What Casanova Told Me Read online

  Your mother insisted that Andreas go down to the village the next day and find him and bring him back. And that is what Andreas did. Constantine was living over a taverna then, with his mother, Gaby, and his brother. His father was Albanian and had come to Crete as a deckhand on one of the ferries. When that ferry line had gone out of business, he decided to stay and live among the mountain people of Crete. He soon met and married Gaby. Constantine told us that Cretans see all Albanians as peasants and marriage between Greeks and Albanians is frowned upon.

  So Constantine came the next night for dinner and told us his story and your mother forced Andreas to accept him. And the next year, he worked on Christine’s tour as a guide, and Gaby came to work at the hotel in Zaros. In those days, we saw a lot of Gaby and we became fond of her.

  All was resolved, you might think. Except for my jealousy. Maybe it came from my own profligate history of love affairs, but I coveted your mother’s attention fiercely. I even suspected Christine of trying to steal her from me although I knew rationally that this was a ridiculous worry since Christine is a loyal friend who has stayed in love with Julian.

  When your mother spent time with Constantine, I felt heartbroken. The fact that he was clever and good-natured, and skilled with his hands and that everyone who knew him came to love him only made things worse. He was naturally grateful to your mother who changed his life when she made Andreas and Christine hire him. (We didn’t know about his record for breaking and entering in Athens; this all came out after the accident and it must have made the bestowal of her favour miraculous to him.)

  He was constantly bringing her things: flowers, wild marjoram for the mountain tea she favoured, small beaded purses and hats to go with the colourful outfits she liked to wear, and she would kiss him thank you on the cheek as I watched. I came to dread our descents into Skoteino. He would hover by her side, helping her through to the lowest level, his hand finding an excuse to touch her arm or shoulder.

  I began suspecting your mother of encouraging him. I dreamt of her abandoning me and running off with him. If I had it to do over, I would have spoken to your mother in a way that she could understand, and we would have settled the matter between us. But I was proud and I began to accuse her of things she had never done, knowing she had never done them, knowing I was no better than the jealous Cretan husbands we saw in the villages who project their guilty consciences onto their wives.

  We stopped staying with Gaby, and I forbade your mother to speak to Gaby and Constantine, and with Yannis who knew them both, claiming her interest in Gaby’s son was undermining our relationship. Kitty refused at first, but when she saw how serious I was, she complied. Then I talked Christine out of using Constantine as a guide and your mother wept from embarrassment and shock but she did nothing.

  The next year, he came to find her in Zaros. It was the night she died. He knew our arrival date from the hotel clerk, and he waited on the terrace until I had gone up to our room. Kitty had stayed behind to help Christine pay some bills and he found her in the hotel office and begged her to let him come back. He had trouble finding work after he was fired as a guide. Albanians are good enough to hire as labourers, but in some Cretan villages they are considered troublemakers. Constantine asked your mother to go for a drive and talk about his situation. She went, leaving me a note. They drove off together and they died together and I thought that was the end of my happiness.

  I was wrong about her intentions. I don’t think that she slept with him, but she loved him. I’m sure of that. I am starting to see that your mother loved Constantine like a son. Knowing you has helped me understand her feelings.

  I realize your mother might have gone off on that drive and died even if I hadn’t made it difficult for her to talk freely to Constantine. Could be I’m just a lapsed Catholic in need of absolution Luce, but I want you to understand what happened. Your mother never deliberately wanted to harm you when she went away with me to Greece for the last years of her life. We were blind and selfish in our love. We neglected you. I see that now. But sometimes it is unbearable to notice that we are hurting those close to us. And if that person looks as if she is doing all right on her own, it’s easier to overlook the fact that we aren’t paying attention.

  With good wishes,

  Lee

  Luce finished Lee’s letter in the old olive-press behind Gaby’s house. No one used it now, and the rusting treads of the machinery were thick with cobwebs and dust. Outside, the sun had set, and shadows were falling in the musty interior of the building. From where she sat by the door, catching the last of the daylight, she could hear birds in the nearby almond trees. And somewhere close by, an angry bee was banging against the glass of a window. It must have flown in with her.

  She had gone to the abandoned press to read because she guessed that Lee had something important to tell her about Kitty. She had seen it in the other woman’s face when she gave her the letter at supper. So now she understood the reason for Lee’s remorse in the cave. And Lee had confirmed that Kitty neglected her. It stung to hear the truth from the mouth of another person. Well, Lee also said that Kitty had loved her. She knew she did, she always had, even when Luce thought her mother expected too much of her.

  She opened the door of the press and the bee buzzed out with her. She took a long breath and gazed about the small valley around Gaby’s house. Summer had come although it was still only June; the fields of dry grasses, already brown from the heat, were glowing the colour of old brass in the fading light. She wondered if her mother had stood where she was standing on such an evening in early summer. It was too late to know. They had missed the chance to enjoy Crete together. Clutching the letter, she set off to find Lee.

  She discovered her sitting on the terrace, making notes. An array of goddess icons stood on the table next to a tray of mezes. Luce hesitated, touched by the sight of Lee’s bulk next to the small, delicate objects: the round, squatting snake goddess of Ierapetra, Crete; the tall poppy goddess of Minoan Crete with a crown of poppies, her palms facing outward in a benediction; and a porcelain replica of a praying Virgin Mary. There, in miniature, were Kitty’s gods, arguably objects of worship and admiration. And here sat the life-sized figure of her mother’s companion whose body must feel like an unwieldy suitcase to its owner.

  “Well, did you read it?”

  “Yes. I …” Luce felt herself start to choke.

  “I know you were angry with me for taking your mother away.”

  “I’m not angry now.”

  “Balls.”

  Luce tried not to smile as she lowered herself onto the bench beside the other woman. She had a feeling Lee enjoyed using the word.

  “Lee, you don’t have to be so tough on yourself. My mother’s accident—it just was. It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t mine either.”

  Lee nodded sadly and for a moment they sat together in silence in the summer twilight. Luce noticed the dejected look on the older woman’s face.

  “I guess that doesn’t help much, does it. Is something else wrong?” Luce asked.

  “When I want help, I’ll ask. All right?”

  “Okay, Lee,” she said, trying not to smile. Here was someone as uncomfortable with accepting help as she was.

  “Good. I was just thinking I’ll be sad when our trip is over.”

  “But we’ll see each other when we go home, won’t we?”

  The anxiety in Luce’s voice gave Lee an experience of pleasure so sharp that she felt a momentary shame, like a child who has been given a present greater than she believes she deserves. Her face softened into a smile, and she nodded, yes.

  The next morning, the two women set out to find the gorge where Kitty had died. Gaby reminded Lee that it lay to the west of her house about half a mile up the dusty road winding by a small lake. Despite the heat, they went on foot, toiling past cratered fields of brittle, sunburnt grass to find the hairpin turn where Kitty’s car had gone off the road. The sound of Lee’s breathing worried Luc
e. The older woman was trudging gamely alongside, but she looked hot and uncomfortable in her baggy, sun-proof garments. Luce walked slowly, feigning interest in the wildflowers on the dusty hillside. She would miss Lee when she left Crete. She had decided to go to Istanbul. Gaby had phoned the airlines and changed her ticket. Just when I decide I like Greece, I find myself leaving, she thought wryly. Well, she was discovering that this was how she moved in the world. She said no first and then waited to see how she really felt. She had always needed more time than her mother to understand her own reactions. Halfway up the steep bluff, they stopped to take stock. Ahead lay two nearly identical turns in the road; each one looked down on an equally steep hillside.

  Then Luce spotted the little roadside shrine. Gaby and some of her friends had placed the eklisaki by the road. The shrine resembled a mailbox made of metal and glass. Mounted on metal legs, it stood in an arid spot tucked away behind a rock. Nothing was growing there but a few dried-out bushes. Luce wished she knew their names. Except for the shrine, the spot was hardly worth a second look.

  They walked over and opened its door and together they peered inside. Luce saw a small oil lamp placed next to a photograph of Kitty Adams and Constantine Skedi.

  “Yiate psiethis, for the light of her soul,” Lee murmured as she lit the wick of the small lamp. She stepped back and lightly touched Luce’s shoulder.

  Luce reached in and placed the small blue-eyed charm that Gaby had given her by the burning lamp. “Mother, wherever you are,” she whispered, “Lee and I wish you peace.”

  PART FOUR

  The City of Convergences

  It was twilight when the taxi dropped Luce at the Arasta Hotel in Istanbul. She registered at the desk, then set off up the hill to the moneychangers’ shops on the street by the Blue Mosque and Santa Sophia. The northern blue of the sky lent an eerie solemnity to the majesty of the old buildings. Swallows floated on air currents above her head and a pale filament of jet stream was stretched pink and radiant from the immense dome of the Blue Mosque to one of its slender minarets. She stood gazing at the swelling shapes of the mosques, unaware that her appearance was creating a sensation with the passersby in the street who were turning to stare. The Cretan sun had turned her skin the colour of dark honey and lightened her hair so that she no longer resembled the pale, timid archivist who had come into Venice in a water taxi with Lee Pronski.

  She noticed a tall young man with a striking Levantine face stop to gaze at her. Then, as if he felt he’d been impolite, he turned away and she watched him head in the direction of her hotel. On the doorstep, he turned and looked for her again before stepping into the Arasta.

  A group of loitering men with dark eyes and soft, musical voices were commenting on her hair and clothes.

  “What country are you from?” one of the loiterers called to Luce. She tried to ignore him, but he jumped in front of her holding up a badly worn briefcase. She realized he hoped to impress her with his badge of Western commerce.

  “No, no—no!” she said firmly.

  The man bowed sadly. “You are from the country of no, no, and I am from the country of yes, yes.”

  Luce stifled a laugh, and continued on up the hill, her movements quick and graceful as she threaded her way through the ogling throng. She imagined the withering comment that Lee would have directed at the loiterer. The country of no, no—indeed. She wasn’t looking to meet anyone, and it was a good feeling. To her surprise, she felt comfortable travelling by herself, although there had been a bomb scare in the Athens airport when she left. As police with machine guns inspected her luggage, she’d panicked and considered booking a flight back to Toronto that night. Then she’d calmed down and flew on to Istanbul, thinking of Asked For Adams and the hazards she had faced in Athens—and Istanbul, too, if her ancestor had made it that far. It had always been dangerous to travel, she told herself, and the list of harrowing perils grew or dwindled, depending on your destination. But even more than its dangers, she supposed travel and the prospect of chaos in other places had gone against her sense of order. Until she read the old journal, she had resented the sense of possibility that travel represented and its freedom which had captivated her mother and transformed her beyond recognition.

  She changed her euros into Turkish lire and walked over to the Blue Mosque. She paused and peered through one of its huge windows. Inside, partly concealed by metallic bars, she saw a huge, majestic room, where hundreds of men lay face down before a robed imam intoning a prayer into a microphone. She stared in fascination at the prostrate men, searching for signs of female worshippers, since she’d heard that women worshipped at the back and sides of mosques, segregated from the men just as they were at Orthodox Jewish synagogues. How did Aimée Dubucq de Rivery survive in such a world, she wondered—or had the Catholic idea of Christian humility prepared her for submission to Islam? In her convent, the young Aimée would have certainly learned about submission to both God and husband.

  Luce wondered what Aimée would have thought of Asked For Adams’ belief that only the humane and reverent way you practised a faith mattered, not the slavish following of a doctrine. Perhaps Aimée would have agreed.

  Back at the Arasta, she discovered a note waiting for her at the hotel desk.

  Dear Ms. Adams,

  Theodore told me you are staying at the Arasta and I’m writing to offer my services. I will come by tomorrow at 11 a.m. to examine the old document. Please call me if this time isn’t suitable.

  He had left a phone number and a name, Ender Mecid.

  Mr. Mecid doesn’t waste time, she thought. She wondered if he would be like the manuscript librarian from Bulgaria whom she’d met at a conference in Toronto, an excessively polite man who smoked a pipe, had messy, longish grey hair and a little notebook in which he’d scribbled his favourite poems. From time to time, he would pull it out and recite her a poem. Well, she would put up with any number of bores if they could translate her manuscript.

  In her room, she phoned Lee in Crete and told her she had arrived safely after the bomb scare in Athens.

  “It’s frightening to come back into modern life after the experience of the ancient world with its wisdom,” Lee said.

  “I guess there’s nothing we can do to ward off the unexpected. The Minoans lived in fear of earthquakes, didn’t they?”

  “Good for you, Luce. Statistically the chances of getting blown up are the same as winning the lottery.”

  Then, with a little catch in her voice, Lee told Luce how much she missed her. She had gone with Christine to Archanes on the north shore of Crete and found that the museum that had once exhibited the bones of the allegedly sacrificed Minoan was closed. But they hadn’t been too disappointed—they’d laughed about it and spent the day at the taverna instead, she said. She was going back to Brooklyn in the morning.

  It struck Luce after she put the phone down that Lee had always been reassuring her about one thing or another in the early days of their trip, but she hadn’t understood that the other woman’s concern was genuine. She began to unpack, surprised to find herself feeling grateful for the trip and just a little nostalgic. She retrieved Lee’s gift from their first morning in Venice from under a pile of tank tops and placed it on her dresser top, noticing for the first time the two heads above its pairs of pebble-sized breasts. She hung up her clothes, and when that chore was done, she brought out the blue notebook she had purchased that morning in a Herakleion supermarket. She hadn’t used a diary since high school. “Tuesday, June 28. I arrive in Istanbul and find myself missing Lee’s unflappable manner,” she wrote on its first page. “Lee doesn’t lean on me the way my mother did. I suppose that was one of the things Kitty enjoyed about her. She could turn to Lee for strength while the world sucked on hers. Well, Lee and I have decided to like each other and that’s a relief.”

  She paused and looked over at the double-headed figure on her dresser. Then she added: “First Inquiry of the Day: What is the most common sight in the worl
d? Lesson Learned: Two female heads side by side. The image is as old as time.”

  Pleased with herself, she crawled into bed.

  Luce’s hotel was in Sultanahmet, the old European section of Istanbul. She opened her curtains to the morning light and saw a street of worn clapboard houses with unscreened verandas piled high with old lumber and broken furniture. Her room was directly opposite a crumbling apartment building whose windows were shrouded with grey curtains. The building and the wooden houses alongside it were screened by a line of tall plane trees that grew like bushy weeds, blocking out the sun. Her room that morning felt humid and gloomy which must have been why her small washing from the night before had stayed damp.

  She climbed a high, spiralling staircase up to the roof terrace for breakfast. The terrace overlooked the Sea of Marmara, glowing grey-blue in the morning mist. Luce gazed at it in awe, moved by the hypnotic morning stillness and the delicate fan-shaped wakes of the freighters.

  “Just like New York City, isn’t it, madame?”

  She turned to see the clerk who had checked her in the night before and whose name, according to the tag pinned to his jacket, was Aziz gesturing at the hilly shores strewn with a colourful bricolage of offices and apartment buildings. Behind Aziz, a waitress carried platters of pale yellow cheese, tomatoes, olives and fresh, sweet-smelling bread to the other guests on the terrace. Was Istanbul like New York? The atmosphere felt more northern than she’d expected—perhaps slightly Russian. And the breeze was cooler than Crete, although that wasn’t saying much. A slight metallic odour drifted across the terrace.