I do breakfast

I was 20 and 153 days old the day I met the man who’d become my husband. I was a simple, shy and naive young girl who’d studied in an all-girls Catholic school. I was bookish and knew nothing about the pleasures of life. All I dreamed about was attending the Sorbonne in Paris, where I’d been accepted in the writing program. I wanted nothing more than to become an author. Now that I think of it, what in the world would I have written about if I’d never met this odious man who ruined 13 years of my life as a young woman? It’s true, his beauty swept me away. I had studied Ancient Greek civilization and had seen hundreds of statues of Adonis, but the man who pulled me onto the dancefloor was living. He was initially attracted to my friend, but once he settled on me, he looked me straight in the eye; my heart melted like snow in the warm sun. I’d never danced before in my life, and yet I let his arm encircle my waist and pull me towards him. I should’ve known better. In the Ancient Greek civilization I studied, Adonis courted Aphrodite and Persephone at the same time. Zeus, King of the Gods, had to intervene and sort out the rivalry. In the end, Adonis was to spend four months a year with each of them and four months with another person of his choice. A similar story to Husband’s, who kept his multiple goddesses a secret. While I was pregnant with my third child, Husband forced me to abandon everything in Montreal to move to Greece, where he thought he’d easily find work. The money was going to come in faster than we could count. Didn’t he know that all the men his age had left their village for more promising countries? We’d just spent nearly 10 months in Krya Vrysi and had nothing more than when we first arrived, except for an extra mouth to feed. My mother-in-law had finally convinced her son to return to his two brothers in Montreal, where she promised she and her daughter would join us so I could work while they minded the kids. My emotions were becoming clearer for me. My heart could finally imagine better. When Husband ultimately received the money transfer from his brothers, he hurried to Thessaloniki to book our plane tickets. My sister-in-law was crying, her mother was grumbling, and I couldn’t have been happier. The two oldest kids understood that we were going back to “Papy’s” (their Canadian grandfather). They were jumping for joy. I went to get bread and saw my friend Thanassis, who was replacing his father at the local bakery. I was thrilled to see him. — “When are you leaving?” — “I don’t know the exact date yet, but Husband promised me that it would be within 10 days.” — “Your husband,” said Thanassis, “will obviously take his time to haggle down the price of the tickets. Everybody does that with Olympic Airlines. Besides, for a man as pretentious and exceptional as he is, it’ll no doubt work!” I was just glad for my sake. My heart was racing because I was so excited to return to Canada. I would go back to having running water in the house, electrical heat, a telephone, a washer, and of course, a television. All those comforts would make up for the fact that we hadn’t bathed even once in the Aegean Sea. Canadian winters may swallow all the vegetation, but the thick carpet of snow allows us to take a sleigh ride. In Greek villages in 1972, most of the homes had flat roofs which featured one or two clotheslines, depending on the number of occupants. The last load of clothes before our departure turned out to be the most difficult. The November wind bit my fingers as I hung the damp clothes that had been hand-washed and hand-wrung. It was just another reason to leave as promptly as possible before my fingers became red and worn to the bone! What a relief to be headed home. In Canada, we’d be able to once again enjoy frosting on our cakes, pudding chômeur, steamed hot dogs, mustard, ketchup, French fries and mashed potatoes, shepherd’s pie, marshmallows, canned corn, mayonnaise, peanut butter, caramel, sliced bread for toast, large pumpkins and Halloween candy. If we hurried, we might get to see houses decorated with Christmas trees hung with colourful balls. When we arrived in Thessaloniki, getting on a plane was out of the question. Instead, we’d take a bus to Athens. The mere thought of it terrified me. I remembered the crazy gray-haired man who drove us straight into a truck filled with oranges. Thankfully, we had suffered a good fright and nothing more. This time, a young driver sat at the wheel and I calmed down. I had the two oldest kids sitting on each side of me and the baby asleep in my arms. I started to hum a French lullaby, but Husband quickly silenced me. I could only speak Greek to the children even when I sang! At the airport, the winds were gusting strongly, unnerving travellers. The crossing guards at the airport tried to reassure us with kind words. Husband had sat the two oldest kids in a large shopping cart with our two suitcases. The baby wouldn’t stop crying in my arms. In the waiting room, all the passengers seemed worried. Each time I caught a snippet of their conversations, my distress would rise a degree. A powerful wind by the name of “Bora” regularly terrorized the Aegean Sea, keeping the planes pinned to the ground. We were thirsty. We were hungry. We were afraid. Would we safely make it to Canada? Husband was chain smoking, and I prayed in silence. We had to wait until the next day to finally get clearance to leave. With the likely exception of the first-class passengers, everyone who was headed to Montreal had slept on small sleeping mats or the seats in the waiting room. We were finally going to leave Greece. Husband’s dream of barely lifting a finger and becoming rich would never come true. The next morning, we boarded the giant bird and I quickly thanked the great Manitou and pleaded for his mercy to help me get away from Husband. It was impossible for me to flourish in a hostile atmosphere where I was ignored and devalued. I aspired to live in a more noble environment, more virtuous and more generous. A world of goodness, kindness, love, courage and compassion. I was honest and hard-working and very capable of finding a job to feed my kids. As you may already know, I still had to endure Husband for a few more years. Until a certain day in November 1980. I’d been married for 13 years and, that morning, the kids and I found the courage to leave home forever. That was the day I finally emerged from my nightmare. What else can I say about this famous trip to Greece? The National Hellenic Tourism Office would tell you that “tourists from around the world who visit this magnificent country return home dazzled.” Visit and see for yourself! Cora ❤️

I’d been languishing away for nearly eight months at my mother-in-law’s house, with no running water or electricity, in the heart of a poor village that had been deserted by its young people. The angels create an immense quilt out of suffering and beauty, hope and confusion, stitching it together with wool in the colours of humanity. People are works of art that are never quite finished. This morning, I wonder what was the hardest pill for me to swallow: my errors in judgement, my misplaced convictions or this awful wedding I’d agreed to because a child was growing inside me. As a young girl, my faith in the future was inexhaustible. I remember setting traps with Grandpa Frédéric to catch hares for dinner. I loved our walks together in the forest! I’d become the hare caught in the trap of a marriage. Shortly after giving birth to my youngest, I started to feel nauseated. I knew why but I didn’t say a word to anyone. Then, 40 days later during my postpartum appointment, Husband had the doctor perform an abortion on me right there. I never forgave him. That man would slip into me like a small snake in a crack, smoke two or three cigarettes, get dressed and then head out for a good time. My heart was slowly dying. I was never able to oppose Husband’s decisions or go beyond the family’s basic needs to experience genuine happiness with the kids. I of course loved my children, I cuddled and cherished them, and they loved me like kittens in need of milk, warmth and care to survive. They kept me alive. After his mother’s sermon, Husband had only one thought: to pack up and leave. His mother, sister and I were surprised but delighted with his reaction. We would go back to Montreal first to find an apartment and then mother-in-law and her daughter would follow. Poor Husband. He was like an ice cube melting in life’s harsh heat. It turns out not all Greek gods give birth to a sunny “Zorba the Greek,” gyrating out his emotions on the dance floor. The movie was actually inspired by the larger-than-life character Zorba from the novel “The Life and Times of Alexis Zorba,” by Greek author Nikos Kazantzakis. When Husband partied and danced until the wee hours of the morning, he probably was just as happy as the fictional character, but I was never there to witness it. In my days, Greek men chatted, went out and danced among themselves. Most of them worked in the restaurant industry and partied like the great gods of Ancient Greece. Being much more realistic, it upset me to think that no one would be there to help us start over again once we were back on Quebec soil. Since Husband had gotten rid of the little furniture we had owned before setting his sights on Greece, we’d have to start from scratch again. My sisters-in-law in Montreal had predicted we’d quickly return to Canada. They suspected, and rightly so, that our large suitcases that followed us by boat had never been opened. Husband was going to have to return them to Montreal via the same route. Worry and fear were eating me up. I was wondering if Husband would have enough money to get us home. We had to book the plane and ship the recently delivered suitcases by boat. In addition, we needed to obtain the official documents for our baby who’d been born in Greece so he could leave the country. It couldn’t be a baptismal record; otherwise there’d be no escaping his mandatory military service. In early November, Husband visited the Canadian embassy in Athens twice and finally succeeded in adding baby Nicholas to his passport. “Between expectation and reality lies suffering, between hope and facts there is often disappointment,” wrote Carlos Fuentes. I was hoping for a better life, like rain in the middle of the desert. My friend Thanassis was keeping his distance since his catastrophic trip to Cologne with Husband, and I was left with no one to talk to. Husband was waiting for his brothers to send him money to buy our plane tickets. I felt a mix of shame and fear. While I was rocking my youngest, huge tears rolled down my cheeks, falling onto the baby’s thighs, and onto my life flooded with small daily misfortunes. Would we be able to find an apartment suitable for my kids and big enough to eventually welcome the in-laws? A school that would take the oldest one in January? I felt like a spinning top that never stopped, struggling to stay upright. Fold this, give away that, sew, iron… I even forgot to salt the soup a few times. My sister-in-law tried to calm me and, once the baby had nursed sufficiently, she’d throw me out of the house so I could take my mind off things. One Sunday, I seized the occasion; I borrowed my mother-in-law’s scarf and went to the village church. The Greek pope welcomed me. — “Koritsi mou (or, my girl), what can I do for you? I know you have three small children, a mother-in-law and a sister-in-law.” — “I also have a husband. A lazy man who thinks he was made from Jupiter’s thigh.” — “Your name is Cora, isn’t it?” — “Yes. My Catholic baptismal name is Marie Antoinette Cora.” — “It sounds like the name of the queen who was guillotined in October 1793.” I wanted to tell the pope that the halter placed on me by a shotgun wedding was already pressing into my neck but abstained. After a few exchanges, the man of the cloth dipped his finger in holy water, traced a cross on my forehead and whispered, “Go in peace, young woman.” Where on earth was the peace promised to good women? TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

We’d been in Greece for more than seven months. Husband still hadn’t found a job. He’d come home empty-handed from his trip to Cologne. I never wanted to be a prophet of doom, but I dare say that I had a sense of what was coming. A man like Husband doesn’t change easily. According to his sister Despina, he’d spent his youthful years chasing the county’s prettiest girls. The most handsome Romeo in the village, he of course caught them all. And after his mandatory military service, his seductive power only increased when he returned as an army officer. Shortly after our wedding, this Casanova even told me that the love of his life was a certain Helena, a teacher and mother of two, who had the distinction of being elected the most beautiful woman in her village three years in a row. Had he visited her since our arrival in Greece? Had he spoken to her once, twice, three times? I couldn’t help myself and asked my sister-in-law Despina if Husband had visited his old flame. She replied that yes, he had seen her, “but only twice because her husband Theodoros is still jealous of him like a tiger.” Husband had certainly forgotten to tell me. In any case, he hadn’t told me a thing since he’d returned from Cologne. What had he done there for three weeks? Had he found job opportunities? Highly unlikely. A pizza or souvlaki counter? Maybe a foreman at a manufacturer? Nothing would be good enough for his standards. Would he finally explain to me how we were going to live with two old women and three kids at home? There were no English or French schools in Krya Vrysi, and the two eldest ones barely spoke Greek. Did Husband really want to live in Greece? His clean hands would certainly not be dirtied helping the gypsies harvest cotton. I was at the end of my rope, morally exhausted, discouraged, broken and totally disappointed. Soon I’d have to sell something to buy onesies for the baby who was growing quickly. My wedding ring, perhaps? I no longer wanted to wear it anyways. I tried to calm down instead of dissolving into tears. I took the little one in my arms and sat with him in a rocking chair in the room upstairs. He babbled away and then fell asleep. The cold, rainy weather put me in a blue mood. Was it the right time to speak to Husband about our future? Was he still asleep? It was his mother who spoke first. — “Yavrum (or, my dear child), life in the village is more and more difficult. We don’t have enough money to install running water or electric heat. And even Despina is getting too old to chop wood. We have a garden that’s too big to weed ourselves. Our vegetables generally end up on the neighbour’s table because we have a kind heart. All the grandmothers head to America to help their children with the grandkids. We want to do the same! Despina and I want to live in America. Your two brothers earn good money there and they’ll help us. Yavrum, para calo (or, my dear child, please), let’s go to Montreal as soon as possible and Despina will cook a nice lamb to celebrate our reunion, all of us together.” And I, the good French Canadian wife, quickly added that I’d cook my Greek specialties. “I’ll make stuffed vine leaves, my traditional yuvarlakia soup (meatball and rice soup in an egg and lemon sauce), spinach puff pastries, delicious kourabiedes (almond and butter cookies) and baklavas. My sister-in-law didn’t miss her chance to go one further and said she’d be delighted to babysit my children. Husband stayed silent and smoked one cigarette after the other until his mother and sister stopped speaking. I, like Lot’s wife, transformed into a statue made of salt. Would mommy’s sweet yavrum agree to go back to Canada? My eyes teared up, my heart beat faster and the sky turned a beautiful purple. Is happiness a stroke of luck, a state of being that falls into our lap without warning? I remembered the quote by Goethe I learned in college: “The highest happiness, the purest joys of life, wear out at last.” Life saw fit to make me suffer; but happiness, I tried to convince myself, would surely come later. My eyes suffered, my heart suffered and even my intelligence suffered. I thought of everything I’d had to give up since our wedding: my scholarly studies, the writing I loved so much, my family, my liberty and my own agency. As the wife of this Greek god, under his yoke, I had no rights, no authority, no love, no real intimacy and no right to decide anything. What could I hold onto? This marriage was like a halter that kept getting tighter and tighter, preventing me from moving forward. TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️