The hotel suite was large and charming, overlooking Syntagma Square, the large square in the center of the city. In the room were beautiful flowers and an enormous bowl of fresh fruit.
"I love it, darling," Catherine said, going around the suite.
The bellboy had put her suitcases down and Larry tipped him. "Parapolee," the boy said.
"Parakalo," Larry replied.
The bellboy left, closing the door behind him.
Larry walked over and put his arms around Catherine. "Welcome to Greece." He kissed her hungrily, and she felt the hardness of his body pressing into the softness of hers and she knew how much he had missed her and she was glad. He led her into the bedroom.
On the dressing table was a small package. "Open it," Larry told her.
Her fingers tore the wrapping apart and in a small box inside was a tiny bird carved in jade. As busy as he was, Larry had remembered, and Catherine was touched. Somehow the bird was a talisman, an omen that everything was going to be all right, that the problems of the past were finished.
As they made love, Catherine said a little prayer of gratitude, thankful to be in the arms of the husband whom she loved so much, in one of the most exciting cities in the world, starting out on a new life. This was the old Larry, and all their problems had only made their marriage stronger.
Nothing could hurt them now.
The next morning Larry arranged for a real-estate agent to show Catherine some apartments. The agent turned out to be a short, dark, heavily moustached man named Dimitropolous who spoke in a rapid tongue that he sincerely believed was perfect English but which consisted of Greek words interlaced with an occasional undecipherable English phrase.
By throwing herself on his mercy--a trick that Catherine was to use often in the months to come--she persuaded him to speak very slowly so that she was able to sift out some of the English words and try to make a wild stab at what he was trying to say.
The fourth place he showed her was a bright and sunny four-room apartment in what she later learned was the Kolonaki section, the fashionable suburb of Athens, lined with beautiful residential buildings and smart shops.
When Larry returned to the hotel that evening, Catherine told him about the apartment, and two days later they moved in.
Larry was away during the day but he tried to be home to have dinner with Catherine. Dinner in Athens was any time between nine and twelve o'clock. Between two and five in the afternoon, everyone had a siesta, and the shops opened again until late evening. Catherine found herself completely absorbed in the city. On her third night in Athens Larry brought home a friend, Count George Pappas, an attractive Greek about forty-five, tall and slim with dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples. There was a curious old-fashioned dignity about him that Catherine liked. He took them to dinner at a small taverna in the Plaka, the ancient section of the city. The Plaka comprised a few steep acres carelessly flung together in the heart of downtown Athens, with twisting alleys and crumbling, worn-down staircases that led to tiny houses built under Turkish rule when Athens was a mere village. The Plaka was a place of whitewashed, rambling structures, fresh fruit and flower stalls, the marvelous aroma of coffee roasting in the open, howling cats and vociferous street fights. The effect was enchanting. In any other city, Catherine thought, a section like this would be the slums. Here, it's a monument.
The taverna that Count Pappas took them to was outdoors on top of a roof overlooking the city; the waiters were dressed in colorful costumes.
"What would you like to eat?" the Count asked Catherine.
She studied the alien menu helplessly. "Would you mind ordering for me? I'm afraid I might order the proprietor."
Count Pappas ordered a sumptuous banquet, choosing a variety of dishes so Catherine would get a chance to taste everything. They had dolmades, meatballs wrapped in vine leaves; mousaka, a succulent meat and eggplant pie; stiffado, stewed hare with onions--Catherine wasn't told what it was until she had eaten half of it, and she was unable to eat another bite of it--and taramosalata, the Greek salad of caviar with olive oil and lemon. The Count ordered a bottle of retsina.
"This is our national wine," he explained. He watched Catherine with amusement as she tasted it. It had a piney, resonated taste, and Catherine struggled gamely to down it.
"Whatever I had," she gasped, "I think this just cured it."
As they ate, three musicians began to play Bozoukia music. It was lively and gay and infectious and, as the group watched, customers began to get to their feet and move out onto the dance floor to dance to the music. What amazed Catherine was that the dancers were all male, and they were magnificent. She was enjoying herself tremendously.
They did not leave the cafe until after three A.M. The Count drove them back to their new apartment. "Have you done any sightseeing yet?" he asked Catherine.
"Not really," she confessed. "I'm waiting for Larry to get some time off."
The Count turned to Larry. "Perhaps I could show Catherine some of the sights until you are able to join us."
"That would be great," Larry said. "If you're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"It would be my pleasure," the Count replied. He turned to Catherine. "Would you mind having me as your guide?"
She looked at him and thought of Dimitropolous, the little real-estate man who spoke fluent gibberish.
"I'd love it," she replied sincerely.
The next few weeks were fascinating. Catherine would spend mornings fixing up the apartment, and in the afternoon, if Larry was away, the Count would pick her up and take her sightseeing.