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Risk Taking



N A VERY NICE RESTAURANT IN ATHENS, A DISTINGUISHED-LOOKING GENTLEMAN WITH A SILVER MUSTACHE INTERRUPTED MY DINNER. The baby, in a plastic carrying seat, had banana all over his eyelashes and the recently renovated lip. Almost half of what went into his mouth dribbled out his nostrils. The man, with fingers as big as cigars, handed me his card: Michael Comninos, Attorney-at-Law. He towered over me, a well-fed-looking fellow, weighing about three times more than I did. “My brother, “ he said, in perfect English, “is the gynecologist to the queen.”

I wondered which queen he was talking about since I knew Papadopoulos had declared Greece a republic. Shamefully, I knew little about the history of Greece let alone its politics. All those royal names meant very little to me, unless they were on the pages of the National Enquirer; which I occasionally picked up in the supermarket check-out. Everybody in Europe seemed to claim some kind of royal heritage or they had married their third cousin, twice removed, or one or both of their grandmothers was somehow related to Queen Victoria; multiple marriages, sometimes forced for financial reasons- such as a dukedom for a parcel of land or a lake.
“Are you crazy?” she asked, when I told her of the invitation. “Those people could throw you off the boat in the middle of the Aegean and who would know? If they’re going to Turkey they could use you to smuggle drugs…

“You look like you need a break,” he continued. “We’re leaving for Turkey tomorrow and we’d love to have you come along. Why not come to the marina and see if you’re up for it? The owner of the yacht is the third richest woman in the world! I take care of all her legal affairs. She’s my only client and I’ll be there all afternoon. So come.” On the back of his business card he wrote the boat slip number.

I was running out of money and a little sick of living out of a suitcase. I’d just spent a harrowing week on a cruise ship in a cubby just big enough for a German Shepherd, and I still hadn’t found my sea legs. The sidewalk insisted on lurching with some inner ear disturbance from all the pitching and rolling. I was starting to miss my boyfriend, Paul. He had a way of keeping me in line, not that I needed it, of course. I think he liked me because I was a somewhat prissy. A Manhattan or two before dinner was all I could handle, just enough to make me a little outgoing, a bon vivant. I liked having a good time. He didn’t talk much, but was a good listener. If he knew I was even thinking of going off with some stranger, he would positively plotz.. “Rich people put their pants on one leg at a time.”, he’d once remarked... Those were the best kind to scam. The more money they had, the more they wanted more. Paul was a con man and good at it.

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About rachel cann

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I'm avoiding some editing of a memoir but reading instead a book about the Churchills.


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