Secrets Under the Sun

by Nadia Marks

  14

  1959

  After the loss of the baby, Anita’s convalescence, both physical and emotional, was a long and painful process. The spark went out of her eyes and her appetite for anything apart from sleeping diminished. Months passed and she lay in bed, her desolation continuing unabated, as if by losing her baby she herself wanted to return to the shelter of the womb.

  ‘I am so worried for her,’ Olga had told Padre Bernardino, ‘she is wasting away.’

  Knowing that his support was now needed more than ever the Padre increased his visits to the Linser women.

  ‘She seems indifferent even to the good things that are happening on the island,’ Olga continued. ‘She fought so wholeheartedly for our liberation, and now it’s as if she doesn’t care.’

  ‘She lived for this moment …’ Ernestina added, wiping her eyes. ‘What are we to do, Padre?’

  ‘Apart from praying,’ he replied, ‘all we can do is wait. Melancholia passes with time.’

  While Anita lay in her darkened room, Cyprus was jubilant.

  For days the streets were throbbing with people celebrating their liberation. Independence was at last upon them and the day for the return of the banished archbishop had arrived. The main figurehead and symbol of the revolution, Archbishop Makarios, who had been forced into exile by the British, was finally allowed to return, and the people of Cyprus were rejoicing. Crowds had been pouring into the capital since the night before by every method of transport they could find. Every street was lined with men, women and children to welcome their revolutionary hero and their new leader. Finally, the imperial rule was gone. Every house in the vicinity of the main square was crammed full of onlookers. Any balcony, roof terrace or veranda available was filled with people waving flags and holding up icons. The island was pulsating with elation.

  ‘Get up, Anita mou, we are going to Nicosia,’ Katerina called out as she walked into her friend’s room. ‘Come, now, get up – we have to go,’ she said again and threw open the tightly shut windows that for months had been banishing life and light from the room. ‘Come, Anita mou, get up, get dressed,’ she repeated, trying to coax her out of her apathy. ‘I’ll help you bathe and comb your hair. People are lining the streets to welcome him back. He is coming home!’

  Katerina refused to give up trying to imbue Anita with some enthusiasm, some energy. ‘The buses are waiting to take us to Nicosia! You and I must be there; this is our moment. Please, Anita mou, get up. For Mario’s sake,’ she urged her. But Anita’s spirit had left her and she couldn’t respond.

  Finally, Katerina had to admit defeat and with a heavy, troubled heart went to the capital with neighbours and friends, but without her beloved Anita.

  Doctor Elias kept a close eye on Anita too and visited each week but even he was uncertain how to treat her condition. The months went by and Anita gave no sign of recovery, much to everyone’s despair.

  ‘It will pass,’ the good doctor told them, at a loss as to what else to suggest. ‘Her nervous system has been affected by so many shocks following one after the other.’

  As the person closest to her and the one who spent the most time with Anita, Katerina developed a theory about her friend’s condition.

  ‘I am so worried, Padre,’ she said one May morning while the two of them were having coffee in the garden, sitting outside among the flowers under the shade of the lemon tree. The zinnias and dahlias were in full bloom, in all shades of gold, as if Midas had touched each and every one of them.

  ‘You might think I am crazy,’ Katerina leaned forward to speak confidentially to him, ‘but I think Anita is lamenting not only the loss of her baby but the loss of something else too … I fear she is losing herself.’

  ‘I think you are right,’ he replied, moving his chair a little closer so his voice wouldn’t carry. ‘You are a very intuitive woman, Katerina, and I believe there is truth in what you say. Perhaps Anita is mourning the loss of her youthful spirit, and the loss of her first love. Mario’s death was particularly brutal.’

  Who would have thought that a man of the cloth could have such insight into the loss of love and youth – but then again, she thought, not many priests had experienced the kind of past that Padre Bernardino had, and she alone knew about it.

  In all the years he had known the Linser women the padre had been a good counsellor to them and had stood by through all their misfortunes, but this one, the loss of this baby, saddened him deeply.

  ‘I wonder,’ Katerina went on, ‘could it be that when Mario was murdered, Anita was too preoccupied with the revolution to fully acknowledge his death?’

  ‘When you are too busy to mourn it catches up with you in different ways,’ the padre replied. ‘When Carmen was killed it was a double loss for me too. The baby she was carrying died along with her. It took me months, if not years, to acknowledge what effect that had on me.’

  Katerina held her breath and listened, grateful that he was once again confiding in her.

  ‘It wasn’t until I found peace through my faith and prayer that I was finally able to understand the extent of my double bereavement.’ He let out a sigh. ‘You are right, Katerina,’ he reached across to pat the back of her hand, ‘it takes a long, long time to get over a death, and it needs work and prayer to achieve peace.’

  ‘Perhaps Anita needs to go away – somewhere peaceful, somewhere healing,’ she said, and decided to talk to Olga.

  Katerina and the padre sat among the flowers for a long while in silence, both lost in thought, and then he reached in his pocket for his bible.

  ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,’ he read, quoting Matthew chapter five, verse four.

  As he read on, his voice was carried on the gentle breeze, mingling with the buzzing of the bees and the sound of birdsong.

  The sanatorium in a picturesque village deep in the Troodos Mountains was the perfect place for convalescence.

  After listening to Katerina’s suggestion, Olga and Ernestina agreed that a month or two away from the town in the fresh sweet air and lush vegetation of the mountains surrounded by planes, pines, maples and poplar trees would be what Anita needed for her physical and mental recovery. It took all of Katerina and Olga’s power of conviction to persuade Anita, but finally, with the blistering heat of the summer approaching, she agreed.

  ‘It will do both you and your grandmother the world of good,’ Olga had told her daughter, referring to Ernestina’s declining health over the past few months.

  The hot weather was on its way and it was perfect timing for all of them to escape the oppressive heat that would soon engulf the town.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come with us?’ Olga had asked Katerina once the arrangements had been made for their departure. This was the first time since entering the Linser household that Katerina would be left on her own for any length of time. ‘Will you be all right?’ she asked again anxiously. But Katerina had made up her mind to have some time alone.

  ‘Of course I shall be fine,’ she said, amused by the notion that they would be concerned since she was the one who always took care of everything.

  ‘Besides, who is going to look after Oscar?’ she added, laughing.

  Oscar, the name given to any cat owned by the women, was the third of his namesake since Katerina had come to live with them.

  ‘He’s far too old to be left alone.’ She smiled, knowing perfectly well that Oscar was not the real reason she would be glad to stay. Katerina had never lived alone nor had she ever had the run of a house, any house, and the prospect thrilled her. Since Costas had suggested that he would stay on in Nicosia during Anita’s convalescence, this was Katerina’s chance.

  ‘You could come and visit us whenever you find the heat unbearable,’ Ernestina told her.

  ‘Oh yes please, my friend,’ Anita begged. ‘I shall miss you terribly.’

  ‘Of course I would do that with pleasure,’ Katerina replied. ‘I could ask Kyria Maria to feed Oscar for a
few days.’

  Anita’s recovery took three full months, and soon the summer would be giving way to early autumn, and it would be time to start thinking about heading down to the warmth of the coast. Once autumn set in in the mountains, the chilly weather would soon follow.

  All summer long the three women enjoyed the fresh mountain air, gentle walks in the forest, plenty of sleep and good wholesome Cypriot food prepared by the kitchen staff in the sanatorium. With these things, and her mother and grandmother by her side, Anita was starting to regain her health and strength.

  ‘I don’t know why it took Katerina to point out to us that this is what Anita needed,’ Olga told Ernestina, delighted to see the swift progress in her daughter. They were relaxing on lounging chairs one evening in the open air on the veranda of the sanatorium with a small glass of goumandaria while Anita had gone to the library to fetch a book. The sky above, black and dense as carob treacle, was littered with a myriad of stars. The air smelled sweet and somewhere nearby in the forest a nightingale was singing its song.

  ‘That woman is our guardian angel,’ Olga said, taking a deep breath of warm night air. ‘I bless the day I made the journey to that forsaken village and took her home with us.’

  ‘She is a treasure,’ the old woman agreed, and took a sip of the sweet fortified wine in her glass just as Anita walked onto the veranda to join them.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ she asked her mother and grandmother.

  ‘We were just saying how marvellous Katerina is.’

  ‘It’s true!’ She nodded in agreement. ‘I miss her, I wish she had joined us for a few days. Do you think she might still come before we leave?’

  ‘Why don’t you write and ask her?’ Ernestina reached for her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Of course you miss her, Anita mou – the two of you haven’t been apart since you were girls. You three girls were inseparable when you were young. I so wish Sonia would come home, I worry about that girl.’

  ‘Now that you are feeling stronger, how about going to visit your sister in Vienna?’ Olga asked hopefully.

  ‘I would love to come with you,’ Ernestina gave a sigh, ‘but I am too old for such journeys now. I just about made it up here …’

  ‘Perhaps Katerina would come with me?’ Anita looked at her mother and for the first time in nearly a year there was a sparkle in her eyes and spirit in her voice.

  ‘Now that is an excellent idea, my girl!’ Olga replied and lifted her glass of goumandaria to her lips.

  Meanwhile Katerina was enjoying her time alone in Larnaka. Being the custodian of the house suited her very well, allowing her to do things her own way. Even though it was not the season, she decided to do a spring clean, taking her time over the task. Moving from room to room she washed and ironed all the curtains, polished every last bit of silver and crystal in the glass cabinets, scrubbed every skirting board and window-pane, dusted every corner and polished the parquet floors to a brilliant shine. She went to church at her leisure, she read books, and had regular visits from Padre Bernardino who on discovering that the ladies of the house were absent, took the opportunity to visit Katerina more often than usual and with less formality.

  Although there were a number of Catholics who lived in the town, his parishioners were but a few and he knew most of them well. Olga and Ernestina were generous benefactors to his church, and this obliged him to behave in a somewhat deferential way towards them. Both women would have been offended if they’d known this as they were fond of the priest and considered him a good friend of the family. However, he felt that due to his position and their age, his behaviour towards them demanded a certain formality.

  Katerina was different: her Orthodox faith set her apart from his congregation. She did not worship in his church and therefore she was not one of his parishioners, thus allowing him to be more relaxed towards her.

  Their relationship over the months and years had blossomed into a warm friendship and he had welcomed it. God alone knew how lonely he had been for so long. It was good to have a real friend.

  All through that hot and balmy summer, the two friends sat, sometimes in the cool of the kitchen with the ceiling fan on and the shutters tightly closed banishing the brutal heat, and at other times under the shade of the fig tree at the edge of the garden where there was more likely to be a little breeze. He always seemed to know when she was free and where to find her.

  She took her early-morning coffee before she started her chores in the kitchen, and every day at one o’clock she stopped for lunch. Whether alone or with her mistresses, Katerina always laid the table for the midday meal, and in those summer months when she was alone she took to laying a second plate for the padre just in case he came, and he often did.

  Early evenings after finishing her work she would be found on the veranda with a book, or her embroidery. She had a talent for needlework and would occupy herself with it whenever she was free. The various cushions, tablecloths and bedspreads she saw around the house created by Eva Linser had ignited her interest from an early age and Olga had encouraged and coached the young girl in the art of needlepoint.

  The padre’s favourite time to visit Katerina was when the day was giving way to evening. Then, both of them free, they could sit on the veranda, anticipating the cool breeze that the night would hopefully bring and talk unhurriedly for hours to the sound of the cicadas serenading them.

  When Olga and Ernestina were present he varied his visits. Sometimes he would come in the day, at other times in the afternoon or evening, and would never, as he said, ‘outstay his welcome’, much to the protests of Ernestina, who always wanted more of him. But during that long summer, while sitting with Katerina under the moon and stars, he couldn’t tear himself away.

  His modest apartment by the side of his church, Our Lady of the Graces, was only a fifteen-minute walk through the middle of town. It was comfortable and pleasant enough at home, yet most evenings his feet led him towards the Linser house.

  ‘When you are next free, you must come and see my garden, Katerina,’ he told her one evening as she appeared through the door onto the veranda carrying a tray with a jug of homemade lemonade, a bowl of juicy slices of watermelon and a plate of haloumi cheese. ‘Yes, you must come, although springtime would be best,’ he continued, ‘when the roses are in full bloom.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised and laid the tray down on a chair serving as a table in front of them. ‘I imagine most flowers perish in this heat.’

  ‘You are right, there is very little at the moment. Some geraniums that seem to survive anything, and the pots of basil which as long as I water them reward me with a profusion of leaves that do a good job of keeping the mosquitoes at bay,’ he said, referring to the common belief that the pungent aroma of the plant acted as a deterrent to the insects.

  ‘That’s why I keep so many pots of it myself,’ she replied, pointing with her chin at the dozen or so pots of basil around the veranda.

  Katerina leaned forward to pick up a plate and fork and handed it to the padre.

  ‘Summer doesn’t feel like summer without an evening snack of watermelon and haloumi,’ she remarked, holding out the bowl of fruit to him. ‘In much the same way as winter is not winter without black Russian tea and buttered toast!’

  ‘I so agree … watermelon is so refreshing.’ He leaned forward to spoon a slice onto his plate. ‘In my part of the world we have something similar,’ he said, looking at the piece of watermelon on his fork. Katerina sat back in her chair, waiting to hear more of his past. As always she longed to hear him talk. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘in my country, we eat our local cheese with quince, which gives a similar effect to watermelon and haloumi.’ He reached for a piece of the Cypriot cheese. ‘The taste of that combination is the same as this … sweet and salty.’ He bit into the melon and then took a bite of the cheese. ‘Mmmm … delicious!’ he said with his mouth full. ‘My mother used to make quince jelly from the tree in our garden.’

  ‘I
remember that there were several quince trees in my village up in the mountains,’ she told him. ‘My grandmother used to make glygo and gydonopasto, a sweet paste for dessert. Now I buy the fruit in the market when they’re in season.’ She offered him another slice before continuing cheerfully, ‘I will make you some gydonopasto sometime and then you can try it with haloumi and see if you like it.’

  These familiar, inconsequential exchanges with the padre pleased Katerina as much as the deeper, more philosophical instructive conversations she had with him. These chats felt real, human, intimate. He too relished the talks between them. They made him feel less of a priest and more like his old forgotten self, allowing memories of his past life to re-emerge. Memories he had never forgotten but buried in his heart for far too long.

  ‘Perhaps I should plant a quince tree in my garden,’ he said again and leaned forward for another slice of cheese.

  He was rather proud of his garden. When he’d first arrived on the island, the little yard surrounding his rooms and adjoining the church had been barren. Apart from a small lemon tree and a jasmine that had seen better days, the place had been overrun by weeds and wild daises. Gradually he set about restoring, cultivating and converting this wasteland into a fragrant, bee-loving piece of heaven. He planted mainly scented roses, with the prominent position given to his pride and joy the Rosa Damascena with its thirty deep pink petals and heavenly scent, a variety of rose that had been imported to Cyprus from Damascus for the main purpose of extracting and producing rose water. He didn’t have time for this activity but enjoyed and revelled in the flowers’ exquisite aroma. Some of the local ladies in neighbouring houses regularly asked the padre if they could harvest some flowers for that purpose. It was a bountiful bush and so long as they didn’t strip it entirely of its blooms, he agreed. He was of course always rewarded with several bottles of rose water, which he enjoyed using in different ways. In the summer, he would splash it all over his face, a fragrant and refreshing start to the day, and sometimes add a few drops to his glass of ice-cold drinking water.