The house on the cliff

After two years of letters back and forth, containing for his part alternate threats and pleas and for hers a tender implacability, he announced that he would wait no longer and put the apartment up for sale. But before that sale could go through, Dóra was back, more beautiful than ever, with a stylish air and an elegant wardrobe that was the latest word in fashion. He refused to have anything to do with her. Three weeks later they were married. They began their married life in the apartment on Omírou Street, furnishing it with whatever was left - whatever had not been sold or confiscated - from the homes of his relatives. DORA’S RETURN (continued) I knew nothing of any of this. The woman who installed herself in my house in 1946 dazzled and frightened me. She frightened me not because she was frightening, but because she was frightened. She was scared. Of me. I sensed from her a sort of superstitious horror whenever she looked at me or talked to me. Horror might be too strong a word. She looked at me with intense nervousness, as if anticipating an attack, with no idea where it might come from. At first, we didn’t clash openly. Though I had never felt the lack of a mother, I had no objection to one arriving. Especially a mother who was so beautiful and attracted so much attention and admiration. I think I even convinced myself, for a few days, that a mother was what I’d always wanted. I went so far as to shyly confess this to her, and she seemed pleased. It was only after the incident with the photograph that I realised there was no point in attempting to forge a mother-daughter bond between us. She took over Loxándra’s room, next to mine. It became her boudoir, with her dressing table, a sofa, and her various things. (Loxándra was exiled to the tiny service bedroom next to the kitchen. That was when she sent the great brass bed and the carved walnut wardrobe to Corfu.) I came back from school one day to find Dóra fussing with the various glass crystal bottles and knick knacks on her dressing table. I noticed that she had brought the photograph, with its silver frame, from their bedroom, and remarked how different I looked there than all my other baby pictures. She snapped her head around and stared at me as if I was out of my mind. “You?” She said coldly, surprised. “That’s not you. Didn’t anyone ever tell you anything? That is my Tzórtzis.” And suddenly her face crumpled, and clutching the picture tightly to her bosom, as though to protect it, she ran to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. I had never seen an adult cry before. I thought it was something that only happened to children.