The Moscow Meeting. James Frey
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right beside me, our shoulders touching.
“Remember the time the trainers took us out on a boat to practice deep diving, and when we came up, the boat was gone?”
“We had to swim twenty kilometers back to land,” I say. “In the dark. When I said I couldn’t swim any farther, you told me that if I didn’t keep going, a sea monster would reach up and drag me down to eat me.”
“And it might have,” Cassandra says. “Who knows?” She laughs. “Speaking of sea monsters, I bet Theia Astraea is making kalamarakia krasata for your welcome-home dinner.”
Again, my sister’s cheerfulness is unnerving. If she knew that the council was unhappy with me, she would normally not miss the opportunity to make me feel bad about their displeasure. Acting as if this is an ordinary return from a successful mission is not normal. I catch Ianthe’s eye for a moment. The look on her face is one of pity, which worries me as much as Cassandra’s behavior.
“I’m going to sit in the bow for a while,” I say. “I’m a little tired.”
I feel Ianthe and Cassandra watching my back as I walk away. Will they talk about me? It annoys me that I’m now suspicious, that I’m letting the fact that the council is holding an inquiry bother me. It’s not unexpected, but Ianthe’s warning has made me uneasy.
When I reach the bow, I settle into a nest of fishing nets, curling up with my head resting on a buoy. I stare up at the sky, watching the clouds move slowly across the blue expanse like sheep on a hillside. The sun warms my face and makes me drowsy, and soon, despite my worries, I fall asleep.
I dream about Boone.
I’m in the flooded underground chamber. I’ve gone there to try to rescue him. It’s dark and cold, and the water is filled with debris: papers and pieces of things that were hidden behind the cabinet doors before the grenade explosion ripped them open. I swim through the room, feeling my way with my hands. I touch a body, but it’s not Boone. It’s Sauer. His dead eyes stare at me, his mouth open and his tongue swollen from the poison he took. I push away from him and turn. Boone is behind me. When I see him, I’m filled with joy.
Then I realize that he’s dead too. His body hangs in the water, his limbs limp as a marionette’s. His eyes are closed. I reach out for him, and his eyes blink open. They’re white, as if they’ve frozen. His hands grasp my wrists, the bloated fingers like manacles of ice. I fight him, but he doesn’t let go. I scream, and the air in my lungs bubbles out. I try to breathe, but there’s only water. It fills my mouth, and I choke. Boone opens his mouth, and even underwater I can hear him laugh as he watches me drown.
I’m awakened by the bumping of the caïque against a dock. For a moment I’m confused about where I am. Then I remember, and I realize that we’ve arrived. We’re on Crete. Home. I climb out of my makeshift bed, stretch to rid myself of the lingering bad feelings from my dream, and try not to think about whether what I saw was prophetic or just a nightmare. I very much hope Boone is still alive, but I can’t think about him at the moment.
I go and help Ianthe and Cassandra moor the boat, tying the bow and stern lines to the cleats anchored on the dock. Once the caïque is secured, Ianthe gathers up the box with the pieces of the weapon in it and we begin the walk to my parents’ house. When we’re halfway there, Ianthe and Manos break off to go their own ways. I hate to see the box leave my sight, but I know that it’s safe with Ianthe, and it’s one less thing I have to worry about. For the moment, anyway.
Cassandra and I don’t talk, but she hums a tune as we walk. It takes me a moment to place the song. It’s one we made up when we were children, about a girl who goes into the forest to find and kill a monster.
“You’re singing the hunting song,” I say.
“Am I?” she says. “That’s odd. I haven’t thought about that in years.”
She sounds happy, as if she’s the one coming home with a trophy. Which I suppose she is. But is it the box, or is it me?
When we reach our home, she lets me go in first. I take only a few steps inside before my mother appears and takes me in her arms, smothering my face with kisses. My father is next, and the two of them hug me so tightly I feel like an olive being pressed for its oil. When they finally let me go, my mother stands and looks me up and down.
“You’ve lost too much weight,” she declares.
“It’s because I didn’t have your moussaka and keftedes to make me fat,” I tell her.
“You’re in luck,” my father says. “She and your theia have made enough of both to feed the entire Greek army.”
I follow my mother into the kitchen, where my aunt is standing by the stove. Like me and Cassandra, my mother and her sister are twins. Astraea opens her arms and I endure the hugging and kissing all over again. As soon as she’s done greeting me, though, my aunt hands me a wooden spoon and says, “Don’t let the meatballs burn.”
It feels good to be tossed right back into normal life. Nobody asks me about Berlin. Nobody talks about Endgame. We cook while my mother and aunt bicker over the best way to season the lamb. We drink glasses of sweet white wine. It all feels familiar and welcome, and it takes me a while to realize that there really is enough food for a large group.
“Who is all this for?” I ask.
As if in answer, there’s a knock on the front door. My father disappears, and when he comes back, he’s accompanied by five people: Effie Kakos, Nemo Stathakis, Ursula Tassi, Xenia Papadaki, and Venedict Economides. Individually, they are my third-year mathematics teacher, a bookseller, one of my trainers, the great-grandmother of my best friend, and the priest at the Agios Minas Cathedral. Collectively, they are the Minoan council.
“Welcome home, Player,” Xenia Papadaki says as she embraces me and kisses me on both cheeks.
The others are more formal, shaking my hand. I notice that they greet Cassandra in a similar manner. Perhaps it is my imagination, but it seems they might be even more enthusiastic in their congratulations to her, as if she is responsible for bringing them the weapon. Or maybe, I think, they’re congratulating her on returning her wayward sister to them.
I try not to think about it too much as my father shepherds us to the table, where we sit. Cassandra and I are seated across from each other, and throughout dinner I occasionally look at her to see if she shows any indication of this being her victory celebration and not mine. Each time, she returns my look and lifts her glass of wine in salute. I have several glasses as well, and this does much to ease my tension.
The food is delicious. The conversation alternates between politics, local gossip, and the coming new year. Again, nobody asks me about my mission. We eat for several hours. Then the table is cleared and plates of bougatsa and loukoumades are brought out along with small cups of dark, rich coffee. Only then does Effie Kakos, who as the senior member of the council is sitting at the head of the table, say, “Now, Ariadne, let us talk about this Samuel Boone.”
Boone
Like Berlin, Budapest is recovering from the war very slowly. Over a period of 50 days at the end of 1944 and the beginning of 1945, the city was virtually destroyed by fighting between the German and Soviet armies. Its buildings still lie in ruins, and its people walk through the city like ghosts haunting what I can tell was once a beautiful place. And, despite the devastation, it’s still beautiful. They’re rebuilding, and one day I want to come back and see it the way it should look, when the scars are healed.
Even now there are signs that the city and its people are coming back to life. The new year is two days away, and that always makes people hopeful. In my family, we each make a list of things we want to happen or to do in the new year. We put the list away, then take it out again on New Year’s Eve and see how much of it has been achieved.