Exhausted, but okay,” he said. “C-section.”
“You’re at the hospital now?” I asked.
“She’s so tiny.”
“How wonderful,” I said, and I truly meant it. As if all those years together were still leading up to this moment.
“Mi mou,” he said. He hadn’t used this nickname in months, years. So much in those words. I am frightened I am sorry I am overjoyed I am alive.
“It’s okay, Ari mou,” I said. “Se filo.”
20
The Captain
After Nefeli’s funeral the day was bright. I saw Mira up ahead, a small figure in black. Her hair was a bit lighter now, perhaps from the sun, worn in an elaborate braid wrapped around her head, the way Ifigenia sometimes wore hers to soccer practice. Behind her, I saw the journalist-singer and her husband, their daughter. I wondered what had happened to the boy whom I know Mira loved.
“Hi, you,” I said. I leaned in to greet her with a kiss on each cheek. When I touched her waist I felt something flutter inside me.
“Hi,” she said, as she pulled away. Her lip trembled. She did not say It’s been a long time, and I was grateful. Her usual self, her serious face, as if I greeted her at funerals every day.
There were hundreds there, it seemed. I caught a glimpse of Aris with his father across the crowd. My father refused to come: I don’t think he could accept it. He wanted to keep her there, with him, up in the house, her megaphone up on the hill. When I spoke to him the night before, though he seemed bewildered, I understood that he had loved Nefeli, and even though she did not love him in the same way, she loved him too. Losing her was more painful than I had previously understood. They were both difficult people, which made people fall in love with them left and right.
I did not want to say It’s good to see you. I wanted to say May her memory be eternal, but I did not. “Let’s go somewhere,” I said instead. “Let’s have a beer.”
Her eyes were red. She glanced back at her friends. “Later today?” she said.
We agreed to meet not right at the port but at an old café a bit farther away, on the water next to a small beach, where my father’s friend Minas kept his old fishing boat.
I arrived first and sat in the shade. I was alone in the café, and on the beach next to it a young woman and her dog played with a stick. When Mira arrived she didn’t say anything but instead sat right down and smiled. It felt odd to be sitting across from her like that, facing her. The waiter smiled at Mira as if they shared a secret. We ordered beers, the waiter brought pistachios. We spoke.
When it began to rain, something strange happened. We both instinctively moved our chairs to the long end of the table, which was covered under the awning. As if choreographed. The sea facing us. At that moment she turned sideways, and smiled. Conspiratorial. Then she turned her head back to the water. Together we stared out into that openness, continuing our conversation, side by side, as if nothing had happened, but of course everything had.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my deep appreciation to my brilliant editor, Masie Cochran, and also to Elizabeth DeMeo, Molly Templeton, Nanci McCloskey, and the rest of the fantastic team at Tin House for their warmth, incisive editing, and attention. Thank you to Aniko Aliyeva and Diane Chonette for the wonderful artwork and design. I’m grateful to Amy Williams for believing in this book from the start.
I first began thinking about this project at The Camargo Foundation in Cassis, France, and I’m grateful to my co-residents for their encouragement, insight, and advice. Thank you to the MacDowell Colony, the Can Cab Literary Residence, and the Sozopol Fiction Seminars for providing such warm, invigorating communities. I am indebted to the Fulbright Program for the time and support. I was awarded grants from
