by Nadia Marks
‘It’s because Lambros is a boy,’ came Andreas’s feeble excuse, confused about his daughter’s outburst. ‘We have to think about his future. As a girl your future will soon be with your husband.’
‘Who said I want to get married?’ Anastasia gasped. ‘I’m too young, I’m not even thirteen yet! And who told you I want to go to Nicosia?’
‘Your father is not talking about getting married now, Anastasia mou . . . but it won’t be too long before you do; things are different for girls, you know that.’
‘It shouldn’t make any difference that he is a boy and I’m a girl, Mother. You should still care about what I think. I’ve never been to Nicosia. How do I know if I want to live there?’
‘None of us has ever been to Nicosia, Anastasia mou,’ her mother replied. ‘It will be an adventure. Just think how much warmer it will be there than up here.’
‘Do you think I care about that!’ the girl snapped angrily at her mother and snatched her hand away from hers. ‘I can’t believe you’re all willing to just get up and leave. What about our house here? What about our friends?’ Her voice, though still raised, was now wavering, her eyes filling with tears.
‘She is right, Father,’ Lambros said finally, having sat silently listening to his family talking across each other. ‘I am really grateful that you are willing to give up our home for me, but if Anastasia doesn’t want to leave she has a right to choose. I could always go alone and stay with Uncle Savvas.’
‘Oh no! No!’ Maroula spoke out this time. ‘We will not be separated, we shall stay together.’ The thought of losing her beloved friend and her home was bad enough, but the idea of splitting up her family was even worse. Nicosia was as foreign and unknown to them as the moon. The distance of seventy miles or so that separated their village from the capital and the treacherous mountain roads between them made it a daunting journey to undertake, and unless it was essential few people braved it. Andreas knew it was an uphill prospect to uproot his family, but he had also hoped that the big city’s potential would be an attractive proposition to his children.
‘It could be exciting, Anastasia mou,’ Maroula began again, trying to defend their decision.
‘What about Hatiche Hanoum?’ the girl burst out once more, giving her mother a hard look and ignoring her comment, ‘and Leila and Hassan Bey and Orhan?’ She glanced around the room, first at her parents and then at Lambros. ‘How can we leave them all behind? Don’t any of you care?’
‘They will come and visit us, and stay as long as they like,’ Maroula replied, ‘and you can spend all your summer holidays up here with them. I’ve already spoken to Hatiche, and we have agreed.’
The next day after school Anastasia went straight to Hatiche’s house. She threw her arms around the woman and started to cry.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ she said through her tears. ‘It’s not fair that we should all be separated because of Lambros.’
‘Now, now, askim mou,’ Hatiche said, stroking the girl’s hair and using the Turkish word for love, that Anastasia had learned so well from her. ‘Your mother and father are only doing what they think is best for both of you and all the family, not just for Lambros. Besides, you’re not leaving yet. By the time you have to go you’ll be used to the idea.’
‘I’ll never get used to it, and I’ll never see any of you again if we leave.’
‘Do you think I would let that happen?’ the older woman replied. ‘Do you think I’d let your mother go without ever seeing her again? So, come and sit down and tell me the reason why you are so upset.’
‘It’s not that I don’t love Lambros, and Orhan . . . I do, you know I do, but what about me and Leila? It’s always about them, about the boys!’
‘Do you want to go to high school too, Anastasia mou? Is that what this is about? What’s upsetting you?’ Hatiche asked, looking the girl in the eyes. Anastasia averted her gaze, avoiding the older woman’s scrutiny.
‘No, it’s not that,’ she finally said and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. ‘I can read all the books I want, I don’t need to go to school for that.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I know you’ve always said education is freedom and that you and Mother didn’t have enough, but a skill is freedom too, isn’t it? I want to learn to be a seamstress like you and Mama, so that I can earn a living and be independent.’
‘But you can do that in the city,’ Hatiche interrupted. ‘You can learn from your mother or do an apprenticeship somewhere.’
‘But I wanted to learn from Hassan Bey, he’s the master tailor, I wanted to work in his shop.’
‘You can do that when you come to stay with us in the summer. I can teach you and Leila more, and then when you are older and know the trade, Leila can come to Nicosia and the two of you can open a dressmaker’s shop. Now doesn’t that sound like a good enough reason to go to Nicosia?’ Smiling, Hatiche gave Anastasia a kiss on the cheek, got up and made her way to the kitchen. ‘Now stop crying and let’s have some of the baklava I made this morning,’ she called from the other room.
By the time Anastasia arrived home she had cheered up and the future looked brighter.
‘That smells good, Mama,’ she said chirpily, walking into the kitchen where her mother was stirring a pot of steaming hot trahana soup made from cracked wheat and yogurt with chunks of halloumi cheese floating in it, perfect comfort food to warm them up on such a cold day.
‘You sound cheerful, Anastasia mou,’ Maroula replied, relieved to see her daughter in better spirits. She had felt guilty all night long, thinking about their conversation. The girl was right, none of them had really thought about her; their focus was always on the boy.
‘Maybe Nicosia isn’t such a bad place to live in, after all,’ the girl said and started to pour herself a glass of water from the earthenware jug standing in the middle of the table. ‘I went to see Hatiche Hanoum after school.’
‘Ah! Of course! That would explain it,’ Maroula said and let out a long sad sigh. She would miss her friend more than she could ever explain to anyone or even want to at this point. But she knew that once the decision was made and their plans had been set in motion they must start to prepare for the move. There would be no looking back.
‘I heard the news . . .’ Orhan said to Lambros on their way home from school the next day. ‘My mother told me.’
‘I’m sorry . . . I wanted to tell you myself,’ Lambros replied, stealing a sideways glance at his friend. The joy he felt at the prospect of going to high school was mingled with a sense of guilt, knowing that the reason for this upheaval for everyone, for leaving the family home and his best friend, was himself.
‘Even if I don’t get the scholarship, my uncle has offered us a place to live and my dad a job,’ he tried to explain further.
The snow was now rapidly melting and the sun beamed down on them as they trudged through mud and slush. ‘It all happened so fast,’ he said again apologetically.
‘I’m not really surprised,’ Orhan replied. ‘Isn’t that what we both wanted? To go to high school?’
‘I know, but we wanted to go somewhere together . . .’ Lambros’s voice trailed off.
‘Yes, we did,’ Orhan said and turned around to look at his friend with a beaming smile. ‘The way I see it, there’s only one thing for it. If they were going to send me away to school in Paphos, then they can send me away to school in Nicosia with you!’
‘The boy is right,’ Hassan said to Hatiche that same night after Orhan came to them with his suggestion. ‘We were seriously considering sending him to Paphos, so why not Nicosia?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Hatiche interrupted in agreement. ‘He’ll be safer with our friends.’
‘I just pray to Allah that Andreas will accept some money for the boy’s lodging,’ Hassan added, concerned that his friend might refuse out of pride.
‘I’ll talk to Maroula,’ Hatiche said, knowing that between them the two women would never allow such matters
as foolish pride to interfere with a good plan.
And so it was agreed that if, as hoped, Lambros was awarded a scholarship and the Constandinou family were prepared for Nicosia, Orhan would leave with them to attend the Turkish high school.
The boy was family, there was no question that they would refuse. He would live with them and they would look after him as one of their own, as the two families always did for each other.
6
The bus stopped in the village just twice a week. Visits to nearby villages were usually made by foot, donkey or mule, but for longer journeys a bus would arrive every Tuesday to deliver and collect mail and carry the few passengers who wanted to travel further around the island. Paphos and Limassol were the most common destinations while hardly anyone ever ventured as far as Nicosia.
The arrival of the bus was always an occasion of interest and excitement. Bambos, the driver, was well known and liked in the village. He worked for the main office in Limassol, which contracted drivers to pick up passengers from remote mountain locations; since he often had few or no passengers, he was given the job of postman too, as an added incentive to make the hazardous journeys.
Bambos’s Bedford bus, which he leased from the company and was painted in a riotous assortment of colours, was his pride and joy. Half-metal, half-timber, the bus was painted a brilliant shiny red on both sides of the chassis, while the upper part, including the window frames and bonnet, was an equally glossy bright green edged with yellow stripes. The bumpers, front and back, were white, with gold, red and green stripes round the edges framing the number plates. The luggage, on the occasions when the bus had more than a handful of passengers, would either be hoisted onto the roof rack to be tied down with tough blue fishing ropes, or if anything was deemed too precious by its owners, it would be carried into the bus. Luggage consisted of numerous wooden or cardboard boxes, often filled with livestock, wicker baskets filled with an assortment of foodstuffs, and earthenware pitchers filled with olives or olive oil.
On fine days, when rain, wind and mud hadn’t yet splashed the vehicle, it would arrive looking almost as bright and festive as when Bambos had set off. After parking in the village square he would make his way to the kafenion with his postbag and sit at a table for a well-earned coffee and some walnut, cherry, or bitter-lemon glygo in syrup, whichever was in season, while he waited to pick up any return mail and, with luck, any passengers. All the while that the bus was parked in the square it became the object of intense curiosity, mainly among the children, who would spend the entire time while Bambos was having his break examining the vehicle. No matter how many times they had seen it, they never tired of climbing all over it and pretending to drive it.
‘Just make sure none of you rascals do any damage or, God forbid, release the hand brake, or there’ll be hell to pay,’ Bambos would shout good-naturedly at the children who were, of course, in no doubt that his threats were sincere.
When the day finally arrived for Bambos to take the Constandinou family and Orhan to Nicosia, the whole village had gathered in the square to see them off. Over the years people came and went, especially young men, looking for work in the bigger villages and towns, but no entire family had ever left in this way before.
‘Dear brother, I am so happy that you have finally decided to take the plunge and leave the village,’ Savvas had written to Andreas when he heard the news. ‘Penelope has prepared your part of the house and we are looking forward to being a family again at last. It’s been lonely with just the two of us in this great big place. Orhan is welcome too, Hatiche Hanoum and Hassan Bey have been like family to you.’
Preparations for the move had been taking place for weeks before their departure and it was agreed that Xenia, one of Maroula’s cousins, and her family, who had been living with her husband’s parents, would take over the house.
‘Bless you, Maroula mou, and your Andreas too,’ the cousin said with tears of gratitude. ‘I shall take care of your home as you have always done and whenever you come back to visit us you will live here with us.’ Maroula was not only pleased to be able to do a good deed for her relative but also content in the knowledge that she was leaving her house in good hands.
‘I want to stay with Hatiche Hanoum when I come back to visit, not with Auntie,’ Anastasia had told her mother as they packed their belongings to be sent ahead with Bambos one day in early June.
‘I don’t suppose Hatiche would let you stay anywhere else even if you wanted to,’ Maroula replied with a smile.
‘How will it be when we get to Nicosia, Mama?’ Anastasia said again, her curiosity now aroused by the prospect of their move. ‘People say it will be very hot!’
Reports of heatwaves and droughts down on the plains were always rumoured and as high summer was fast approaching they found it hard to imagine. The Troodos range was their terrain, their world. Heavily forested, heather-scented, with cool streams and waterfalls, these mountains covered a great deal of the western part of the island. Cold and crisp in the winters, hot but fresh in the summers, that was the only climate they had ever known.
To the north of the island across from Troodos, another mountain chain in the form of a narrow limestone ridge ran along the entire length of the coastline, acting as a barrier to the sea and creating a vast hot, dry flatland between the two ranges, and that was where the city of Nicosia lay.
By early July they were on their way. The journey was long, tiring and dusty; for Maroula it was also heartbreaking, although she tried her best not to show it. The others were delighted for their own different personal reasons. Lambros and Orhan were happy not to be separated as they had feared they would be, and to realize their dream of attending high school at last. Orhan had an extra reason for joy in the knowledge that he would not only not lose his best friend but he would also be living under the same roof as the girl who had stolen his heart. Andreas was looking forward to and ready for the challenge of working with his brother, and Anastasia was now eagerly anticipating a new life in the big city. Maroula, it seemed, was the only one looking back. She sat on the bus quietly reflecting on what she had left behind: a life she was content with, a house she cherished, family and loved ones, and for the first time ever she would be separated from her beloved Hatiche. At least, she thought, her parents were long dead and buried or that would have been one too many separations to endure. She sighed deeply and swallowed her tears. She had lived a happy life so far, she told herself; she had no complaints. Now it was her children’s turn. Their future was what mattered and she must start to look ahead.
As the bus trundled slowly down to the foothills of the mountains and started to leave behind the familiar slopes, the landscapes they encountered were a revelation. Apart from Andreas, who had travelled elsewhere on occasion, no one else had ventured further than the neighbouring villages. Gradually, as they made their descent, they watched as the familiar fresh green lushness of the mountains was replaced by shrubs, cactus plants and dusty carob trees. Once they approached the flatlands the green vanished entirely, giving way to a parched yellow and dusty grey plain. They watched with keen interest as herds of goats and sheep grazed under the unforgiving sun on what appeared to be nothing but thistles and tumbleweed, with only an occasional lonely olive or fig tree providing shade for the poor shepherd.
The day before their departure Maroula had visited Hatiche for a last morning coffee together. They sat as always in the backyard under the mandarin tree and pledged never to lose touch with each other. Hatiche was the more pragmatic of the two.
‘How can we ever let go of one another, my friend?’ she said. ‘Can sisters ever forget each other? Because that is what you and I are.’
‘I know I would never find a friend like you again,’ Maroula replied, her eyes tearing up.
‘Besides, you will have my boy. Do you think I would allow too much time to go by before I come to visit you?’
But despite their million promises to visit each other, Maroula had a premonition,
a foreboding, warning her that somehow their easy companionship would never be the same again.
They arrived in Nicosia just before sunset. The sky, the faintest of blues, was tinged with blushing pink and alive with the darting flight of swallows in a last attempt to feed before nightfall on a wealth of insects.
Normally the bus stopped at the terminus in the main square, within the Venetian walls encircling the old city, but since there were no other passengers and Bambos was almost family, he took it upon himself to make a slight detour and deliver them to their front door.
The house that Savvas had built, on a plot of land that had been passed down to him and Andreas by their maternal grandfather, was an almost exact replica of that of his father-in-law in Paphos, just as he had promised for himself one day. Standing in front of the house, only a few metres outside the city wall and facing the dry moat, they were all mesmerized as they glanced over the ancient fort onto the city beyond, imagining what wonders it contained within. Just inside the wall, which surrounded the city like a serpent, and no more than a stone’s throw away from the house stood a mosque, its minaret soaring above any other building in the vicinity, while in the distance the Byzantine domes and bell-towers of Greek Orthodox churches were visible.
The sound of the bus and Bambos’s loud beeping announcing their arrival propelled Savvas and Penelope out into the yard to welcome everybody amid much jubilation and embracing.
‘Kalosorisate, kopiaste,’ welcome, come in, they repeated excitedly, helping the newcomers off the bus and into the dusty road.
Andreas’s brother and his wife couldn’t have been more welcoming and their new home surpassed all expectations. The house, made out of local limestone, was solid and spacious; on entering through the front door they stepped into an iliakos almost the size of the entire house they had lived in before. Anastasia was thrilled with the bedroom her aunt had given her, which was double the size of her old room and furnished with a rosewood chest of drawers, a single four-poster bed festooned with lace, ribbons and a mosquito net, and a wardrobe with a full-length mirror on the door. She was made to feel like a princess; Penelope was compensating for the absence of a daughter she had always longed for. The two boys had to share a room but it was spacious enough for their two beds, a large wardrobe and two small desks complete with an electric lamp for their evening studies. Everyone was more than happy. Above all, the most impressive item in their new home, they unanimously agreed, was the installation by Savvas of one of the European lavatories they had heard so much about, complete with a flushing device which they all had to learn how to use properly. There was also a tiled room in which Savvas had placed a small wooden bathtub under a metal pipe acting as a kind of shower, so that when the boiler was fed with wood it would heat enough water for bathing – though arrangements had to made in advance as there was only ever enough water for one person to wash at a time. Once again, it was unanimously agreed that the shower device was nowhere near as good or effective as Hassan’s Turkish bath.