When she has finished Maroulla climbs out and stands to dry naked in the sun. Koki removes the crucifix from her breast and the silver tin from her apron and hides them beneath a large leaf. She takes off her apron and purple dress, places them on a chair on the veranda and climbs into the basin herself. Maroulla notices her translucent skin with blue rivers of veins and sprinkles of golden moles on her back. She sees how her hair, drenched in water, turns the colour of red soil after a winter storm.
When both Koki and Maroulla are clean and dry Koki leans over the basin and scrubs the stain out of the dress and apron. Maroulla sits beneath the shade of the jasmine tree, wrapped in a silk-woven blanket, amongst the sweet-smelling petals, and holds the little green book and the scissors in her lap. The white butterflies flutter around her.
Once Maroulla’s clothes are dry and she is dressed, Koki fetches two wicker baskets that she has seen beneath a tree and hands one to Maroulla, telling her that they must go together to find some food. They walk just a little way down the hill, Koki constantly on the lookout and listening intently for the sound of another’s footsteps. But when all is quiet and the sun is soft and low and the afternoon breeze touches their clean skin and freshly washed hair, it is, for a moment, tempting to believe that it is just a normal day. A few stray butterflies weave between them as they walk.
In a very short while they reach the small orchard that must have belonged to the owner of this house. There is a lemon tree, a fig tree and a pomegranate tree. In a vegetable patch in the middle are courgettes and artichokes. Koki tells Maroulla to pick some courgettes as she collects figs and grapes and pomegranates. Maroulla kneels down and feels the courgettes and inspects their colour. She knows exactly what to look for as she had done this so many times before with her mum. Soon, with baskets full, they make their way back to the house. Koki saves the courgettes and rinses the fruit with some water. They sit together on the veranda, peeling and eating figs and pomegranates.
Before they know it the sun has began to set. The white butterflies start falling like snowflakes over the cottage. Soon all is obscured beneath a sheen of white wings and carcasses.
That same morning, Richard sleeps on the armchair in his bedsit. Gently, and from the distance, a marching sound emerges, like an oncoming train. The air trembles, but he does not hear it yet. With each beat the marching gets louder and now voices are heard chanting inaudible words. A woman shouts some obscenity from the window and Richard wakes up in a pool of light. Slowly, the room comes into focus and as the unusual marching beats in his ears, he remembers again the sound of the crickets. The marching suddenly becomes apparent. He pushes himself out of the armchair and walks towards the window. A flickering of colours. A train of people. A protest. Thousands with banners, stamping and shouting along Queen Victoria Street. From shop windows and the edges of the pavement the locals stare bemused. ‘Bloody foreigners!’ a voice calls from far below, but from other corners people wave at friends in the crowd.
Distorted faces call words in a glottal tongue. The hour hits. Big Ben cannot be heard. The chorus has drowned out the normal noises of the city. It has swept over the grey streets like a river from a faraway sea. The voices rise like smoke.
Richard backs away from the window and rushes to the television, where he switches impatiently to BBC1. He puts the volume up and sits on the arm of the chair.
‘Thousands of Greek Cypriots in London have been protesting about the disputed government of Cyprus. More than ten thousand Greek Cypriots and British left-wing activists march through the centre of London in support of an independent Cyprus and the restoration of Archbishop Makarios as its elected president.’
Richard rubs his eyes, his mouth becomes dry and pins seem to prick the tips of his fingers. ‘Britain has been airlifting troops and equipment into Cyprus whilst a ceasefire in Nicosia is protecting foreign civilians from the warring factions. The two thousand British holidaymakers stranded on the island have criticised the Labour government for failing to anticipate the onset of fighting.’
Richard feels sick and notices the empty bottle of ouzo by his side. There is a blanket that has dropped to the floor. He stands up, washes his face in the basin. He walks to the wardrobe and removes a pair of black trousers and a grey shirt. He takes off the dirty trousers, folds them, places them into the empty laundry basket and steps into the clean ones. His legs look thinner, he notices how his knees appear larger, his skin is grey like the walls of this damned place, like the wall of clouds outside. He hears the persistent marching of the protestors; distressed voices rise up to his window. He feels ill. His heart is ill. The grey walls around him are ill. Even the measly sunlight coming through the window is ill. A fly buzzes over the basin and settles on an empty glass. He fastens his trousers slowly, adjusts the belt carefully, and buttons the shirt purposefully, with the same precise movements as he would have once used to put on his uniform. He adjusts his collar in the mirror between its splatters of toothpaste, pads down the sides of his hair with his hands and exits the apartment.
Usually, he would only leave the bedsit to visit the grocer or the launderette down the road, but today he has something else in mind. He wants to tell Paniko the whole story, the true story, from beginning to end. Paniko is the only connection he has to Cyprus. Richard feels even more nauseated. Why did he not just tell him all these years? He might have been able to help him. Tears prick at the back of Richard’s eyes. ‘You idiot,’ he says to himself, ‘you idiot.’ He shakes his head from side to side. He feels restless, troubled, full of nerves. It’s time, he thinks. It’s definitely time.
He walks out into the crowd of people. Faces full of rage and tears sweep past. Red words flash on white banners. Richard steps up onto the pavement. An old man standing beside him pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Richard looks over at him and touches his own blazer pocket. He has left his upstairs. The old man notices and offers one to Richard who accepts it and nods in appreciation. ‘There are riots in Camden Town outside the All Saints Greek Orthodox Church,’ shouts the old man, barely audible in all that noise as he lights Richard’s cigarette. ‘The Greek Cypriots are fighting about enosis with Greece, even the Greeks are against each other. The world has become a carnival.’ The old man shakes his head. ‘They say that Makarios is turning Cyprus into a, what was it? Mediterranean Cuba, whatever that means. I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe any more.’ He lights the match, puts it to the end of his cigarette that is now hanging from his mouth, and breathes in deeply. ‘They are preparing a force of volunteers to join the Greek Army.’ The old man puffs out smoke and then disappears into the crowd. Richard stands there for a few more minutes, looking at the fear on people’s faces and feeling more and more sick.
Eventually, he walks across St James’s Park, up through Piccadilly and right into Soho towards Old Compton Street. Richard looks up at the sky as a military taskforce plane flies overhead. He clutches his knuckles and shrinks into his collar as he ascends a slope. He is afraid of flying. Once, a Royal Air Force pilot, now living off the State and terrified of planes. A useless excuse for a human being. His chest tightens and he looks down at his feet. The pavement is damp from last night’s rain. He continues past the post office, the bookshop, the offlicence, the cobbler, until he reaches a drab-looking window where a coffee shop bubbles behind steam and condensation. In blue letters, swinging above on a white sign, the words: Amohosto Café. The door swings open and a middle-aged man walks out, putting his arm through the sleeve of his coat, and the sounds of the café spill out onto the street: of cutlery and loose change and that loud sing-song lyrical talking. The café is packed for breakfast. Richard hesitates outside, moves closer to the window and looks inside at the men, mostly dressed in casuals, sipping their coffee, taking the last drag from their cigarettes before setting off for the factories again. There is only one man in a suit, who takes a note out of a money clip as he stands and picks up his umbrella from the floor.
R
ichard enters the café and a few men look up from their coffees and conversations. There is a dark, sombre feeling in the room, shoulders are slumped and feet tap restlessly on the floor. The man in the suit drops the note in a saucer and leaves. Richard observes that the man has left far too much for what seems to be a coffee and the leftover crumbs of a cake. Richard walks towards the now-empty table by the window, but a large man, squeezing through from the right, beats him to it. There is another chair. The fat man adjusts himself on the seat, and then looks up at Richard. Richard sits on the empty chair. Paniko then approaches through the crowd with a white apron, without a pad, and grunts something in Greek, and the fat man asks for a coffee and some olives. Paniko then starts mechanically and blindly clearing the table, and suddenly pauses and looks over at Richard, who nods and says that he would like the same. There is a look of confusion on Paniko’s face, and he hesitates with the cup still hovering over the table. He approaches the situation quietly, not wanting to scare him off, like a man luring a cat. ‘My friend,’ he says hesitantly, but contains a smile as if he is holding water in his mouth. He then walks off without another word and disappears into the kitchen at the back.
The man next to him is holding a tin of mints. He looks at his watch and then quickly at Richard, but does not speak. He seems to be several years younger than Richard. Richard looks around him at the yellow walls dotted with wicker trays, dried wheat stems, old photographs, maps and pictures of Cyprus. On the counter, at the back of the café, is myriad clay vases and jugs beneath a painting of whitewashed houses on a hill. He can just about bear it: the smells, the colours, reminding him of a time that only caused him pain and a feeling of hopelessness.
‘You English!’ The man beside him speaks suddenly, and Richard looks at him. The man narrows his eyes and is flushed with anger. ‘What are you doing hanging around Greek man’s place!’ The man waves his hand around and looks at Richard contemptuously, with yellow teeth appearing slightly behind thick lips. Richard does not say a word. He shifts in his chair, moving a little away from the table, with his legs pointing safely in the other direction. The fat man reaches across the table and takes a fistful of peanuts throwing them into his mouth. Richard looks out of the window. A light flashes blue across the road. He can smell a unique combination of fresh mints and peanuts from the fat man’s breath. Richard wishes he had chosen a different seat. He can feel the man’s eyes fixed on him, a heavy gaze full of years of politics and conflict; Richard looks around at the other Greek men talking and a few glance over to where he sits. Perhaps he should leave? He doesn‘t belong here; he never has. Who is he kidding? Here he sits, Paniko’s oldest friend, and he feels like an outcast.
Soon the fat man finishes the coffee and the olives, leaves some change in a saucer and exits the café. Most of the men have left already and there is a thick silence and old smoke still hangs in the air.
Paniko soon emerges from the kitchen with two coffees and places them on the table where Richard sits. He slumps hard into the chair opposite him and, finally, taking the weight off his feet, lights a cigarette. Richard looks out of the window and his eyes follow the feet of a passer-by.
Paniko stares at his friend, wondering what has finally brought him here after so many years. ‘You look tired,’ he says, and Richard takes a deep breath and sits a little straighter. He fumbles with the cigarette box. The shadows on Richard’s face are dark.
‘Do you remember how we became friends?’ Richard says and Paniko shrugs, wondering if he had made enough koubes. ‘Nineteen forty-six. Long time.’
‘I guess I wouldn’t be sitting here today if it wasn’t for what happened,’ Richard persists, leaning into the light, and this time Paniko’s thoughts stray from his lunchtime menu as he notices life in Richard’s eyes.
‘Eh?’ Paniko grunts and lifts his hand, indicating that he is confused.
‘It was a curious incident and one that sparked off a succession of other incidents, which were all at once curious and pleasing and dangerous. That day I had been running flight exercises from the crack of dawn and I was enjoying my lunch break when a woman flapped towards me like a blackbird. “All of them mad!” she declared. “Come quick!” We ran through the streets and as we neared I could hear what sounded like a circus, and once the walls cleared and the road opened and faced the hills, I stopped for a single moment and stared at the mad scene which was bestowed upon me. Turkish and Greek women alike ran for cover with their dresses held above their knees. Some goats had gone bloody crazy! They darted around wild and mad and their sharp eyes flashed and their hind legs kicked the dry soil. They were completely out of control. And then, as if the scene needed more drama, your grandmother arrived and screamed as her livelihood ran rampant in a dirt field. Then, taking the stance of a goalkeeper, she stood waiting to catch one. Of course, when one of the goats spotted her it charged towards her like a bull! Yet the crazy woman did not move. It shot towards her with such accumulated speed that it knocked her down with a crash. An earthquake came straight after.’
Paniko smiles while stubbing out the cigarette.
‘Then all was still at last. All the goats at once stopped running and stood calm and aloof while the men gathered them together. And there she lay, as still as a raft.’
‘I was laughing for two days when I hear this story,’ Paniko says, chuckling and tapping Richard’s arm. ‘You the hero! You save her.’
‘Well … not quite, you see, that’s what everybody thought … When I saw her lying there I realised I had not helped at all, so I, rather self-consciously, ran towards her, lifted her limp arm and felt her pulse. Everyone had gathered and held their breath. They stared expectantly with open mouths. I felt the pressure, all depended on me. I stepped back and opened my mouth ready to admit that I had no idea what to do next, but stopped when I saw the pleading eyes of the crowd. I decided to have a go at mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, even though I was sure it would be as useful as feeding her grapes. They wouldn’t know the difference. So, I bent down reluctantly and proceeded to do the only other thing I knew how to do. I pinched her nose and held her chin, and brought my mouth to hers. Thank goodness, she moved! Her arms twitched, her eyes opened and she slapped her lips onto mine. Everyone remained silent for a moment and then broke out into a cheer. Your grandfather ran towards me and kissed me on both cheeks. Then the rest of the people cheered and your grandmother stood up.’
Paniko laughs, pointing at him with a cigarette between his fingers. ‘You sneaky man … and all these years …’
‘You bloody Greeks don’t let anyone get a word in edgeways,’ Richard smiles, ‘and anyway … was I stupid enough to give up all that attention? When the commotion was over your grandmother slapped me on both cheeks and told me that she was going to hold a feast in my honour. My honour,’ Richard says, tapping his chest. ‘Come on, I was an English man in Cyprus. No one had done anything like that for me before.’ Richard fumbles with the cigarette box again, takes one out and lights it.
‘Do you remember that feast?’ he continues. ‘The whole town was invited. They all brought food with them. Greek and Turkish women carried trays of bread and plates of stuffed vine leaves, rabbit stew and lady’s fingers, kleftiko and baked potatoes. The children carried the salads and yoghurt, tsatsiki and tahini in bowls and the men carried jugs of wine and bags of coffee and offerings of fruit and vegetables. I had never seen so much food in my life! There was enough to feed three towns! I was used to baked beans.
‘I was offered the seat at the head of the table. At first I felt awkward and out of place. Some of the neighbours obviously did not approve and shot me inconspicuous looks of disgust and, sure, my presence sparked conversations in English about Cypriot politics. I remember one particular man going on about enosis, independence, the Second World War and how the Cypriots gave their lives for freedom and how the British now owed them the right to self-governance.
‘Your grandmother told him to shut up. She stood behind the old m
an’s chair and said, “You’ve been talking about the Cyprus problem for a hundred years. Tonight we are just people at a table.” She then raised her glass and this was followed by a cheer. And for the first time I felt at home. Your grandmother accepted me; she opened up a whole new world for me.’ Richard stops talking there and looks at Paniko, who is now leaning forward.
‘Do you remember? That was the first time I met you. You came and sat beside me, and said, “What’s it like to kiss a seventy-year-old woman?”’
Paniko guffaws and claps his hands.
‘And all the men that were congregated around that end of the table burst into fits of laughter, and the man next to me said, “I think it like kissing a chicken’s bottom!” and I chuckled, and stopped when I saw your grandfather looking at us, and he pointed a finger at me and said, “Don’t mock, I have to kiss her every day!” and we all laughed ’til it hurt. My God, it was fun that night. We joked and drank far too much of your grandfather’s over-fermented wine and you and your cousins taught me how to dance the drunk man’s dance. I remember you showing me the moves and then throwing me right in the middle of a big circle of people!’
Paniko stamps his feet and laughs as though he has truly been transferred back in time and for now he has completely forgotten about everything else. ‘You looked like a drunk rooster trying to fly!’
‘Everybody clapped and cheered and as I spun clumsily around I remember clearly the feeling I had; this is what life’s about – having people to laugh and dance with and honestly I wished that it would never end.’
Richard pauses and looks out of the window.
‘That was when I saw her,’ he whispers. His eyes are intense and Paniko notices that his fingers shake as he takes a cigarette from the box on the table and lights it. Paniko leans back in his chair now and folds his arms over his chest; he waits for Richard to continue.
‘Do you remember Marianna?’ Richard asks.
A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible Page 6