The Way It Breaks

by Polis Loizou

  Now they watched as he danced with Kostas beneath the lit-up vine pagoda, arms around each other.

  ‘I hope he’s a better husband than his father was,’ Melina said.

  Eva knew he would be. She had wanted Orestis from the moment she developed an interest in boys. As their lives grew apart, no thanks to this woman, she realised how distant he really was from her. All those girls who’d had him, they wore him like a badge. Sometimes it seemed she was the only one he couldn’t see. She had already decided to remain a virgin until marriage. That had nothing to do with him. But she was thankful she had waited. Now it would be even more special.

  She also wasn’t born yesterday. She knew that with that body, that face, he will have slept with a hundred other women, maybe even in the past month. That was fine with her, let him get it out of his system. Let him grow tired of those shallow sluts and be ready to settle down to a life with her. She had loved him even when he’d gained that weight. And now, toned and tanned and gorgeous, he was hers.

  Besides, men loved a virgin. The idea that something was waiting only for them, that they were the first claimant, the sole inheritor of a land unspoiled and ready for their harvest, was an enormous ego boost. Tonight she would make him feel like a king.

  In the middle of the dance, there was a change in his expression. She turned to where he was looking, at the edge of the festivities. For the briefest moment, she was convinced she’d seen Darya. Her spirit was here. It walked away from the party and vanished in the black streets.

  A dream. Just a silly dream. Darya wasn’t even dead.

  Eva lifted her wine glass and with a ‘Cheers’ in English, she toasted Orestis’ mother for gifting him to her.

  ✽✽✽

  They honeymooned in the Seychelles. Eva told everyone it was because she wanted to follow in the Archbishop’s footsteps after they banished him. She enjoyed making people laugh at the same time as reminding them she was rich. And she liked touching Orestis whenever she caught another woman watching.

  Once they were back in Cyprus, she began to compile photos for her exhibition. It had been easy to get one, she was friends with half the art world here. She was even planning to help her mother open a gallery. Her problem lay in deciding what pieces to show. It was well enough to invite all her moron friends to an evening launch at a former warehouse on the docks, but she couldn’t attach her five-star name to two-star work. After the cruise, she’d splashed on a high-end Canon, lenses, a flash, paid for lessons in Photoshop. She had nothing left to blame but her own skills.

  Photography was where she put herself. People of the past used to fear their souls being trapped in the frame but for her it was the photographer’s soul that was caught. What she captured was her own interests and desires, the story she derived from a composition in a single moment, a reflection of herself. It was that woman in Tinos, looking for God. It was the boys at the harbour in Syros, hoping someone was looking. Photography was where she could be herself entirely. The ditzy playgirl was an amusement, the comedian a distraction, the prima donna an exertion of power; all a mould for self-control. The photographer was a mirror and the measure of her worth.

  Things were only worth what people were willing to pay for them. Currencies went up and down, house prices rose and fluctuated. People once died fighting for cinnamon, her grandmother sprinkled it over rice pudding. Mummies were bandaged with Sappho’s poetry, now Paris would struggle to sell a dozen books. Did a diamond achieve its price tag because of its beauty, its scarcity, or the dangers in its mining? It was the same with people. A maid provided a service, but how much was she valued? If she was a refugee, did that add to her worth or detract from it? People drew their worth from tragedy as much as beauty. Suffering was as much a factor in determining a human’s value as brains or talent. Cyprus was precious because she was the point between Europe, Africa and Asia. She was precious because she’d been abused by all.

  Darya had been an asset to Eva’s father. Her beauty increased his worth. But to many, she was just a Russian, wherever she was actually from. She was a drain, she devalued their land. She was useless because she hadn’t much Greek. Eva had thought so too – at first. She’d seen an empty-headed gold-digger with nothing to say. But when she asked the woman if her grandma was still alive, she caught a glimpse of the world behind those strange dark eyes. If she’d had the words to express herself, she might have risen in others’ esteem. Who were you when you hadn’t the words for your feelings? Eva had some experience of this herself, in London. Despite being educated at that international school, despite being fluent in English, classmates at LSE would correct her pronunciation with pitying smiles. And the words they corrected were always of Greek descent. She bit her tongue when they claimed the Southern Cypriots sabotaged the island’s reunification talks. Unless they’d be happy to have half of England run by France, these guys could go fuck themselves. But her anger had made her quiet, defensive and defenceless. You couldn’t control what others said about you. Maybe Darya was full of rage, or sadness; any of the emotions that take away your speech.

  The last time she saw her stepmother was shortly after the will reading, which the woman hadn’t even attended. Thank God for that, because she hadn’t been left a cent. Eva sat in her car outside the newsagent’s for half an hour, eyes stopped dead on the sun-bleached Mickey Mouse comics in the spinners, as she sipped her Chino and Whitney Houston belted in the speakers. She had never expected this of her father. She’d spent months after his marriage ranting about the Russian stealing her inheritance, but this seemed so unjust, so cruel. At first, she’d thought it was a mistake, an old will, but the solicitor had verified the date. He hadn’t even left her the house.

  Eva had gone to see her. She would assure the widow that the house was hers, she could live in it as long as she wanted.

  Darya had answered the door. ‘Thank God,’ she’d said when she saw her. She’d invited Eva into the study, the smell of tobacco still in the curtains, and handed her a box. ‘A present,’ she’d said. ‘From Aristos.’

  Eva had not been able to contain her tears. It was a camera, his old Zenit. She could see there was film still in it, but she vowed never to use it. It would sit in her studio as a memento, a goal. This was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her.

  Darya had refused Eva’s offer. ‘This is all I want,’ she’d said, and indicated an envelope with a travel agent’s logo on the desk. There’d been a light in her eyes that Eva had never seen before. She would never understand this woman.

  ✽✽✽

  For their first anniversary, they planned a trip to London, where they would reunite with Melina and see the sights Orestis had always dreamed of. Before their flight they spent the weekend at one of the Paphos villas, to enjoy the last of the summer light. In the morning Eva woke with Orestis spooning her, hand at her breast. They ate breakfast on the veranda, then drove to the town centre. They spoke about their parents, grandparents, their family traditions. It transpired his paternal grandfather was named Ioannis.

  ‘Do you realise,’ Eva said, ‘that if we’d gone full-traditional for the wedding, you would have had to change your surname?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘So you’d take your grandfather’s Christian name and turn it into a surname.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hello! Your grandfather was Ioannis. Your married surname would be Ioannidou.’

  Orestis was stunned. He smiled, but he wasn’t as tickled as she was. She wished he wasn’t wearing Ray-Bans, so she could read his eyes.

  Whenever they passed a pretty, barely-dressed woman, Eva wondered if her husband was watching. Would she spend the rest of her marriage searching for signs? She let him wander on, taking photos from the back as he walked beneath the gently swaying palms that dwarfed him. She snuck a picture of a plump little girl losing her ice cream. At a souvenir shop, she caught up with him and threaded her fingers through his.

  ‘I might have been Ioann
ou,’ he said, out of nowhere.

  They drove to Petra tou Romiou to watch the sunset. Eva noticed that even when he was driving, and obeying the rules of the road, Orestis was tense. He worsened at traffic lights and junctions, or if people overtook him. She stroked his cheek, and he turned, surprised to see her there. On the beach, the waves lapping at their naked feet, he held her while the light dimmed on Aphrodite’s Rock. She took photos of the sunset, the sand, the shells, the water. Mediocre, all of them. It couldn’t be captured. Her husband had walked further ahead as if alone on this ancient shore, which even St Paul himself had trod on. She could see Orestis, but he was too far to read. All she could gather from his posture, from the angle of his head, was that he was watching the waves, watching the whole of the sea, as if waiting for someone to rise from it.

  Acknowledgement

  The seed from which this whole book grew was an article I came upon in 2001 about gigolos operating in the five-star hotels of my birthplace, Lemesos. I no longer recall which of the glossy magazines had published it, but I thank the anonymous men who contributed their experiences to the report. They lingered in my mind for years, waiting for a project.

  Having grown up in Cyprus, I drew not only on my own memories and personal experiences for the bulk of this book but also those of dozens of friends, relatives and teachers who told tales from before my time, whether accounts of the 1974 war with Turkey or the titbits of Greek mythol-ogy and local folklore that pepper the narrative. I’m grateful to my lifelong friend Natasha Vassil-iou for taking me to see inside a block of abandoned refugee flats and the ruin of the Fysco Lotus shopping centre (among a million other things she has done and been for me through the years); to her parents Christalla and Panayiotis for all their knowledge; and to my beloved cousin Iakovos for what he shared of his days as a hotel receptionist.

  Due to my father’s jobs on cruise ships and oil tankers, some of my happiest childhood memo-ries were spent at sea and travelling around the Greek islands. The people I met on board were as varied and fascinating as the sights on land. Many thanks to my sister Rosie for her enduring sup-port and incredible memory, which helped me to fill in gaps regarding both the vessel and its itiner-ary. My good friend Alexandra Coleman contributed additional info from her work on fancier ships than the ones I’d travelled on.

  Alexandra also put me in touch with a very generous Belarusian colleague who proved invalu-able as I developed my story. Jeniya Yauheniya Rusiayeva not only gifted me material via reminis-cences of her homeland, but she also saved me from a major faux-pas regarding my character of Darya. For further details about Belarus, Belarusians and Soviet life I’m indebted to the extensive detail of Nigel Roberts’ Bradt travel guide and the intimate, harrowing portraits in Svetlana Alex-ievich’s Chernobyl Prayer. I’m glad to live in this Internet age, as it allowed me to stumble upon various Belarusian websites, Twitter feeds and YouTube videos that further fed my research. I am solely to blame for any inaccuracies or misrepresentations.

  This book comes after a long journey, and I’ve been lucky to have a terrific group of cheer-leaders to keep me going. Walaa Khubieh, Laura Louise Baker, Jaacq Hugo, Eleanor Field, Ronnie Wilson, Rob Kenrick, Andrew O’Connor, Suzy Catliff and Susan Desmond have given my writing their unwavering support over the years, and inspire me with their talent, wit and humanity. Fraser Calderwood has been the best sounding board (and teacher of everything) a fellow writer could ask for. Jennifer Jenkins gave me great notes on an early draft of this manuscript. The wisdom and in-sight of my fellow Penguin WriteNow longlistees has been a comfort, not to mention the vast world of ‘Book Twitter’ and the many geniuses therein who let me know I’m not alone. Paul Burston has not only given me exposure through his regular Polari Salon events but having my debut novel ap-pear on his Polari First Book Prize longlist was a very welcome boost. The booksellers at Water-stones, Foyles, Blackwell’s, Gay’s The Word and numerous other indies, not to mention bloggers and reviewers, who’ve given my writing their time and space, I can’t thank you enough.

  I’m eternally grateful to Dan Coxon, who believed in me and my debut when I didn’t; to Eric Akoto for finding it a home; and especially to Orlando Ortega-Medina, William Campos and every-one at Cloud Lodge Books for their impeccable care and faith.

  My husband, Chris Loizou-Denyer, has already given this book its best possible review — ‘a million times better than your last one’ — and, along with our cats, continues to make my life that much brighter.

  Finally, I thank my queen, my goddess: Anastasia Loizou. Not only am I proud to have this novel blessed with her beautiful artwork, but I also couldn’t have asked for a better mother. Thank you.

  About The Author

  Polis Loizou

  Polis Loizou is a playwight, filmmaker, and performance storyteller. Born and raised in Cyprus, he moved ot the United Kingdom in 2001. His debut novel 'Disbanded Kingdom' was published by Cloud Lodge Books in 2018 and went on to be longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize. His short stories and creative non-fiction have been published in a number of anthologies. Having co-founded an award-winning theatre troup, with which he has toured the United Kingdom festival circuit, Polis has delved deeper into the world of folk storytelling to perform a couple of acclaimed solos hows. Polis currently lived in Nottingham with his hisband and cats.

  Books By This Author

  Disbanded Kingdom

  Twenty-two-year-old Oscar is a lost cause. He roams central London, looking for love and distraction. But this isn't quite Bright Lights, Big City: Oscar is gay but feels disconnected from London's gay scene. He is naive and rootless, an emotionally stunted young man who lives in upscale Kensington with his foster mother, novelist Charlotte Fontaine. But all of this changes when he meets Tim, Charlotte's 30something literary agent, with whom Oscar becomes hopelessly infatuated. While he struggles to understand Tim's politics and his rejection of religion, Oscar's developing friendship with Tim effects a profound change in the young man, making him want to understand the world and his place in it.