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The chauffeur opened the car door for Catherine and she stepped out. A man was waiting at the front door.
“Kalimehra.” The word for good morning sprang to Catherine’s lips unbidden.
“Kalimehra.”
“Are you … are you the person I’ve come to see?”
“Oh, no. Mr. Demiris is waiting for you in the library.”
Demiris. It was a name she had never heard before. Why was he interested in helping her?
Catherine followed the man through an enormous rotunda, with a domed roof set in plaques of Wedgewood. The floors were of creamy Italian marble.
The living room was huge, with a high beamed ceiling and large, low comfortable couches and chairs everywhere. A huge canvas, a dark and glowering Goya, covered one entire wall. As they approached the library, the man stopped.
“Mr. Demiris is waiting for you inside.”
The walls of the library were white and gold boiserie, and the shelves lining the walls were filled with leather books embossed in gold. A man was seated behind a huge desk. He looked up as Catherine entered, and rose. He searched for a sign of recognition on her face, but there was none.
“Welcome. I am Constantin Demiris. What is your name?” He made the question sound casual. Did she remember her name?
“Catherine Alexander.”
He showed no reaction. “Welcome, Catherine Alexander. Please sit down.” He took a seat opposite her, on a black leather couch. She was even lovelier close up. She’s magnificent, Demiris thought. Even dressed in that black habit. It’s a shame to destroy anything that beautiful. At least she will die happy.
“It’s … it’s very kind of you to see me,” Catherine said. “I don’t understand why you …”
He smiled genially. “It’s really quite simple. From time to time I help out Sister Theresa. The convent has very little money, and I do what I can. When she wrote me about you and asked if I could be helpful, I told her that I would be happy to try.”
“That’s very …” She stopped, not knowing how to continue. “Did Sister Theresa tell you that I … that I’ve lost my memory?”
“Yes, she did mention something about that.” He paused and asked off-handedly, “How much do you remember?”
“I know my name, but I don’t know where I came from, or who I really am.” She added, hopefully, “Perhaps I can find someone here in Athens who knows me.”
Constantin Demiris felt a sudden frisson of alarm. That was the last thing in the world he wanted. “That’s possible, of course,” he said carefully. “Why don’t we discuss it in the morning? Unfortunately I have to attend a meeting now. I’ve arranged to have a suite prepared for you here. I think you’ll be comfortable.”
“I … I really don’t know how to thank you.”
He waved a hand. “That isn’t necessary. You will be well taken care of here. Just make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Mr.—”
“My friends call me Costa.”
A housekeeper led Catherine into a fantastic bedroom suite, done in soft shades of white, furnished with an oversized bed with a silk canopy, white couches and armchairs, antique tables and lamps, and Impressionist paintings on the walls. Pale shutters of sea green kept the glaring sun at bay. Through the windows, Catherine could see the turquoise sea below in the distance.
The housekeeper said, “Mr. Demiris has arranged to have some clothes sent here for your approval. You are to select whatever you like.”
Catherine was conscious, for the first time, that she was still wearing the habit given her at the convent.
“Thank you.” She sank down in the soft bed, feeling as though she were in a dream. Who was this stranger, and why was he being so kind to her?
An hour later a van pulled up filled with clothes. A couturier was ushered into Catherine’s bedroom.
“I’m Madame Dimas. Let’s see what we have to work with. Would you get undressed, please?”
“I … I beg your pardon?”
“Will you get undressed? I can’t tell much about your figure under those clothes.”
How long had it been since she had been naked in front of another person?
Catherine began to take off her clothes, moving slowly, feeling self-conscious. When she stood nude in front of the woman, Madame Dimas looked her over with a practiced eye. She was impressed.
“You have a fine figure. I think we’re going to be able to do very well for you.”
Two female assistants walked in with boxes of dresses, underwear, blouses, skirts, shoes.
“Select whatever you like,” the couturièr said, “and we’ll try them on.”
“I… I can’t afford any of these,” Catherine protested. “I have no money.”
The couturièr laughed. “I don’t think money will be a problem. Mr. Demiris is taking care of it.”
But why?
The fabrics brought back tactile memories of clothes she must have once worn. There were silks and tweeds and cottons in an array of exquisite colors.
The three women were quick and efficient, and two hours later Catherine had half a dozen beautiful outfits. It was overwhelming. She sat there, not knowing what to do with herself.
I’m all dressed up, she thought, with no place to go. But there was some place to go—into the city. The key to whatever had happened to her was in Athens. She was convinced of it. She stood up. Come on, stranger. We’re going to try to find out who you are.
Catherine wandered out into the front hall, and a butler approached her. “May I help you, miss?”
“Yes. I … I would like to go into the city. Could you call a taxi for me?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, miss. We have limousines at your disposal. I will arrange a driver for you.”
Catherine hesitated. “Thank you.” Would Mr. Demiris be angry if she went into the city? He had not said not to.
A few minutes later she was seated in the back of a Daimler limousine, headed for downtown Athens.
Catherine was dazzled by the noisy, bustling city, and the poignant succession of ruins and monuments that appeared all around her.
The driver pointed ahead and said proudly, “That is the Parthenon, miss, on top of the Acropolis.”
Catherine stared up at the familiar white marble building. “Dedicated to Athena, the goddess of wisdom,” she heard herself saying.
The driver smiled approvingly. “Are you a student of Greek history, miss?”
Tears of frustration blurred Catherine’s vision. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
They were passing another ruin. “That is the theater of Herodes Atticus. As you can see, part of the walls are still standing. It once seated more than five thousand people.”
“Six thousand two hundred fifty-seven,” Catherine said softly.
Modern hotels and office buildings were everywhere amid the timeless ruins, an exotic mixture of the past and present. The limousine passed a large park in the center of the city, with sparkling, dancing fountains in the middle. Dozens of tables with green and orange poles lined the park, and the air above them was carpeted with blue awnings.
I’ve seen this before, Catherine thought, her hands growing cold. And I was happy.
There were outdoor cafés on almost every block, and on the corners men were selling freshly caught sponges. Everywhere, flowers were being sold by vendors, their booths a rage of violently colored blossoms.
The limousine had reached Syntagma Square.
As they passed a hotel on the corner, Catherine called out: “Stop, please!”
The driver pulled over to the curb. Catherine was finding it difficult to breathe. I recognize this hotel. I’ve stayed here.
When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “I’d like to get out here. I wonder if you could pick me up in—in two hours?”
“Of course, miss.” The chauffeur hurried to open the door for her, and Catherine stepped outside into the hot summer air. Her legs were trembling. “Are you all right, miss?” She had no answer. She felt as though she were on the edge of a precipice, about to fall into an unknown, terrifying abyss.
She moved through the crowds, marveling at the hordes of people hurrying through the streets, creating a roaring din of conversation. After the silence and solitude of the convent, everything seemed unreal. Catherine found herself moving toward the Plaka, the old section of Athens in the heart of the city, with its twisted alleys and crumbling, worn-down stairways that led to tiny houses, coffee shops, and whitewashed rambling structures. She found her way by some instinct she did not understand or try to control. She passed a taverna on top of a roof, overlooking the city, and stopped, staring. I’ve sat at that table. They handed me a menu in Greek. There were three of us.
What would you like to eat? they had asked.
Would you mind ordering for me? I’m afraid I might order the proprietor.
They had laughed. But who were ‘they'?
A waiter approached Catherine. “Boro na sas voithiso?”
“Ochi efharisto.”
Can I help you? No, thank you. How did I know that? Am I Greek?
Catherine hurriedly moved on, and it was as though someone were guiding her. She seemed to know exactly where to go.
Everything seemed familiar. And nothing. My God, she thought, I’m going crazy. I’m hallucinating. She passed a café that said Treflinkas. A memory was nagging at the corners of her mind. Something had happened to her here, something important. She could not remember what.
She walked through the busy, winding streets and turned left at Voukourestiou. It was filled with smart stores. I used to shop here. She started to cross the street, and a blue sedan raced around the corner, barely missing her.
She could recall a voice saying, The Greeks haven’t made the transition to automobiles. In their hearts they’re still driving donkeys. If you want insight into the Greeks, don’t read the guidebooks; read the old Greek tragedies. We’re filled with grand passions, deep joys, and great sorrows, and we haven’t learned how to cover them up with a civilized veneer.
Who had said that to her?
A man was hurrying down the street, walking toward her, staring at her. He slowed, a look of recognition on his face. He was tall and dark and Catherine was sure she had never seen him before. And yet …
“Hello.” He seemed very pleased to see her.
“Hello.” Catherine took a deep breath. “Do you know me?”
He was grinning. “Of course I know you.”
Catherine felt her heart leap. She was finally going to learn the truth about the past. But how do you say “Who am I?” to a stranger in a crowded street?
“Could … could we talk?” Catherine asked.
“I think we’d better.”
Catherine was on the edge of panic. The mystery of her identity was about to be solved. And yet she felt a terrible fear. What if I don’t want to know? What if I’ve done something dreadful?
The man was leading her toward a small open-air taverna. “I’m so glad I ran into you,” he said.
Catherine swallowed. “So am I.”
A waiter led them to a table.
“What would you like to drink?” the man asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
There were so many questions to ask. Where do I begin?
“You’re very beautiful,” the man said. “This is fate. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” She was almost trembling with excitement. She took a deep breath. “I—where did we meet?”
He grinned. “Is that important, koritsimon? Paris, or Rome, at the races, at a party.” He reached forward and pressed her hand. “You’re the prettiest one I’ve seen around here. How much do you charge?”
Catherine stared at him, not understanding for a moment, then shocked, she sprang to her feet.
“Hey! What’s the matter? I’ll pay you whatever …”
Catherine turned and fled, running down the street. She turned a corner and slowed down, her eyes filled with tears of humiliation.
Ahead was a small taverna with a sign in the window that read, MADAME PIRIS—FORTUNE TELLER. Catherine slowed, then stopped. I know Madame Piris. I’ve been here before. Her heart began to race. She sensed that here, through the darkened doorway, was the beginning of the end of the mystery. She opened the door and stepped inside. It took her several moments to get used to the cavernous darkness of the room. There was a familiar bar in the corner, and a dozen tables and chairs. A waiter walked up to her and addressed her in Greek.
“Kalimehra.”
“Kalimehra. Pou inehMadame Piris?”
“Madame Piris?”
The waiter gestured toward an empty table in the corner of the room, and Catherine walked over and sat down. Everything was exactly as she remembered it.
An incredibly old woman dressed in black, with a face desiccated into angles and planes, was moving toward the table.
