Escape from Smyrna by Charles Gates

Author:Charles Gates [Gates, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78099-848-0
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2013-05-31T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

Oran made sure to arrive on time at Mrs. Dimitriadis’s house, just as Mme Stella had urged. In fact he had arrived early, not knowing how long it would take him to get there. He strolled up the street then back down until his watch showed 8:30 AM.

As soon as the maid closed the door behind Oran, traffic noises seemed far away. The entrance hall of the large, cool house and the spacious living room were filled with the muted sounds of piano playing. The maid gestured to him to wait and went into another room.

The music broke off, and the door opened. An elderly woman with an aureole of copper-colored hair stepped in to greet him, the maid just behind.

“Mrs. Dimitriadis,” Oran said. “It’s very kind of you to see me.”

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Crossmoor,” she replied in excellent English. “Most unexpected.”

Oran was surprised. Why unexpected? They had an appointment.

She looked at him keenly with her coal black eyes. She was shorter than he, but she stood absolutely straight. Her wrinkled face was expertly made up. She wore an austere black tunic, white pants, and a necklace of intertwining gold strands.

“Do come in,” she said. She followed Oran into her music room, then closed the door behind them. She continued to examine Oran. She was smiling slightly, but said nothing.

Oran felt uncomfortable. “It’s not too early, I hope,” he said, just to say something.

“Not at all. I wake up very early these days, even after I give a concert. It’s something that comes with age, I’m afraid.” She gestured toward the sofa behind the shiny black concert piano. She sat down facing him, her right leg drawn across the seat, her right arm placed across the back of the coffee-colored sofa. “You even have a Mediterranean complexion. Yet with a name like Crossmoor, the family must come from England. Isn’t that so? Now, tell me. How can a Crossmoor look more Greek than I do?”

Oran observed her long fingers and painted fingernails trimmed short, the liver spots on her hands. Then he met her glance. She watched him with a strange expression, those dark eyes embedded in the heavily wrinkled face with lashes powdered in black, thin arched lines for eyebrows, tall forehead, and the halo of dark red hair. She was waiting for an answer.

“My mother is Turkish.”

Mrs. Dimitriadis gave a little smile. “Aha. Yes.”

“And my father…”

She leaned forward slightly, her head erect, her eyes alert.

“My father is an American.”

“And your father’s family?”

“Part American.” Oran paused. He looked at her, inspecting her, trying to read her thoughts. But all he could see were her lips slightly parted in the little smile, her even white teeth. “My grandfather is British. His family were merchants in Izmir.”

“Izmir. Smyrna?” She kept her smile. “How fascinating.” She looked off, away from Oran, out through the sliding glass doors toward the sunlit garden beyond. “Merchants in Smyrna…” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. “How fascinating.” She turned back, looking at him with a warm, almost tender expression.

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