One Summer in Crete

by Nadia Marks

  Keith didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sat thoughtfully, holding her hands in both of his.

  ‘Listen, Eleni mou,’ he replied after a pause. He took a deep breath and lifted her hands to his lips. ‘I don’t know what you think of this, but if you really are so set on knowing . . .’ He faltered again for a moment before he came out with what he was thinking. ‘Consider this . . . old Pavlis is Kosmas’s brother, he is Kosmas’s kin and his only relation. If you really are so desperate to know . . . you can find out if Kosmas is your father through a DNA test. It’s easy enough.’ Eleni made no sound; she sat staring at Keith, mouth ajar. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t bother,’ he smiled, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but it’s your choice.’

  She remained motionless, holding her husband’s hands, unable to respond. Perhaps I should, she eventually thought. It would be the logical course of action if she was so troubled by uncertainty. Then she would know once and for all and could stop obsessing. But the thought was not comforting; confusion clouded her mind again. Keith sat with her hands in his, waiting for her to speak. She looked visibly distressed. Suddenly she stood up. ‘No, I don’t think so!’ she burst out. ‘It’s too risky . . .’ She looked shocked. ‘I mean, I don’t know . . . and what about Froso?’

  ‘You are a woman of intuition and you have always claimed that the women in your family were so gifted, too; am I right?’ His voice was low and soothing as he reached up and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her left eye with one hand, and then gently stroked her cheek. ‘You, my love,’ he went on softly, ‘you have always claimed that your intuitive powers were strong, remember? You have always told me you knew exactly when Calli and Alex were conceived. You are forever boasting of knowing the moment of conception . . . True?’ Eleni nodded as Keith continued. ‘Well then, why are you tormenting yourself and doubting Froso, who also has consistently said she too knows of the moment you were conceived; shouldn’t you perhaps believe her? Everybody else seems to have done so. Didn’t you say old Pavlis told you he had never doubted you were his brother’s child?’

  ‘He did, and he said I had his eyes,’ she murmured. ‘He showed me a photograph, but I couldn’t tell from that – he was just a boy . . .’

  ‘Well . . . maybe you should just leave it alone and believe what you are told . . .’

  Keith pulled himself up to face her and took her in his arms. ‘You don’t have to decide anything now, my love, and you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want.’

  By the time husband and wife started walking back to the house the sun had started to sink; a faint aroma of honey lingered in the warm air, carried by the breeze from the hills. She leaned on his arm and they walked at a leisurely pace, without words. They found Froso, Calli and Alex sitting in the garden with Nicos and Michalis, drinking coffee and eating baklava, evidently waiting for them. At the sight of them Nicos leapt to his feet and made towards Keith.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said warmly, striding towards him with an outstretched arm. ‘I was told you would be here soon.’ He looked at Eleni and shook Keith’s hand eagerly. ‘So glad that we meet at last.’

  The small family reunion that gathered in Froso’s garden that afternoon soon began to turn into a much larger festive gathering. As always, when family members returned to the village from abroad, they had to be welcomed by family and friends in true Cretan spirit. Costis, Chrysanthi and their children were the first to arrive with food, and then one by one others followed. At some point Michalis was assigned by Froso to go and fetch old Pavlis in his car. ‘And while you are at it,’ Costis called out to him as he was leaving, ‘bring your harp and violin so we can sing and dance tonight. We have much to celebrate.’

  As on so many other summer nights over the years, the famous family hospitality surrounded them, much to the relief of Keith and Alex, who had feared that this visit to the village might be less than the cheerful affair that usually greeted their arrival. Once again, they were reminded that even in a crisis on this island, food, song and dance were always the best antidotes to a problem.

  The conversation between husband and wife that afternoon was not mentioned again; Eleni knew Keith was right. If she had always trusted her own female intuition, why in God’s name wouldn’t she trust Froso’s?

  The raki flowed and the dancing and singing continued till late, and Nicos took the opportunity to talk to Keith about Calli, who then in turn told her father of her joy at finally finding happiness and love again with a good man.

  Michalis and one of the uncles were in full swing playing a soulful melody, and young and old were dancing. Eleni was sitting close to old Pavlis, holding his hand and talking to him. They had much to catch up on, there was so much she wanted to know; nothing would ever be the same again for any of them. Froso was sitting with Keith and Alex openly enjoying talking with her son-in law and her only grandson. She had much to feel happy about. The heavy weight she had been carrying in her heart all through her life had finally lifted and felt much lighter now, and there was also the news of the spring wedding to add to her joy.

  Nicos had his arms tightly wrapped around Calli’s waist when he started to lead her towards the garden gate.

  ‘Look up at the sky, my love,’ he said, pointing above them. She turned her head and through the branches of the olive tree a yellow moon was playing hide and seek between the shimmering leaves. ‘It’s full tonight,’ he said and ushered her even closer to the gate. ‘Let’s head to the beach,’ he breathed in her ear, ‘no one will miss us for a while.’

  They stepped quietly onto the road and ran towards the empty shore, guided by moonlight, its luminosity making the lemons and oranges on the trees and the prickly pears on the cactus bushes glow as if sprinkled with gold dust. They arrived at the sea’s edge out of breath, took off their shoes and plunged their naked feet into the cool surf. Turning their faces to the sky, they looked at the source of light above them, looming as huge and red as that other moon Calli had gazed upon with awe at the beginning of her summer.

  ‘It’s almost as big and red as the blood moon,’ she said and reached for his hand.

  ‘This is the harvest moon,’ Nicos said as he pulled her closer. She looked up at the sky again and wondered what this moon might bring. The last one, as she had been promised by Maya, had brought change and joy, and sadness too, but above all it had brought her boundless love.

  She turned her eyes to Nicos. He smiled, and his eyes glistened in the moonlight; he bent and softly kissed her lips. She leaned her head on his shoulder and let out a gentle sigh. ‘Thank you, Raphael,’ she murmured and lifted her arms to the sky.

  Acknowledgements

  As always, I’d like to thank my agent and dear friend Dorie Simmonds for her constant guidance and support, my editor Caroline Hogg at Pan Macmillan, Samantha Fletcher and Nicole Foster for their incredibly keen eye for detail and Anne Boston for my first draft edit.

  I would also like to say a big thanks and express my gratitude to my friends Roberto and Serena Dalfini for their hospitality in their home in Crete and for tirelessly taking me around the island while researching this book. They showed me a Crete that no visitor could ever have discovered unaided. I’m grateful to my friends Andrew Jacovides and Bruce Thomson for alerting me to the wonders of Ikaria and Pam Bertschinger for sharing some of her Ikarian experiences.

  Finally, I give thanks to Raphael, and to two marvellous Greek Cypriot women, my friends Maro and Aegli, for sharing some of their inspiring knowledge and wisdom with me.

  Read on for an extract of Between the Orange Groves by Nadia Marks – an emotional and sweeping historical novel spanning decades in the lives of two families from different religions on the island of Cyprus . . .

  Prologue

  London, 2008

  ‘There never was a more loving friendship than ours . . .’ Lambros said, his eyes filling with the memory. ‘Nowhere on the island could you find such good friends as the two of us, despite our differenc
es. Orhan and I would do anything for each other, we were family . . . we were like brothers. How could we let our friendship perish like that? It’s unforgivable!’

  Stella sat silently, listening to her father talk. She had heard these stories of love and friendship repeated many times over the years but she never tired of hearing them. She took pleasure in his tales from a far-off country, marvelling at the bond that had so closely tied those two boys and their families together. From a place and a past that was opening up to her through his words. Yet in contrast to the pleasure she received from her father’s stories, the melancholy of recounting them invariably ended with the old man shedding tears of sadness.

  Father and daughter were sitting in the garden among the roses, basking in the sun on an unusually hot day in early June. Stella had come to visit him. This was her favourite month and even on days when the sun didn’t grace them with an appearance, nature always did her best. This peaceful garden in north London was bright with flowers and sweet-smelling herbs, thanks to the hours Lambros spent tending them.

  She came to visit her father often now that Athina, her mother, was gone, even though she knew he could cope perfectly well on his own. While her mother was alive her parents had always been busy, forever dashing off to something or other. It had been a constant source of frustration that they were less available for her than she would have liked them to be. She missed the old family house in the leafy London suburb favoured by many Cypriots and where her parents made their home when they first got married. She and her brother had been born there, her own children spent most of their pre-school days there with their yiayia when Stella was working. She missed her mother, she missed having little children, she missed the old days. Now that her father was alone she enjoyed recalling some of those times with him. Her visits gave them the chance to talk of the past, to remember. Lambros especially needed more than ever to recapture his youth, his friendships, a time of innocence and love, before he came to England, before he married and had a family . . . before he became someone else.

  Stella had grown up with her father’s stories from his youth but these days she was hearing them more often.

  ‘We have to do something about it,’ she told her brother one day while the two of them had lunch together. ‘Honestly, Spiros, all he talks about when I see him now is Orhan. He remembers the old times, their youth, and what happened – and then he cries. What could have happened that was so bad to make an old man cry like that?’ Stella looked at her brother.

  ‘I know . . .’ Spiros replied, ‘I noticed it too and can’t imagine. You’ve got to get him to talk about it; he’d tell you.’ He gave Stella a little smile. ‘You’re good at that.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking we should try and find him, bring the old men together.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Spiros mused. ‘Since Mum died he talks about Orhan and the past a lot. Do you think he’s a bit depressed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s depressed, I just think he is very sad, and that’s why I think we could try and find Orhan. You never know, he might still be alive.’

  ‘He’s the same age as Dad, isn’t he?’ said Spiros, reaching for his glass of wine. ‘Eighty-something isn’t so old, especially for these old Cypriot boys.’

  The next time Stella went to visit her father he had just made himself a Turkish coffee and was about to carry it out to the garden. She let herself in and announced her arrival from the hall, hoping he could hear her – he was getting quite deaf these days, but since his hearing was apparently the only faculty that was failing him so far, no one was too worried. ‘I hear what I need to hear,’ he would tell them.

  ‘Yiasou, Papa!’ she called out cheerfully. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, much louder than usual.

  ‘In here . . . in the kitchen,’ his reply came immediately. ‘And no need to shout, the whole street knows you’re here now,’ he added with a chuckle.

  The French windows leading into the garden were wide open, flooding the room with light, and Stella could see the newspaper spread out on the garden table outside where Lambros had been sitting.

  ‘Come, I’ll make you some coffee too,’ he said, putting down his cup and picking up the bricky to make another. ‘You like it sketo don’t you?’ he asked and pulled a face. ‘How can you drink it without any sugar at all? Far too bitter for me . . . but then you ladies are always watching your figures . . .’ he chatted on, glad to see her.

  Once again Stella joined her dad in his fragrant summer garden with a plate of sesame biscuits she had bought from the Cypriot patisserie. Sitting down, she allowed him to transport her back in time to a world of people she could only imagine, yet which over the years had become as real as the world she lived in now.

  Cyprus, 1946

  The light summer breeze carried the call for evening prayer over the rooftops along the narrow streets of Nicosia to the two young men’s ears. Lambros and Orhan had been taking a stroll inside the walled city after studying all day when the muezzin’s voice announced that the sun had started to set, so it was time for the faithful to remember Allah once more and make their way to the mosque for prayer.

  ‘Is that the time already?’ Orhan turned to his friend, incredulous at how late it was. ‘I thought it was much earlier,’ he added, as they turned left into a side street towards the mosque.

  ‘It must be something to do with my stimulating conversation,’ Lambros said jokingly, ‘or maybe because it’s high summer.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I thought it was much earlier too.’

  No matter where he was, or with whom, the Turkish boy, Orhan, always observed the prayer five times a day. More often than not, the two friends were taking their customary stroll together when evening prayer was called. The Greek boy, Lambros, was always glad to accompany his friend to the mosque and wait outside, guarding his shoes while the other prayed. Although one was Christian and the other Muslim, the two young men shared a deep friendship based on mutual respect and love for one another despite their different faiths.

  ‘Don’t you ever get mixed up with all of these shoes here?’ Lambros pointed at the sea of footwear outside the mosque when Orhan re-emerged. ‘I often wonder if anyone ever makes a mistake and walks off with someone else’s . . .’ He added, ‘There are so many of them and they’re all so alike.’

  ‘You, my friend, might get mixed up but I do not,’ Orhan retorted while doing up his laces. ‘I’m well acquainted with my shoes – maybe you have too many to remember them all?’

  ‘I think you know well enough that’s not true . . .’ Lambros replied, pretending to be offended, but aware that his friend’s remark bore an element of truth. His family’s apparent wealth bothered him only if it meant that it might set the two of them apart. Lambros’s family was indeed quite well off; his father and uncle were the owners of the local bakery and general store which supplied the neighbourhood and beyond with bread and groceries, while Orhan’s family lived less comfortably. But the disparity between the households hadn’t always been there.

  The two boys, born in the spring of 1928 in a remote village in the Troodos Mountains to the west of the island, had begun life quite differently. Orhan’s father, Hassan Terzi, was a master tailor with a thriving business while Lambros’s father, Andreas Constandinou, owned a small and meagre general store in the village.

  Hassan was the only decent tailor for miles, continuing in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. His reputation had travelled as far as Paphos, the third largest town on the island, supplying the entire male population of his own and most of the surrounding villages with his handmade suits, shirts and overcoats. Andreas Constandinou, on the other hand, had to compete for his living with the municipal market and local farmers.

  ‘The only way to make a proper living is to leave this village,’ Andreas would often complain to his wife Maroula. ‘If we want to prosper and provide for our children we need to go to Nicosia.’ His grandfather owned a plot of land outside the city walls of the ca
pital and Savvas, Andreas’s older brother, who had been living and working away from the village for years and was now running a successful business in Nicosia, was always asking them to join him there.

  ‘Savvas’s business is thriving and I could be part of it,’ Andreas would try to convince his wife. ‘He has already started to build a house and we can all live together, we can give our children a better future there.’ But Maroula was reluctant. She was happy in the village. She had no complaints or ambition for wealth. Her boy Lambros and her daughter Anastasia were growing up nicely out here in the country. The big city alarmed her. The children were still young, though it didn’t stop her worrying about their future, especially the girl’s. A daughter had to be provided with a dowry if they were to find her a good husband and Maroula was more than happy to help to supplement the family’s income.

  ‘God will provide, Andreas, there’s no rush. We’re managing, aren’t we?’ she would argue. ‘We have enough to eat and I’m not frightened of work.’ Maroula was a good seamstress and was able to take in sewing work which Hassan made sure came her way regularly.

  ‘God bless him and all his family,’ she would tell her husband when another garment came into the house for alterations. ‘We couldn’t wish for better friends, Andreas. If we lived in the city would we have such good neighbours?’