I had a new boyfriend in Iran, a friend of Marne's named Steve Costas. Steve was Greek but had been raised in America. He was delighted to come visit me in Iran. He was six feet two inches, dark hair and huge dark eyes. He wore his hair so short it was like it was shaved.
It was after we brought the car back that Steve arrived, so the city was under martial law. I took him to the bazaar and we got chased out of it. Again, one of the nasty mullahs led a crowd throwing rotten fruit.
Steve and I were lovers. It was difficult, staying with mom and dad, to find a place to make love. We finally decided on the roof, at about midnight. Might not have been our best idea. A truck drove up with a huge gun, and whenever Steve's white ass (he was tanned black, except that ass) went up in the air, the gun followed. The Iranians had some fun that night. I have to admit, I thought it was pretty funny too. I don't know how Steve didn't hear the huge gun moving, as it creaked and swayed, but he didn't. Once I told him, he was horrified and we went back downstairs and inside. Wuss!
Steve went back to the States, where he was going to Emory College with Marne, who was in law school by then. Steve dropped me a letter and told me he needed my help with a project, that it could be dangerous, and was I in? Of course I was, I told him. I was back and forth between Paris and Isfahan at the time. He wanted me to spend the summer in Greece, and I agreed. Had I known what he had in mind... I might not have agreed so quickly.
Steve told me a sad tale.
"You know my dad owns most of Mykonos."
This, I knew.
"He and my mom live for the most part in Athens, or they did. They've been together thirty years now, and nothing like this has ever happened. Cathy, my dad rents a jewelry shop on Mykonos to this bitch. They're having an affair. He spends most of his time on Mykonos these days, and it's driving my poor mother crazy."
"I'm so sorry. Mid life crisis, maybe?" I guessed.
"Whatever it is, we have to do something to break it up, or I don't know what will happen to Mom. We have to come up with something good." He looked so upset, those large brown puppy dog eyes. What was I to do?
"Well, I do have one idea. We drug the bitch, and get some gigolo to hump her. Then we take photos, and show them to your father."
This was a great idea, but there was a snag. I had no idea where to get drugs in Paris, and neither did Steve. I flew back to New York, and for once, it was totally dry.
My brother, who dealt drugs, knew just what we needed. Knock out drops, that any bartender would know how to get. Except the ones we asked, evidently. We came up perfectly dry.
It was time for Plan B.
I was in Paris at the time. We would take a train to Brindisi, in Italy, and then the ferry to Patras, in Greece. All went well until my passport was stolen.
I as usual had very little cash. I had traveler's checks, but couldn't use them on the train with no passport. I needed cigarettes. Steve made me give him a blow job in the bathroom for a pack of cigarettes. I never forgave him for that. If I'd had any sense, I'd have backed out of the whole thing right then and there. But no. I felt sorry for Sophia Costas.
I got off the train in Rome, and went to our embassy. I was able to replace the passport in one day.
We needed another idea. This one was far fetched, even for me. We would rob the woman's shop, sell all her jewelry and break her that way. Steve and his mom loved this idea. Dad owned most of Mykonos, so if we got caught, nothing would happen.
So we visited Mykonos to scope it out. Tiny village, with white washed streets that they cleaned every day. Entire village was white, except for the bright flowers people kept in window boxes. We stayed in a hotel on the hill overlooking Mykonos, and it was gorgeous.
Steve took me to the jewelry shop. It was small, with one tiny window covered by wood, over steel bars.
"How are we supposed to get in that window?" I asked him.
"I have no idea, do you?" He responded.
"I know one thing. What makes you think I'm going through that window, if we do get it open?" I was furious.
"Well, it's evident you'll have to do it, and let me in."
"And what if you run, and leave me in there? Oh no, come up with a better idea."
"Could we use acid to cut through the bars, and a blow torch for the wood?" It was all I could come up with. A more hare brained scheme was never thought of.
"Sure we can. I'll ask for acid at the boat yard, the strongest they have." He spoke fluent Greek, of course. He got the acid, and we bought a blow torch.
Then we practiced on the hotel balcony. It cleaned up the iron bars nicely, but certainly didn't eat through them or the wood that went along the top of the gate at the side of the balcony. The blow torch did nothing at all. But it was very loud.
"I'm not standing in the middle of Mykonos at three a.m. with this damn thing going off," I told him.
"No, we can't do that," he agreed.
"This isn't going to work," I told him.
"What are we going to tell Mama?" He wondered.
I told Mrs. Costas there was no way to get into that little shop. The acid didn't work. The blow torch we bought didn't work. Now, if she had keys - but she didn't. So the great Mykonos Escapade was a wash.
Except. She wouldn't let me leave until we fucked up this woman, somehow. To feed us, she made one casserole of food every three days, and only turned on the air conditioner at night. If I'd known all this before, I would have understood Mr. Costas better.
And the woman looked like a spider. She was short, squat, and had a black mustache. From what I'd seen, the jewelry shop woman was beautiful. Olive skinned, huge dark eyes. No wonder Mr. Costas had an affair with her.
I'd walk the streets of Athens, and with what little cash I had I'd buy baklava and live on it. Finally I used a dictionary, called the operator, and called Mom collect in Iran. (Try this in Greece, when you know very little Greek.) I told the operator to say Catherine P was calling collect. Catherine P was an old code we had. If I was ever in trouble, I was to say Catherine P was calling, and they'd get me the hell out of there.
I told her I was with Steve's mom (who was sitting right there.) Mom picked up on the Catherine P, and called back two days later to say Dad was sick and they needed me straight away. She sent me a ticket and I got the hell out of there. Never saw Steve again.
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