Memories of Midnight

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.