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.