My aunts are waiting for me in the tearoom of the Monarch Hotel in Bangkok. I see them immediately, their small neat heads are turned towards the entrance. They look focused and impatient. Against the dark suits of the visiting businessmen they are so visible: the soft peach and gold silk of their clothing seems to shimmer and gleam. 
      They sit with straight backs on the edges of the chairs, perched like colourful birds. They are to return to Hong Kong the next morning, so this will be our last meeting for a while. It is humid outside, the kind of air that is thick to breathe and chokes the lungs. Like walking into a dog's mouth, the residents say. The heat is unbearable even in the late afternoon, but inside the hotel it feels cool, clean. The fans in the tearoom whir softly. 
      I lean to kiss my aunts, Amara first, then Kanitha, and they murmur, looking into my face. 
      "Your uncle? Charles is not to join us?" Amara asks. 
      "Business," I say. They understand, nodding their heads solemnly. He has not joined us for years. 
      They do not get along, these two sides of my family. The uncle who raised me, a British banker in Bangkok, is on my father's side. My aunts cared for me in my earliest years. They are my dead mother's sisters and live now in Hong Kong. I have inherited my mother's features: dark hair, small stature, Thai cheekbones. I look like my aunts. I could be a daughter.

My parents died when I was two years old, during a family vacation on Koi Samui. While I napped in the hotel, with Aunt Kanitha beside me, they went out on a motorcycle to explore the beaches of the island. I have little knowledge of how the accident occurred. No one will discuss it with me. What I know I learned from the whispered gossip of the maids of my uncle's house. That the motorcycle was my mother's idea, that they had been drinking wine all that day. That my aunts should have stopped them. There is bad feeling between my uncle and my aunts and when I broach the subject with my uncle I am quickly dismissed. 
      "Why do Aunt Amara and Kanitha stay in the hotel," I asked once. "Why not here?" "They like their comfort. Their silly little treats," he answered. "They would be uncomfortable here." 
      His house (I have never learned to call it our house, or my house, as other people do: it is his house.) is large, furnished with heavy mahogany that gleams with the care it is given, polished daily, by my uncle's maids. It is comfortable. And yet—it is a dark house. I can imagine that it is too dark for my aunts. 
      My aunts are lightweight creatures, their voices are high, floating. They laugh frequently, a tinkling sound like a wind chime, though they hide their open mouths with tiny hands as if embarrassed to be so amused. 
      At the Monarch, I am wearing a long silk skirt, a tunic with sleeves, and neat leather shoes. I feel confined, restricted. I have had one year at the University and to go from denim jeans and running shoes to these clothes, makes me feel stifled, as if I am burning from the inside out. My waist, which is actually narrow and small, feels fat and swollen under the tight waistband of the skirt. 
      My aunts study me with narrow critical eyes. 
      "Your hair—that is a new fashionable cut?" asks Kanitha. "The edges blunt like that." 
      "Not fashionable. Easy," I say, deliberately provocative. 
      "Easy," she repeats. A world of questions, of complaint, in one word. She hints of the lessons so obviously not learned, with just the tone of her voice. 
      "Your long hair was so pretty," sighs Amara. "A little rouge too? Why not." 
      "I'm fine," I say, annoyed. It is then that a tall, foreign looking man pauses at our table. 
      "Mr. Alexiou? What a pleasure," says Kanitha. He stops, bows, and then takes her hand. He does the same with Amara. 
      "This is our niece, Victoria," Amara says. 
      "Vicki," I correct, quickly. He smiles as he takes my hand in his. There is a chair beside me. He indicates it, raising an eyebrow. His eyes are very dark with thick lashes. He is a strange, intense looking man. My aunts lean toward him like flowers to the sun. 
      "Please," says Amara. "Have some tea." 
      He speaks to us in English. He is leaving Bangkok, he says, he has to return to Athens. A family emergency. He must find someone to take care of his child for the summer. It will be impossible, he says. All the Greek students have left the city already, have gone to the islands. 
      "Why not find a student here?" asks Kanitha. "Thai girls are so good with children. Gentle." 
      And beautiful, she is saying to him. I see it in her eyes before she lowers them, flirting so imperceptibly. 
      "Why not me?" I ask. 
      The words are out of my mouth before my brain screens them. My aunts' mouths fall open. Mr. Alexiou smiles. 
      "You are not serious?" he asks. 
      "Of course," I say. "I would love to visit Athens. I have the summer free. I am a nursing student. I love children." 
      I say it in a rush. I realize how much I long to get out of Bangkok, get away from the burden of my aunts' expectations, get out of the stifling heaviness of my uncle's house. Get away. 
      "You live here?" he asks. "Or in Hong Kong?" 
      He is watching me, amused, and I blush, but I am suddenly glad that I am wearing the long silk skirt, the elegant tunic. Adult clothes. 
      "She lives here. With her uncle," says Amara, her eyes have become small, worried. 
      "And will your uncle approve?" he asks. 
      I think I hear teasing, mockery in his voice, but the question seems to jolt my aunts onto my side. 
      "Why not?" says Kanitha. "She is of age now. And he is a modern man."

And that is how I persuade my uncle, though he looks at me, puzzled, glowering with a quiet and simmering anger all day. 
      "It is so bloody hot there in summer. Crowded. Quite ghastly," he says to me, pushing his plate away after dinner. 
      "It is hot here," I reply. He leaves the dining room without another word.

And so, only one week later, I find myself on the steps of an old stone house in the Makrigianni district, on the south slope of the Acropolis, just minutes from the Plaka in Athens. 
      The front of the house reaches the street with just five steps, the back is set into the hillside. The stone steps are ringed with heavy pots of bougainvillea and at the back there is a garden that smells of jasmine, rosemary, and wild garlic. In the centre of the garden is an old stone fountain and my first night there I walk around it, conscious of the black canopy of sky, the stars visible, the Acropolis lit up at night. I cannot believe that I have stepped into this picture. It is one I have seen only in books. 
      It is a house with walls so thick that it is always cool. The baby is six months old, a gurgling boy, with dark eyes, lashes that lie on his cheeks when he sleeps, like moth wings. His tiny mouth feels cool against my cheek as I cuddle him to my face. 
      His mother was in hospital, though she is out now and lives in an apartment in the 14th district. She took an overdose of something and I understand through the cracked English of the cook that, because of this, John Alexiou has custody of his son. The cook mutters something about his women. 
      "He has mistresses?" I ask, curious, but she does not answer me. 
      "Your English is good. You speak Greek?" the small, sallow skinned woman asks instead. She cooks so well, but her manner is sullen. I soon learn that it hides a good heart. She sneaks me pastries late at night: sticky baklava and kateifei rich with honey. 
      "No. But some French." 
      "Tres bien," the cook says solemnly. I realise that this is her only French and we both laugh.

I believe myself so lucky. A small baby, no other duties, and plenty of time off to wander the noisy Athens streets, visit the Acropolis museum, go down to Piraeus. John Alexiou is involved in film making, or in teaching film at the University, I am never sure, but his English is perfect. He pays me in cash, drachmas, and looks hard at my breasts when he counts the money into my hand. This is clearly just a habit he has, for my breasts are small. Men do not usually stare at them. 
      Women are constantly in the old house. There is always music, card games, cigarette smoke. They drink a lot and laugh, these women who wear dresses that look expensive but cling too tightly to their bodies. They are blonde, European women who giggle and clink their glasses together when someone makes a joke.

His wife is Greek. She is very thin, brown-haired, dark eyed and she comes at midnight through a side door to stare at her son, touch his cheek, lift the blanket up to his face. I know this because my room is attached to the nursery and the door is shared. The cook stands guard. This strange wife does not speak to me but smiles faintly if I look up from my book when she enters. She wears neat, tailored clothes, a scarf around her hair. When first I heard the maids whisper about drugs I imagined another kind of woman. She is not what I imagined.

I say nothing to John Alexiou. It is not my business, after all, that his mysterious wife appears at midnight to look at her sleeping son. Maybe he knows already. If not, who am I to tell him? When she comes, it is always at the height of the parties that spill out onto the balconies and the stepped garden.

One night she touches her child and then cries out. I shoot up in bed, frightened. She tiptoes to me, takes my hand and pulls me, so that I follow her to the crib. Then she holds my hand against the boy's forehead. His skin is burning, the child has a fever. He looks up at me, listless. His eyes have a strange, dull glaze. I turn, meaning to rush to get her husband, to find help. 
      "No," she whispers to me, shaking her head. She lifts the baby, murmurs to the cook in soft Greek, and then she is gone with the child in her arms. It happens so suddenly, I do not try to stop her. I imagine that she rushes to the kitchen to get . . . what? Cold water perhaps. It is late. I'm not as alert as I should be. 
      Then I hear the click of the back door and I turn to the cook. 
      "Where is she going?" 
      "Keratas!" exclaims the cook. Her eyes are frightened.

I am also frightened. I dread telling him. When I venture into the long dining room, he is at the card table, smoking, a woman in a low cut dress leans over his shoulder. I wait, mouse-like at the door, for him to look up and see me and when he does not, I walk with my eyes lowered across the room to the card table, feeling the eyes of the men on me, amused. They murmur to each other. I can hear the clear laughter of the women. 
      When I whisper what I have to tell him, he frowns, telling me to speak up. When I do, he is so angry that his face goes quite still, the mouth a hard line. He does not shout, but he glares at me, then calls for his driver. 
     Later, I hear his car return. When I tiptoe into the kitchen, the cook stands at the kitchen window, biting at her thumbnail. She turns, startled, then sighs. It seems his wife was not at the room he rented for her in the 14th district. She has gone somewhere, with the child. 
     ÒThe baby? Will she take him to a doctor? Ò I ask the cook urgently. ÒWill she know what to do?Ó 
     She stares at me, puzzled. I make a rocking movement with my arms, as if holding the baby there. And finally she understands my stammered questions.
ÒShe is mother. Yes. Doctor. Yes.Ó 
     ÒBut the drugs. Drugos?Ó 
     The cook frowns, then shakes her head. Makes a swirling movement with her finger against her head. 
     ÒHe say this,Ó she cries. And she races into a dialogue that comes so bitterly from her mouth, going from English to Greek, but I understand some of it. His wife is Greek, the cook explains. ÒEinai orthi kyria,Ó she says. A lady. 
     She is not like these women. These women he likes. She had been sick. She had taken medicines. He had talked of drugs in the courthouse simply to win custody of his son.

I am only partly reassured. I have seen this mother every night and she has appeared serious, sober. But he is a tiny child, a sweet child. I sigh and return to the empty nursery.

Later, I hear his car return. When I tiptoe into the kitchen, the cook stands at the kitchen window, biting at her thumbnail. She turns, startled, then sighs. She tells me details, going from English to Greek, but I understand. It seems his wife was not at the room she has rented in the 14th district. She has gone somewhere, with the child.

The next morning John Alexiou sends the cook to wake me. It is barely dawn, a soft pink light comes from the window but I have slept little. It is strange in the little room next to the nursery with no baby sounds to hear, no whimper of hunger, no rustling, or the child's soft, sleepy breathing. 
      Mr. Alexiou is waiting at the door with his back to me and he does not turn around, but addresses me in a voice that is still full of rage. I am to go with him to Paphos, he says, where his wife's mother lives. Someone will have to take care of the child on the return journey. 
      "Of course," I say, to his rigid back. He strides out of the door to a waiting car. 
      We are driven to a small airport close to Piraeus and cross a tarmac to a private plane that belongs to his friend. I sit behind him, in a seat for two people, and look out of the window as the plane lifts, then banks and curves towards the island of Cyprus. I had longed to visit Cyprus. I had hoped it would be for a vacation, time away to enjoy the beaches, the grottos, the beauty of the landscape. Not like this. 
      When we land in Lanarca, a long car waits for us, and we are driven along a pot holed narrow road that follows the coast. I can smell the sea from the open window of the car. John Alexiou speaks to me rarely and then only to point out landmarks. I am invisible to him. Small, shy Thai girl in my simple clothes. 
      "This is Aphrodite's birthplace," he tells me with a bitter laugh as we enter Paphos. Beyond Paphos, we follow a rocky road that winds up the hill; a road so narrow that the hedges scratch at the car on both sides. The driver curses. Eventually, we descend again and stop at a cottage on the edge of the hillside. An old woman in black stands at the gate. I see no one else around. 
      John Alexiou jumps out of the car and asks a question in Greek. The old woman shakes her head. I climb out too, and she looks at me curiously, pulling her black scarf tighter under her chin. 
      "My mother in law," he says rudely, gesturing to her. I nod, but she is not looking at me. She follows him into the cottage; her skirts make a swishing sound on the stony path. The house is tiny: just one room with a stone floor, a small window cut out of the stone. There is a narrow bed in the corner, an old stove. It is cool, quiet. It smells of oregano and lime. He speaks harshly to the woman, but she simply shakes her head. 
      I hear, then, a soft sucking sound. It is the sound the child would make when he sucked at his tiny hand, the fingers curled over his little velvet palm, soothing himself before sleep. It is soft, but I know it. I sat many hours listening to this sound, waiting, thinking: sleep, sleep, please go to sleep. Waiting for it to stop, so that I could return to my own cupboard of a room, my single cot, my book. I know this sound. 
      It comes from beyond the window in the room, just behind me. Outside there is a fig tree, it must create soft shade, and further a grove of lemon trees, stretching down the hillside. The window is shrouded with the soft green vines that twine up the side of the tiny house. John Alexiou stands in the center of the room. His back is to it. 
      I look into the eyes of the old lady and see in them a most terrible fear, and a pleading. She hears this sound too. And he does not. 
      I turn as if to stare out of the tiny window, to block it from his view and I see, out of the corner of my eye a shape, a movement through the lemon trees. It is not clear enough to discern a woman, perhaps carrying a wicker basket, and a child, but I know that's what it is. The sucking sound has stopped. The old woman begins to push him out of the door, whispering in a harsh voice. 
      "Siopi!" he says to her, angrily. 
      Then, to me, in English, "Come." 
      Outside of the cottage he turns, marching through the garden to the edge of the lemon trees. I follow. The ground is thick with wild shrubs and vines. His foot is caught, he curses and then turns back to the car. 
      He does not say one word to me during the entire journey back. 
      At the house in Athens he tells me I can leave. There is no job for me. He will give me two weeks' pay. 
      As he counts out the money, his eyes move suddenly from my breasts to my face. 
      "He was there?" he asks, his voice quiet. "Yes? 
      I hesitate. 
      "Yes?" he repeats, louder. 
      "Perhaps." 
      "I think he was there," he says. He fumbles in his pocket for another coin, presses it into my palm. 
      "She can keep him for a while," he says. "While he is an infant. When he is older, I will take him back." 
      I take a step backwards and he frowns. 
      "Oh," he says. "What is this?" 
      I shake my head, turn away, but he touches my shoulder, pulls me around. 
      "Why such a face?" he asks. "You are angry?" 
      "Take him back?" I repeat. "He is a child. You talk as if he is a thing to be passed from one to another. "

A bubble of pain comes from somewhere deep inside me, seems to lodge in my throat. I remember my uncle's house, the first time I was taken there by my aunts. We had come from the apartment in Hong Kong that had been my home for nine years. 
      I remember the voices drifting into the dark hallway, as I sat, wearing my blue plaid school uniform, my hands clasped together on my lap. I sat on the hard chair, with my back so straight, just as my aunts had taught me. 
      I could feel my heart thumping in my chest as I waited. My hands were trembling. I pulled at a thread on my cardigan, then rubbed at my skirt, the tiniest stain still visible where I had dropped a small orange piece and Aunt Kanitha had hastily dabbed at it with a dampened sponge. 
      "You must be neat for your uncle," she had whispered. "He notices such things." I could hear their voices coming from my uncle's den. 
      "She can stay longer with us, if you'd like," Kanitha's voice, pleading. Pleading perhaps for me. 
      "Of course not," my uncle replied. His voice was loud. He seemed angry. I did not know this stranger. 
      "I have a duty to her father to educate her. She must attend language school. And she must be watched. She should have structure. Discipline." He lowered his voice, but as I sat so still, hardly breathing, I could still hear his words. 
      "She has her mother's eyes," he said. "Who knows what else she has inherited from her mother." 
      Then came my Aunt Amara's whisper. This I could not hear. 
      "How can you tell? She is young yet," he answered. "She will stay here. There are maids. She will be cared for." 
      "As you say," the subservient soft voice of Amara. 
      "As you say," repeated by Kanitha.

"I expect there will be maids," I say clearly now to John Alexiou, looking into his face. "To care for your son? When you take him back?" 
      "Oh yes," he says, frowning slightly.  
      "Of course." 
      He is looking hard at me. His eyes move up and down my body. I am no longer invisible. 
      "Stay if you want," he says. 
      "No," I say. "Thank you."

I do not take the flight home to Thailand that day. I must visit Paphos first. There are things that I have never said to anyone, and I long to say them. I will say them to the shadowy mother of this smiling child. I rehearse them in my mind. When he is older, I will say, you must hold on to him as tightly as you can, just as tightly as you do now. Love him with all of your heart. Let him know that you love him. 
      Because even if there are maids to care for him, it is not the same. It is not the same.