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In early February 2022, Daphne traveled to Ukraine to join her lover, a farmer who had inherited his uncle’s farm; a good catch, ambitious and promising. They had met the previous summer; she, a beautiful waitress at the Zeus hotel in the tourist town of Platamon; he, a handsome and newly rich man, having succeeded, with some baksheesh, in evading taxes.
They fell in love at first sight. A burning, devouring love. But while the young man's love grew to the point of haunting him day and night, Daphne's love slowly faded. It must be said that Daphne's future was getting darker. Towards the end of the tourist season, the owner of the Hotel Zeus had laid her off: the COVID crisis, the economic crisis, inflation, the budgetary restrictions, and also fatigue, all led him to close his establishment. Zeus is fed up, he says, so we close the Olympus.
It was as an unemployed woman at the end of her legal career that Daphne had arrived in the eastern Ukraine, to a village near Poltava. The train journey was long and had given her plenty of time to think about her future. A life as a farmer, wife of a farmer exporting his wheat all over the world, mother of beautiful children, a simple life of work, projects and love. Of course, she knew nothing about farming, but she would learn. Of course she knew nothing about love, but she would face it. Of course, she knew nothing about the land.
She found her lover on the station platform. In the flow of travelers rushing to get home, they kissed and embraced, forming one being, cemented in love, a motionless block of time, resisting the waves of the crowd. Daphne was happy, happier than she had ever been, and ever would be again.
Forty days later, Daphne walks through the vast wheat field, alone. She has not had time to get married, she and her lover have barely been able to sketch out a plan. She is now like a stranger, alone in a house that is not her own, uprooted. He went to war. They say he died a hero, but we know that he committed suicide out of despair; war is not for lovers, it is for men. Only men kill for duty and pleasure, it is the mothers who suffer.
She crosses the golden field towards a large laurel tree which reminds her of her native Thessaly. She raises her eyes to the sky, weeps for her lost love which has disappeared forever: “I danced like the pythia of Delphi believing I was telling the future but I only saw mirages. Each day that passed was a descent into hell. The golden arrows were followed by a rain of lead arrows. I knew nothing of life but false promises, fake news and the illusion of truth”.
A breath of wind makes the wheat field shiver and Daphne melts into the laurel. It is the great puppeteer of Olympus who, tired of human tragedy, in a whisper, decides to save only her.
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