older women could say as she passed, spitting at the evil eye.
After Eleni was selected as a bride by Christos and moved into the four-room house, complete with a brass-ornamented arched gate, a separate entrance for the animals, a hand-turned food grinder and an outdoor shower made of barrels, then there was too much temptation for the evil eye. No wonder each of Christos’ visits had produced only girls, the villagers whispered, and no wonder the fine Amerikana now lay dying, her cheeks the color of Good Friday candles.
When Christos received Nitsa’s letter, he had just taken on a new partner in his produce business, a native of the village next to Lia, and it worried him to leave the truck in the hands of the profligate Nassios Economou, who pursued young girls with the passion Christos reserved for fine clothes. But when he learned of Eleni’s illness, Christos set out at once for Greece. He was a responsible man, devoted to his young wife, and he couldn’t allow her to die. He prepared himself for the mission with characteristic thoroughness and efficiency. They were killing her with village superstition and he would save her with American know-how.
Christos prided himself on being a real American. From the third-class deck of the liner
Themistocles
steaming out of Corfu in 1910, he had thrown his red fez and white baggy breeches into the waves and begun to study the English dictionary in his pocket. He quickly assimilated the American virtues of cleanliness, honesty and industry. He worked two jobs, in a factory by day and a bowling alley at night, making $9 or $10 a week, until he had enough to buy a half-interest in a vegetable wagon.
Christos would go hungry to buy the finest suits available in Worcester, Massachusetts. On his rounds as a tinker’s apprentice in Greece, it was the sight of two stylishly dressed Greek-Americans that had first put America in his mind. Although he was short and portly, Christos always dressed so well that people took him for a professional man rather than a vegetable peddler.
On one of the first warm days of June 1937, the villagers of Lia were drawn from their houses by the sound of bells: not the deep knell of the church’s
cabana
or the clanging of the lead goats, but the special sound of the mule train belonging to the Turk, Mourtos Gajelis, who brought people from the outside world after the end of the road deposited them in Filiates. The few Greeks of the Mourgana who had made their fortune abroad and returned for a visit had dubbed his five mules “the American Express.”
Throughout the northern province of Epiros, there were still large communities of Moslems like Mourtos, remnants of the Turks who had ruled until 1913 and of the Greeks who had been converted to Islam, who were called “Chams,” after the region they came from, Chamouria. Although they were transformed overnight from rich landowning rulers to a tolerated minority, for the most part the Moslems hid their resentment behind a smile. Christos always tipped Mourtos generously and threw in a silk tie or a pair of American socks. He was sure that Mourtos, baptized or not, was his friend.
Christos rode into Lia seated on the lead mule, the sun reflecting from his white short-sleeved shirt, his glasses and bald pate, for he had removed his straw boater and the seersucker suit coat. He nodded to the excited crowd but never let his pashalike dignity lapse.
Kanta, then four, and Glykeria, three, didn’t recognize the apparition at their gate. Glykeria, taking in his well-fed appearance and soft gentleman’s hands, insisted it was another doctor for their mother, despite the neighbors’ claims that it was her father.
Christos stalked into the good chamber, and shooed out the women crowded around the invalid. Eleni tried to cover her waxy cheeks with her hands and said she should have had enough warning to prepare properly for his arrival. He came and sat next to her.
“I didn’t tell them to send for
After Eleni was selected as a bride by Christos and moved into the four-room house, complete with a brass-ornamented arched gate, a separate entrance for the animals, a hand-turned food grinder and an outdoor shower made of barrels, then there was too much temptation for the evil eye. No wonder each of Christos’ visits had produced only girls, the villagers whispered, and no wonder the fine Amerikana now lay dying, her cheeks the color of Good Friday candles.
When Christos received Nitsa’s letter, he had just taken on a new partner in his produce business, a native of the village next to Lia, and it worried him to leave the truck in the hands of the profligate Nassios Economou, who pursued young girls with the passion Christos reserved for fine clothes. But when he learned of Eleni’s illness, Christos set out at once for Greece. He was a responsible man, devoted to his young wife, and he couldn’t allow her to die. He prepared himself for the mission with characteristic thoroughness and efficiency. They were killing her with village superstition and he would save her with American know-how.
Christos prided himself on being a real American. From the third-class deck of the liner
Themistocles
steaming out of Corfu in 1910, he had thrown his red fez and white baggy breeches into the waves and begun to study the English dictionary in his pocket. He quickly assimilated the American virtues of cleanliness, honesty and industry. He worked two jobs, in a factory by day and a bowling alley at night, making $9 or $10 a week, until he had enough to buy a half-interest in a vegetable wagon.
Christos would go hungry to buy the finest suits available in Worcester, Massachusetts. On his rounds as a tinker’s apprentice in Greece, it was the sight of two stylishly dressed Greek-Americans that had first put America in his mind. Although he was short and portly, Christos always dressed so well that people took him for a professional man rather than a vegetable peddler.
On one of the first warm days of June 1937, the villagers of Lia were drawn from their houses by the sound of bells: not the deep knell of the church’s
cabana
or the clanging of the lead goats, but the special sound of the mule train belonging to the Turk, Mourtos Gajelis, who brought people from the outside world after the end of the road deposited them in Filiates. The few Greeks of the Mourgana who had made their fortune abroad and returned for a visit had dubbed his five mules “the American Express.”
Throughout the northern province of Epiros, there were still large communities of Moslems like Mourtos, remnants of the Turks who had ruled until 1913 and of the Greeks who had been converted to Islam, who were called “Chams,” after the region they came from, Chamouria. Although they were transformed overnight from rich landowning rulers to a tolerated minority, for the most part the Moslems hid their resentment behind a smile. Christos always tipped Mourtos generously and threw in a silk tie or a pair of American socks. He was sure that Mourtos, baptized or not, was his friend.
Christos rode into Lia seated on the lead mule, the sun reflecting from his white short-sleeved shirt, his glasses and bald pate, for he had removed his straw boater and the seersucker suit coat. He nodded to the excited crowd but never let his pashalike dignity lapse.
Kanta, then four, and Glykeria, three, didn’t recognize the apparition at their gate. Glykeria, taking in his well-fed appearance and soft gentleman’s hands, insisted it was another doctor for their mother, despite the neighbors’ claims that it was her father.
Christos stalked into the good chamber, and shooed out the women crowded around the invalid. Eleni tried to cover her waxy cheeks with her hands and said she should have had enough warning to prepare properly for his arrival. He came and sat next to her.
“I didn’t tell them to send for
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