by Nadia Marks
Anastasia was thriving at Kyria Thecla’s workshop. She was developing into a talented seamstress and was beginning to dream of the future.
‘It won’t be too long now before I finish my apprenticeship,’ she wrote to Leila, ‘then you will come to Nicosia and we will open our very own dressmaking shop just like your mama said we would.’
‘First of all, my girl, we have to arrange a marriage for you before you start thinking about opening a shop,’ Andreas and Maroula said, alarmed at their daughter’s apparent ambition.
‘You will do no such thing!’ Anastasia gasped. ‘You will not be marrying me off!’
‘In any case,’ Andreas continued, well acquainted with his daughter’s rebellious spirit by now and ignoring her outburst, ‘what kind of an unmarried girl from a good family sets up a shop on her own?’
‘Kyria Thecla has one, and she is a respectable lady from a good family—’ Anastasia started to protest.
‘Kyria Thecla is a married woman and no doubt her husband had a hand in setting up her business,’ Andreas interrupted. ‘It’s one thing to be willing to work like your mother did when we were struggling, and another to have grand schemes at your age!’
‘Hatiche Hanoum thinks it’s a good idea,’ Anastasia protested again.
‘I’m certain that Hatiche thinks it will be a good idea once you and Leila are married and settled, not while you are both looking for husbands!’
‘She’s too headstrong, this girl of ours,’ Maroula told Andreas after Anastasia flounced off in a fury at her parents’ inability to understand that they were living in the twentieth century now and women could be independent.
‘Who is going to want to marry her if she acts like a man?’ added Andreas. ‘The sooner we find her a match, the better.’
But of course, Anastasia was her parents’ daughter and they had both apparently forgotten that no one had found a match for them. They had found each other and had married for love at a time and place when such things were unthinkable.
After their little dispute Anastasia made a mental note not to discuss what was on her mind with her parents in future. She was going to do what she wanted when she wanted and she was determined that she would find a way to follow her ambitions. Besides, she was certain that Hatiche Hanoum was on her side and so was Orhan, who was the only member of the household who took her seriously and listened to what she had to say. Since moving to Nicosia, he had taken his mother’s place as her confidant and mentor and she regarded him as her best friend.
‘They just don’t understand,’ she told him one day when she tried to explain that she wished to work more than she wished to be married. ‘How can I accept a marriage proposal from someone I don’t even know, who doesn’t respect what I want out of life and who has only asked for my hand on the basis of my looks and my dowry?’
‘If I was your husband I would be more than respectful that you want to work,’ Orhan replied, emboldened by the heat of the moment and the intimacy of their conversation. Then he instantly regretted it. ‘What . . . what . . . I mean,’ he stammered, ‘is a wife of mine would be free to pursue her interests, I wouldn’t stand in her way.’
‘I’m sure of it!’ Anastasia replied ardently. ‘And what’s more, she’d be a lucky woman who takes you for her husband, because you’re intelligent and sensitive and you never dismiss what I have to say because I’m a girl,’ she continued, pink with emotion. ‘I’ve seen the types my parents have found as a suitable match for me, and thoughtful or sensitive is not how I’d describe any of them. You, Orhan mou, are an exception.’
Anastasia’s little speech swept over him like a tidal wave of happiness. He sat quietly listening to her speak, soaking up her every word. What did she mean, he wondered, as his mind raced to interpret her comments. Did she, perhaps, love him as he loved her but he’d been too blind to see?
‘So, yes!’ Anastasia carried on. ‘The girl who marries you will be a lucky woman – but as we know,’ she quickly added, ‘that’s not going to me . . . is it? But maybe if I’m lucky I’ll find someone like you one day.’
‘Ermm, well, as they say . . .’ Orhan stammered again. ‘As they say,’ he continued, summoning up courage. ‘Sometimes if there is a will there is a way,’ he finally blurted out as the blood rushed to his cheeks.
‘I don’t think there could ever be a way when it comes to a match between a Turk and a Greek, Orhan mou, you know that!’ Anastasia said gently, reaching for his hands. ‘You are my best friend, my mentor, my adviser, we are family! To my mind we’re even closer than if we were married. In fact, we’re like an old married couple already,’ she added cheerfully as a smile started to spread across her face. ‘In any case I think there’s more to life than marriage, don’t you?’ she concluded and started to laugh, putting an end to their conversation.
Orhan basked in the memory of Anastasia’s words for weeks after their conversation. Although their meaning was ambiguous they allowed him a glimpse of the possibility that she loved him, even if marriage was an impossible dream.
Now he had hope as well as love, and faith in his heart, making his days brighter and his nights easier, which was enough to sustain him for the time being, at least. Besides, as school was coming to an end the work he had to do for both his academic and his religious studies was consuming most of his time and energy, and any spare time that he and Lambros had was now filled with helping out at the bakery.
First deliveries were usually made early in the morning by Andreas in a horse and cart before opening the shop. However, more recently, demand was growing and some families inside the city walls were ordering more than one freshly baked loaf per day.
‘Let us help with deliveries, Father,’ Lambros offered when he realized that his father and uncle were struggling with the orders. ‘Orhan and I like to take a break from studying and it will give us something to do.’
So most afternoons the boys would set off, carrying a basket each full of bread and sesame goulourakia or whatever other pastries people had ordered, timing their deliveries to be finished before the call for evening prayer. If the call came when they were far from home, Lambros would wait for his friend outside one of the mosques in the old city. If they had already returned home, Orhan was able to observe prayers at the local mosque, which was a hop and a skip across the dusty road in front of their house. He would run across the street, down the slope into the dry moat, climb the wooden ladder that people had made to climb the wall and then jump down onto the back of the minaret, thus gaining entrance to the mosque without having to follow the long way round through the streets and the city gate. Bayraktar Mosque was Orhan’s favourite, because it was not only close to home but also one of the oldest and in his opinion the most holy of Nicosia’s mosques. Built against the Constanza Bastion of the wall, it was surrounded by a fragrant garden where worshippers gathered to use the pool and basin for their ablutions before prayer. Above all, perhaps the most important reason why he preferred this mosque was that the wise old imam who led the congregation there was his mentor and spiritual adviser.
‘He is a righteous and honourable boy, if a little too pious,’ Penelope had commented to Maroula about Orhan, soon after they all moved in.
‘Well, he was brought up by Hatiche Hanoum and Hassan Bey,’ she replied. ‘You couldn’t meet a more honourable family, so what do you expect?’
When Savvas first told Penelope that Orhan would be coming with his brother’s family to live with them, she was not in favour.
‘The boy is a Turk . . . a Mohammedan!’ she protested. ‘What business does he have living with us?’
‘He is family!’ Savvas replied sharply, making it clear that she was not permitted to raise any more objections. It didn’t take long for Orhan to win her over with his character and charm and, regardless of their differences, she soon accepted him, although never quite as a fully fledged member of the family. As a Christian she struggled with it but knew well enough to keep her opinions to he
rself.
9
London, 2008
‘The older I get, the more I regret what happened . . .’ Lambros said with a mournful sigh. ‘And the older I get, the more I regret that we allowed our differences and the turn of events to come between us.’ The old man shifted in his chair and turned round to look at his daughter: ‘Tell me, my girl, tell me, what will become of the world if we all carry on like this?’
‘I know, Papa,’ Stella replied, cupping both of her hands over her father’s on the garden table. ‘We believe we’re tolerant but, in the end, we prove that we’re nothing of the kind!’
‘Human beings, eh? We think we’re so superior, we think we know everything and more, but in the end we fall back into our stupid pride and prejudices.’ Lambros reached for his coffee and took a sip.
‘I have a feeling that our stupid pride and intolerances have a lot to answer for in many of life’s calamities, Papa.’
‘Why did we allow it all to go so wrong?’ he asked again and looked at his daughter, searching her eyes as if to find the answers there. ‘We had such respect for each other, such love, such trust, so much life together. You know, Stella mou, I remember once . . .’ Lambros’s eyes took on a faraway expression as his mind reverted to the past.
‘I remember one time when Orhan had to disappear for a week. I didn’t quite understand why. It was part of his religious studies, which required him to spend time alone for a week’s retreat from the world, in order to pray and meditate. He wasn’t allowed to see or speak to anyone.’
Lambros reached for his coffee again as he continued with his story. Stella believed she had heard it before – she had heard most of her father’s yarns many times over – but to her surprise this wasn’t familiar.
‘For almost a week he had to be by himself,’ the old man continued, a smile starting to spread across his face. ‘So he took himself off to a kind of shepherd’s hut about a mile away from our house. And of course I was the only one who knew where it was; he told me, not only because he trusted me but also because he needed my help.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘He needed food, you see, he couldn’t stay without it for all that time. And who else would do that for him but me! Provisions wouldn’t last long in the middle of a field, so every evening I would sneak out of the house with a bag of bread, water, some olives, a tomato, and maybe an onion, and leave it at a place we agreed, for him to collect after I left. When the week was over he came back to the house looking lean and serene – he’d told everyone that he was studying with his imam, so no one asked any questions. They knew how important his faith was for him.’
Lambros pushed back his chair, stood up, stretched his arms and started to walk to the end of the garden, where an olive tree he had planted many years ago had now grown almost as tall as the plum tree that stood next to it.
‘And you know, Stella mou,’ he called across the grass to his daughter, ‘that’s just one of so many stories. Did I ever tell you the one about the bicycle thieves?’
‘I think so, Papa,’ Stella called back, knowing she was destined to hear it again even though she’d heard it a dozen times before. ‘But tell me anyway,’ she added, humouring him. ‘I’ve forgotten most of it.’
‘I remember it as if it was last night,’ he began as he returned to the table with a yellow rose he had cut for her. ‘It was during our last year at the teachers’ training college in Nicosia.’ He handed her the stem and sat down. ‘It was only about a week before graduation and we joined a group of students who were spending a week in the holiday campus in the mountains, visiting a few of the village schools. Orhan and I were staying on the campus with some of our fellow students, and one day a relative of his who lived in a neighbouring village invited us both to an engagement party.’ Lambros’s face lit up at the memory. ‘Happy to be going to a celebration but having no other means of transport, we decided to hire a couple of bicycles for the journey. The relatives were hospitable and kind and we had a great time. We ate, we drank and danced till late in the evening before we got on our bikes for our return journey.’
Stella poured a couple of glasses of water from the jug on the table and pushed one in front of her father. ‘The night was warm, the stars were bright, the world was ours and we sang at the top of our lungs as we rode through the moonlit forest.’ Lambros lifted the glass to his lips, amusement etched on his face as he continued with his story. ‘Suddenly over our singing we heard loud shouting and leaves rustling in the dark. Four or five masked men rushed out from the trees and stood across the road to block our way, some of them brandishing what looked like shotguns and demanding our bicycles!’
The old man leaned on his elbows and glanced at Stella to make sure he had her attention. ‘We braked to a sudden halt and both came crashing off our bikes on top of each other! We were terrified; these bandits looked mean and obviously meant no good. We picked ourselves up and waited for our fate. They ordered us to hand over our bicycles and our money and then they vanished back into the forest with the loot, leaving us stranded in the night far from the village, to make our way back on foot. Well, what could we have done? We had no option but to do as they said and were relieved at least that they’d let us go without beating us up into the bargain. We started to trudge down the road in the dark, bruised from the tumble and thoroughly miserable. The bikes you see were rented and would have to be returned and paid for the next day, but they had taken all our money!’
‘What did you do, Papa?’ Stella prompted, enjoying her father’s pleasure in retelling his story. He’d been so sad lately when he remembered the past, she was glad to see him cheerful.
‘We’d been walking for about half an hour,’ Lambros continued animatedly. ‘We were still in shock after our ordeal, when suddenly we saw something glittering in the moonlight. As we got closer we realized it was our two bicycles lying in the middle of the road, one on top of the other. We stood gazing in amazement, trying to work out what this meant, when out of the forest we were pounced on again by the same bandits! This time though, Stella mou, this time something made us react differently and in a brave moment Orhan lurched forward and pulled off one of the bandit’s masks – only to discover that this was no thief but one of our fellow students! They all were, all five of them! They wanted to get their own back on us for going off to a party without inviting them along and this was to punish us for having fun while they stayed behind!’ Lambros’s smile broke into laughter. ‘Their disguise and their toy shotguns were convincing enough in the dark and had us both well and truly scared. What rascals, eh?’
‘That’s one of my favourite stories, Papa, and you tell it so well,’ Stella said with a grin and meant it. She gave her father a kiss on the cheek. ‘You should write them all down, they’d make good reading. I’ve always said that your grandson gets his talent for storytelling from you!’
Stella was convinced that her son, who was Lambros’s namesake, was more like his grandfather than anyone else in the family, not only because of their shared name. ‘Did you know that Lambros wants to study journalism?’ she added.
‘He mentioned it, but I thought he was more interested in teaching,’ her father replied, hopeful that his grandson would follow in his footsteps.
‘Teaching, my boy, is a job you can do wherever you are, and always guaranteed to earn you a living,’ he would advise the young Lambros at every opportunity.
‘He’s still thinking about it,’ Stella replied, ‘but he loves to write and he’s very good at it. His teachers are advising him to go for an English degree and then maybe do a course in journalism.’
‘He can always go into teaching later,’ Lambros said, refusing to give up his hopes for the boy. ‘He’s still so young and I’m sure whatever he does he’ll be a success; he’s got brains!’
‘I told you,’ Stella smiled, ‘he takes after his bappou.’
‘And what about our girl?’ Lambros asked after his granddaughter this time. ‘What does our Erini want to do?’
Now as young adults they were both more than grateful for the second language their mother and grandfather had passed on to them.
‘So, Erini wants to be a fashion designer, eh?’ Lambros asked again.
‘Yes, Papa, she’s very talented, you should see her work. She makes the most wonderful clothes. In fact, look! She made this blouse I’m wearing now.’ She stood up to show it off to her dad. ‘I don’t know where she comes up with the ideas, certainly not from me!’ Stella beamed again.
‘If Lambros takes after me then Erini must take after my sister,’ the old man said and his expression clouded over. ‘Anastasia was a very talented seamstress, you know . . .’