"You have a fine figure. I think we're going to be able to do very well for you."
Two female assistants walked in with boxes of dresses, underwear, blouses, skirts, shoes.
"Select whatever you like," the couturier said, "and we'll try them on."
"I...I can't afford any of these," Catherine protested. "I have no money."
The couturier laughed. "I don't think money will be a problem. Mr. Demiris is taking care of it."
But why?
The fabrics brought back tactile memories of clothes she must have once worn. There were silks and tweeds and cottons in an array of exquisite colors.
The three women were quick and efficient, and two hours later Catherine had half a dozen beautiful outfits. It was overwhelming. She sat there, not knowing what to do with herself.
I'm all dressed up, she thought, with no place to go. But there was someplace to go - into the city. The key to whatever had happened to her was in Athens. She was convinced of it. She stood up. Come on, stranger. We're going to try to find out who you are.
Catherine wandered out into the front hall, and a butler approached her. "May I help you, miss?"
"Yes. I...I would like to go into the city. Could you call a taxi for me?"
"I'm sure that won't be necessary, miss. We have limousines at your disposal. I will arrange a driver for you."
Catherine hesitated. "Thank you." Would Mr. Demiris be angry if she went into the city? He had not said not to.
A few minutes later she was seated in the back of a Daimler limousine, headed for downtown Athens.
Catherine was dazzled by the noisy, bustling city, and the poignant succession of ruins and monuments that appeared all around her.
The driver pointed ahead and said proudly, "That is the Parthenon, miss, on top of the Acropolis."
Catherine stared up at the familiar white marble building. "Dedicated to Athena, the goddess of wisdom," she heard herself saying.
The driver smiled approvingly. "Are you a student of Greek history, miss?"
Tears of frustration blurred Catherine's vision. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."
They were passing another ruin. "That is the theater of Herodes Atticus. As you can see, part of the walls are still standing. It once seated more than five thousand people."
"Six thousand two hundred fifty-seven," Catherine said softly.
Modern hotels and office buildings were everywhere amid the timeless ruins, an exotic mixture of the past and present. The limousine passed a large park in the center of the city, with sparkling, dancing fountains in the middle. Dozens of tables with green and orange poles lined the park, and the air above them was carpeted with blue awnings.
I've seen this before, Catherine thought, her hands growing cold. And I was happy.
There were outdoor cafes on almost every block, and on the corners men were selling freshly caught sponges. Everywhere, flowers were being sold by vendors, their booths a rage of violently colored blossoms.
The limousine had reached Syntagma Square.
As they passed a hotel on the corner, Catherine called out: "Stop, please!"
The driver pulled over to the curb. Catherine was finding it difficult to breathe. I recognize this hotel. I've stayed here.
When she spoke, her voice was shaky. "I'd like to get out here. I wonder if you could pick me up in - in two hours?"
"Of course, miss." The chauffeur hurried to open the door for her, and Catherine stepped outside into the hot summer air. Her legs were trembling. "Are you all right, miss?" She had no answer. She felt as though she were on the edge of a precipice, about to fall into an unknown, terrifying abyss.
She moved through the crowds, marveling at the hordes of people hurrying through the streets, creating a roaring din of conversation. After the silence and solitude of the convent, everything seemed unreal. Catherine found herself moving toward the Plaka, the old section of Athens in the heart of the city, with its twisted alleys and crumbling, worn-down stairways that led to tiny houses, coffee shops, and whitewashed rambling structures. She found her way by some instinct she did not understand or try to control. She passed a taverna on top of a roof, overlooking the city, and stopped, staring. I've sat at that table. They handed me a menu in Greek. There were three of us.
What would you like to eat? they had asked.
Would you mind ordering for me? I'm afraid I might order the proprietor.
They had laughed. But who were 'they'?
A waiter approached Catherine. "Boro na sas voithiso?"
"Ochi efharisto."
Can I help you? No, thank you. How did I know that? Am I Greek?
Catherine hurriedly moved on, and it was as though someone were guiding her. She seemed to know exactly where to go.
Everything seemed familiar. And nothing. My God, she thought, I'm going crazy. I'm hallucinating. She passed a cafe that said Treflinkas. A memory was nagging at the corners of her mind. Something had happened to her here, something important. She could not remember what.
She walked through the busy, winding streets and turned left at Voukourestiou. It was filled with smart stores. I used to shop here. She started to cross the street, and a blue sedan raced around the corner, barely missing her.
She could recall a voice saying, The Greeks haven't made the transition to automobiles. In their hearts they're still driving donkeys. If you want insight into the Greeks, don't read the guidebooks; read the old Greek tragedies. We're filled with grand passions, deep joys, and great sorrows, and we haven't learned how to cover them up with a civilized veneer.
Who had said that to her?
A man was hurrying down the street, walking toward her, staring at her. He slowed, a look of recognition on his face. He was tall and dark and Catherine was sure she had never seen him before. And yet...