CYTHEREA

 

*

If it be thus to dream,

still let me sleep!

William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night

 

Chapter 1 - INSOMNIA

 

She was a goddess in every sense of the word. Before her, I was utterly oblivious to the person within; and after, her divine intervention unveiled the truth behind my soul’s ancient conception. Under the surface of my physical form, and hiding behind the name inscribed on my birth certificate, passport, and driver’s license, slept a quiet and dormant secret that abruptly awoke on that day of unexpected revelation, when she and I finally met.

Adonis James Broussard: born in 1975, in the French quarter of New Orleans. I was the son of a Parisian father and a Greek mother, the only child born from the union of his mind and her body, his intellect and her beauty, and his logic and her intuition. My French father, displaced from Europe to the States by the circumstances of his academic career, devoted his life to his scholarly calling, and to my mother. She was his cherished Aegean beauty: a modern day Helen of Troy with a Mediterranean sensuality that Aphrodite would have envied. After her untimely death, my father’s life lost meaning; and not long after, he heard her whisper softly in his ear. Heeding her call, he said his peaceful goodbyes and made his final journey to the other side to meet her.

My father was a Classics professor at Tulane and had high hopes for me: his only son. From a young age, the rich academia that he fostered permeated my day-to-day life. It was my father’s love for mythology that spawned my own interest in a similar scholarly concentration; and, following in his footsteps when I pursued my own doctorate, I became a respected authority in ancient cultures by the time I earned my tenured professorship at Yale. My own given name, taken from the Greek legend that was dear to my own father’s heart, seemed uncannily (or, rather, embarrassingly) appropriate to my specialty; so I swept Adonis under the rug, and became James-or Jamie-to all of my friends and colleagues.

Like my father, I dedicated my life to the field; but unlike him, I never found the woman who could be my own life’s goddess. Yes, there were women, but none of them touched my spirit like my mother had moved my father. They loved my body, my face, my name, my titles, and my success with a superficial attraction that never went deeper than the facade of my mortal exterior. What I searched and longed for was a woman who could truly understand the true Adonis that slept beneath the blanket of my human covering.

And so, my story begins on a chilly day in early March, right before a birthday that I viewed as a particularly unwelcome milestone in my bachelor’s life. I sat, sulking, in my office at the Peabody Museum, sipping my coffee while I graded papers from my Undergraduate seminar on Myths and Modern Culture. I had just penned a somewhat biting comment on the second to last paper in the queue-a particularly mediocre effort, which I leniently decided to give a ‘C+’-hoping with a yawn that the last one would be better.

The Cypriot Identity Crisis: Ancient Greek and Turkish Influences on Modern Day Cyprus, the title read. “What have we here?” I thought. The topic intrigued me, since my mother was born on the Greek side of this Mediterranean island, living in Paphos until she moved to Paris at age 18, where she later met my father. The student’s essay was well written and meticulously researched; and as I scribbled an ‘A’ on the title page, I flipped back for a moment to his references, curious about the essay’s sources.

Gianelli, Korphu, Christianson, Brantford: all of these researchers were familiar names in elite anthropology circles; and while some of them were only acquaintances, most of them were friends, and many of them were direct or indirect collaborators on my own academic projects and grants. Tealmann, Broadman, Zorcra-all three of them were prominent leaders in the field... but Sagapo? Who in the world was Cytherea Sagapo? I didn’t know her; had never even heard of her. The student who had written the last essay had cited Sagapo’s treatise on the Cypriote myth of Aphrodite and Adonis extensively in his essay, and from what I could tell, the unknown author’s commentary on the legend’s impact on the modern cultural concept of love seemed insightful and precise.

I wouldn’t be satisfied, now, until I had read the complete Sagapo thesis. An hour later, I sat in Sterling Memorial Library, thumbing through a 100-page volume that had been published a few years ago by a small Greek publishing house. The piece was entitled Female Love and Beauty in a Masculine Society: the Myth of Aphrodite and Adonis, by Cytherea V. Sagapo; and I was impressed, to say the least.

Who was she? Now I simply had to know. Since the back cover of the book provided no information at all about her, I would have to do some literary detective work to find out more about the mysterious author who wrote like the world’s authority on a topic that was quite dear to my heart. My first call, to Yale Press, rewarded me with the names of some contacts at Cronos Publishers; and a few days later, after several back and forth emails, I had what I needed. I wrote Ms. Sagapo an electronic message that night, and her response was pleasant, friendly-and, to my surprise, immediate.

You are very kind, Professor, she said in her email. I wrote that book many years ago, when I attended University in Athens. I live in Paphos now, where I teach school. My students are eager to learn about our heritage and legends, but I am afraid that most of them are not able to appreciate the written result of my college studies. You see, they are only ten and eleven year olds!

Such a talent, wasted in a small town elementary school! I apologize in advance if my comments seem overly intrusive, I responded after we had switched to instant messaging, but you could have had a brilliant career if you had pursued an academic path. Did you ever consider attending graduate school?

I am happy here, Professor-for the most part. Our messages, fueled by the miracle of modern electronic communication, raced back and forth across an ocean and a sea with instantaneous speed. My students keep me sharp, and I do so love this place, where I was born and raised.

It’s never too late. I ventured a bit further, just slightly over the edge and into the realm of her personal space. May I ask your age, Ms. Sagapo?

You certainly may, Professor. I am 27 years old. And you should call me Cytherea, please!

At 27, she was 13 years younger than I was-the exact difference in age between my mother and my father! Could it simply be coincidence? I don’t think you recognize your own talent (or the connection between the two of us that felt stronger, to me, than the pull of gravity). You are a very young woman, and should pursue your doctorate. I have friends in Athens; or, you could come here. I would gladly take you under my wing at Yale.

What was I saying? I didn’t know the first thing about her-GPA, academic standing in college, or even the most basic of her academic credentials... except, of course, that she had written a one hundred page anthropological treatment of the Aphrodite myth when she had been an undergraduate that could have easily passed for a PhD thesis! I told myself to trust my instincts. She was worth it. Somehow, I simply knew that she was worth it.” And you should call me Jamie, I added. It’s what all of my friends call me. I wanted desperately for her to be my friend... and more.

She didn’t respond; and, with a sinking heart, I stared at my eerily quiet computer screen until the early morning hours, when I finally fell asleep with my head resting on folded arms at my desk. Had I offended her by complimenting her intellect? Or, had she decided that our conversation had become too friendly-too personal, somehow? Perhaps she had sensed my excitement, backing off as a reaction to my admittedly premature romantic aspirations. These thoughts, and others, plagued my fitful two hours of sleep. Did she have dark hair, or light? Were her eyes a smoky brown, a smoldering green, or blue like the Aegean Sea? Was she slim, or voluptuous? Was she married, divorced, or single? Was she in a relationship, or were there still moist remnants of tears on her perfect alabaster cheeks from a recently ended love affair? Who was she, really? I found myself imagining that she was my own soul’s goddess, just as my mother had been to my father-a crazy midnight intuition that sunrise eventually transformed into conviction.

The next day, I taught my courses in a sleep-deprived fog; and that evening, I sat at a corner table in the back, immediately adjacent to the small bar and facing the dark and quiet stage (since there were never any musical acts performing on Mondays) at my favorite club, with my old friend Reginald Winks-a Jurisprudence Professor of Contracts and Torts at the Law School, who also had a small legal practice on the side. We had known each other forever it seemed, first meeting at our Undergraduate school orientation on the sprawling lawn of Yale’s central quad over twenty years ago. Born in London and educated at Eaton, he had married the girl that he started dating our freshman year; and as a result, he had only returned once to his native England to pack up some belongings and relocate permanently to New Haven.

“It looks like you haven’t slept in days, Jamie,” he commented in his slightly Americanized English accent, as he motioned for the waiter to refill his drink.

“I only slept two hours last night. It’s the strangest thing, Reggie. This girl has done something to me, and I know close to nothing about her.”

“Has she published anything else?”

“Not a thing. She wrote that book her last year at college in Athens, on her own as far as I can tell, with no co-authors or sponsors.”

“Well, it sounds like your professional interest in her is justified. But the rest... “

“I know. It’s absolutely ludicrous, but I just have to meet her, Reggie. This verges on obsession.”

“Verges? It sounds to me like it is an obsession.” He shrugged. “I guess you could go there-meet with her on the pretext of a recruitment interview or something. Do you think she might be interested in attending graduate school here?”

“I don’t know. I suggested that, but she hasn’t answered. It’s been a whole day, and her silence is killing me.”

“Well, there is the time difference. I’m willing to wager you’ll find a message from her when you get home tonight.”

“I hope so.” I took another sip of my Glenlivet. “The coincidences are uncanny, really. She’s Greek-from Paphos, just like my mother; and the 13 year age difference between us is exactly the same as it was between my parents. And finally, there’s the literary connection.”

“You mean Adonis and Cytherea?”

“Of course. Cytherea is a synonym for Aphrodite; and my father, God rest his soul, found some scholarly amusement in naming me after his favorite mythological character.” I paused for a moment, just for effect. “Don’t you think it’s odd,” I continued, “that the ‘goddess of love’ would write a thesis that has been lost in obscurity, exploring the relationship between the two most famous lovers in Greek mythology and the impact of that ancient fable on modern romance?”

He shook his head. “I think you’re manipulating the data to fit your dreamer’s theory. You know what this is all about, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. She’s my destiny.” I realized from the look he gave me that he thought I was off my rocker, but by now I didn’t care. “Her middle initial is ‘V’. I haven’t asked her yet, but I’d be willing to bet the house that it stands for Venus.”

“Slow down, Jamie. All of this is part of a mid-life crisis. Next week your life’s clock turns over into the next decade-a milestone that has apparently pushed you over the edge. It’s time you faced your own mortality, my friend. No one lives forever; not even a demigod like Adonis, your namesake.”

“This is no mid-life crisis. Forty doesn’t bother me.” Or did it? I found myself studying the empty bottom of my cocktail glass rather than meeting his perceptive gaze because deep down, I knew he was right. I motioned the waiter for a refill. “There’s something else, too. Her last name means I love you.”

Reggie looked at me quizzically. “In Greek, I assume?”

I nodded as the waiter topped off my glass. “Yes, indeed. S’agapo-agapo with the conjunction-means I love you in Greek. This all seems to connect, in a strange way. I’m going to book my flight tomorrow, and don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“But you don’t even know what she looks like, or whether she’s even available. She could be married, for all you know!”

“If she is, then so be it. I’ll be traveling to Paphos to recruit her as a graduate student, remember? If my romantic aspirations don’t pan out, it’s not the end of the world. At least I’ll get a nice vacation out of the deal-and maybe a talented anthropology student, to boot.”

It was 12 midnight by the time I got home, which meant it was 7 AM there. “Please message me,” I begged out loud; and sure enough, right there on my tablet my wish had materialized.

I have to admit that I do miss the stimulation from those days. I have a few other manuscripts that you might be interested in seeing. They are not complete, though. They need some work, but one of them in particular might work as a graduate thesis. Then, in a second message balloon that the time-caption indicated she had written an hour after the first: I apologize for being so forward. You are a very busy Professor. I am so sorry to waste your time.

I answered in a panic. I have been out. I’m so very happy to hear from you! Of course I’d love to see your other manuscripts, and would very much like to meet you as well.

Her response was immediate, and so fantastic that I had to rub my eyes and blink a few times to make sure that what I read was real. I thought it was you. Please come immediately.

Do we know each other? I typed.

Just come. I know you feel the same.

She was right, I did feel it-a certain connection that whispered a happily decisive ‘destiny’ in my ear. I didn’t waste any time logging onto the British Airways website, making my reservation then and there with an uncharacteristic spontaneity that, oddly, made me feel more alive than I had in years. By 1 AM, after I had also booked my hotel and a car rental, I realized that I’d be there for my birthday, and couldn’t imagine a better gift to myself. It was all meant to be, it seemed-and incredibly, I’d be leaving first thing in the morning. It didn’t take me long to pack; and before I knew it I was tossing and turning in bed, much too excited to sleep.

In just five hours, I would climb into the backseat of the airport limousine that I had just booked on-line; in eight hours, I would embark on my flight to Paphos via London and Athens; and in eighteen hours, I would be settling into my hotel in Greek Cyprus-one step closer to my imagined goddess of love, whose middle initial did, incredibly, stand for Venus (my mother was enamored with our island’s patron goddess, she had explained).

Can I see a picture of you? I asked, bleary eyed with insomnia, my tablet on my lap.

We’ll meet soon enough, it would ruin the surprise.

Can we talk on the phone?

No. You must be patient. Sleep now.

I can’t.

You will. She typed the command, and almost instantly my eyes felt heavy and I couldn’t stay awake another moment.

I was out.