For Dimitra
The procession wound slowly through the narrow paths of the Anthoupoli cemetery. At the front, the municipal band of Patras played mournful marches. Behind them came the coffin, the widow walking directly in its wake, followed by the children, relatives, friends, and acquaintances.
She wore a black full-length dress that left her neck bare. Her light brown hair, neatly combed, fell to her shoulders. Her step was steady, but her gaze was frozen and distant.
She walked alone, taking no part in the laments rising from the rest of the family. As she moved, her entire life with the man now lying in the coffin passed through her mind, from the very first moment they met.
It was Christmas Eve, 1955. She had arranged with her friends to attend a play at the Apollo Municipal Theatre in Georgiou Square.
The weather was unusually mild for the season. They had just entered the foyer, chatting, when she felt a gaze settle on her. She looked around, puzzled, and saw him immediately. He stood among others who were speaking to him, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on her — intense, penetrating. Not an ordinary look.
He left the group and came straight toward her. He looked into her eyes, and she felt his gaze sink into the hidden corners of her mind. He smiled, bent to kiss her hand, and said softly, “Enchanted.” Then he turned and walked away without another word.
She stood there, stunned, as murmurs rippled around her. He was about sixty-five, a widower, a prominent and successful businessman, well known in Patras both for his wealth and his conquests.
She was thirty-eight, separated, tall and beautiful, from a respected family. She had married at twenty-five against her parents’ wishes, but when she realized her mistake only months later, she had ended it without hesitation and returned to her family home. Since then she had lived freely and stubbornly refused every proposal of marriage.
He approached her again during the intermission. This time he was talkative, charming. She responded to his flirtation. Despite the age difference, his vitality was magnetic. After the performance, they left together, abandoning their respective groups.
That first night she became his. Without hesitation. What followed were walks, romantic dinners, long conversations, flowers delivered almost daily. Barely two months later came the proposal — which she accepted just as readily.
Her own family raised no objections. They smelled partnerships and benefits. His family, as he had told her, opposed the marriage fiercely.
“But what are you doing? Do you know how old you are?” his daughter protested. “Very well indeed,” he replied. “Do you perhaps remember how old I am?”
“But she wants you for your money!” shouted his younger son, almost hysterically. “Good for her,” came the disarming answer.
“Father,” the eldest son tried, “you are sixty-five, you have a heart condition, and you barely know her. Perhaps you should wait.”
He smiled at them generously. The words left his mouth slowly, sharp as honed steel.
“For twenty-five years since your mother died, no woman has entered this house. I struggled alone, father and mother both, so you would lack nothing. I raised you in comfort, with governesses and servants. I sent you to the best schools and set you up in business. When you married, I never interfered. So you will not interfere with me now. Besides, you and your children are already secure. Or will you look after me when my time comes? Because, as far as I can see, you remember me only when you need something.”
They did not dare argue further. From then on they kept their distance from her. They saw him only at the office.
The scandal that erupted when the affair and the marriage became known was enormous. If they could have stoned her, they would have. Friends and acquaintances drifted away. In their place came endless busybodies eager to pass on the gossip.
“…She trapped him for his money… who knows, maybe she cast a spell on him… she didn’t look the type… how on earth did she manage it…”
She closed her ears to it all. She had expected it. Only sometimes a quiet hurt rose inside her. “Does no one think my own family has money? Does no one think I had no need to marry? Does no one think I might actually feel something for this man?”
He would see the shadow cross her face, take her hand, and whisper, “Don’t care what others say. Only care about what I feel for you and what you feel for me.”
Their life together passed quickly, not always without trouble. His heart condition often forced trips to Athens for treatment. She never left his side, praying with all the strength of her soul.
Ten years went by. One afternoon they were walking hand in hand along the Saint Nicholas promenade, like teenagers, when he suddenly squeezed her palm hard. She looked at him, startled, and saw him clutch his chest and collapse.
Her screams brought people running. The ambulance arrived quickly. But it was already too late.
The funeral was set for the day after next. At the children’s insistence, however, a copy of the will was read the very next day.
Shops and houses in the city center and suburbs, fields and livestock in Ovria, Agyia, Kastritsi, Aigio, shares in Achaia Clauss, Ladopoulos, Peiraiki-Patraiki, the urban bus company, bank deposits, bonds, gold sovereigns — an unimaginable fortune that neither she nor his children had suspected. He left everything to her, thanking her for the love she had given him and for everything she had endured.
The moment the notary finished reading, his children leapt up in fury.
“So that’s why you trapped him,” hissed the eldest son. “You’ve left us penniless,” screamed his daughter. “You got exactly what you wanted, you whore,” spat the youngest.
“We won’t let you get away with this. We’ll contest the will. And if that fails, we’ll annul the marriage. We will destroy you.”
She remained perfectly still. None of it touched her. She looked at them wearily and said the words that left them speechless: “I give you everything. The only thing I will keep is the house where we lived together, at Psila Alonia.”
Such an easy victory, none of them had expected.
The funeral service was held the following day at Saint Andrew’s Church. Almost half the city attended — officials, business associates, employees, and ordinary people curious to see the family.
As the line of mourners passed to offer condolences, many noticed her rigid posture and vacant stare.
One man, who had also come out of curiosity, took her hand and felt how hot it was. He looked into her eyes and understood how wrong he — and everyone else — had been about her for so many years.
He spoke hesitantly: “He would have wanted you to be strong at a time like this. My condolences…”
Her gaze came alive for a moment. She looked at him and replied, barely holding back a sob: “Andreas used to say… when I die, they will accept you…”
The procession had reached the grave. The priest spoke the final words and the coffin was lowered. The cries of the children and grandchildren tore through the air.
Only the widow stood motionless, her gaze frozen and distant.
