Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw Page A

food.
Glass after endless glass of ouzo and wine and then more ouzo and
still more wine. A constant, almost deafening buzz of conversation,
in Greek or English or a combination of both, people slipping in a
Greek word when they couldn't think of the English and vice
versa.
    And then laughing.
    And always Mikalo, sitting by my side, his
arm around me or his hand in mine, his presence, his warmth, the
scent of him, all of it a comfort in the midst of all these
boisterous strangers.
    One of his many friends, this one with
beautiful brown eyes and thick low brows and luscious skin the
color of soft, buttery caramel, handed me a small shot of ouzo.
    I politely declined.
    "But it is Mytilini," he said, offering the
small glass again.
    "Mytilini?" I asked, turning to Mikalo.
    "It is the only ouzo to drink," he explained.
"Very difficult to find outside of Greece.
    "Please," he continued, "It is a wonderful
gift. A rare treasure here, so far from home. And it is only
polite, yes?
    "And Christos, he is such a good friend. We
only want that you have a good time."
    For a third time I was faced with the stout
shot of clear liquid. Sighing, I took it from this Christos,
smiled, glanced over at Mikalo who indicated I was to knock it back
in one clear gulp, and brought it to my lips.
    I swear a hush fell over the room, all his
friends waiting for my reaction as I drank the licorice flavored
drink and then swallowed the slightly thick liquid in one big
gulp.
    I winced, my eyes burning, my throat burning,
my nose burning, my face, I was certain, turning red.
    A cheer came from the room.
    Laughing, I held the empty glass in the
air.
    "Ouzo!" I yelled.
    They all laughed, another round of applause
erupting from the crowd.
    I turned to Mikalo.
    "No more," I quietly said. "I'm still
recovering from last night, so, please, no more."
    "But my Grace," he responded, moving close,
his breath warm against my lips, "This taste, it is something I
love."
    And then he kissed me, his tongue lightly
licking the anise from my lips as he sighed, his arm pulling me
close.
    He pulled free, his nose grazing mine as he
smiled.
    I turned to Christo.
    "Another ouzo, please."
     
     

Chapter Thirty
     
    Her plump hands took mine and led me deeper
into the circle.
    I had drunk too much ouzo, I think. Had eaten
way too much. That, I was sure of.
    And now this kind woman with the happy face
and wide hips and generous stomach was leading me barefoot and
woozy onto the floor to dance.
    They had moved the tables -- to where, I had
no idea --, creating a large circle in this sea of people. The ouzo
still flowed and the food kept coming, the conversation still
buzzed, and there was still laughter and shouts and cheers and
greetings and tears and joy and kisses and hugs.
    And now there would be dancing.
    The music started.
    Where was Mikalo?
    I glanced around, the woman's hands firmly
gripping mine.
    He sat surrounded by Christos and all these
other men whose names I had forgotten looking happier than I had
ever seen him, his heart truly belonging with these people in this
culture with this food and drink and all this laughter.
    Catching my eye, he winked, silently urging
me to go and dance and enjoy myself.
    But I couldn't dance.
    Or at least I don't think I could.
    We stopped, this kind woman and I.
    Patiently watching me, a teacher guiding a
new, clumsy student, she held me tight as she moved her bare feet,
first one way and then the other.
    I followed, awkward and embarrassed and ill
at ease.
    She laughed, grabbed my hips and shook
me.
    "Too firm!" she joked.
    "Like this," she then said.
    And she moved her body, shaking her hips,
their width swaying to the right and then the left, her thick
fingers snapping as her pudgy feet danced, her lips curling into a
grin.
    "Yes?" she asked, watching me, her smiling
eyes lost in the folds of her happy face.
    I swayed my hips.
    "Yes!" she said, her hands finding the rhythm
and clapping.
    Lifting mine, I snapped my fingers, aping