Book Chapter from Tears of Chios
Chapter 15 CELEBRATION
A few weeks later, lying on his straw mattress by the flickering ochre flames in his hearth and waiting for the winter sun to peek its pale face over the mountains, Seba’s thoughts remained on the coffee grounds. How could some shapes in a coffee cup know about Demetria and Thaddeus? How could they tell that their fortunes were going to change? Thaddeus had seemed so pleased about the coffee grounds, but it had been several weeks and there was no news regarding money, Demetria, or a change in Thaddeus’s future. It reminded Seba of one of Papouli’s favorite sayings from the Greek historian Plutarch: “Glory is nice, but uncertain.”
Seba thought Plutarch should have also added, and short-lived.
However, he didn’t have much time to spend considering the coffee grounds or any other weighty topics because it was a time for celebration in Sessera. The villagers celebrated the annual feast of the birth of Christ, which all Greeks on the island of Chios celebrated for twelve days between Christmas Day and the feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi brought their gifts to the baby Jesus. During those twelve days, the villagers attended church each morning and evening, working only a few midday hours in the skinos groves. The villagers’ job in the winter was to provide nutrients to feed the trees during the wet season. They gathered all the fallen leaves from the skinos trees and mixed them with the soil to form a layer of compost over the lime-dusted tables surrounding the trees. It was as if they were tucking in the gnarled trunks and branches for the winter, keeping them cozy, fed, and warm.
Uncle Phillip had taught Seba and all the village children that the soil of Chios was magic, made from ancient volcanic rock that mixed with the leaves and crushed-up twigs of the skinos trees over thousands of years. Now, that soil provided all the food the trees needed over the winter to prepare them to produce the beautiful tears the following summer. Spreading the topdressing was a messy job, especially in the cold and misty rain of December, but the villagers had been feeding these trees in this way for generations. Just as the Christians prepared the way for the nativity of Christ, the mastichochoria prepared the way for the mastic tears.
Seba turned fifteen on December 30, which was always a celebratory time for Sesserans during the Christmas festivities. He had grown several inches since his last birthday, and although his facial hair did not compare to Brother Tim’s bushy beard, the sable-colored growth on his chin made Seba feel like he was leaving boyhood behind. Mama baked him his favorite cake, a sweet yeasted bread filled with raisins, pistachios, and dates, and Papouli had invited Mrs. Lampros for supper. That evening, Papouli sang and danced while Seba played his seven-holed wooden floghera, and Mrs. Lampros played the kithara, a seven-stringed lyre with a wooden base. It had belonged to her late husband. For a long time after he died, Mrs. Lampros had refused to touch the instrument, saying that it made her sad to think her sweet husband would never play it again. However, Papouli’s love of music and dance had moved her to dig it out and dust it off. Papouli had that effect on everyone he met.
Even Mama danced with Papouli, father and daughter moving in perfect harmony with energy and enthusiasm. Mama’s face was flushed and she threw her head back and laughed when Papouli spun her around like a top. Even Artemis the cat climbed up the ladder from the ground floor, curious to see the spectacle for herself. She sat in the corner grooming herself, as if she were the queen who had commissioned these entertainers just for her amusement.
When Mrs. Lampros launched into the tripatos, Papouli jumped up and down, clapping his hands, and then ran to Seba. Grabbing the floghera from his hands, he shoved Seba toward his mother and picked up the melody with Mrs. Lampros, adding the floghera’s sweet, piercing tone to the kithara’s lively twang; his toes tapped while he played. Mama grabbed Seba’s hands, whirling him around while they danced the three steps until they were so out of breath that they fell into the kitchen chairs, faces red and beaming with joy. It was one of the happiest days that Seba could remember since before That Day.
As the fire dwindled and they had sung and danced every traditional Greek folk song and hymn celebrating the birth of Christ, Papouli brought out a bottle of tsipouro and poured a cup for each of them. Holding his cup high in the air, he said, “To Seba, may you live to a hundred years and may you always be happy for your name!”
They all held up their cups and Mama and Mrs. Lampros replied in unison, “And may you receive everything you desire!”
Seba nodded his thanks and took a big draught of tsipouro. It burned his throat, but he didn’t care, because he was now a man and it felt good to be alive. Papouli, Mama, Mrs. Lampros, and Seba talked long after midnight, so late that Seba saw a sliver of the moon rise through the small window by the hearth. Papouli walked Mrs. Lampros to her home as Mama prepared for bed. That evening, lying on his mattress before the glowing red logs in the hearth, Seba treated himself to one of mastic tears from the pouch that Uncle Phillip had given him, inhaling the heavenly aroma before crunching through the crisp exterior to reveal the minty healing flavor of the mastic gum. It was the end of 1765, and Seba felt as if 1766 would bring many changes and many blessings into his life. He prayed to the baby Jesus, thanking him for the joy and mercy He had bestowed on Seba’s family.
December 31 brought even more excitement to the village; it was the day of the festival of Kalo Podriko. The villagers gathered for the evening meal together in Sotirios’s kafenion after the worship service. The entire village of Sessera smelled of grilled meats, baked breads, and every kind of winter vegetable available on the island. They ate sweet breads and cakes filled with dried fruits and honey, stuffing themselves until there was room for no more. Even Sotirios, who usually nibbled at food like a small bird, loosened the drawstring holding up his woolen trousers. It felt like every person in Sessera was part of Seba’s extended family — and in a sense, they were. They looked out for one another and did their best to care for each other, offering medicine, food, a listening ear, or whatever would lift up a neighbor who needed something. They all made sacrifices for each other and did it willingly, knowing that if they were in need, there was an army of fellow Greeks who would lend a hand without question.
After the meal, which seemed to last for hours, an assembly of musicians played the traditional folk dances as the villagers, dressed in their most colorful clothes, linked arms, sang, danced, clapped, snapped, tapped, and enjoyed the revelry. Despite the cold December air, Seba was warm in the glow of the villagers’ merriment. Papouli’s face was red with exertion from the dancing. Thaddeus was sweating, too, and dancing with Demetria every chance he got. Brother Tim was particularly jolly that evening, dancing with Mama, Mrs. Lampros, and the other older women of the village. Seba laughed to watch him comically push his spectacles up on his nose with the back of his hand as they slid down in response to his fancy footwork. Seba was not one to dance, but he loved watching all of the villagers twist and turn through the steps as they and their ancestors had done for generations.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
Seba turned to see Xenia standing next to him in a bright red skirt with a gold sash, under a pale green woolen wrap. Her curly brown hair had escaped her tight braids, probably from all the dancing, and her face was flushed pink. She smiled broadly at Seba.
The night was beautiful. Seba had a full stomach, he had enjoyed a wonderful birthday party the night before, the entire village was celebrating the birth of Christ, and a new year was almost upon them. He looked at Xenia and found that he couldn’t bring himself to be mad at her. “Yes, it is,” Seba said contentedly.
To his amazement, Xenia stood next to him and watched the dancing, but didn’t say a word. Seba had prayed that Xenia would stop talking, if even for just a few minutes, and it appeared that on this festival of Kalo Podriko, God was answering his prayers. He didn’t know what caused him to do it, but he looked at Xenia and said, “Would you like to dance?”
The broad smile she had been wearing widened even further, all the way up to her eyelashes. “Yes, very much!”
Seba had watched Papouli dance with Mrs. Lampros for hours the night before, so he took Xenia’s hand and jumped into the circle alongside his grandfather. They danced and sang the traditional Christmas calandas, Seba holding Xenia’s hand as they and the other villagers moved through the village square in a circle.
When the band stopped playing, Xenia excused herself, saying she needed a drink of water. Papouli walked over to Seba and put his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “See, I told you girls don’t bite.”
Seba laughed, feeling happy to be alive.
As midnight approached, Uncle Phillip reached into a box that sat outside Sotirios’s kafenion and handed out a pomegranate to each family.
“These pomegranates are a symbol of the bounty that God bestows on us. Take these pomegranates to your homes and celebrate the ritual of Kalo Podriko! It will bring God’s blessings and good luck to each of us in the coming year! Blessings to all of you, and Kalinixta!”
Each of the families took the pomegranate back to their homes to celebrate the ritual of Kalo Podriko. As was the custom, Seba was in the lead as they entered. He was considered the “first footer,” the lucky one of the family, who was to open the door and step through the threshold just as the village bells rang midnight. In addition to the “first footer,” the ritual required a second person, who had to be of a clean and fresh spirit, and who had the job of smashing the pomegranate into the top of the door frame to ring in the new year exactly at midnight. Although the church bells usually stopped ringing at nine o’clock, Brother Tim had solicited a few of the young boys in the village to continue to ring the church bells on the hour all evening, until midnight and the beginning of the new year. As the church bells began to chime, Seba opened the front door and stepped inside with his right foot. At that exact time, Mama reached up with the pomegranate in her right hand. Because she was only five feet tall, however, she couldn’t reach the uppermost part of the door frame. Papouli picked up his daughter and raised her above his head. With great force, she crushed the pomegranate above the front door with all her might just as Seba’s foot crossed the threshold. Hundreds of tiny red pomegranate seeds fell to the ground in front of their home; the ruby-colored jewels scattered across the ground, symbolizing good luck and the raining down of God’s blessings on the family that year.
Seba’s heart felt so full that it might burst out from his chest. He looked at his mother and grandfather, laughing as they popped the remaining pomegranate seeds into their mouths, and thought that he couldn’t love them any more than he did right at that moment.
The following day, the first day of the new year, the celebration continued. It was the Feast of Saint Vasilios, the time when they celebrated the generosity of the bishop who saved the community of Kappadokia from devastation during a time of severe famine. Despite the famine, the ruler of the area continued to demand payment for taxes. Saint Vasilios asked each family to give him a piece of jewelry to try to assuage the ruler’s anger. Each family complied, giving Saint Vasilios a coin or trinket. Saint Vasilios intervened with the ruler and convinced him to waive the taxes; then the saint baked each family a cake, hiding a piece of jewelry in each one. He returned the citizens’ treasures to them to reward them for their faith. In commemoration of Saint Vasilios’s generosity, each year on New Year’s Day, the matriarch of the family baked a sweet bread or cake that included a coin or piece of jewelry inside.
Mama’s Saint Vasilios cake was an olive oil and yogurt cake flavored with orange and lemon peels. Seba loved this olive oil cake almost as much as his birthday cake, and he felt blessed that he always had the good fortune to enjoy them two days apart in the winter. As was the tradition, when the cake was ready Papouli rotated it on the kitchen table three times, saying, “We humbly thank the Lord for His blessings. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we are grateful for the Sacred Trinity.”
Papouli made the sign of the cross over the cake with a knife and cut one slice. Holding it in the air, he said, “This slice is for Jesus,” and he set it aside. He cut a second slice: “This slice is for the Virgin Mary,” and he set it next to the first slice as Mama made the sign of the cross. Papouli cut a third slice, held it up, and said, “The third slice is for Saint Vasilios,” and set it next to the other two slices. Papouli cut a fourth slice for their home, a fifth slice for the poor stranger, and the remaining slices for himself, Mama, and Seba. As they bit into their slices of cake, Seba felt something hard. Reaching between his teeth, he pulled out a silver coin. It had the same marking as the seals on the fabrics from the English ships of the Levant Company. He recognized the tughra of Sultan Mustafa III, and knew that this was a valuable coin. He looked at Mama, who shrugged her shoulders, and then to Papouli, whose eyes were sparkling with amusement.
Seba asked, “Where did you get this?”
Papouli said with a grin, “Your old grandfather can’t tell you all his secrets, can he?”
Seba, still confused, said, “Can I really keep it?”
“Yes, of course! You received the coin, and it will bring you luck this whole year.”
Seba jumped up and ran to the other side of the table, throwing his arms around his grandfather. “Thank you, Papouli!”
The next day brought more festivities and more food. The Sesserans made the most of all of the twelve days between celebration of the birth of Christ and the celebration of the Epiphany. That evening, after Seba, Mama, and Papouli had eaten a meal of smoked lamb sausages and cabbage rolls stuffed with oregano, basil, parsley, chickpeas, mushrooms, and cracked wheat, Papouli was entertaining them with his usual antics. He was standing on a kitchen chair, reciting from the Iliad. Because he was reciting a passage about courage and truth, Mama allowed it, saying that if Papouli wasn’t going to recite the Sermon on the Mount, then Homer’s poetic discourse on courage was an acceptable alternative. She said Homer’s words reminded her of the Old Testament.
Channeling Odysseus while gesticulating in wild dramatic fashion, Papouli reached the climax of his discourse, shouting, “Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another!” He stomped so hard that one of the chair legs gave way, sending Papouli and the chair clattering to the ground.
He lay motionless on the floor, his eyes closed. Seba ran to him, gasping. “Are you all right, Papouli?”
Papouli opened his eyes, jumped up to both feet in a flash, and bowed, as if he had planned the whole thing. He slapped his chest and said, “I’m as fit as a fiddle — I feel so good I could even scale the watchtower!”
Seba reprimanded, “You scared us! And by the way, no one can scale the watchtower. It’s forty feet high, with no footholds, and the window for the guards is at the very top. It’s impossible!”
Papouli laughed. “Yes, but I had you going, didn’t I?” He grabbed Seba’s shoulders and tried to get him into a playful headlock. Seba let him and the next moment they were wrestling on the floor in front of the hearth. Mama gave an exasperated sigh as she walked to the front door and invited someone inside.
She turned and said, “Baba, Mrs. Lampros is here with her spinning wheel. It has a loose leg that she’d like you to repair for her. I told her that she has perfect timing, because you were about to repair a broken kitchen chair.” Mama smirked at Papouli and waved her hands to invite Mrs. Lampros inside.
Mrs. Lampros was wearing a light brown dress with dark green and bright yellow embroidered flowers. She carried the spinning wheel in both hands, and on her arm hung a woven basket full of loukoumades glazed with honey.
Papouli attempted to look respectable by running his hands through his wiry hair and brushing the hearth’s ashes from his trousers. He needn’t have bothered, because the look on Mrs. Lampros’s face when she saw him was so amused that Seba almost laughed out loud. Mrs. Lampros didn’t care what Papouli looked like, whether his clothes were dirty, or if he had been wrestling with his grandson just moments before. It was obvious that she loved him.
“Vaios, I come bearing gifts. If you will use your talents to fix my spinning wheel, you can have this whole basket of loukoumades.” She put the basket on the table and smoothed her dress.
“Of course, Barbara. I would be happy to save the day. A spinning wheel is a necessity, especially in the winter months — there can never be too many layers of wool. However, I think I’ll need something more than these delicious loukamades as payment.”
Mrs. Lampros blushed a deep shade of red, and Mama looked at Papouli skeptically. But he only smiled and said, “How about a song while I work? You have a lovely voice, and as you know from the other evening, my grandson is quite skillful on the floghera.”
Mama breathed a sigh of relief, and Mrs. Lampros tried to decline. “Oh, Vaios, you don’t want to hear my caterwauling. My old voice is hoarse from all the singing we’ve been doing for the last eight days. It probably sounds like a forlorn donkey.”
“Nonsense! If you want your spinning wheel fixed, I’ll need a song. And just to be magnanimous, I’ll let you choose the tune.”
Mrs. Lampros looked at Seba and said, “Well, young man, shall we?”
Seba took the flute down from the mantel above the hearth and blew a few melodic phrases. Papouli smiled happily, as if this day couldn’t get any better.
Seba agreed that Mrs. Lampros probably had one of the most beautiful singing voices in all the village, even if she was hoarse from all the merrymaking. Nodding conspiratorially at Mama, he started playing the ancient love song, “My Jasmine.” Everyone in the village knew it, and it was one of Papouli’s favorites. He felt a little guilty putting Mrs. Lampros on the spot by making her sing a love song for his grandfather, but then, remembering the way they had looked at each other, he guessed she wouldn’t mind. She sang it perfectly:
Το γιασεμί στην πόρτα σου
γιασεμί μου
ήρθα να το κλαδέψω
ωχ γιαβρί μου
και νόμισε η μάνα σου
γιασεμί μου
πως ήρθα να σε κλέψω
ωχ γιαβρί μου
Το γιασεμί στην πόρτα σου
γιασεμί μου
μοσκοβολά τις στράτες
ωχ γιαβρί μου
κι η μυρωδιά του η πολλή
γιασεμί μου
σκλαβώνει τους διαβάτες
ωχ γιαβρί μου”
This jasmine outside your door
My jasmine
I came to prune it
Oh, my love
And your mother thought that
My jasmine
I came to steal you
Oh, my love
This jasmine outside your door
My jasmine
Smells divine
And its abundance
My jasmine
Enslaves all who pass
Oh, my love
After repairing the spinning wheel and entertaining the women with his stories, Papouli insisted on walking Mrs. Lampros back home, even though it was only two minutes away. When he returned, Papouli’s face was flushed with gladness, and he said to Seba, “That woman is amazing. And her singing — it comes directly from the heart. It’s as if the words and music are jumping right into my skin. She’s something special, that woman.”
Seba loved seeing Papouli so happy. His contentment filled the whole house. This must have been what Thaddeus was talking about when he said he wanted to start a life with Demetria. Seba remembered how he had danced with Xenia on the evening of Kalo Podriko, and smiled.
