‘Sitting beneath that lemon tree, we both sipped the coffee slowly, avoiding each other’s gaze. When we were done she turned the coffees over and her teaching began. At first I listened reluctantly, peeking glances at my watch as the time ticked away. I had learnt already that it was Greek nature to be anxious about the future; you loved frightening or reassuring yourselves with exaggerated predictions about your lives and the state of affairs. But my feeble attempt to hold onto that last thread of the imperialist ideal, to stand up high and look at the sun shining down on Cyprus, a great testament to a great empire, had been shattered. As much as I tried to hold onto that elevated state and belief that the Cypriots were evolutionarily stunted, as much as I wanted to be that British cynic that my grandfather had encouraged me to be for fear that the great British Empire would die completely, as much as I tried to remain arrogantly detached, my convictions of grandeur, if they even existed in my own mind at all, had become so elusive that somehow the island and Marianna had touched that hidden part of me that still wanted to dream and overreact.
‘It was the smell of the sickly lemon blossoms and the way they fell like snow in that heat and the prolific, heavy manner in which Amalia spoke, the twisted knuckles of her hand and the knotted bark of that old tree. It distorted my mind. You and the slow coffee-drinking and the fumes of ouzo and the inflated lack of social etiquette and the embellished hospitality, it was too much for a superior, haughty, insignificant man such as I. It engulfed me and every day I found myself sitting at this little white table and with a daily dose of caffeine; I was immersed in a world of grand symbols and little problems. How the lion meant strength for the old and weak, and the seahorse was good news for the wishful dreamer, and the Devil a sign to relax for the tense and anxious. She would insist that the eyes told as much as the cup.
‘She believed that each person’s soul affects the shapes that are formed by the grains and over these few weeks I witnessed people from round the corner and from down the road, all seeking answers in the residue of their coffee. And it was there, right there, that I saw what all colonialists, holding onto a concept of grandness and superiority, miss: I saw what was within the water-coloured houses on the hills, I saw the worms before the silk and the ones that writhed in figs, I saw the grey stones in the grey lentils, the flint inside pockets and between toes, I saw the ants beneath the stones, the darkness beneath a priest’s robe, the shadows a mosquito makes. Every time I would look into the cup, I would see images that would remind me of Marianna. Amalia would tell me not to be looking for what I wanted to see, but acknowledge what I didn’t want to see; but every day my mind would be engulfed with the images and memories of her.’
Richard pauses and looks at Paniko as though he has only just become acutely aware of his presence, and Paniko looks at Richard as though he has just seen a ghost. Paniko breaks the silence by coughing loudly into his handkerchief. ‘When words are scarce, hide it with a cough.’ Richard recites an old Greek proverb, but this seems to make Paniko’s face turn paler. He stares at his fingers now. There is a look of shame in the way his lips are pursed tightly, a look of nostalgia in his eyes and the twitch of fear and anxiety in his fingers. Richard looks into Paniko’s cup. ‘There is definitely a devil in yours,’ says Richard, and this time it is his turn to laugh.
‘Does it have the face of my wife?’ asks Paniko disparagingly.
Richard smiles sympathetically and takes the last kouba from the table. His shoulders have softened slightly, but his eyes blaze with memories; they are somewhat blind to his present surroundings.
‘And what was I seeking from the symbols that lingered in corners and beneath mattresses of other people’s homes? What was I looking for in those black grains? Something of my fiery, lively mother who had died when I was young and left me with a column-like patriotic colonel for a father? Did I seek to find her in the mysterious creases of the island or was this just a sob story? Was I holding on to something else? I searched unceasingly for that indifferent man that had sat having a lunchbreak by the magenta flowers, before your grandmother and the goats and Marianna had rocked the foundations of my world. I clung onto the apathetic lump I thought my heart was, but it was no use. The little red-soiled island and the beautiful woman with black hair had won my heart and I was nothing but a sad lonely man looking through the window of what could have been his life.
‘Two weeks had passed, I woke up in the morning and there was a knock at my door. Marianna stood there awkwardly, and I tried to pat down my hair as inconspicuously as I could. She would not have noticed anyway. Her disposition was uneasy. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes fixed anxiously onto mine, and she rubbed her middle fingers compulsively. I moved closer to her, as I wanted to kiss her, but she took a step back. “I pregnant,” she said.
I backed away, moving to the veranda. She followed me.
‘We stood there for a long time looking at the hills while she rubbed her fingers. It was a hot day, full of flies and mosquitoes and dust. She neurotically scratched her arm and then her leg. I turned away and brought her a glass of water, which she drank immediately. Handing me the empty glass, she continued to look at the hills and rub and scratch. At this point I dared to look at her, and I leant forward and put my hand on her shoulder. This infuriated her and she turned away from me and looked over the balcony. I decided to give her some time, so I went inside and busied myself by the bed. She stayed there alone for some time while I dressed. I put on my uniform slowly and purposefully, straightened the collar, combed my hair and stood there, even in all that heat, with a reverential air.
‘Finally she came in, stood beside the bed and looked at me. “I love you,” I said, and she took a step closer to me, she had been crying and there was something in her eyes as she looked at me, a sadness, as though, perhaps, she looked out at a life she could never have. “Marry me,” I said. She leant in, kissed me and looked searchingly into my eyes, and then she stepped back and straightened her dress as if trying to compose herself.
‘“I am married next week. Name Mihalis. You leave alone. Always. It must be so.” Her eyes were fiery and frantic, they shivered and her lip quivered.
‘“No, Marianna, I can’t do that.” I came closer to her, but she stepped back again and the look in her eyes scared me; I had never seen her look so afraid.
‘“If you love me you must go, get out of this town.” I didn’t say a word. She wanted me out of her life completely. “Please,” she said, “please, if you stay my life will be ruined.”
‘And at those words I nodded in agreement. It wasn’t easy for me; she clutched her fingers tightly and I noticed the thin, gold engagement band on her fourth finger. “You have my word,” I said, and she frowned and tapped her foot nervously on the floor. She took a deep breath, turned her back on me, sighed and then walked reluctantly to the door. I, on the contrary, followed her resolutely and opened the door in a gentlemanly manner. How stupid I was. I let her go and I would never speak to her again.’
Paniko opens his mouth in shock but does not say a word.
‘I have a daughter,’ says Richard. His delicate English accent pirouettes quietly amongst this intermittent silence. The words have finally escaped the prison of his mouth where they had been locked all this time. Paniko moves his lips, but again says nothing. ‘An Englishman with a Greek daughter.’ Paniko looks down at the table. He brings his hands up to his cheeks, looks up at the ceiling, holds his head and looks back at Richard. He clasps his hand across his mouth, he closes his eyes and nods and then he nods again. He looks at Richard as though he no longer sees a friend, but just an Englishman who doesn’t belong.
Richard does not say a word, gets up from the table and paces up and down, round the tables, looking sometimes at the ceiling and sometimes at the floor. Time passes in this way and the room darkens as the rain falls more heavily outside. Buses pass, people walk by, the red light flickers. Richard paces as though he were walking the streets of time. His eyes dart this w
ay and that. The world of the past unfolds in front of him, the faces, the smiles, the gestures, the words, the seasons … he walks as the rain outside subsides and umbrellas close and a streak of sunlight shines on the shop, filling it with a golden light. Raindrops slide down the window.
Richard sits once again and stares at Paniko. Outside a rainbow forms in purple clouds. Richard’s hands shake.
‘I couldn’t tell anyone, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you because the truth is, when it comes down to it, I am English … but I loved her, Paniko.’ Richard closes his eyes for a moment and allows the past to open up in front of him. He looks down at his fingers. Paniko’s eyes close slightly and shimmer, watery in the grey light from the window. Richard stops and looks at his old friend. Paniko suddenly seems much older. The laughter lines round his mouth, that so characterise him, have sunken into his chin, a thin layer of blue stubble and the cigarette smoke fogs his washed-out face. His eyes are weary and float like shattered boats on grey shadows.
Paniko involuntarily looks up at Richard’s grey hair. Richard is tired now. He pats down his hair with his right hand and then looks down at the cup and saucer. The door opens and the sound of London bursts through the door with a cold breeze. An old man enters, brushing rain off his shoulders with his palm and saluting Paniko. He sits on the table nearest to the counter. Paniko stands up, throws his apron on over his head, greets the man warmly and takes his order. The man stands up again, takes off his jacket, shakes the rain off, hangs it on his chair and sits down again, flicking worry beads beneath the table.
As the day dies the room darkens and cools, and the ladies breathe and sigh, rock and cry. There is nothing to dream of any more, nothing to plan, nothing to hope for. The photographs on the mantelpiece, though of strangers, tell the story of a different time; now each woman sits in silence, with her flowery dress, as a headstone of a dead family, and together, as a painting of a destroyed community, separated from those structures of their life that once made the world what it was. Their fingers twitch for the food they would have made and the tapestries they would have sewed; for the joy of a brimming table; and their mouths move involuntarily for the words they would have said on a normal day. The quiet in the room is deep and disturbing and the crickets cannot reply with human voices to desperate demands to come and eat or have a bath. Their spirits move in a different place, insistent on carrying out their normal tasks.
Maroulla sits by the door, with the book open in her palms. She is looking out at the brambles on the ground. She is the only one left with a dream. She notices the gold thorns and the way the branches dip in and out of one another like tiny paths. She looks far ahead and wonders where it reaches, she imagines following it, tracing it at first with her finger until it opens out into a wide road and then climbs singularly to the top of a hill where that rose grows sparkly and red. She imagines holding it in her hands and gaining her long-awaited prize.
After a while she looks back into the room. Koki is still on the chair, looking at the floor. Litsa is rocking on the edge of the bed. Maria is on the floor, muttering beneath her breath. Costandina has moved as far away from Koki as she can without leaving the room. Sophia stares ahead, her eyes wide and glazed. Outside, just by the door, the dog is still whimpering and scratching the cage with its paws. Maroulla stands up. Some of the women look at her. She walks out of the back door and stands by the cage for a moment while the women stiffen and stare. A noise is heard behind the trees, and Koki stands up. ‘Maroulla,’ she says, but Maroulla does not seem to notice any of this; she lifts the latch of the cage, opens the door and takes a step back, waiting for the dog to exit. At first it sniffs the air, lifts its brown ears slightly and stretches its emaciated legs, and then walks out and looks at the women in the living room. Its tail suddenly rises and it runs inside towards the old lady on the floor, licking the front of her face. Maria splutters and curses. ‘Vermin! Vermin! Away!’ she calls, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and kicking the dog as much as she possibly can with her arthritic legs, but her cries produce the counter effect. The old lady’s screaming is probably taken by the dog to be excitement, so it rests its front paws on her shoulders and licks her face. Fourteen-year-old Sophia suddenly laughs out loud and the rest of the women follow. Soon the women are holding their stomachs while the old lady flashes her knickers and stockings in a futile attempt to be rid of the big rat. Soon the dog is bored of her and prances round the room, pleased with itself, while the women and girls stroke it as it passes.
Maroulla walks to the centre of the room, takes the piece of bread that the old lady has left and gives it to the dog. It laps it up quickly and then rests on a rug with its head on its paws. Maroulla and Sophia sit on the floor beside it, and the other women are silent now, but differently this time, for somehow this dog has knocked down the walls between them, and now there are looks of recognition and some sit closer to each other rather than completely alone. Although Maria is now even more intent on sitting on her own and grunts lightly every so often.
The night deepens now and the only light comes from orange lamp flames burning like fireflies at the back of the garden. Outside, crickets chant and bombs fall. ‘It is a dark night,’ says Olympia, ‘there are no stars.’ Nobody replies, but a few of the women nod. From the distance a soldier approaches, holding a lamp in one hand and what appears to be a bucket in the other. He holds the lamp high so that only his face is illuminated and in that immense darkness it hovers towards them like a face in a dream. When he enters the living room some women stare at him like desperate children and others look at the floor. Maroulla continues to stroke the dog. The soldier shoots a look at her and grunts, then places the bucket on the floor. He stands for a moment and looks around, eyeing the women intently. Koki looks at his army boots, encrusted with mud, and then up at his badges lined meticulously along his breast, and realises that he must be the soldier in command. His feet shuffle. The lamp on his right reveals a drop of sweat on his forehead. He walks round the room slowly looking at each of the women one by one. In the silence, the dust beneath his feet crunches with each footstep. He seems unsatisfied until he reaches the mother with the child. Elenitsa looks up at him and smothers the baby with her embrace. Her cheeks are red and perfectly round. The rip in her dress reveals the slight curve of her breast. He bends down, puts the lamp on the floor and opens his arms towards her child. Elenitsa pulls the baby closer. Her eyes are wide now and full of unshed tears. He says something in Turkish. ‘No!’ she replies and her protest makes his face redden and his eyes widen. He brings his arm back for a moment, removes his gun from his belt and then swings it onto her face.
She cries out in pain. Her head drops backwards and her eyes roll inwards and at that point the officer takes the baby from her arms. Blood drips from her face.
The baby’s shrill cries fill the night, louder than the crickets and the bombs. Elenitsa has dropped to the floor on her knees and is crying with her arms outstretched. The officer ignores this. He holds the little boy in his arms and rocks him gently from side to side until the baby’s crying turns to a whimper and he sleeps once more; soundly, in his antagonist’s arms. The officer looks down at the boy strangely. In the shadows the sharp corners of his eyes and mouth appear to have softened somehow, he then lifts his free arm and touches the boy’s fingers. And there, as he stands and rocks and sighs, for a moment, is no more perfect a picture of a broken world than this. And there can be no greater a reflection of that than this portrait that the women glare upon with so much confusion. ‘Virgin Mary, bring down your hand and save this child,’ whispers Olympia as the soldier turns to look at her.
He walks towards her. Stops for a heartbeat and holds the baby out for her to take. Olympia pauses doubtfully, looks at the other women, hesitantly opens up her arms and the officer hands the baby to her carefully. Olympia brings the baby protectively to her chest. Elenitsa collapses on the floor in tears, and the room is filled with quiet sighs of relief.
&n
bsp; The soldier smiles. He walks towards the crying mother, cleaves her from the ground and pulls her out of the house and into the darkness and fireflies and soldiers, beyond.
Everyone remains still for a moment until Sophia stands and rushes to the door. ‘Where have they taken her?’ She looks back at petrified faces. ‘What will they do to her?’ She erupts into sobs and her crying swells in the room, blazing, and spreading a sense of terror, like a fire. They are all ensnared by it, confined by these flames that seethe around the furniture, touching their limbs and their faces; illuminating the fear in their eyes. With Elenitsa’s baby in her arms, Olympia stands up and touches Sophia’s shoulder. ‘Come and sit down,’ she says, masking her own terror with her sympathetic but firm classroom voice, ‘sit down with me and she will be back soon.’ Everybody watches as Sophia’s tears subside and she looks around with uncertainty, searching the others’ faces. Maria looks down; in her old age she has seen far too much pain to have such faith. Everyone else watches Sophia as she finally follows Olympia and sits beside her and holds her hand. The baby is asleep and his soft breathing is soothing. Koki wonders what this little boy dreams amongst this chaos, what he will grow up to become; like a god of Ancient Greece he has been nurtured with both milk and fire. Perhaps he will develop wings and save them or he will grow strong and take them in a golden chariot to the sky. The baby gurgles and his eyes open ever so slightly, and then he is asleep again. Sophia touches his fingers.
They remain like this for a while; each of them in their own world, listening to the sound of the crickets. Suddenly, from beyond the garden, there is a loud scream, and the women lower their faces to the ground, unable to look at one another. Maroulla is now lying on the floor with her head on Koki’s lap; she lifts her head and looks fearfully towards the door. The baby wriggles in Olympia’s arms and whimpers, twisting from left to right; there is a look of anguish on his face. From the distance another scream can be heard: the piercing and unforgettable sound of agony and torment. It slices through the darkness like a spear and stabs each of them with terrifying thoughts. There is another scream. Olympia rocks the baby and sings a lullaby that her mother used to sing to her:
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