Gone to school, love, Flora
The walk to the metro station was her favorite part of the day. Athens was waking up around her, shopkeepers rolling up their metal shutters, old men settling in at café tables with tiny cups ofcoffee and thick newspapers. Sometimes Flora pretended she was a character in a movie, a mysteriously independent teenager who navigated foreign cities with effortless grace. In the movie version, someone would notice how mature she was.
Someone would think she was remarkable.
34
Lee
Lee checked in every daywith Markos. He told her he would call if there was news…and he didn’t call. She contacted three psychiatrists: Two didn’t speak English and the English-speaking one couldn’t see her for two and a half months.
Lee caught herself checking her appearance in every reflective surface—the coffeepot, the window, the TV screen when it was turned off. Even when she was by herself in the apartment, she ruthlessly scrutinized her forehead for wrinkles, narrating a running critique of her looks and performance.
On Sunday morning, Lee’s phone finally chimed with a text from Markos.We need to speak in person as soon as possible.Lee arranged to meet him at the taverna on the corner, donning a black top (to conveysomber) and expensive jeans (rich, fit, too concerned about my sister to worry about clothes).
Markos was smoking outside the café. As Lee approached, he dropped his cigarette to the cobblestoned street and ground it out with a leather ankle boot. “Sorry,” he said, “I can’t seem to quit.” He wore a tailored gabardine trench coat over a light blue button-down shirt (a bit frayed at the collar), a messenger bag, and dark jeans.
“There are worse habits,” said Lee.
“I have them all,” said Markos, looking rueful. He had circles under his deeply set eyes. Even when clean-shaven (Lee could smell an astringent aftershave), his cheeks were shadowed with stubble.
“I doubt that,” said Lee. “OK, what’s the news?” Noticing that her hands were trembling slightly, Lee clasped them together. The headache that had started three days ago pulsed behind her temples. She’d woken twice last night drenched in sweat, her heart racing: withdrawal. Markos tipped his head to the side and furrowed his brow, looking at her. “You are OK?” he said—a statement that functioned as a question.
Lee was unaccustomed to anyone wondering how she was feeling. She was trained to project emotions, not wallow in them. In truth, Lee was not OK. She was overwhelmed and teary. She wanted to cry, yearned for the release of just sobbing on this man’s shoulder. She wanted him to hold her, to hold her up. She figured these desires were caused by chemical imbalances in her brain. She didn’t even know this gruff Greek detective.
Lee had never gone for classic male beauty—she chose lovers who were broken in body and spirit, men (and a few women) whom she could allow to treat her badly because she pitied them and wanted to save them. But Markos seemed strong—he was a man to lean against, not to save.
Lee knew how to make herself cry for a camera—she just thought about her father as a boy, alone and disconsolate. She thought about her mom, Charlotte, a hopeful girl before she was taken advantage of in her young teens by a famous painter. (At least according to an essay Charlotte had written to win them the Mediterranean cruise on theSplendido Marvelosoship.)
When trying to summon tears for the camera, Lee was notable—not yet—to access how she, herself, had felt as a child, but she had been trained to channel others’ sorrow (which felt nothing like Depression).
Lee cleared her throat, shook herself to attention. “What is it, Markos?” she said. “You told me you needed to meet.”
“Let’s walk,” said Markos. He put his hands in his pockets and began striding down the narrow street lined with small shops and tavernas. Lee was glad she’d pulled on Regan’s sneakers—Markos walked quickly. The road became more residential as it wound between buildings painted in cream and ocher, many covered with ivy vines and some boasting balconies lined in pots of blooming flowers. “We’ve found your sister’s car at Athens International Airport.”
Lee stopped walking. “She flew somewhere? Where? When?”
“We’re fast-tracking a warrant to access passenger information.”
“But that could take—”
“Days, yes. Possible, a week or more. I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God.”
“We’ve completed interviews with all of her former Airbnb tenants. Every one has a credible alibi; we don’t think they are involved.”
Lee nodded. With Flora’s help, she had shut down the Airbnb rental page for the time being.
She was growing short of breath, but kept pace with Markos, hiking a steep path lined with white houses. The exertion made her notice that her legs were shaking, too. Everything felt unstable—not just her emotions, but her actual body. She stumbled slightly, and Markos steadied her. “Where are we?” said Lee, slowing down, smelling jasmine, bougainvillea, and the earthy scent of the sun warming the stones beneath them. Each home had vivid, bright blue doors and window shutters.
“This is Anafiotika,” said Markos.
“I don’t even feel like I’m still in Athens,” said Lee. “This looks like a magazine spread of a Greek island up here. My family went to Rhodes Island, on a cruise.”
“A cruise?” said Markos, raising his eyebrows.
“My mom won a contest, and the prize was a Mediterranean cruise,” said Lee. “It’s a long story, for another time.”
