The house on the cliff

Of this story, only the education by nuns appears to be partly true. The school was not in Paris though, but in Cairo, where she was born the only child of a railway sleeping-car attendant and a concierge, in the three room basement flat that came with that post. Her parents were both in middle age when she was born, and considered her a miracle, thus her name, Theodora, meaning Gift-of-God. What was certainly miraculous was her beauty, especially if we take into account that, according to legend, this latter-day Ioachím and Ánna, were remarkably plain. I have not yet attempted to learn anything more about these strangers who were my maternal grandparents. Eventually, that too will happen. I don’t even know their first names, and as time goes by, I am increasingly in doubt of their surname, too. I have been told that Mánou was a professional name, easy on the ear and for foreigners to pronounce, and that she used it in place of something humbler and less euphonious, back when she was aiming for a singing career, before she finally accepted my father’s proposal of marriage. The beautiful little girl became the darling of the apartment building. The wealthy Greek ladies brought her into their homes to be made much of. They paid her fees for the elite Catholic school and took her with them on holiday to the coast near Alexandria in the summers. She wasn’t just beautiful but also clever and entertaining. Her parents, proud and flattered, delighted in her success and were content to stay in the background in their dark little apartment while little Dóra dressed to the nines, performed for the hostesses of the Greek community. (I imagine her singing and tap-dancing like Shirley Temple). She sang in perfectly-accented French, and declaimed poetry charmingly. The nuns at school adored her. She got excellent grades, made useful friends, and acquired all the taste, airs and graces, of the daughters of the Levantine upper class. As to what happened next, I can only guess. When, as she grew older, the delightful child began to show signs of the magnetic sensuality that characterised her adult life, the enthusiasm of her matronly patrons started to ebb. She was becoming a dangerous competitor to their daughters, and a serious threat to their sons - at the very least. No doubt there was some specific scandal that was brushed under the carpet, some imprudent attachment to a son or a husband that led to Dóra’s sudden exile from the social milieu of European Cairo. Various names were heard, but none were certain. In public, her behaviour was always unimpeachable. All that is certain is that in 1927, at the age of seventeen, she appeared in Athens, fully dowered with elegant outfits and a wide circle of acquaintance. Within a few weeks, she had met Konstantínos Velissáris of the illustrious family, still a law student despite his twenty-eight years (a war and a stint in a Turkish prison camp having intervened) and the two of them embarked, with interruptions, on the tumultuous affair that would result, some years later, in their marriage. Both the passion and the interruptions continued after they were wed. They were ill-suited from the first. There must have been a powerful physical attraction - without it their relationship makes no