before you meet him. Let’s just say that some of these guys didn’t really assimilate themselves too well into the American culture.”
“You’re not ashamed of him, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Fine,” she said, tugging at my arm. “Let’s just go in.”
As we walked up the steps, I waved to a man coming out of the next house who I knew to be a reverend. Behind us two gangly but tough-looking kids walked down the sidewalk, one wearing a Fila sweatsuit, the other with an Eddie Murphy “Golden Child” leather cap on his head.
A rusted metal rocker with moldy cushions sat on the concrete porch. Black iron bars filled the windows. I knocked on the door and waited, counting three locks being undone. Costa opened the door, looked at me, and smiled.
“Niko,” he said.
“Theo Costa.” I gripped his hand and kissed him on the cheek.
He was short and solid, with thick wavy black hair that was gray at the temples and slicked back, and a thin black mustache below his bumpy nose. Though it was Sunday, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt with two pens clipped in the breast pocket.
“Come on,” he said, waving us in with both hands. As Lee passed him, he looked back at me and said in Greek, “Your girl? Very nice.”
“A friend,” I answered, but he winked anyway.
I introduced her and they shook hands. A couple of cats ran by us and into the kitchen. The curtains were drawn throughout the house. Costa switched on lights as we followed him through the living room and into the dining room. The air was dry and very still.
We sat at a large table in ornate chairs with yellowed cushions. On one wall was a mirror covered with a blanket; on the other hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man and woman that had been taken in the early part of the century. The woman, even shorter than the short man and wearing a long black dress, was unsmiling. The man wore a baggy suit, a very thick mustache, and a watchchain from vest to pocket.
“You want coffee, gleeka’?” Costa asked.
“Thanks, Costa. Nescafe for Lee.”
“One minute,” he said in Greek, jabbing a finger in the air and stepping quickly into the kitchen.
“He’s nice,” Lee said. I nodded and she pointed to the wall. “What’s with the mirrors? I noticed the one in the living room is covered too.”
“His wife died last year,” I said. “He covered the mirrors so he won’t see her reflection.” She raised her eyebrows. “I told you.”
“It’s just that it’s so dark in here, and sad. He must be very depressed.”
“I’m sure he’s a little lonely and misses his wife. But this house was always closed up and dark, even when she was alive. They’re old-timers, that’s all.”
Costa returned with a tray of two Turkish coffees, a cup of instant, and a small platter of sweets, which he set in the center of the table. On the platter were koulourakia, kourabiedes, galactoboureko, and baklava. He pushed the whole thing in front of Lee.
“Don’t be shy,” he said, moving his hands in small circles. “Eat!”
“I like baklava,” she admitted, emphasizing the second syllable as most Americans do, and chose a slice. I took a kourabiede for myself.
We sat and talked for the next half hour, mostly about what we had been doing in the time since I’d seen him last. The tiny cup of coffee had given me quite a jolt. Lee eventually drifted away from the table and began to wander around the house. We heard her steps on the wooden staircase that led down to the basement.
She called upstairs excitedly, “Hey, Nicky, there must be twenty cats down here!”
“Twenty cats, Costa?” I said, and smiled.
“Maybe a dozen,” he said sourly. “Lousy gatas.”
“If you’d quit feeding them…. ”
“Aah,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
Now that Lee was gone we spoke in Greek. Though I understood everything he said, I kept my own sentences simple so as not to embarrass myself with my marginal command of the language.
Costa reached behind him and opened the door of an old wall cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Metaxa and two shot glasses.
“Too early for you, Niko?”
“No.” He poured a couple of slugs with efficiency and we knocked glasses. He sipped and watched as I threw mine back in one quick motion, returning the little glass to the table with a hollow thud.
“You drink like a Spartan,” he said.
“Like my papou.”
“Your papou could drink. But