Madame Eva entered, brushed Kosmas’s back, and whispered, “Today’s the big day.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
Just then the priest appeared in the Beautiful Gate of the iconostasis and blessed the congregation. Kosmas and Eva crossed their right hands over their chests and bowed in reply. A lady wearing old-fashioned lace gloves and a wide-brimmed hat emerged from behind the left-side stasidia, the wooden stalls with high arms that helped the Orthodox remain standing during long services. Kosmas wondered if the lady was Rita Tereza. Only Levantine women wore hats in churches. But as the woman traversed the red runner stretching from the Beautiful Gate to the entrance, Kosmas noticed that she had albino white skin, wore bottle-cap glasses, and walked with a pronounced hobble. Obviously not Rita Tereza.
As soon as the priest had withdrawn into the sanctuary, Madame Eva said, “Be patient.” She squeezed Kosmas’s arm and settled into one of the right-aisle stasidia that still retained the name plates of formerly privileged—and now dead—parishioners.
Kosmas lingered by the entrance with the other men. Every time the heavy narthex door squeaked open, he listened to the footsteps. At first he thought he was listening for Rita Tereza, and then he realized he was also hoping for Madame Gavriela’s niece. Every time he was disappointed, for he could tell from the lazy shuffle that the entrant was just another old person. The American had either stayed home that morning or gone to Holy Trinity. As for Rita Tereza, perhaps she had slipped in before him and hidden behind one of the faux-marble basilica columns, freshly painted green during the church’s recent restoration.
Finally the grizzly priest chanted an unmelodious benediction. Kosmas lined up with the others to receive his square of blessed antidoron bread. As soon as he had taken it, Fanis stepped down from the cantor’s stand, grabbed Kosmas’s arm, and nodded toward the albino, who was praying before the iconostasis icon of the Holy Mother. “Watch out for that one,” Fanis whispered. “She’s been after me for months. I’ll have to disappear as soon as we’re done . . . or she’ll eat me alive.”
“Sure, Mr. Fanis,” said Kosmas.
After venerating almost every icon in the church, Madame Eva led Kosmas across the courtyard.
“She didn’t come, did she?” he said.
“Be patient,” Madame Eva repeated. They entered the bright tea room, whose shelves were full of community antiques, including leather-bound codices, a desk clock, and donation boxes that resembled old clothes irons with wooden handles. There was a box for the church’s lighting, another for the soup kitchen, another for the long-closed orphanage, and yet another for the Zografeion Lyceum, Kosmas’s alma mater.
“Let my tea be light, please,” said Madame Eva, to the guardian, as they took their seats. “The doctor says that too much caffeine doesn’t combine well with my medications.”
“Same for us,” said an octogenarian with a purple lily in her chignon.
The lame woman with eyes of ice limped into the tea room and dropped herself into the free chair next to Kosmas.
“Rita Tereza,” said Madame Eva, still speaking Greek, “I’d like you to meet Kosmas. Kosmas, Rita Tereza, a graduate of the Liceo Italiano and the University of Rome. She’s also a brilliant watercolor painter, aren’t you, dear?”
Kosmas wanted to protest. She could not possibly be his Rita Tereza. Then he recalled his passing years, his awkwardness, his lack of luck with women, and a rhyme that his father had coined about their lame but pretty neighbor Madame Aglaia, who always had difficulty climbing their hilly street: “She huffs and puffs, but she’s still got a muff.” So Kosmas made up his mind to be sociable and give Rita Tereza a chance.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Kosmas in Turkish. “Ι’ve always thought that multicultural people are the wealthiest of all.”
She smiled and bashfully lowered her eyes—or at least so he thought. It was difficult to see what was happening behind her thick glasses.
“Is this your first time at an Orthodox church?” he asked.
“My grandmother was Rum,” Rita Tereza replied in Greek. “She taught me the language. And all churches are the same to me.”
It was a pleasant answer, and Rita Tereza’s Greek was impeccable. Up close—and in a seated position—there was indeed something sweet about her, just as Madame Eva had said. “Are you a professional painter then?” he asked.
Rita Tereza pushed up her glasses with a gloved finger. “I’m a speech therapist. For special-needs children.”
A caring profession, thought Kosmas. She would probably make a good mother.
“Kosmas, dear,” said Madame Eva, rising slightly and then reseating herself, “what was the prestigious prize you won a few months ago?”
“The Pfeifenberger. For my wedding cakes.”
“He’s very talented. Rita Tereza, what’s your favorite pastry? I’m sure he makes it.”
“I’m diabetic,” she said.
“Üf!” said Madame Eva, blowing through pursed lips. “Never mind that, then. Kosmas, your mother never told me if you have any hobbies. I always hear about your awards and distinctions, but do you do anything else?”
“I’ve never had time. Except for reading history, especially architectural, and studying Ottoman Turkish. But I’ve always wanted to learn ballroom dance. What about you, Rita Tereza, have you ever thought of taking dance lessons?”
Madame Eva elbowed Kosmas and whispered, “She can’t!”
At that moment, the old lady with the purple lily in her hair said, “Smile for Facebook!”
Rita Tereza adjusted her glasses, leaned in toward Kosmas, and pulled a smile. As soon as the flash had gone off, she directed her attention toward the other end of the table.
In an attempt to make amends, Kosmas grabbed Rita Tereza’s empty tea glass and took it into the church office, which doubled as a coffee- and tea-making station. While filling it, he noticed an almost empty coffee cup resting on the desk of the decrepit, nearly deaf priest. It was obvious from the way the fine grounds were spilled into the
