given her another name, which would follow her to her death: “the Amerikana”—the American’s woman.
Because she was
taxidimeni
, Fotini made Eleni understand, she must wear clothes of somber colors and be more formal in her dealings with men than other village women. Eleni was an intelligent pupil, and she understood the perils of flouting the village code. She chose her friends among women much older than herself, dressed her daughters in the most conservative way, watched their behavior with unfailing vigilance and took Olga out of school even before the traditional age of eleven.
In a world as closed as Lia, tradition was the scaffolding that supported the village. One betrayal of the moral code and the entire structure could come tumbling down on everyone’s head. Thanks to the example of her mother-in-law, Eleni had become one of the most admired women in Lia, despite the dangers posed by an absent husband and her own fine-boned beauty. But since Fotini’s death, the village had begun to tighten around her like a prison. There was no man to advise her or share the burdens, no mother-in-law to protect her from the constant scrutiny of the villagers, eager to find a flaw in the behavior of the prosperous “Amerikana.”
When the cave had been in darkness for hours, the rain became heavier, and the dampness seeped into the fugitives’ marrow. After midnight Nikola began to cry and Eleni put him to her breast, but he refused to nurse and turned his head away, wailing louder. A dozen voices shushed him and threatened his mother with expulsion from the cave. Eleni dug a box of matches from her apron. She lit one to look at the baby’s face. Instantly hestopped crying, the flame reflected in his chestnut eyes, but when it sputtered out, he began again.
“He wants light!” Eleni exclaimed, and begged the invisible women around her, if they had candles, to help. A few inched forward, holding tapers, and the boy began to nurse as grotesque shadows flickered over the cavern’s walls. Eleni looked around at familiar faces, distorted by their anger at the baby’s crying, made monstrous by the eerie light.
She felt her separateness like an ache. From birth she had been one of them, but now, more than ever, she sensed the otherness signified by the name “Amerikana.” Since Fotini’s death she had thought of escaping. The desire began at the same time as her illness. She had tried to explain it to Christos, but he hadn’t understood.
The burning started in her lower abdomen, flaring up whenever she ate, making her vomit, so that she couldn’t stand the sight of food. “My navel has unraveled,” she would say in the village phrase, as the women worked over her.
It was Eleni’s sister who finally called Christos back from America in the winter of 1937. Nitsa secretly made nine-year-old Olga write the letter because like most village women, she was illiterate. They had done everything they could, Nitsa told him: the ceremony of tying up the navel, exorcisms, leeches,
venduses
—the glasses upturned on the belly with a candle burning inside to draw out the evil humors. They had even sent to Povla and Lista for doctors. But nothing helped. Eleni was becoming thinner every day and couldn’t eat or stand up. “You can always find America again,” Nitsa dictated to the little girl. “But if you lose your wife, you’re not going to find her again. And what are you going to do with your daughters?”
The daughters—that was the burden that no one wanted if Eleni should die.
The villagers knew perfectly well what was wrong with the Amerikana. It was the evil eye, which was attracted by envy. No woman in the village was more envied than Eleni Gatzoyiannis.
Eleni herself knew the risk of jealousy, and always tried to be more generous and discreet than any woman in Lia. She had been envied even when she was simply the second daughter of Kitso Haidis, the millwright. “Such red cheeks, such blue eyes!” the
Because she was
taxidimeni
, Fotini made Eleni understand, she must wear clothes of somber colors and be more formal in her dealings with men than other village women. Eleni was an intelligent pupil, and she understood the perils of flouting the village code. She chose her friends among women much older than herself, dressed her daughters in the most conservative way, watched their behavior with unfailing vigilance and took Olga out of school even before the traditional age of eleven.
In a world as closed as Lia, tradition was the scaffolding that supported the village. One betrayal of the moral code and the entire structure could come tumbling down on everyone’s head. Thanks to the example of her mother-in-law, Eleni had become one of the most admired women in Lia, despite the dangers posed by an absent husband and her own fine-boned beauty. But since Fotini’s death, the village had begun to tighten around her like a prison. There was no man to advise her or share the burdens, no mother-in-law to protect her from the constant scrutiny of the villagers, eager to find a flaw in the behavior of the prosperous “Amerikana.”
When the cave had been in darkness for hours, the rain became heavier, and the dampness seeped into the fugitives’ marrow. After midnight Nikola began to cry and Eleni put him to her breast, but he refused to nurse and turned his head away, wailing louder. A dozen voices shushed him and threatened his mother with expulsion from the cave. Eleni dug a box of matches from her apron. She lit one to look at the baby’s face. Instantly hestopped crying, the flame reflected in his chestnut eyes, but when it sputtered out, he began again.
“He wants light!” Eleni exclaimed, and begged the invisible women around her, if they had candles, to help. A few inched forward, holding tapers, and the boy began to nurse as grotesque shadows flickered over the cavern’s walls. Eleni looked around at familiar faces, distorted by their anger at the baby’s crying, made monstrous by the eerie light.
She felt her separateness like an ache. From birth she had been one of them, but now, more than ever, she sensed the otherness signified by the name “Amerikana.” Since Fotini’s death she had thought of escaping. The desire began at the same time as her illness. She had tried to explain it to Christos, but he hadn’t understood.
The burning started in her lower abdomen, flaring up whenever she ate, making her vomit, so that she couldn’t stand the sight of food. “My navel has unraveled,” she would say in the village phrase, as the women worked over her.
It was Eleni’s sister who finally called Christos back from America in the winter of 1937. Nitsa secretly made nine-year-old Olga write the letter because like most village women, she was illiterate. They had done everything they could, Nitsa told him: the ceremony of tying up the navel, exorcisms, leeches,
venduses
—the glasses upturned on the belly with a candle burning inside to draw out the evil humors. They had even sent to Povla and Lista for doctors. But nothing helped. Eleni was becoming thinner every day and couldn’t eat or stand up. “You can always find America again,” Nitsa dictated to the little girl. “But if you lose your wife, you’re not going to find her again. And what are you going to do with your daughters?”
The daughters—that was the burden that no one wanted if Eleni should die.
The villagers knew perfectly well what was wrong with the Amerikana. It was the evil eye, which was attracted by envy. No woman in the village was more envied than Eleni Gatzoyiannis.
Eleni herself knew the risk of jealousy, and always tried to be more generous and discreet than any woman in Lia. She had been envied even when she was simply the second daughter of Kitso Haidis, the millwright. “Such red cheeks, such blue eyes!” the
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