by Nadia Marks
They had now all been living together for over six months and their cohabitation had proved to be more successful than Maroula had imagined, even if at times she was aware of Penelope’s reservations about the Turkish boy. If any negative comments were ever made about Orhan they fell on deaf ears. Maroula was determined that he would be part of the family, no matter what. Both boys had now enrolled into their high schools, Anastasia had started as an apprentice with Kyria Thecla, a seamstress in the old town, while Andreas was getting used to running the other part of the business, the grocery shop with its now ailing proprietor, Petros.
At first Maroula had a few reservations as to how they would manage with two women running a house – she was used to being in charge of her domestic domain and worried that Penelope might not take too kindly to her interference – but on the contrary her sister-in-law, after a few initial hitches of getting used to another mistress in the home, welcomed her participation with pleasure. Penelope was proving to be a good friend, even if she couldn’t replace her dear Hatiche.
‘I had never imagined that I would not be able to bear a child,’ Penelope confided in Maroula as they sat drinking coffee between their household chores one day. ‘Each month I would wait and each month I’d be heartbroken. I visited every doctor in Nicosia, I’ve had every examination under the sun and I have even been to the fortune teller to find out if it might happen someday . . .’ her voice trailed off. ‘Having a full house now with all of you here, especially the young ones, has brought me so much joy. Bless you and bless your children, although,’ she hesitated, ‘they are hardly children anymore.’
‘That’s true, Penelope mou, they’re growing up; a year or two more and we’ll be looking for a husband for my Anastasia. She’s nearly fourteen now. And the boys, they are turning out to be fine young men, but then again they’ll always be our children,’ the other woman replied with a smile. ‘My old mother used to treat me like a child even after I got married.’
‘My sisters and my mother hardly ever visit me,’ Penelope murmured, sadness resonating in her voice. ‘I’m used to a big family, Maroula mou, and I miss it. My mother has never visited, not once, she says it’s too far to travel for her health . . .’ Her voice trailed off again. ‘Savvas sends me to visit her once in a while but it’s not the same. Having you all here makes me feel like we’re a real family at last, and I thank you for it.’ She reached across to squeeze her sister-in-law’s hand.
‘You have no reason to thank me, Penelope mou, we should thank you for sharing your home with us.’
‘It shows how lonely they must have both been these past years, especially Penelope,’ Maroula told Andreas. ‘She is one of three sisters, it must have hit her hard leaving them all behind and starting over again on her own. I can’t understand why her mother never visits her, it’s not normal. Poor Penelope.’
‘Yes, but see how nicely my brother has provided for her?’ he replied. ‘She wants for nothing.’ His expression darkened. ‘I, on the other hand, Maroula mou, have never managed to provide well for you in all the years we’ve been married.’
‘Having money doesn’t bring happiness, Andreas, a good family does that,’ replied Maroula. ‘Penelope was rich before she married your brother, but being childless and alone can bring sadness no matter how wealthy a person is.’
7
The fire started from a single candle. Electricity had been introduced to the village only recently and the supply was unpredictable. The power would frequently cut off, unexpectedly plunging everyone into darkness, so candles and oil lamps were still essential and no one was in a hurry to get rid of them. On one such night when Hassan was working late, the bare electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling in his workshop faded and he was suddenly enveloped in darkness. He was used to these power cuts so he was well prepared. Fumbling in the dark, he lit the candle which he kept ready for such occasions, then turned round to light the oil lamp – when a remnant of fabric was accidentally caught by the naked flame.
Piled high with bolts of textiles, yarns, samples and offcuts, the workshop was a fire trap. In no time at all the building was set ablaze. He tried to save what he could, beating back the flames with a rug and battling with the raging fire while his strength lasted; but he couldn’t help inhaling the thick smoke which rapidly filled his lungs. By the time the alarm was raised the flames were lighting up the night sky. Hassan was found unconscious outside the building and could not be revived.
The news hit the family in Nicosia like an avalanche. Their return journey was immediate to avoid delaying the funeral for more than a day, since for both Christians and Muslims, the dead must be buried straight away.
They arrived in a village plunged into mourning for the untimely death of one of their own. They found Hatiche and Leila at home, surrounded by black-clothed friends and neighbours who were caring for them. Dying had always been a communal affair in their close-knit community, for Turk and Greek alike, and demanded that everyone lend their support and help of every kind to the bereaved family.
Hatiche was inconsolable. How would she live without her Hassan, what would happen to her and Leila without him? Orhan was as heartbroken as his mother and sister and insisted that he must give up his studies and come back to the village at once to try to rebuild the family business. The months spent helping his father while they were waiting for Lambros’s scholarship to be approved had given him some knowledge of tailoring, although when Hassan suggested that Orhan should take on the business after his studies he had vowed to himself that it would never happen. He was not going to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps; he was not a born tailor, he was going to be a teacher. But now things were different, his mother and sister needed him and he must do the right thing to support them.
Hatiche was thrown into further turmoil. She did not want her son to give up his education but how could she afford to continue paying his fees, let alone give Andreas and Maroula money for his lodgings?
‘No matter how bad things are, I would never ask you to give up your dream,’ she nonetheless told her son a few days after the burial, trying to show a brave face. ‘Allah is great and He will provide for us, my son.’
The solution to their problem came a few days later when Andreas and Maroula sat Hatiche down and in no uncertain terms told her that from now on Orhan’s education would be their responsibility. Lambros’s scholarship would see him through his education, and the grocery shop and Savvas’s bakery were now providing them with a good income; for the first time in his life Andreas was earning enough money for them all and Orhan was almost a second son to them.
‘If it was the other way round, wouldn’t Hassan have done the same for me?’ Maroula told her friend and took her in her arms.
‘You have both helped us so many times when we were in need,’ added Andreas when Hatiche tried to protest. ‘Now it’s our turn.’
It was nearly the end of the school year and summer was already upon them, so it was decided that although Andreas had to return to Nicosia, the rest of them would remain with Hatiche and Leila to help one another through their grief. It had been previously planned that the three children and Maroula were going to spend the summer in the village, but none of them could have ever anticipated the circumstances of their return.
They had been looking forward to spending two or three months with family and friends in the cool of the mountains, especially Maroula and the boys, but Anastasia, surprisingly, had been in no great hurry to leave the city. She was enjoying her apprenticeship with Kyria Thecla and more specifically she was enjoying the attentions of her bosses’ two handsome young sons, who had an eye for a pretty girl. The rest of the family was finding the heat of Nicosia oppressive and longed for the fresh air of their village but Anastasia, despite her concern before arriving in the city, found that she actually liked the heat, without knowing exactly why it suited her. Somehow it felt not unlike the flurry of sensuality she experienced when the eyes of Kyria The
cla’s sons were upon her.
‘Why don’t you open all the windows at night?’ she told her mother when she complained that it was too hot. ‘Kyria Thecla’s house is cool and breezy because she keeps the windows and doors open for a nice draught and we look into her garden when we work. This house is like a furnace! Uncle Savvas’s oven at the back isn’t helping either.’
Four other girls were working out their apprenticeship with Anastasia, all between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. Two of the older girls came from villages across the island and were staying with relatives while the other two were local, living at home. Anastasia struck up a close friendship with one girl who came from a remote village in the north of the island and who was now living with her aunt and uncle not far from Kyria Thecla’s house; her name was Victoria.
‘My mother told me that I was named after the queen of England,’ the girl explained to Anastasia, who had never heard of the name before, nor did she know anything about England or her queen. ‘But you can call me Rioula if you like. I prefer it, that’s what my yiayia calls me.’
‘You can tell your friend Victoria that she might have been named after an old English queen but you are named after a Russian princess!’ Orhan retorted when Anastasia told him and Lambros about her new friend and her grand name. High school had already made its mark on the boys’ education, the colonization of the island by the British being given much emphasis in their school curriculum. The British occupation after centuries of Ottoman rule had been initially well received by the Cypriots, even prompting many to name their baby girls after the victorious queen, but sixty years on the empire was losing its lustre, and islanders were now beginning to view the colonials through less favourable eyes. While the girls were ignorant of developments in the political domain, the two boys were beginning to pick up a wider awareness of their place in the world, sensing the rumblings of anti-colonial, anti-British feelings from certain Greek Cypriots that were creating some tensions between the two communities. Orhan and Lambros stayed neutral – politics was not for them.
Whether Anastasia wanted to spend the summer in the village or not, the death of Hassan Bey changed everything and there was no question of her not joining the rest of the family in supporting their beloved friends.
The summer of their return was useful to them all and the time they spent together sharing the rituals of grief helped them on their way to recovery.
For Orhan, that summer also proved to be the most significant of his life so far. The unexpected death of his father hit him with force, and the realization that he was now the man of the family and would have to take care of his mother and sister was weighing heavily on his young shoulders. He had always been a pious boy and from a very young age he had attended the mosque daily, first with his father and then alone. Now he came to realize that for himself, solace could be found only through prayer and reflection.
Although the three friends had lived under the same roof for the best part of a year, Nicosia had held many distractions for the youngsters. Orhan and Lambros had their studies and Anastasia was busy with her apprenticeship and helping her mother and aunt around the house. Returning to the village of his birth under the sadness of his loss, Orhan was flooded with childhood nostalgia which emphasized the importance of his relationship with his friends. He loved Lambros like a brother, as he always had; but now he had to also recognize and acknowledge that his feelings for Anastasia, which had been contained for so long, were far from brotherly. Suddenly he found himself torn between two conflicting emotions: faith and love.
8
That summer spent at their childhood village was like no other. The death of Hassan Bey brought the two families together once again and prompted Anastasia to be still more affectionate towards Orhan, who, during his solitary reveries, imagined that the girl was perhaps a little in love with him, too. But what to do about it? She was a Christian, he was a Muslim: a union between them could never take place unless one of them changed their faith, thus committing a great sin. He knew that for him it was out of the question and he was more than certain that Anastasia was a devout Orthodox, like all her family. How could he ever speak of such love to her? Or even worse, to Lambros? He was certain that his friend would be angry with him; he would consider Orhan’s declaration as an act of disrespect and betrayal. This, he told himself repeatedly, was a love that could not be declared; besides, he had no idea if Anastasia felt the same way that he did. But his feelings were so strong that when his imagination carried him away and fantasy took hold he looked for glimmers of hope in everything she said or did. Does she know how she makes my heart ache? he would think to himself whenever she was near him and paid him attention, making his heart soar with happiness and misery all at once.
For her part, the girl loved her childhood friend as much as she had ever loved anyone who was not her mother, father, or brother.
Hatiche was grateful to have Maroula with her again, the friend who was always ready to hold her, comfort her and listen to her laments. More than two months had passed since they had buried Hassan and although the pain of his death was as raw as the day when they had found him unconscious outside his workshop, they were all trying to come to terms with the loss. Andreas had gone back to Nicosia and soon the others would have to follow in time for the start of the school term.
‘God bless you and your family, my friend. Knowing that my boy will be taken care of lifts a huge burden from my soul,’ said Hatiche, wiping away her tears.
‘Wouldn’t Hassan Bey have done the same for Lambros if it was the other way round?’ Maroula repeated and reached for her friend’s hand. The two women were sitting under an orange tree in the backyard with their coffee while the hens pecked at their feet, almost like old times. Maroula had been staying with her cousin in the old house while Lambros and Anastasia were next door with Hatiche.
‘Why won’t you come with us?’ Maroula asked her friend again. She had spent the last half hour trying to convince Hatiche that a trip to the city could be just what she needed. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone,’ she went on.
‘I won’t be alone, I have Leila. She’s a good girl, and she helps me with the sewing. How else are we going to make a living now?’
‘Never forget that you always have us, Hatiche mou,’ Maroula replied.
‘I have never doubted it, my friend, your friendship is what gives me peace of mind. And there is also Ahmet, Hassan’s brother in England, who has promised to help us.’
This time, saying goodbye before their return journey to Nicosia was harder than ever and once again the villagers gathered in the square to see the Constandinou family off. Bambos waited patiently as they said their tearful goodbyes before boarding his bus. They sat in silence, sad and pensive during their long trip, deprived of the excitement and anticipation which they had felt the summer before on the way to their new life. Maroula couldn’t help thinking that she should have stayed longer with her friend but Hatiche wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that the family needed her in Nicosia more than she and Leila did.
‘Who would take care of them if you don’t go back with them?’ Hatiche told her when she agonized about staying longer. ‘Your sister-in-law is not used to looking after so many people. They all need you there, my friend. Leila and I will be fine, we have the whole village to take care of us.’
Gradually life in Nicosia resumed its normal pace, for the three young people at least, although Orhan felt that nothing would ever be the same again without his father. Leaving his mother and sister alone in the village to fend for themselves weighed heavily in his mind and heart. He vowed that he would study hard and make good so he could provide well for them in the future. Living with the people he loved almost as much as his own parents eased his pain a little and his proximity to Anastasia inspired feelings which helped to soothe his soul. He threw himself into his studies with more passion than ever. While his ambition to become a teacher was still strong, now his spiritual and religious educat
ion seemed to hold extra significance.
‘I still want to go to the teachers’ training college with you,’ he told Lambros during one of their early evening strolls inside the city walls after their day at school, ‘but I also want to carry on with my religious studies.’
The death of his father had left a void in the young man’s life and he struggled with his grief. The Constandinou family was providing him with the love and security they were giving their own two children and Andreas did his best to be something of a father figure to him. However, when it came to matters of faith there was little he could do to advise or help him. For that, Orhan turned to his local imam. Allah and the Quran were now giving him the solace and comfort he needed.
The apparent reversal of fortunes between the two families, which sometimes troubled and embarrassed Lambros, didn’t bother Orhan at all. What mattered to him now was the affection he received from his adopted family, being close to Anastasia, and the new spiritual path he was following.