by Hilary Green
‘No?’ His eyes are smouldering and his mouth is set in a hard, combative line. ‘No, you’re just accepting the general British line that the Turks are backward, untrustworthy savages who still live in the Middle Ages.’
‘Karim!’ I am embarrassed and angry, with myself and with him. ‘I never said that – or implied it!’
‘Have you ever heard how the Crusaders behaved when they conquered Jerusalem?’ he goes on, as if I had not spoken. ‘They killed every man, woman and child in the city. They speared Muslim babies and roasted them to eat!’
‘Oh God, that’s sick!’ I protest. ‘Don’t, Karim!’
He looks at me and takes a gulp of water. ‘I’m sorry. I got carried away.’
There is a pause. Then I say, ‘You really are passionate about all this, aren’t you?’
He gives me a wry grin. ‘I can’t help it. I suppose I’m particularly sensitive about Famagusta because I grew up there.’
‘I didn’t know. Whereabouts?’
‘In the old city. My father had a business there.’
‘And you don’t have happy memories?’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I had a wonderful childhood, and a wonderful family. I’m the only son, so I suppose you could say I was spoiled rotten. But at the same time, other things were happening …’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, political things mainly.’ He puts his fork down. ‘Enough! Tell me about you. How’s life in London? Do you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, very much. After growing up in rural Hampshire it’s great. At least …’
‘At least?’
‘Oh well, I suppose the excitement wears off after a bit. But I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’
‘Do you like being a teacher?’
‘Most of the time. I read English at university and it seemed the obvious career. But I didn’t grow up with a burning desire to teach. Not like you. I imagine you always knew what you wanted to do.’
‘More or less, yes. Did you ever have a burning desire to do something else?’
I take a sip of wine. ‘Well, yes. What I really wanted – still want – is to be a writer.’
‘Fiction?
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Plays? Novels?’
‘Novels, mainly. And short stories.’
‘Have you had anything published?’
‘Just a couple of things, in fairly obscure magazines. But I don’t really have the time, or the energy, to write after a day in school.’
‘What do you do in your leisure time?’
‘Oh, the usual things. Theatres, discos, parties …’
‘No wonder you’re tired!’
‘Not every night! Actually, most evenings I’m too tired to do anything except flop in a chair and watch telly, or listen to music.’
‘Would you like to go dancing?’
‘Tonight?’
‘If you are not too tired. We have some very good discos in some of the hotels.’
I feel my pulse quicken. ‘Yes, all right. I’d like that very much.’
We drive back to the coast, to a large new hotel west of Kyrenia. The disco is in the basement and as we enter the intensity of the sound hits us like a solid wall. The dance floor is already crowded with bodies gyrating under the strobing lights, the white shirts of the men glowing blue as the UV catches them. Karim throws off his jacket and leads me into the melee. I should have guessed he would be a natural dancer. I give myself up to the pleasure of matching my movements to his, feeling the common rhythm that flows through us both. For a while I am able to ignore the growing sense of exhaustion, until I suddenly stumble and he has to catch hold of me to stop me from falling.
‘What is it? Are you feeling ill?’ He has to put his mouth close to my ear for me to hear him.
My head is spinning but I try to hide the fact. ‘No, it’s nothing. I’m just a bit tired. Can we sit down for a bit?’
‘Of course. Come outside, where it’s quieter.’
He leads me up into the open air and we sit on a low wall with the sea breaking in hushed waves below us. The scent of orange blossom from an orchard across the road hangs in the warm air. Karim takes my hand and feels for my pulse. I force a laugh.
‘You should have been a medical doctor.’
He does not laugh. ‘I’m concerned about you, Cressida. Are you sure you’re not ill?’
I feel the sudden crawl of fear in my stomach. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’re so pale, for one thing. And the other day by the pool, I thought you were going to faint.’
I try to shrug it off. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. The doctor who looked after my mother said he thought I might be a bit anaemic.’
‘Then when you get back to England you should have a blood test. Will you do that?’
‘Yes, all right. I’ll do that. I promise.’
He lifts my chin and looks into my face and I think, He will kiss me now. And I feel the familiar melting sensation of physical desire. I half close my eyes, sensing his closeness, his desire, but the kiss does not come. Instead he drops his hand and sits back.
For a long moment we sit in silence. Finally he says, ‘How are you getting on with your researches into the family history?’
I try to swallow my disappointment and force my mind to focus on the question. ‘Oh, slowly. As a matter of fact, my mother’s journal is quite a revelation. It seems that my father was never really in love with her, because he’d fallen head over heels years before for a girl he met here, in Cyprus. At least, that’s what my mother thought. I don’t know if she was right or not. But it would make sense of my father’s letters.’
He looks puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t think I told you. In the box with my mother’s journal were some letters signed by my father but written in Greek. Os Wentworth looked at the first one and said it seemed to be a love letter. I’ve asked him to translate them for me.’
In the faint glow of the lights from the hotel I see him frown.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s all past history. Why distress yourself?’
I turn to him. I’m not sure why, but I want him to understand. ‘I need to know, Karim. It’s strange, but when my mother was alive I never asked her about my father. I suppose I knew that it distressed her to talk about it. But now that she’s gone I suddenly find I desperately want to know about him and I’m kicking myself for not making her tell me. A child should have the right to know about its parents, don’t you think?’
‘Of course.’ He meets my eyes and his own are serious and gentle. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to find out, but you may not like what you find.’
‘I’m already realizing that,’ I say.
After a moment he says, ‘Didn’t your father have relations? You must have grandparents on his side, or uncles, aunts, cousins, perhaps.’
For a moment I stare at a floodlit palm tree rising ghostlike against the background of the dark sea. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea. I certainly never met any. I suppose my mother must have cut off all communication with them, if there were any.’
‘You could try to find out, I suppose. You could go online, to one of those sites that help you to trace your ancestors.’
‘Yes.’ I am surprised that the idea has never occurred to me. ‘I suppose I could.’
Once again we are silent for a while. Then he says, ‘How did your father die, Cressida?’
‘I don’t know that either,’ I confess. ‘All I remember is my mother telling me he had gone away and wouldn’t be back for a long time. Then, one evening, she came into my room to say good night and said, “Daddy won’t be coming back, ever.” I asked her if he was dead and she said, “Yes”’ I suppose I was too young then to ask how – but actually I think it might have been malaria. Do people die of malaria?’
‘Certainly, if it’s not treated. But in England he
would get treatment.’
‘He wasn’t in England. I’m not sure where he was, but he worked as a journalist, a sort of foreign correspondent. I’m pretty sure it was in the Far East somewhere, because he brought me back a clockwork monkey once and I think he said it came from Singapore. And I do remember him being very ill once, when he was at home, and my mother told me then it was malaria. I remember, because I thought it was such a funny name.’
‘Well, if he was working in that area, perhaps Malaysia or Korea or Vietnam, he might have picked up a resistant strain of malaria and if that was left untreated it would have killed him.’
‘Perhaps that was it, then.’ My mind is half on something else. ‘Do you know, I’d completely forgotten that monkey until just now. Isn’t memory an odd thing?’
‘Is it?’
‘You remember what I told you about that sort of dream I had about the air attack, which you said was probably a suppressed memory?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had another, similar experience last time I went to Lapta. I was just wandering around the streets, and I heard a man and a woman quarrelling and a child crying. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and yet it was as if I was listening to my own parents shouting. My father was saying that he refused to stay in the house with a squalling brat, and when he’d gone my mother told me it was all my fault and if he never came back she would blame me. Do you think that could be a genuine memory too?’
He takes my hand and says softly, ‘Who can say? It might just be something you overheard as a child and misunderstood.’
Suddenly I feel tears pricking my eyelids and I find myself voicing the thought that has been torturing me since that day. ‘Did he leave home because of me, Karim? Was it all my fault?’
He puts his arm round me and draws me against his shoulder. ‘Of course not. You mustn’t think that. A man doesn’t leave home because his child cries. He may get irritated and say things he doesn’t mean, but he doesn’t leave. There have to be other, much deeper reasons.’
I gulp and draw a deep breath. ‘Yes, there must be, mustn’t there? It’s stupid, but I’ve just realized that all my life, at the back of mind, I’ve been blaming myself. So you see, I really need to find out the true reason. If he went because he was in love with someone else, then it’s nothing to do with me, is it?’
‘No, of course it isn’t.’ He releases me and looks into my face. ‘I didn’t know it was so important to you. If there’s anything I can do …’
I am shaken by the ideas that have just crystallized in my brain, but I manage a smile. ‘I don’t suppose there is.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ he answers. ‘I could ask around. Someone may remember your parents and be able to throw some light on the matter.’
‘That’s very good of you.’ I don’t believe there is any likelihood of that, but I am touched by the offer.
He gets up and draws me to my feet. ‘Now, I’m going to drive you home. You’ve had quite enough for one evening.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket,’ I say. ‘Usually I can dance all night.’
‘It was my fault,’ he says, leading me towards the car. ‘The disco was a stupid idea. I should have seen you were tired.’
We say little on the way back to my hotel but as we draw up outside he says, ‘Can we have dinner again tomorrow, if I promise to take you to a Turkish restaurant?’
I feel a flush of happiness. ‘That would be great. I’d love to. And thank you for a wonderful evening – and for being so patient and understanding.’
On an impulse I lean across and kiss him quickly on the cheek. For a moment he sits quite still and when he speaks the old formality is back.
‘No, I should thank you. It’s been a great pleasure.’ He gets out and comes round to open the passenger door for me. ‘Tomorrow then? About the same time?’
‘I’ll be ready,’ I tell him. ‘Good night, Karim.’
‘Good night.’
I wait a moment, giving him one last chance, but he simply bends his head in a stiff little bow and waits until I turn away and go into the hotel.
CHAPTER 12
Next morning there is no sign of Karim, so I wander into town and buy a few souvenirs as presents for friends at work. As I come back into the hotel, the receptionist hands me an envelope.
‘A Mr Wentworth left this for you.’
I take it out onto the terrace, order a fresh lemon juice, and open it. Inside is one of my father’s letters, together with several sheets covered in small, neat writing and a note from Os Wentworth.
Dear Cressida,
This is as far as I’ve got at the moment, but I thought you might like to see the results. They certainly make interesting reading! I’m getting in touch with some ex-colleagues who may have been more closely involved with the matter of your father’s disappearance in ’74 than I was. They may be able to shed some light on the mystery. Of course, his later letters may make everything clearer. We shall have to wait and see.
With a tremor of excitement, I put the note aside and pick up the first sheet of Os’s translation.
My only beloved,
At last it seems there may be a chance of getting a letter to you, to tell you that I am still alive and have never for one moment stopped loving you and missing you. Though whether I shall still be alive when this letter reaches you is rather more questionable. Iannis is holding me prisoner and I have no idea what his intentions are, but at least now I have news of you and a chance to send this letter. Evangelos will bring it to you. Of course, he has no idea who I am and I will say nothing unless it becomes unavoidable. I only realized the truth myself yesterday, when he told me Iannis was his uncle. He is confused and frightened enough, without me adding to it. Iannis has convinced him that this is his patriotic duty and he does not dare to disobey. Remembering what EOKA used to do to anyone they regarded as a traitor back in the fifties I’m not surprised! But he is a good boy and we have become friends, so I think I can trust him to deliver this when the time comes. He has supplied the paper and pen, at great risk of his uncle’s anger, but so far he thinks I am writing to my wife.
Yes, I have a wife – and a little girl just four years old. Don’t think me faithless. In the end I just couldn’t go on alone and I thought it might help me to forget. The years have shown me what a fool I was to imagine that was possible. You know, you must know, that I did not leave the island of my own free will. Somehow my commanding officer found out about us, and I was immediately confined to barracks and then shipped back to England almost before I knew what was happening. I wrote you letter after letter, but each one was returned unopened. Did you ever know they had been sent? I am sure that it was your father and your brother who prevented you from reading them. I still had almost a year to serve in the army so all I could do was write. As soon as I was free I came back to Cyprus and went to your house, but your mother refused to open the door to me. I was still pleading with her when Ferhan came running up and almost dragged me away to her house. She told me that your father and Iannis might return at any moment and that if they found me there they would kill me. That would not have been enough on its own to make me give up, but then she told me that you had gone away; that you were in Athens and married.
My darling, I know the marriage cannot have been of your choice. Please believe me when I say that I hope it has been a happy one, or at least not too unhappy. I cannot bear to think of you suffering all these years through my fault.
What an extraordinary chain of events it is that has given me the chance to write this letter. I followed you to Athens, of course, but I could never find out where you were. I didn’t even know your married name! Eventually my money ran out and I had to go back to England to find work but I had persuaded Ferhan to keep in touch with me and let me have any news of you that came to her. For years she wrote to me every six months or so, so that I learned of the birth of your children and that you seemed to be well and not in any kind of distres
s. So the years passed and I tried to forget Cyprus and all that had happened here but the island wouldn’t let me go.
I’ve been to Ayios Epiktetos. Strangers live in your old house but by chance I met an old man who told me you had returned to the island. He said he had seen you, but he didn’t know where you were living. I went to Ferhan, but she refused to give me your address. She thinks it would only cause trouble if I suddenly reappeared in your life. Perhaps she is right. Then, two days ago, Evangelos said that there was someone who wanted to meet me secretly. I thought for a wonderful, crazy minute that it might be you. To say it was a shock to find myself face to face with Iannis would be an understatement! At first I thought he was going to carry out his old threat and kill me on the spot, but it seems he has other plans for me. I don’t know what is going on, but he is clearly still involved up to his neck in EOKA and I get the impression that they are planning something big. Perhaps they have some idea of holding me to ransom. If so, my chances are pretty slim as we have no money to speak of.
Of course, it is a deliberate, cruel irony that he has chosen this cave as my prison, but I am kept in the rear chamber, far from the warmth of the sun. Iannis comes occasionally but he is obviously too important now to waste his time on guard duty. That is left to an old man and a couple of almost inarticulate shepherd boys with Kalashnikovs. Evangelos comes every day with supplies. It’s hard to believe that here we are, twenty years on, and
(The letter comes to an abrupt end here. I think we can assume he was interrupted. O.W.)
I put the paper down and gaze unseeingly across the pool. There is too much information here to take in. Who was this Iannis, the brother who was mentioned as wanting to kill my father? I re-read the letter, more slowly, trying to piece together a consistent narrative from the disjointed fragments. Some of it is hinted at in Mother’s journal. Why had Evangelos come to the bar looking for work? Was it pure coincidence, or had he been sent by his uncle? And why had my father been kidnapped? My first impulse is to drive out to Lapta after lunch to see if Os has translated any more of the letters. Then I remind myself that I have no right to expect him to devote his life to the task.