A Fertility Tale

1. Pandemos

Three years ago, our hero, a certain Richard Pratt -- callow, twenty-four years old, American -- journeyed from Zurich to the Mediterranean for a vacation in the sun. He was an aspiring architect, trained in Pittsburgh and blessedly near the end of a one-year stint in the Swiss office of a prestigious firm. The position had been promoted as a 'fellowship' but would have been more aptly labeled an internship or, more truthfully, indentured servitude or chattel slavery. By day, he worked long hours in his very own cramped, oppressive cubicle in downtown Zurich. By night, he labored in the same cubicle, even though he rented his very own cramped, oppressive flat next to a drab suburban train depot. He was entitled -- it said so in his contract -- to ten days of vacation and he was determined to take it. His indenture was nearly at an end, and he had already secured his next position: in New York at another prestigious firm that, he thought sourly, would exploit him with equal skill and ruthlessness. He wanted a break, preferably somewhere warm with nude or at least topless beaches. It never occurred to him that the brief vacation would alter his life more profoundly than the internship.

In mid-April he scored a screaming bargain, the fruit of grim, dogged online searches during office breaks in which he might otherwise have eaten an actual meal. A Swiss tour operator offered a limited-time web-only May promotion: eight days, seven nights, an all-inclusive stay at a five-star resort on a Greek island with stupendous Mediterranean views. One thousand euros, double occupancy, or twelve hundred single. Instantly alert, he clicked, standing by with his credit card. With each successive screen he awaited the switch, the hitch, the glitch, the lockup, the wheel of death, the telltale diversion that would reveal a scam or an illusion. To his surprise and elation, his card was accepted and charged; he had a receipt and a contract. Yes! Victory.

Only later did he learn that the resort, Pandemos, was actually in Cyprus, not Greece, but fine, it still was an island, pretty much Greek, very much Mediterranean, and indisputably warmer than Zurich. Just after purchasing non-refundable plane tickets, he was notified by the Swiss booking service that there was a problem with the Pandemos reservation and would he please get in touch. The rate was invalid. He did not respond. The offer had been rescinded. He did not respond. His contract was void. He did not respond. Finally, a live person reached him and apologized for a regrettable misunderstanding and offered a full refund. Richard refused -- he intended to go to Cyprus -- and threatened action in the Swiss courts if he was denied. He rebuffed a final call offering both a refund and a voucher for a supposedly superior Croatian resort. To Richard, this only confirmed that he'd scored an exceptional deal. Mistake it may have been, but it was not his mistake, nor his problem. He would not be denied.

Come May, his flights to Paphos on the west end of Cyprus were delayed but otherwise fine. Everything afterward seemed cursed. At an information kiosk in the airport, someone who spoke a little English figured out there was a bus to a certain village and -- ah, wasn't he the lucky young man! -- it would run today! Probably. In a few hours, perhaps. Later, no one in the village spoke English (nor French or German) and no one admitted knowing anything about a resort. In the end, he had a dusty uphill walk next to a goat-drawn cart that carried only his suitcase. At Pandemos he was told that his room was not ready yet. This news was both infuriating and encouraging; at least the receptionist did not deny that he ought to have a room. On the other hand, it was past 7:00 pm, he was tired and, really, how about a fucking room already? He was offered a small bottle of water with the manager's compliments and asked to wait. He missed (of course) his seating for the authentic Cypriot dinner included in his package, despite rushing to the dining room after a much-needed shower. Could he join the next seating? No, very sorry, the second seating was full, but small plates were available (for an extra charge) at the bar on the terrace.

Disgruntled, Richard exited the dining room and was brought up short by the view. It would have been arresting even without the sunset. Pandemos was, in fact, gorgeous (he had arrived via the service entrance). It clung to the mountainside above the distant water, its many small buildings tucked cannily into a natural amphitheater commanding the sea. My God, Richard thought, how could there be such a view? The Mediterranean was tranquil, but its surface shimmered in transitions from turquoise to azure to deep purple as the blazing orange sun sank. Rocks, trees and bushes between him and the sea absorbed the sun's last glow amid scattered twinkles of light from hidden houses. Insects buzzed in an invisible chorus. Within the resort, stone walks wound among white stuccoed guest houses with tile roofs and pastel-painted doors. Small, artfully sited pools -- hot tubs perhaps -- glowed with submerged lights. A larger pool was unoccupied as guests gathered their belongings and retreated to their bungalows to change for the late seating.

The bar was not busy and indeed was unattended as the bartender circulated among tables by the pool, collecting used glassware. She was friendly, chatting with guests as they left for their rooms. With a few she spoke Greek, with others a charmingly accented English. Richard took a seat at an empty table.

When the bartender returned with her tray of glasses, he lifted a hand to signal her. She ignored him, so he waited for her to unload her tray and fill the dishwasher before signaling again. When she could no longer avoid him, she came to the table and awaited an order. Richard had no idea what to order and couldn't discover a menu. As he searched for one -- on the table, in her hand, in her apron pocket -- she asked impatiently, "Well?" The charming accent was gone. He tried to engage her in the decision, but she was unhelpful. He wound up with a brandy sour and a dish of nuts and olives. Eventually he signed a chit showing no room number and went to bed still hungry.

His tiny room had one small, high, awning window without a view and a narrow twin bed with a thin mattress, but Richard slept surprisingly well -- exhaustion, he supposed -- and rose the next morning keen to explore the resort, the local area, perhaps Cyprus itself. Breakfast first, and it was good: strong hot coffee, juice, fruit, cheese, and bread. Pandemos bordered parklands; in the lobby, there was a map of nearby walks and trails with the best views marked. He returned a couple of hours later sweaty but invigorated and carried a coffee onto the terrace to the same table he'd occupied the previous evening. Other guests gradually appeared, some from a late breakfast, some from their rooms (they had in-room coffee that he had not). As the sun rose higher, he opened his laptop to inventory the day's emergencies.

The bar opened at 10:30 with the same young bartender. Yawning, she piled fruit on a counter, dragged over a blender and, after some peeling, cutting and chopping, began processing the fruit with ice and other ingredients. She filled a row of glasses, garnished each with a slice of fruit and a sprig of mint, set them on a tray and began to serve the guests collecting around the pool. Richard was not served. Not sure if he was being snubbed or merely overlooked, he hailed the bartender. "Hello, Miss? What are those? Can I get one?"

She could not deny that she had plenty, so placed one on his table. She was pretty, he thought, but rude. Pointedly he said, "Thank you," as she left to clean her blender. The next time she walked by his table, Richard smiled and said, "So what do people do here? What's exciting?"

Her reply was deadpan, "I hear copulation is popular."

Was she joking? Coming on to him? Making fun of him? "I'm Richard," he said politely, hoping she would reciprocate.

"I know that, Mr. Pratt. And you can forget about it. I'm a lesbian." She shot him a simpering smile. "But who knows, maybe you'll get lucky -- all those women are hoping to get pregnant." She gestured at the pool.

"Excuse me?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Didn't you look at our website? Don't you read your e-mail? Look around, genius!" She pointed at the wall behind the bar. A small office-like space sat in the corner next to a door. Above it and all over the wall behind the bar were snapshots he hadn't noticed. Most were of babies, a few of smiling pregnant women.

"Your web page is in Greek," he said defensively.

"Not if you click on the itty-bitty British flag," she said, as though explaining it to a child. "Most people know that means 'English.'" He continued to look blank so she spelled it out for him. "This is a FER-TIL-ITY spa. For women. Who want to get pregnant." She pointed at his half empty glass. "You're drinking a Mommy Smoothie. It will stimulate your ovaries," she said drily, and turned away.

The door next to the office part of the bar opened and an older woman with thick white hair poked her head out to see who was talking. Seeing Richard, she stepped out and scowled, jabbing her finger at him while cursing in Greek.

"Hey, what's everybody mad at me for?!" Richard protested.

The bartender instantly turned to berate him. "Because you took unfair advantage of an innocent mistake, okay? Our resident web idiot didn't know his test page was live. He posted a daily rate instead of a weekly one, but you wouldn't accept an apology and a refund. Oh, no! It was live for maybe ten minutes and four people hit it. You're the only one who was an asshole. You insisted on buying a room we don't have at a price we don't offer. Every day you stay here we lose money."

Richard was taken aback by the diatribe -- she was obviously not just a bartender. Finally, he said, "It wasn't my fault."

"No, Mr. Pratt, it wasn't your fault."

"Is that why I have a sucky room?"

"It's why I had to move out of my room and why I get to sleep in Yia-yia's office. She's not too happy about it either. And if you think your room sucks, Mr. Pratt, I'd be more than happy to trade."

"You don't sound Greek."

"I'm as Greek as fucking Athena," she snapped. "And it's none of your business!" Rather than reply, Richard closed his laptop and left. "Have a wonderful vacation,' she muttered.

The bartender was Eleni Vitalis. Her father was a Greek Cypriot and her mother an American from California who fell in love with Cyprus and Eleni's father. But also with Italy, Spain, the Cote d'Azur, Morocco...most of the Mediterranean. They lived briefly in Marseilles, then Barcelona, then Florida and had two children. After a bitter divorce in the US, Eleni's father returned to Cyprus, her mother to California. Eleni and her brother were raised mostly in Los Angeles. As a teen, she saw her father only twice but thought he was the handsomest man in the world, pretty much what her mother had thought. Eleni returned to Miami to go to college. She wasn't sure why; she didn't really like Florida. There she studied Classics and Greek and did know why -- she missed her father. When her father fell gravely ill, she quit school with only one and a half semesters remaining and returned to Cyprus to be with him. By then she was grown and her mother could not prevent it. She was too late; her father died before her plane had even left Miami. Nevertheless, she stayed. She met his family -- her family, now -- learned Greek for real, and waitressed for a couple of seasons before finishing school at the University of Cyprus.

Pandemos was the Vitalis family business. Eleni's late father was Ari Vitalis. He and his younger brothers, Thad and Tony, had borrowed money, bought the remnants of a deserted mountain village and started a resort. It languished until their mother added her fertility clinic. Women sought Yia-yia's help getting pregnant; by installing herself at her sons' resort, Yia-yia brought them business. Oil wealth from the Middle East, digital wealth from Europe, and spectacular views did the rest. Each year, the brothers expanded and upgraded, and each year Pandemos became more exclusive and prosperous, its clientele wealthier. The brothers wanted to be known for luxury, not babies, but eventually embraced the theme. It became official when they added a nude statue of Aphrodite to the reception lobby. In a compromise between 'clinic' and 'resort,' Pandemos became a 'spa' offering fertility consultations along with massages and spring-fed soaking pools; herbs, teas, oils, and crystals; yoga and meditation; aromatherapy and special diets. All in the service of Holistic Fertility. Tony's suggestion that they add lingerie and sex toys to the gift shop was overruled, but otherwise the brothers sold everything they could think of. Guests pampered themselves and enjoyed the incomparable setting. Those in the know understood it was Yia-yia's service that really mattered. Yia-yia could help you get pregnant.

Eleni was technically her father's heir and a co-owner of the resort. Practically, her uncles had no intention of granting her a passive interest in their enterprise -- she would have to work for it alongside them and their mother or give it up. She was undecided about staying on -- she was still considering graduate school (but what would that get her?) -- and meanwhile learning the business.

After Richard left the terrace, Eleni regretted unloading on him. It was unprofessional, and despite her accusation, Pandemos would not actually lose money on his stay. Even his reduced rate would cover his meals and sticking him in her tiny room for a week cost the resort nothing. She and Yia-yia bore the inconvenience. In fact, if he drank enough, Pandemos might even come out ahead. At the early dinner seating she felt a twinge of guilt when she spied him at an obviously improvised table, by himself, without a view. She brought him a brandy sour. "On me, okay?" He looked at it, then at her, trying to interpret the gesture. "Welcome to Pandemos, Mr. Pratt. My name is Eleni Vitalis. I'm sorry I overreacted this morning."

Richard tested the rapprochement by returning to the bar after supper. Eleni was there and not very busy. Mostly, she filled orders from the dining room that showed up on her tablet. When Richard sat down at his usual table, she caught his eye and pointed to a stool at the bar. "Promise I won't bite," she said.

He moved to the stool. "Dinner was good," he said. It seemed a safe topic. "What was the stew?"

"Lamb, but the chef sneaks in some goat, and Zivania for flavor. She's Bulgarian but trained in Athens and Lyon. She's too good for a fertility spa in the middle of nowhere, so I'm sure we'll lose her."

"So this really is all about babies, huh?" Richard gestured at the resort around him. "But I see men, too."

Eleni shrugged. "Some women bring their husbands, some don't. The ones who do wear out the beds. If you believe it's the location that's magic -- the air or water or vibes, whatever -- well, then, yeah, you go for it while you're here. Yia-yia says it doesn't matter; you can come, get a consult, a treatment, have a nice time without your husband, then go home and wear out the bed."

"What's a treatment?"

She tsked and wagged a finger. "Family secrets. Only Yia-yia knows. She wants to teach me, but..." She paused to check her tablet. "Anyway, she does a bunch of things." She poured him half a shot of dark red liquid from an unlabeled bottle. "Try that. That's Zivania; it was in the lamb." She would have to stop giving him free drinks but figured he should try it. The half-shot burned Richard's throat and made his eyes water. He couldn't speak for a moment. Eleni watched him, proud of her Zivania. "Everybody serves it, all over Cyprus, but that's old Zivania, the real thing." Richard thanked her once he could speak. Not long after, she closed the bar.

Then next morning he tried another of the trails after breakfast, then showered and brought his laptop to the terrace. He tried to work but found himself watching the guests -- most of the women were older but attractive and some blithely shed their tops as the sun warmed the terrace. The view of the sea was just as distracting. Eleni observed him staring and remarked, "The view's so good it makes you stupid." She joined him gazing for a moment. "Eventually you get used to it." Just before lunch, Yia-yia reappeared and seeing him at a table, began hectoring Eleni. Evidently, she was still annoyed. They argued. Richard hoped Eleni was defending him. After she broke off the exchange she glanced at Richard. "I told her you were okay. She says you could be a nice boy, but right now you're still a donkey."

"A donkey?"

"Well, 'asshole' is a better translation. Don't worry, she'll get over it."

Richard looked over at Yia-yia and flashed his winningest smile. "I'm here for my treatment!" he called with a laugh. Eleni translated. Yia-yia shook her fist and entered the office. Moments later she returned with two glasses of liquid, one dark, the other colorless. She snatched a smoothie from Eleni, emptied half of it, then gave her an order in Greek. Eleni complied by pouring some vodka into the smoothie. Then Yia-yia dumped in the contents of her two glasses and marched over to Richard's table. She plunked the smoothie on his table with a snarl and a Greek epithet.

Richard looked at Eleni, who translated, "She says here's your treatment. Except she used a bad word." Yia-yia's dark eyes scowled at him. Eleni cautioned, "I wouldn't drink it..." even as Richard gulped it defiantly. He had barely set the glass down and wiped his mouth before he passed out.

"I told you not to drink it," Eleni said when Richard came to three hours later. He felt awful, as though he'd been in a fight and lost, and was hung over to boot. His body was stiff and ached if he moved; his head was worse -- it throbbed whether he moved or not. He was in his room on the twin bed, naked under a sheet. The room was dim, that or his eyes were failing. "For a while there I thought we lost you," Eleni said from a seat by the bed. "Yia-yia wouldn't let me call an ambulance. She said by the time they got here you'd either be fine or dead. Uncle Tony even checked our insurance...not for the ambulance; in case you died."

"What did she give me?" Richard asked weakly.

Eleni ignored the question. "Why would you drink it? What were you thinking?"

"What was she thinking?"

"Yeah, well, Yia-yia said she was sorry. She thought you wouldn't drink it, or even if you took a sip, you'd just throw up. She examined you. She doesn't understand why you didn't throw up. How do you feel?" Richard moaned and closed his eyes. "No sleeping! Yia-yia said if you woke up you have to stay awake!" When Richard did not respond, she leaned over and shook him. He groaned, but his eyes fluttered open.

For the next couple of hours, Eleni kept Richard awake. She talked about her life -- in LA, Miami, Nicosia -- and tried to get him to talk about his. She talked about the resort and asked him about his work. She learned he was an architect with a job waiting for him in New York and was a little envious -- she liked New York. She told him the history of Pandemos, what she knew of it. She held forth, in a colorful detour, on Yia-yia's philosophy which, in English, boiled down to the difference between copulation and fucking. 'Fuck' was a transitive verb -- something you did to someone: 'he fucked her'... 'she fucked him' -- or a vulgar epithet: 'Fuck you!" Copulation, on the other hand, was intransitive, a joint enterprise -- 'they copulated' -- with a clear purpose: making babies. Yia-yia and Pandemos were all about making babies: copulation, and that was practically sacred. Eleni also talked about her mother ["Mom used to say her life was a Joni Mitchell song; Met a redneck on a Grecian isle who did the goat dance very well; he gave me back my smile, but he kept my camera to sell..."]; her father ["Papa hated Joni Mitchell and said he never stole anyone's camera..."]; and her uncles ["They have me filling in for a bartender all this week, and they tell me it's a vacation..."]. Eventually, Yia-yia returned to check on him. She was nicer than before and asked him about his orchis, which Eleni translated as 'eggs.' When Richard gave her a puzzled look, she clarified. "Your balls. Do they hurt?" In fact, his balls were killing him. They ached like they'd been crushed -- he could hardly move without pain -- but he preferred not to admit it and said only, "I'm okay."