The Photo

By Chris Vrountas

Harry just got off the boat. Already dark in the Port of Piraeus when he stepped down the gangway with his old duffel bag from the Army and a picture in his pocket.  Feeling the photo in his hand, her image hung in his head.  Dark hair, smooth skin, and big dark eyes. He had never met her, but he knew her name. Zoe Economou.  

The war ended more than 10 years before and he went back to America to finish his Army term and receive his discharge back to civilian life.  The Army was his ticket to U.S. citizenship and by 1918 he was back with his boyhood friends in Boston, starting their business across from Symphony Hall.  An all-night diner on Huntington Avenue was his launch pad to his new life.  

But, after more than a decade, slinging eggs with the boys was getting old.  His best friend extolled the virtues of his wife’s cousin, showed Harry the picture of the young beauty, and convinced him that he needed to cross an ocean to bring her back for a life together. 

Zoe lived miles from where Harry stood on the pier. Her village was days away, not far from the village where he was born in the mountains that sprawled over the Peloponnese far south of the city.  For now, he just needed a place to stay.  Zoe’s uncle and his family lived in Athens and owned a taverna, and so Harry found his way to the maze of streets near Exarchia Square, down a sloping narrow road named after Mavro Mihali, a Greek revolutionary, and stood where a warm light streamed onto the dark gravel by the doorframe. Customers lingered over their retsina at tables lined by the wine barrels on the wall.  He lingered at the entryway uncertain how far to step in before asking for Theodoros, the owner of place. That’s when Evangelia spotted him.

Evangelia could see his fatigue. He wanted to stay and get warm.  

“Haralambos essai?” Evangelia asked. Are you Harry?

“Nai,” he conceded. “I’m on my way to Aghios Petros.” 

She nodded. “I’m Evangelia. Economou. You have written to my father. We’re expecting you.”

Harry could feel his shoulders drop in relief.  He had come a long way and he was happy to find a place to rest.  

“Please, sit, I’ll get my father.”  

Harry stepped through the tiny courtyard into the taverna. A small country house dropped in the city with a covered patio that served as the welcoming spot for travelers and neighbors seeking food and warmth from mid-day to after mid-night. The tables spread across the large, windowless space dug into the slope of the hill. The electric lights gave a fuzzy glow over the customers and caused him to squint. 

He pulled out a chair and sat at a table with the standard checkered cloth. The Economou family was busy working the taverna and so he sat alone amongst the customers.  A young man, a bit older than Evangelia, bruskly dropped a basket of bread with a napkin, fork and knife. Harry looked up.

“You know my sister?” the young man asked.

“No” answered Harry.  “I’m on my way to Aghios Petros. I’m Basil Loupos’s cousin. I’ve written to your father about my plans. Hoping to just spend the night before I get going tomorrow.”

“Why the rush!” brightened the young man. “I’m Costa” he reached out his hand. “Haralambos,” Harry responded as he stood to shake, but Costa insisted he sit. “Katseh, katseh, katseh”.  

“My father is coming. Some wine?

“I don’t want to take you away from work.”

“Asta, it’s no trouble. Aspro o cocino?”

“Red is good.”

“Endaxi.”

Costas moved off. Harry leaned back. Was this crazy? Why did I come all the way back? I’m sure this Zoe is a nice girl, but I don’t even know her. What if we don’t get along after all this?  He fidgeted in his seat.

Costas swerved back to put down the copper tankard of wine and 2 small glasses. Nobody drinks alone. “Sti giasas” he smiled over his shoulder as he mushed to the kitchen. 

Harry poured his glass.  He leaned back, put the wine to his nose, and closed his eyes. It’s different here.  Even alone at the table, he was now joined with the people in the room, in this city, this whole country.  Connection seeps inside you here and holds you like a soft, enveloping web, whether you want it or not. It’s too much for some. A web connects, but can also entrap. It’s why so many leave. But, for now, with the smell of the wine, the sound of the people, the fuzzy haze of the overhead lights burning away the darkness, he felt the warm embrace of home. 

He sipped. Immediately, his muscles loosened behind his neck and shoulders.  He didn’t want to move. Let me stay.   

As Harry’s gaze upon the barrels blurred, Theodoros approached the table and waited for Harry to snap out of his reverie. Theodoros was a tall, rangy man with a bushy mustache and thick gray hair.  His arms dangled through his rolled-up sleeves, a man working his taverna and earning his daily bread. 

“Ella Haralambi!” he spoke to wake Harry up. He spread out his arms for the hug. 

Harry stood and accepted the welcome and the pat on the back. They sat and Theodoros poured himself a glass.  

“You made it!”

“Yes, it’s been weeks.”

“You look good.”

“Yes, I’m good. Thank you.”  

“When do you leave?”

“As soon as I can get a car to get out to Aghios Petros.”

“Ahh, stay.  No rush.”  

“They will be expecting me.”

“It’s no trouble. We have the small room here. You can stay there. Take your time.”  

“Thank you.”

Theodoros poured another round. He chose his words. 

“So, it’s Zoe you will be meeting?”

“Yes.” 

“She is my niece you know.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“She’s a good girl.”  

“This is her picture.  Basil gave it to me.” 

“Aah, yes, she has grown.  It’s funny, you get up every day, you work, you go on with what you have to do, and you miss what happens right in front of you.  My own daughter was just a child and then one day I blink and she’s a beautiful young woman!”

He could see Evangelia from where he sat serving the food her mother made in the taverna’s kitchen.  She was a wisp of a thing, moved like the flicker of a flame from one table to the next, her long chestnut brown hair swinging across her shoulders.  And those eyes. So blue, they stabbed your heart when she looked at you.  

“You must have to beat them off,” Harry responded. 

“BAA! They are afraid of her!” Theodoros waved his hand.  “She suffers no fools.  So, good luck to them!” 

“That takes me out of the running,” Harry said.  

“Oh no! Of course, don’t let me keep you from Zoe, but no, don’t be so modest.  You were a soldier, yes? She respects the good soldier. Of course, she expects to be the general! HA!”

They both laughed and took another sip of their wine.  The idea of staying just grew more likely. 

Evangelia bussed a handful of dishes into the kitchen and rinsed them in the tub of water in the sink.  Her mother looked up from her frying smelts over the stove.  “Vleppeis to Americanos?” she asked. 

“Yes.” Evangelia answered, “I saw him.” not sure she wanted to talk about it. 

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What does it matter what I think?”

“Ha! That’s a first.” She turned back to the sizzling pan and began to turn over the fish. 

“He’s going to see Zoe, Mama.”

“Zoe is not here. And you don’t want to be here.  Why not get to know the American?”

She was right. Evangelia missed Aghios Petros.  Her little village on a mountainside, it’s broad plateia overlooking the lush valley. Flowering vines growing wild along stone walls by dirt roads. Tiny houses that clustered around the square with white plastered walls and red tiled roofs. Evangelia’s family had shared a grand old house built over the square not long after the revolution with her uncle’s family. Her cousins remained there in the sweet fragrant air that greeted the townspeople every morning when they opened their shutters to the streaming sun that poured over the distant ridge line.

Evangeline’s family moved to this taverna in Athens just a couple years ago in 1929, when her father inherited it.  The Economou family had a common ancestor who served as the treasurer for the guerilla units during the revolution a hundred years ago.  Once independent, the new country thanked its fighters with grants of land.  Kyrios Economou received a corner lot on Mavro Mahali. It had been passed down since then until it reached her father, who thought it a good opportunity to leave the shared house in the old village and make a new life in the big city.   

Evangelia did not greet the move well. She was happy in her old village. People knew her and loved her. Athens was dirty and nobody cared.  Her cousins got to stay in beautiful Aghios Petros.  Now, she had to watch opportunity pass by her too?  No, she didn’t owe Zoe anything.

“What am I going to do? Tie him up and keep him from leaving?” Evangelia said sarcastically. 

“Just talk to him!” her mother said, her hands flinging away from the stove.  Why was her daughter so stubborn?

Evangelia finished washing the dishes and dried her hands.  She looked through the kitchen window, across the courtyard and into the taverna.  She had to admit she liked what she saw when Haralambos appeared at the door. 

 . . . 

Harry woke the next morning in the small, windowless room off the taverna. He slept on a cot along one wall with a single wooden dinner chair in the corner, the seat strings loosening and not worthy of customers any longer. One door opened to the taverna. The other to the family’s living space.  They all slept in one room. Two parents and 7 children, including young adults like Costa and Evangelia. Harry opted for the taverna door. 

The tables had been pulled to the sides to clear the room for cleaning. Faint morning light diffused from the windows facing the court yard. He heard the Evangeline sweeping. 

“Kali mera sas,” he said, a bit formal to show respect to his host. 

“Kali mera, Kyrio Americanos,” she bowed. He got the single room to himself and he wakes after work begins. Must be nice. 

“Can I help with anything?” He asked, hoping to redeem himself. 

Evangeline smirked and looked down. Nobody expected their guest to work.  But this game was fun and he seemed good natured. 

“Yes,” she paused at her broom.  She leaned her elbow on the top and stroked her chin as if seriously thinking about what work he could do.  “The roof leaks in the corner by the barrels. You can get on a ladder and patch it up.” 

“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows, playing along.

“And after you finish, you need to cook for somewhere between 20 to 100 people, depending on how busy we get this afternoon.”   

“Well, that I can do,” he broke in. “I don’t know much about fixing roofs, but I cooked for a regiment in the war so I think I can cover the customers for a night.”

“Really?” She frowned, moderately impressed.  “A whole regiment?”  

“In some ways, it was easier,” he conceded. “There were lots of mouths, but everybody got the same thing.  Like it or not.”

“Well,” she laughed, “the customers eat what they get here,” she said, “like it or not.”  

They shared a little laugh and she waited a second before going back to her sweeping.  She needed to finish so that the tables could be returned and readied for customers. 

“Have you eaten?” Harry asked.

“No, no, it’s early.” Then she realized she hadn’t offered the guest anything.  “Can I get you something?” She asked as she stopped her sweeping again. 

“Let me!” Harry responded “Just show me where things are and I’ll make you something.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” There is no way she could let a guest serve in their home. But she liked the idea.

“What? I’m a professional!” He said, only half joking, “Let me make some breakfast.”

She walked to him and slowed as she passed close by his chest and looked up to his eyes, “My father would kill me.” 

“Oh come on”

She had to serve him something, and the kitchen made sense as there was no place to sit in the taverna.  

“This way,” she turned and smiled over her shoulder as they crossed the small courtyard. 

A small wooden table for two lined the wall across from the door. Two chairs with seats strung with straw stood across each other from either end.  She showed him a chair. 

“Katseh ‘tho. I can make you coffee.”

The kitchen had only one stove and oven along one wall, a sink along another, with the table between them. The total space at most the size of a closet. Barely enough room for two, at most three people. How could they run a business out of this, he thought.  

“Why can’t I make you coffee?” He pleaded. He wanted to offer her something, anything, just to start a conversation. 

“Because. That’s why. Just sit.”  She pulled the coffee tankard to the stove and reached for the bag of coffee and the other for sugar.  She was making Turkish coffee, not the watery American style.  

“Theleis zahari?” 

“Nai, nai,” he said. He liked his coffee sweet.

She scooped the coffee into the tankard and put in an equal amount of sugar and placed the mixture over the flame. 

“So, what do you do now?” She asked as she rolled up the bags and returned them to their cupboard.

“I still cook!” He said, “but not for soldiers. I have a restaurant with my cousins in Boston.”  

“What do you mean ‘you have a restaurant’? Do you own it?”

“Yes, with my cousins.”  

“What do you make?”

“Oh, everything.  American food, Greek food, breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

The coffee began to boil and she lifted the tankard off the flame.  Gently, she poured the frothy brown mix into a demitasse cup.  She let it simmer and then placed the cup on a saucer and turned to serve him. The kitchen was so small, he was just two feet away. 

“What kind of customers do you have?” 

“Oooooo, all sorts.  We have musicians and students, we have train workers and laborers, we have businessmen and ladies.  It’s across from the Symphony Hall.  The world comes there for the music.  And they pass by us.”  

Evangeline considered such a place.  The glamour there must far outshine this cluttered little corner near gritty Exarchia Square.  

“Sounds nice,” She leaned back on the cool side of the stove as she considered the man sipping his sweet Turkish coffee.  

He nodded slowly.  “Yes, it’s nice.”  He looked up from his coffee and was again struck by those blue eyes framed by that red tinge in her chestnut brown hair.  

“I like restaurants, she said, but mostly I like the people. All the life, all the energy they bring.  It’s like being part of a play with so many stories.  And in a place like yours, they must be fascinating.”  

Harry didn’t mean to over sell it. How did she look so elegant while wearing just a plain dress working in an old taverna kitchen? She was a force of nature. He felt drawn to her vision of life in the city and to her natural elegance.  And those otherworldly eyes. 

“The way you say it, yes, I guess it is.  I should think of it more that way.”   

She straightened up off the stove.  She thought of sitting, but she didn’t want her mother to catch her lounging, so she crossed her arms and leaned on the other side of the table.

“I think life is what you make it.”  

“I suppose.” He allowed. War and poverty can get in the way too, he thought.  

“You didn’t sit at your father’s house and wait for something to come along.” She sensed his skepticism. “You went out and made a life.”  

Harry leaned back at the complement.  Praise often had an agenda.  

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“I don’t mean to be kind,” she admitted. “It’s just the truth.  I don’t think much of people who just wait to be saved.” She wasn’t sure if it sounded like a comment on Zoe, but she didn’t care if it did. 

“So, you’re not waiting to be saved?”

“No.  I’m not staying here.”  

“You don’t like it here.” 

“I respect my father, my mother.  But this is not home.  Aghios Petros was beautiful, but I won’t live in another person’s house, and this place, yes it’s ours, but it’s really nowhere.”  

“So, you’re leaving?”

“I can do better.” 

“How?”

She shrugged.  

“Any ideas?” she asked.

Harry agreed with Evangeline.  You make your own life. But he was not a gambler either.  When you see a good thing, you take it. You don’t pass by and hope for something better.  

The two continued to chat over coffee.  Evangeline eventually relented and sat with Harry after he insisted.  Harry lost the photo of Zoe and never left for Aghios Petros. 

Chris Vrountas is a writer and lawyer. He lives in Essex County with his wife, who still laughs at his jokes after 32 years. He has practiced law just as long and serves as a mediator of discrimination disputes for the Human Rights Commission. He grew up in an immigrant faith tradition that has evolved over the years, and he writes about impermanence, hope, and rebirth.

Most recently, his poems Lenten Eve, 2021 https://www.vitapoetica.org/poetry/lenten-
eve-2021 and Meadow Aers https://www.vitapoetica.org/poetry/meadow-aers were published in the Winter 2023 issue of Vita Poetica.