by Polis Loizou
When they reached his place, she stopped the car. Then she put her hand on his knee. They sat there for a minute, unspeaking.
‘Eva…’ he began, not knowing where he would end.
She nodded. ‘I know.’
‘It’s only that Paris…’
She turned, startled.
Now that he’d started, he may as well finish. ‘I think he likes you. It makes things a bit difficult for me.’
He bit his tongue. This was wrong. But there was some truth in his words. He’d suspected for a while that Paris might have feelings for Eva, despite his socialism and her entire way of being. But he had no claim on his friend’s emotions, no right to use him as a chip. He tried to backtrack, to reform his stance. Blamed his reluctance on the fact that her father owned the hotel. It would complicate things at work, he didn’t want others crying nepotism. He wished to succeed on his own merit, not because he was seeing the boss’ daughter. The rumours would affect them all. It wasn’t fair.
She smiled a thin but warm smile and squeezed his knee in thanks. ‘You’re too nice. But you need to start thinking of yourself.’
His cheeks burned. ‘E, I’m learning.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Stick with me and you’ll pick it up. You’ll always have a Ioannidou looking out for you.’
He stood by his father’s garage and watched as she drove away through the shambles of his neighbourhood.
He wouldn’t go back inside. Not yet.
Eleven
If his grandma had still been alive, they’d have done seven churches on Good Friday. It had been a sacred duty to kiss the reclining Jesus at seven altars, in seven houses of God. Orestis had assumed they’d at least try, if only for the first Easter since her death, to honour the tradition. But he and his father had managed two churches in the district before pulling over at a bakery for tachinopita. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll get fat?’ his father said, sesame paste at the corners of his mouth. It was the nearest he’d got to a joke. But there, sitting in the car by the beach, Orestis had given in to his hunger. The fast was almost over, the pastry was vegan, he was due a treat.
By nightfall, his father had no intention of leaving the sofa. Orestis set out alone to the nearest church. A group of men carried Jesus from the altar to the grounds outside. He fell into step with the other mourners to follow the procession around the neighbourhood. They passed the pre-war bungalows, where jasmine curled around iron gates. Elderly women got to their feet from plastic white veranda chairs. The smoke from the priest’s censer drifted to their bowed heads.
Then it was Saturday, almost midnight on Sunday, and Christ was due to rise. Orestis and his father stood outside the church, too late to claim a seat indoors. The sky was already black. A bunch of youths tossed twigs onto the unlit bonfire, while others around them huddled with their hand-painted candles and protective foil. There came a ripple through the crowd. Rolling out from the doors of the church, a wave of hope and smiles. Of Christ is risen, and Truly he is risen, as strangers lit each other’s candles and spread the holy light. The priest’s chant soared to the heavens in thanks. Christ was risen.
✽✽✽
The swimmer returned to the beach. On the last few sightings at the hotel he’d been hidden under winter coats, so to see his flesh was akin to seeing his true form. As he bathed, Orestis watched like a hunter. The man’s physical perfection – his abs, that V at his groin – pricked a primal fear.
The swimmer walked out of the sea. His calves dragged the shallow water, his stomach spasmed from the shock of the air. He was already looking at Orestis when the latter spoke.
‘Aren’t you cold?’
The other man didn’t even blink. ‘You get used to it.’
Orestis had spoken in Cypriot dialect, but the man had responded with a Greek inflexion. He felt suddenly nervous.
The swimmer carried on: ‘Go in, it’s fine.’
‘A, it’s OK. I’m going back to work in a bit.’
‘You work at the hotel?’
‘Yeah, the Front Desk.’
Those green-gold eyes opened wide. ‘A yeah, that’s where I’ve seen you.’ He offered his hand. ‘Lefteris.’
Orestis shook it and gave his name, too. Not long into their chat, his break was over, so they said their goodbyes. Orestis glanced behind him as he walked the path back to routine. The swimmer had stretched out on a towel to coat his tan with another layer.
For his next early shift, Orestis wore a pair of black swimming trunks beneath his uniform. He’d scoured the city for just the thing, and averted his eyes from the card machine as he bought it. An investment. It transformed him into the sort of man who goes for a swim after work. The confidence lent him a physical ease, or so he hoped: that fluidity and certainty of the cellist. The swimmer – Lefteris – was as controlled as she was. Cypriot, but with speech tuned to a Greek lilt. Few gesticulations. Self-control. This was his power; the force that drew the lonely women who never had to work for anything.
On the beach, Orestis removed his shoes, a sweet relief. The palm fronds swayed above. He removed his uniform, as airborne grains of sand nipped at his body. He cursed himself for not getting changed in the poolside cubicles. It hadn’t seemed appropriate for an employee to parade himself through the grounds.
His stomach could have done with more definition, otherwise, he was acceptable. He adjusted himself so that the trunks justified their expense.
Lefteris wasn’t there.
Orestis should’ve come on his break, and used the pool shower afterwards. Trembling, he forced himself into the water and floated, shivered, till his muscles and bones and skin relaxed. How clear the water was, even in a city full of cars. For a moment he allowed himself simply to lie on the surface, eyes closed, to be held by the water. A baptism. The River Jordan. His grandma asleep in her gown in the grave.
In the distance, there was a yacht. Too far out for him to make anyone out, but he watched the figures walking around on it, shrieking and leaping from it, splashing about in the water around it. Kissing on it. Touching.
He’d drifted too far. He pulled himself towards the shore again, feet kicking up plumes of sand. Felt the gaining emptiness as he stood up and walked out of the sea, its sweet clear water trickling off and away.
Standing in the shade of the eucalyptus trees was a man. Thanos.
The manager looked him up and down with that curious expression of his. His eyes darted back from the wet black trunks.
Orestis bent to grab his towel. ‘Hello,’ he said, not meeting the manager’s eye.
‘Good time for a swim.’
‘Yes, it’s a good temperature.’ Orestis could almost hear his dad: Listen to you. Like a Greek fag.
‘I’m glad you’re taking the time to relax. You work hard, Orestis. Don’t think I don’t notice.’ There was a weight to his tone.
‘Thank you,’ said Orestis.
‘You’re doing well here. Carry on doing well.’
‘Of course.’
The manager looked away, leaving Orestis to grab his things. His heart, his hands, shuddered. He took the path towards the poolside changing rooms. Thanos stayed behind to stare out at the sea; at the orange buoys wobbling on the crests of the waves, and at the yacht where silhouetted figures were moving, parting, intertwining, having the time of their lives.
Orestis tried again, this time on his lunch break. Through the foliage on the edge of the lawn, he caught Lefteris in the water. The men waved at each other.
‘I’m coming in!’
More eager than he’d intended. As he stripped off his uniform and packed it neatly into his bag, he was aware of eyes on him, real or imagined, but he forced himself to breathe. He trod into the sea, and Lefteris laughed at his flinch when the cool waves slapped his legs. Soon he was immersed. And within touching distance of a perfect being. It was oddly thrilling. To watch the contours and angles of Lefteris’ body arching and writhing into and out of the water. To know
that a body could be like this. To see what existence could be. The man was a creature of the deep, as part of its ebb and flow as seaweed. Orestis felt the urge to touch him. To feel against his palm this extraordinary thing.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘Lefkosia,’ And, anticipating the follow-up question, Lefteris added: ‘I moved here for the sea.’
There followed a tad more info, the bits of peel he discarded to allow Orestis a glimpse. The guy was born rich, it made sense. He’d never needed a job, completed his Army service, studied in England — Brighton, he said, good for gigs and clubs — before coming back to resume a stress-free life. Of course, he’d been to a private international school. He’d spent much of his adulthood at functions, on red carpets, snapped for gossip weeklies next to TV stars in his circle. Droplets of water hung from his lashes. It was hard for Orestis to look him in the eye. Too easy to imagine the body before him in various states, with nameless women, maybe even men. Orestis would never be worth an inch of this being.
And then it struck him: the end of his break.
‘I still have to shower!’
Lefteris shrugged and said with a grin, ‘They’ll manage for a few more minutes.’ Part of Orestis wanted to stay, to hell with work and duties. But he trudged away. There would be hours and days of this soon, just him and Lefteris bobbing in their own bubble of time, the need for work a distant, repulsive memory.
From the sea, Lefteris called out: ‘I’m going to a party on a boat this Friday. Come.’
Refusal was not an option.
Thankfully, he had no need to change his shift. The minute he got back to the Front Desk, showered and clothed but still tingling with salt, Yiorgos asked if he could do an early on Friday instead. Orestis allowed a moment’s hesitation before nodding.
‘Oof!’ said Svetlana, looking outside. ‘We will drown.’
A sudden downpour thumped at the windows. They all stood still for a moment, watching the water that burst and slithered on the glass, hearing the rumblings in the sky. The sky was a violet rage. The tourists gathered to gawp. Orestis had the odd sensation that all of this was for him. This pulsating weather, this clash of colours. A door had been opened.
✽✽✽
It was a given he’d stand out, for all the wrong reasons; non-brand shoes, cheap watch, schooling. Dressed in a cut-price imitation of Lefteris – dark jeans, white shirt, light jacket – he gave himself a pep talk. A strong fragrance, something manly, aquatic, would really set the look off, but he couldn’t bring himself to shell out for those French-named scents at the Debenhams counters. Not yet. His usual Axe would do. He hadn’t been to a party in years, never to one on a boat. He wouldn’t show up in his car. Either leave it somewhere out of sight and walk or take a cab. He appraised himself again.
Who cared what those rich people sipping champagne would think of him?
Just in case, he’d worn his lucky underwear.
He parked near the St Raphael resort and walked down to its marina, where the sun was already sinking pink into the sea. Of all the yachts only one was lit, but it showed no signs of a party. Orestis worried he might be early, so he spent a few minutes pacing the beach. Rows of empty white chairs sat with their umbrellas closed, asleep, and the sea rolled darkly out to the horizon. To think of all the vessels that skimmed its surface, the millions of fish and mammals and crustaceans beneath it… There was so much of the world he could never know or see. Tears came to his eyes. Infinite possibilities, too many for a single person in a single lifetime to catch, were better than none. If it made him feel smaller, good. For if there was a higher power – if not God then something else; Nature, Energy – it was a comfort to imagine that his fate was not his burden. That he might already be cradled in a future security he didn’t yet know. Kismet is a fantasy, Paris always said. Things were random, not designed. It was man’s own actions that impacted his self, and those around him, and those far removed from him. Where Orestis saw an open field, Paris saw a forest of thorns.
Without his watch, Orestis had no clue of the time so he hurried back to the marina just in case. He kept his back straight, took a few deep breaths and, pleased by the bulk of his arms, trod across the dock. Smoking on the deck of a yacht was Lefteris. The man waved at him, flicked his cigarette into the water, and invited him up.
‘Handsome devil,’ Lefteris said with a whistle.
Orestis laughed. And no sooner had he grabbed onto the railing and heard the splash of water between vessel and dock below his feet than he understood what this evening was. His head filled with air, his eyes with dots of colour.
Kostas would lose his shit.
Lefteris, smelling of flowers and leather, threw his arm around Orestis and led him through the glass doors.
In the lounge, they were greeted first by the hostess, in English. ‘Welcome!’
There was a glossy white bar with chrome-and-turquoise stools. A large flat TV on the walls. A bracket of plush white sofas bearing three women and another young man.
‘Hello,’ he said to the hostess. ‘Thank you for having me.’
She kissed him on both cheeks. The women all looked forty or over, all foreign. One had a Russian accent. Orestis didn’t process their names, his heartbeat overrode the chat. The other guy was Cypriot too, but fair-haired and blue-eyed. He seemed already acquainted with the women, or at least one of them, one with Germanic looks who swept her hand through his hair as they laughed. The hostess offered drinks. He thought better of asking for Keo. She mixed him a whiskey and Coke at the bar while Lefteris bantered. Not knowing what to say or where to look, Orestis let his eyes wander. They stumbled on the other woman, the Russian. She’d been watching him. They said nothing to each other, but she cast her eyes down and sipped her drink as if she knew something he didn’t.
‘I have seen you already…’ said the host, pointing at Orestis.
Before he could respond, Lefteris jumped in: ‘He’s a model.’
‘Ooh! Very nice.’
‘He poses for artists, too. Maybe you know someone…?’
‘Of course! I know many!’
Orestis shivered. When Lefteris grinned at him, he had no idea what it meant.
Over the next hour or so, thanks to the whiskey or the new identity, he began to feel more at ease. On land, he was Orestis the servant, on the boat he was Orestis the muse. At intervals he suspected he might be mistaken; this was just a party, they were all here to enjoy each other’s company, nothing more. Except that the only thing they had in common was the English language. The other two men were by far the more fluent. Their American-accented flow betrayed a lifetime of private schools. Tipsy, Orestis was loose enough to mention his mother’s background, which made the Russian woman look at him with interest. The host regaled them with stories of her trips to London. She was large, long wavy hair like tentacles over a bust he couldn’t help but glance at. In her bountiful fizz was a trace of the egomaniac. And the woman who stroked the blonde man’s thigh, she had the eyes of a hopeful girl in her tightened face. As if Lefteris and his friends might surprise her somehow, disprove what she knew of men.
If the bands on their fingers weren’t proof enough, the women dropped mentions of their spouses. The Russian was mostly quiet, and when she spoke her voice was low. Orestis watched her, the sharp jawline and the deep black eyes, the long nose in profile over those mysteriously curled lips. Hers was a slender body, thinner than he’d normally go for, with a dancer’s elegant strength.
Suddenly he knew: he was her match. Lefteris had got cosy with his arm around the hostess as she laughed apple-cheeked at a story she was telling. The fair guy’s eyes had gone catlike, pupils dilated as the woman next to him squeezed his thigh. Orestis’ heartbeat quickened. The Russian got up from her seat, cutting his breath. She let herself out onto the deck. With caution, he followed her outside.
Did she also feel nauseous? Maybe they’d both committed to something beyond their grasp. Outside in the
cool air, her back to him as she leant against the railing and smoked against the black night, the foaming waves beneath her, he suspected that wasn’t the case. She knew he’d come to join her, and barely turned her head.
‘Your mother is English,’ she said.
‘…Yes.’
‘Mm.’ She dragged on her cigarette. ‘I love England. My husband, he hates it.’
‘Your husband is from Cyprus?’
She smiled at this, surprising him. ‘So obvious, yes?’ Fading, she turned back to the sea. ‘He say they have no culture, the English. I say not everyone can be Greek.’
Emboldened by her sudden willingness to chat, he asked more out of courtesy than curiosity: ‘Where are you from?’
‘You think Russia, yes?’
‘Ukraine?’
Her eyebrow shot up in the negative as she inhaled. ‘Belarus,’ she said, blowing the smoke away.
‘A…’ He knew nothing about her country, so he kept it at that.
She didn’t press him. ‘You visit England?’
‘Not really.’ And, seeing her narrowed eyes, he thought it best to be honest. ‘Actually, I have never been. Never left Cyprus.’
Now she really looked at him. ‘Never,’ she repeated, softly as if to herself.
She shivered. Something about the darkness, his senses whipped by the sound and spray of the water, the lights from the marina and the rows of other yachts, her eyes averted from him but her body emitting a pull, he longed for the night to reach its point. Even there on the deck would have been fine with him if that was what she wanted. He guessed that it might be. Tentatively, he stretched a finger to the goosepimpled flesh of her arm and stroked it. She responded by allowing him. Then she flicked the stub of her cigarette into the black. Without a word, she took his hand and led him back through the lounge, which had been vacated. The corridor teemed with whispered groans as they headed towards an opened cabin, where the Russian – Belarussian – allowed him to see his attraction through.