'The Cypriot'

[The Cypriot]

The Cyprus problem - a novel approach

“Can you make the troubles go away?”
“Have faith in our love and who knows? Maybe I can, Funda.”
“Make them all go away, Andoni.”

Fifties Cyprus is under British rule. The struggle for freedom begins. To the Orthodox Christian majority, after centuries of foreign domination, freedom means enosis – union with Greece. To the Muslim minority, enosis means disaster.

Andonis, a Christian, struggles for his own freedom: to be a tailor and escape the furnace of his father’s fields; to be a Cypriot and express love for his forbidden Muslim sweetheart. At stake are family and friendships, beliefs and traditions, village and homeland.

‘The Cypriot’ recounts how Cyprus and its people were tragically torn apart. It offers hope that, in the face of conflict and division, an enduring spirit exists in Cypriot hearts – a spirit that can one day truly make whole their island of love...

[The Cypriot]

i
The Cypriot
O Gibreos
The cross spun through the air like a small silver propeller, catching the light of the winter sun on its smooth surface with each turn. Gravity exerted its influence, pulling the cross down until it punctured the turquoise sea below.

“In the River Jordan, Lord, I baptise Thee,” chanted a bearded man dressed, as tradition dictated for such occasions, in blue.

The metal object sank, its shimmer still visible from above the waves. All at once the skin of the water was again ripped open as a young man plunged in. The sea was cold against his lean body but his thoughts were on the task in hand. His eyes were fixed on the cross beneath him and, with the strength of youth in his limbs, he pushed himself downward in pursuit.

Deeper sank the cross, the sun’s reflected glory diminishing.

Within seconds the agile young man was upon the cross, reaching out underneath to break its fall. He gripped firmly and allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction before kicking upwards to complete his mission.

Finally, a triumphant fist broke the surface of the sea, clenching the silver prize.

[The Cypriot]

ii
The foreigner
O xenos
I was on a Piccadilly Line underground train packed with fellow commuters heading into town. I’d managed to secure a seat for once and wanted to believe that today things might continue to go my way. Maybe I’d even get that pay-rise. Most people on the train were hidden behind their newspapers. One man, standing in front of me and swaying from a handle, peered down at me occasionally. I noted he was dressed somewhat inadequately for the weather in an ill-fitting pin-striped suit.

At the next station a few more passengers squeezed into our carriage. They included an attractive young woman who, judging from the bulge in her overcoat, was pregnant. She ended up pressed against the man in the pin-stripes. Instinctively, I rose to offer the woman my seat and there was relief and gratitude in her blushing face.

I found myself looking down and smiling at her as our train rattled into the tunnel.

[The Cypriot]

Chapter 1
The baptism
Do vaftisman

The handful of people on the small fishing boat were relieved to see their hero emerge successfully from the water.

“Bravo, Andoni. Bravo,” they enthused, helping to pull him aboard and patting him on the back. It was unusually warm for the time of year but not warm enough to prevent Andonis shivering. The only woman present clambered over to him and placed a large white towel around his bare shoulders.

With salt water still dripping from his nose, Andonis stared into the woman’s eyes, beaming with a boyish pride. So filled was she with emotion that, with the boat rocking to and fro, her feet became unsteady. He had to grab hold of the woman to prevent her from falling. Then he stooped to kiss her forehead, before reaching out from under his towel to present her with the cross.

“For you, mamma,” he declared with that handsome smile of his. The woman blushed and glanced anxiously in the direction of the bearded man in blue. She was mindful that he might disapprove of Andonis’ improper gesture, presenting the cross to his mother instead of to his priest. She was relieved to see however that the priest was preoccupied.

The boat party had now to negotiate its way back to dry land and the two oarsmen were squabbling over who should row when, and whether to turn to the left or to the right. The priest, whose normally dark olive face had lost its colour, intervened. He issued instructions from a higher authority while endeavouring to keep his own balance.

Andonis viewed those on the beach awaiting the boat’s return and raised a hand. Perhaps thirty people, some waving the blue and white striped maritime flag of Greece, mainly old, mainly female, nearly all Christian, had made the journey to witness this annual religious ceremony. Andonis was both pleased and a little surprised to spy that one particular young woman, a non-Christian, was also in attendance. She and all the others would congratulate him, kiss both his cheeks and wish him a long life. Then all would return together to the village, to prepare for the evening’s festival.

Andonis’ mother waited for an appropriate moment to pass the cross back to the priest, bending down to kiss his hand as she did so. The touch of her lips filled the man of God with a heavenly love.

“God bless your child, Irini,” he declared, stroking the woman’s greying hair.

She raised her head and peered into the priest’s admiring black eyes. The sound of an army jeep could be heard in the distance. It was trundling towards the village, along the main road from the town. Andonis’ youthful eye could just make out the red, white and blue of a tiny British flag on the bonnet, flapping in the wind.

Irini shuddered. “And every mother’s child,” she added.

[The Cypriot]

Chapter 2
The tailor
O raftis

It was already dark as I left work and strode up the iron stairs. I emerged shivering onto the narrow alleyway which led to London’s Regent Street. It was spitting rain and unusually cold for the time of year. I had to stop a moment to pull the scarf I was wearing tighter round my neck. By this time of day my chin always had more stubble than most and I could feel the scarf catch against it.

It was a short walk down to the tube station at Piccadilly Circus. A chilling head wind caught the lapels of my woollen coat and made them flap against my cheeks. Wide lapels were very much in vogue in the seventies, but to my mind you needed longer hair for wide lapels. As I was starting to go grey and receding slightly I preferred to wear my hair shorter. So I knew the coat wasn’t quite right on me.

Still, as one of two master tailors in the alterations department of an exclusive gentlemen’s outfitters, it would have been poor form not to try to maintain some semblance of style. Moreover, I could buy items from my employer at a reasonable discount. It was a staff perk, and there weren’t many, so one felt obliged to take advantage.

I had a job adjusting and repairing suits for our well-to-do customers. We had a workshop down in the basement, directly below the ground floor of the store. The other staff often complained about how depressing it was, having to spend their working hours under flickering fluorescent tubes, with only a hint of daylight peaking through windows three-quarters below street level.

Earlier that day Dave, the other master tailor, had brought this up with me. He was generally a good sort and I found his company pleasant enough. We worked quite closely so it was important to keep on friendly terms. Physically Dave and I were opposites. I was taller, darker, of average build and with a thick-set brow. He was shorter, paler, pot-bellied and with a full head of mousy brown hair.

Dave had asked if the lack of natural light ever got to me. I considered his question for a moment, before lifting my head and eyebrows as my way of indicating that I wasn’t prepared to concern myself with matters which I knew were beyond my control.

“But you of all people must miss the sunshine,” he pursued.

I shrugged. Dave gave me a look which I’d seen before. It was a mixture of sympathy and confusion.

“You’re a strange one, Tony,” he declared and I felt I had to smile. Dave smiled back before suggesting we meet for a drink that evening. I found myself accepting. After all, perhaps there’d be reason to celebrate.

Later that day, Mr Osborne, the alterations supervisor, had tapped me on the shoulder while I was hunched over a jacket and beckoned me into his office. As I followed Osborne, Dave looked up from his Singer and gave me that same look of sympathy and confusion. Sympathy because one was usually only summoned by our dour and demanding boss if one’s work was below standard. Confusion because my skills as a tailor weren’t really in question. Only the previous week Osborne himself had deigned to declare me the world’s finest tailor after I had delicately repaired the fraying crutch of an agitated junior minister’s favourite suit.

I couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive as Osborne pushed the door of his office shut behind us and invited me to sit down. I examined his grey eyes, looking for clues as to whether my request for a pay-rise had been accepted.

It wasn’t about the money. I managed to save enough. Unlike Dave, who was married with children, I lived alone in this country and had no dependents. Indeed, some years ago I’d made arrangements with the bank to send regular amounts back to the village. I avoided direct contact of course. I had to after all that had happened.

No, it wasn’t about the money, although it had occurred to me recently that a little extra might enable me to find somewhere nicer to live. It was more a matter of principle. Recently, on a night out with Dave, he’d revealed that he was paid quite a bit more than I. We were both in our late thirties, in the same job, with the same level of experience. I deserved to be on a comparable wage.

Osborne seemed self-conscious and began to stroke the top of his bald head nervously.

He spoke. “Now, Tony. The directors and I have carefully considered your request.” Then he flushed and looked away. I was sure now what his answer would be. I shook my head.

He continued. “I’m sorry. In view of the economic climate, we’re not in a position to offer you an increase.” Then he added needlessly. “At this time. You understand, don’t you?”

I nodded. I understood only too well. Now was a bad time. The country had been experiencing weak government, soaring inflation, three-day working weeks, miners’ strikes, energy shortages, even sugar shortages.

Osborne continued. “Please don’t get me wrong. We admire your abilities and certainly wouldn’t want to lose you.”

I rubbed the bristles on my chin with the knuckles of my clenched fist. Then I turned conspicuously to look through the glass window of Osborne’s office in the direction of Dave, still working at his Singer. Osborne grimaced.

“Come on,” he countered. “It’s not appropriate to discuss the remuneration of other staff. You know that.”

I nodded once more. I’d been around long enough to know what was and wasn’t deemed appropriate. I folded my arms resolutely.

Osborne smiled. “You’re not going anywhere, Tony. I know you too well.”

My mouth smiled but my eyes couldn’t. I got up and reached for the door handle.

“You don’t know me at all,” I observed, before exiting Osborne’s office and pulling the door shut behind me.

Now, as I and countless other commuters escaped the rain and biting London air, huddling together on the escalator leading down to the underground, I reflected once more on Dave’s question about the gloomy basement where we worked. I breathed out a steamy sigh of resignation.

Far easier, I thought, to be numb to such an environment.

(to be continued)

[The Cypriot]

The Piccadilly train brought me to Turnpike Lane in north London. From here I would catch a bus up to Muswell Hill. Before doing so, however, I made a detour to the continental shop, a short walk from the station along Westbury Avenue. I wanted to buy a newspaper. It had been a while since I’d been to a shop like this, a while since I’d bought this type of newspaper. By avoiding such contact I could avoid bad news from home. Hatred, violence, killings. I’d had my fill of those.

Once inside and out of the cold and rain, the once familiar sights, sounds and smells - of coriander and lemons, of olives and garlic, of aubergines and okra, of excessive hand movements and of needless shouting - seemed to calm me. Although I wasn’t a regular customer, the shopkeeper smiled warmly in a gesture of recognition but resisted the temptation to open a conversation. He knew me to be a man of few words.

There was only one newspaper on sale here. I picked up a copy and went over to the counter to pay. In front of me was a large, middle-aged woman, filling her basket with a variety of delicacies, including, I noticed, some haluvas and some gubes. The woman appeared agitated and talked at the shopkeeper as he priced her goods and filled her shopping bag.

She spoke passionately, in a language I understood. Of bitterness and impending doom. Of dark forces. Of the young being brainwashed. Of how it was up to us to mobilise, to go back and resist the evil taking over our land. I listened with only half an ear as I’d noticed some packets of ground coffee on the shelf near me. It was a coffee I’d not tasted for some time and I decided to buy a packet along with my newspaper.

Her shopping now packed, the woman turned to me. “What do you say, sir?”

I was unprepared for her question and at first could do no more than offer a shrug. But her stare demanded an answer.

“What can be done?” I uttered eventually, a little self-consciously, in a language I now rarely spoke. I added after a moment that I felt it better not to concern myself with matters which I knew were beyond my control.

The woman closed one of her eyes slightly as though to examine me more closely. Now even here, in this shop, I felt a foreigner. I looked back at her meekly and she eventually gave me a nod.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded with a sigh. But the woman had not yet done with me. “Which village are you from?”

I could do no more than stare back into those probing brown eyes. They looked vaguely familiar. Like so many eyes I’d once known.

The shopkeeper intervened. “You must understand, madam. The man prefers not to talk about the past.”

The woman looked at us both with disdain.

“The past was bad, sirs, but, mark my words, the days yet to come will be far worse. Your health!” she exclaimed dismissively before picking up her shopping and bustling out of the shop.

The shopkeeper gave me an embarrassed look which I returned. I paid for my goods in silence.

•••

On the bus up to Muswell Hill I opened the community newspaper I’d bought and began to leaf through. I noticed that the outside pages were touching the window causing condensation to soak into them but I wasn’t unduly concerned. They were full of news on the deteriorating situation of which the woman in the shop had spoken. Instead I searched for rag-trade recruitment ads. I was hoping to find a new position at one of the clothing factories in Kentish Town, Seven Sisters, Holloway or Harringay.

There were a number of possible options and I felt better. I would make some calls and see where fate might take me. I was about to shut the newspaper when I noticed a familiar though older face staring back at me from the obituaries page. It was someone I’d known years ago. Vasos, owner of the village coffee shop. A friend of my father. The best of men. I read that he had died of a heart attack. His funeral was next week, at the Orthodox church in Camden Town.

I took a series of short and ever deeper breaths and had to close my eyes.

On arriving at my lodgings, a room in a large converted house off Muswell Hill Broadway, I immediately cut open the packet of coffee and breathed in its pungent, bitter-sweet aroma.

Before even taking off my coat and scarf or lighting my paraffin heater, I began rummaging under the sink until I had dug out what I was looking for: an old jisves, a small, long-handled metal pot, wide at the base, tapering in at the top. I also found a small cup and accompanying saucer. I filled the pot with water and stirred in two heaped teaspoons of the coffee. Now I searched through the cupboards, looking for a bag of sugar, but none presented itself. I sighed. Some preferred their coffee sweet, others medium. I would have to settle for plain. Sketos.

I heated the pot on the stove waiting for a creamy froth to form. Slowly the froth rolled in from the sides and began to rise. I removed the pot from the heat and poured its dark brown contents into the cup. I sat in the solitary chair of my lodgings, before my manually-operated Singer, and stared at my surroundings.

I looked down at the old machine itself. It doubled as my dining table and was just like the Singer I had in the old days. I looked over to the metal-framed bed with the over-soft mattress, covered by a grey blanket. The wardrobe whose doors wouldn’t shut properly. The big old radio, with a wire coat hanger for an aerial, on top of a mahogany chest of drawers with handles that didn’t match.

I’d lived in this room for years. But when I took my first sip of coffee, all at once I was transported to another place and time. Home.

(to be continued)

[The Cypriot]

Chapter 3
The coffee shop
O gafenes

The army jeep roared into the outskirts of the village leaving a billowing cloud of red dust in its wake. A captain of the British army, perched on the passenger seat, looked at the delightfully threadbare one-storey houses and breathed in deeply. His nostrils filled with a potent mixture of rural smells: of burning wood and baking bread, of chickens and donkeys, of citrus fruit and rudimentary sanitation.

The journey to the village, from the army base in town, was always a treat for the captain. From the road, at certain points, one could catch a glimpse of the Mediterranean sea in the distance. On a sunny winter’s day like today the views were truly breathtaking.

God, how the captain loved this place.

True enough, this was the fifties and the mixed village, with its Muslim and Christian neighbourhoods, wasn’t the safest place for an excursion but the captain had always thrived on living a little dangerously. Such visits enabled valuable reconnaissance work to be carried out. And besides, he enjoyed good relations with some of the locals.

The radio was tuned to a Greek station and a song came on which the captain recognised. It had been introduced to him by his friend Vasos, owner of the village coffee shop. Vasos had explained that the song repeated the line ‘I love you’ in several different languages, including English. The captain instructed his driver to turn up the volume and the bemused driver did so. Now the captain began tapping his lap in time to the music and waited for an English ‘I love you’. When it came the captain smiled.

Villagers, outside in the mild weather, observed the approaching vehicle. Motor cars of any description, let alone those carrying British soldiers, were still enough of a rarity in these parts to attract attention, especially ones blaring out Greek music.

The jeep had slowed down as it ventured further into the village to avoid the debris littering the roadside: rusty old ploughs, battered cans and piles of wood and bricks. Women, in colourful dresses and headscarves, interrupted their chores and waved. A few children had formed a line along the roadside and were saluting. The captain smiled and saluted back. He regretted not having any children of his own. Still, what could he expect, when he was married to the army?

The captain could see that his driver was pleasantly surprised by the warm welcome. Williams had only recently been posted to the island, now that the troubles had escalated, and was expecting the locals to be far less hospitable.

The captain rubbed his moustache. “You’ve a lot to learn about this place, Williams,” he observed.

At that moment a boy on crutches, in his early teens, had stumbled into the road a few yards ahead of the jeep. Still preoccupied by the saluting children, Williams didn’t appear to have noticed the boy’s presence.

Williams was jolted into action by the captain who grabbed his shoulder and yelled, “Watch out, man!”

The jeep screeched to a halt just in front of the boy, who now stared back at the jeep and the red-haired soldiers in it, his eyes filled with horror. Then the boy lowered his head in shame and hobbled as quickly as he could across the road. The captain sighed with relief before instructing his driver to move on. A somewhat flustered Williams did so, having turned off the radio.

As the jeep ventured through the village, beyond the Muslim neighbourhood, Williams could sense the atmosphere changing. He noticed that many of the whitewashed walls had been defaced with blue painted letters, repeating a single Greek slogan.

“Enosis, Williams,” explained the captain.

Williams had heard of this word. He knew it meant union with Greece. He knew that’s why he and many young soldiers like him had been shipped in. To prevent enosis.

As the jeep passed, three young children who had been playing by the roadside were swept up by a woman and pulled into a house. Two old men who had been playing backgammon in a front yard offered defiant stares. One cleared his throat conspicuously and spat loudly onto the dusty red earth.

The captain could see that Williams had become agitated. He put a reassuring hand on the driver’s shoulder.

“Welcome to Cyprus,” declared the captain with a knowing smile.

(to be continued)

[The Cypriot]

Old man Haji-Markos was sitting on a chair under a big carob tree, wheezing quietly to himself. He was outside the village coffee shop, a place now ran by Vasos, his eldest son. With a hand-rolled cigarette in one hand to coat his lungs and lighten his head, worry beads in the other to count his blessings, this was how Haji-Markos whiled away most days.

He’d earnt the prefix ‘Haji’ after making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, that other troubled part of the world. A God-fearing man, Haji-Markos was disappointed that his son’s convictions lay elsewhere, but he knew Vasos’ heart remained in the right place. His son was a compassionate man. His son was a communist.

As always Haji-Markos was wearing his vraga, a pair of baggy old breeches, which dangled over the edge of his seat. Once jet black, the breeches were now tinged a ruddy grey, like everything old in the village. Haji-Markos’ younger grandchildren found his breeches a source of amusement and would often tease him with a famous old song.

Haji-Markos smiled as he recounted the first verse.

O!... With forty yards of cotton cloth, with forty yards of cotton cloth,
They made, they made, they made a pair of breeches.
O!... The crutch it dangled far too long, the crutch it dangled far too long,
And swept, and swept, and swept the lower reaches.

Haji-Markos could not fathom why grown men these days were so willing, for the sake of fashion, for the sake of being more ‘European’, to suffocate their loins in these newfangled men’s tights they called trousers. To Haji-Markos you weren’t a real man unless you were a vragas, a man who wore his breeches with pride.

The old man smiled. He was as content as any old man of Cyprus could be. A lifetime of struggle was behind him. And, though the scars of battle were deeply etched on his face, each line and each wrinkle were testaments of his triumph. Haji-Markos could raise an open palm to life and signal an unequivocal, “There! I conquered you.”

He had fed and sheltered his seven surviving children and ensured that they had grown up and propagated children of their own. Now he had earnt the right to enjoy the autumn years of his existence, filling each day with the joys only grandchildren can bring. And, during the quiet hours, he could preoccupy himself with memories. Haji-Markos preferred to look back. The past was a country he understood and felt comfortable in. Not like the present.

The modern ways made no sense. As well as men’s fashion, everything else was changing, and changes were happening more and more quickly. Changes that, to the old man’s mind, were mostly for the worse.

Haji-Markos puffed on his cigarette.

Yes, life had always been a struggle. For Haji-Markos as for all the people of the village. But it had been an uncomplicated existence and, in the main, a happy one. Decisions were made for you. While you were expected to act like an adult from the moment you were old enough to contribute, you were treated like a child until both your parents were dead.

In the meantime they would match you with an appropriate girl from an appropriate family. Your father would pass on land, property and wisdom. Foolishness too. And God would bless you with children of your own, to continue the struggle.

And beyond the suffocating restrictions of family were the suffocating restrictions of the Englezi. And before them it had been the Ottoman Turks. And before them, Haji-Markos knew, it had been the Venetians. And before the Venetians it had been the Crusaders. Haji-Markos knew because when you ran a coffee shop, you got to know things. All the world’s knowledge. All the world’s wrongs. And before the Crusaders it had been the Byzantines. And before them the Romans. And before them the Macedonians. And before them the Persians. And before them the Assyrians. And before them the Egyptians. And before them the Achaeans and the Mycenaeans, and also the Phoenicians.

It had always been like this in Cyprus, jewel of the Mediterranean. All who came had left their mark, on the island and on the people too.

Haji-Markos had been told by his father about the last years of Ottoman rule. Like the others before them, the Turks had exploited Cyprus in their time. Then, as now, the people had to find ways to get by as best they could. To endure.

As a way of avoiding persecution and the heavy tax burden imposed by the Ottomans, some of the peasant folk had felt obliged to declare themselves Muslim. Such people were referred to as linobambaji, after a cloth woven with linen on one side and cotton on the other, to reflect the two sides of their faith and identity.

Haji-Markos pursed his lips and shook his head. He remembered a time when there wasn’t a cigarette paper between Orthodox Christian and Muslim. They worked together, played together, sang and danced together, celebrated each others’ weddings, mourned each others’ deaths. And why not? They shared the same space, spoke the same vernacular. As did the other people of Cyprus. Maronites, Armenians and Latins. Cypriots all.

It was a time that passed.

How things had changed. Encouraged by the Englezi, the Muslims were opening their own schools, cutting themselves off, declaring themselves ‘Turkish’. And why not? When the Orthodox Christians declared themselves ‘Greek’.

Few Muslims now came to the coffee shop.

Old man Haji-Markos took another long drag of his cigarette and prayed that he might be spared the sight of too many more changes.

At that moment he heard the familiar sound of an approaching engine. The captain must be coming. Haji-Markos had made up his mind that, despite his white arse and earth-coloured hair, this Englezos was a decent sort. Always respectful, warm and good-humoured, he was more like a Cypriot. Vasos and the captain had become good friends and, though others in the village disapproved and threatened to boycott the communist’s coffee shop, the old man stood up to them.

“The captain’s goodwill is a blessing and won’t be rejected here,” he declared, with the confidence of a man who’d beaten life. “And if you don’t like it, you can always take your hatred elsewhere and drink at the coffee shop of the Turk,” he added, knowing they wouldn’t.

The army jeep rolled up outside the coffee shop and a beaming captain, accompanied as always these days by a nervous escort, waved a friendly greeting. Haji-Markos put a cupped hand to his mouth and angled his head in the direction of the coffee shop door. He screamed as loud as his smoke-ravaged lungs would allow.

“Vaso! The captain has come.”

The old man now raised himself from his chair and his breeches flopped between his legs. He leant against his cane and offered a leathery hand. The captain was a tall, lanky man and had to stoop a little to reach it. The pair shook hands affectionately but, beyond the smiles, the ‘hellos’ and the ‘how-are-yous’, both knew further communication was impossible.

Haji-Markos could only gesture to the two soldiers to sit at a table of their choice before returning to his chair, to his tobacco and to his memories.

The soldiers sat opposite each other. Williams faced the square. His eyes darted first down the road, back towards the Muslim neighbourhood, then up the road, towards the church.

“A fine spot, wouldn’t you say, Williams?” ventured the captain, seemingly oblivious to any threat of danger. Williams remained silent and felt for the revolver in the holster by his lap. The captain grimaced, aware of what Williams was doing.

“Don’t think that’ll save us,” advised the captain. Then he pointed up the road. “See that flag, flying from the pole outside the church?”

Williams observed the blue and white cloth flapping in the light breeze with its nine stripes and a cross in the top left corner. “The Greek flag, sir,” he nodded with feigned interest.

“That’s right. Any idea what those nine stripes stand for?” enquired the captain.

Williams shrugged. He had no idea and didn’t really care.

“Let’s see if I can remember it,” continued the captain, closing an eye and staring skyward. “E-lef-the-ri-a i tha-na-dos,” he declared finally, counting out each of the nine syllables on the fingers of both hands. “Vasos, the coffee shop owner, told me. It was the battle-cry of the Greeks during their war of independence against the Turks.”

Williams waited for the captain’s inevitable translation. When it came the escort’s unease increased.

“Liberty or death,” the captain announced with deliberate gravity.

The captain now turned his gaze sharply beyond Williams, towards the door of the coffee shop, eager for Vasos to appear. His superior’s sudden movement made Williams panic and he launched himself from his chair, which toppled over. He turned clumsily and, as he did so, tugged at a seemingly stuck revolver which, after a slight struggle, came free. All Williams faced however was Haji-Markos, looking a little perplexed at having a gun pointed at him. Embarrassed, Williams turned back towards the captain, who was now glaring at him.

“Settle down, Williams! The old man’s trying to sleep.”

Williams’ face reddened. “Please, sir, let’s head back. It can’t be safe for us here.”

“One has to be prepared to relinquish an element of safety, soldier, if one is to occupy a foreign land,” exclaimed the captain curtly. “Put that gun away and sit down.”

Williams hesitated so the captain explained that an order had just been given. Williams lifted the chair back up and followed orders. There was still no sign of Vasos.

“You know, there’s another thing Vasos taught me,” continued the captain, in a more placatory tone. “A local saying. ‘Don’t bother the snake and it won’t bite you’. We could learn from that.” Wilson shrugged. “Where are you from, soldier?”

“Lancing, sir. A small seaside town in Sussex, near Worthing,” replied Williams proudly.

The captain raised his eyebrows. “Really? I know Lancing well. It’s not far from my home town. Hove. Peaceful places. Peaceful people,” he ventured and Williams nodded. “Why, one can almost hear the waves pushing and pulling on a million pebbles, feel the cool sea air breezing through one’s hair. And, as one sits in one’s deck-chair enjoying a cup of milky tea, not far away, in an old Victorian stand, a brass band starts to play. Tiddly-um-pum-pum.”

A calmer Williams nodded with a boyish grin. He was familiar with such scenes.

“Now, how would you feel if foreign invaders with guns were to come along and ruin it all?”

Williams was indignant. “With respect, sir, we’re in Cyprus, not Sussex. This place is full of terrorists,” he observed.

The captain laughed dryly. “The only terrorist I see is you. Ah, here he comes at last!”

The aproned coffee shop owner had emerged from his shop bringing with him a broad smile. Vasos was a huge round man with a thick curled moustache. Unlike many middle-aged locals, he still had a generous mop of dark hair on his head.

“Captain! I am so happy to see you. I think maybe you forget us,” he enthused.

The captain rose from his seat. Two hands clasped each other firmly, one red and bare, the other olive and covered in black hairs down to the fingers. The two men shook hands, like Englezi. Then the two men embraced, like Cypriots.

“Forget? How could I forget your fabulous coffee, Vasos?” hinted the captain with a wink before retaking his seat. “A coffee I’ve been anticipating for quite some time now,” he added with a smile, pointing to his watch.

Vasos smiled back, squeezing the captain’s shoulder affectionately, “I make you one now. Extra special, extra sweet for the captain,” he assured before turning to Williams. “You like one too, sir?”

Williams glanced at the captain for approval to refuse. The captain shrugged.

“Er, just a glass of water for me thanks,” requested Williams. Then he turned to the captain. “No offence, sir, but I’m told that stuff’s poisonous and tastes like mud.”

“Mud?” boomed Vasos as though mortally offended. “Poisonous?” he added incredulously, clenching a fist and shaking it at Williams.

Williams shifted uncomfortably in his seat but Vasos’ frown disappeared. Now he laughed heartily, slapping the bemused soldier on the back.

“Poisoning customers is not good for business, sir,” he explained before disappearing inside the coffee shop, muttering under his breath in a language foreign to Williams. “Although some deserve to be poisoned,” were his words.

Not long afterwards Vasos returned with two small cups of coffee in their saucers and three tall glasses of water. He sat down with the soldiers, opposite the captain.

“Your health,” declared Vasos, offering a coffee to the captain who enthusiastically accepted. He breathed in the strong aroma before taking a noisy sip, the way he’d seen Vasos sip. Vasos too sipped expertly, with double the volume created by the captain. Williams took a few gulps of water from his glass.

“Wonderful as ever, Vasos,” declared the captain, licking his lips. “And worth the wait.”

The two friends sipped some more. Williams shook his head.

The captain spoke next. “I do hope my visit won’t cause problems for you, Vasos.”

“Problems? No. This is a peaceful village, captain. Never problems here. We all get on just fine. Greeks, Turks, Lefts, Rights,” lied Vasos.

“And the British?” pursued the captain. “Aren’t we just foreigners that have outstayed our welcome?”

“No such word as foreigner in our language, captain. Only guest. Xenos. And, so long as people behave with honour, they are always our guests.”

The captain nodded, then his eyes briefly met those of Williams.

“And if people don’t behave with honour?” asked the captain, addressing the coffee shop owner.

Vasos reflected for a while before answering.

“We have another word. Varvaros.” He gave a wry smile. “And barbarians usually get what barbarians deserve, I think.”

The captain nodded. Williams frowned.

“Things are getting more tricky, Vasos. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to visit again,” explained the captain with genuine regret.

Vasos shook a finger at the captain. “But you must come tonight, captain. I personally invite you to our village festival. There is singing and dancing, eating and drinking. We have plenty good times.”

The captain looked unsure.

“But you must come,” insisted Vasos. “As my guest, captain. Of honour!”

The captain turned to his escort. “Can I refuse such an invitation, Williams? When we should be doing all we can to improve relations with the locals?”

Williams shrugged.

Vasos grabbed the captain’s hand.

“Of course, it’s much better you come out of uniform,” he advised. The captain nodded. “And another of course,” added the coffee shop owner, now turning his eyes towards Williams.

“You be much, much safer without a bodyguard.”

(to be continued)

[repulsewarrior]

I love this story.

[The Cypriot]

Tell it to tell the world!

(More tomorrow...)

[The Cypriot]

Mihalis sat at the big table in the courtyard behind his house. It was a mild evening for the time of year and he was enjoying the last hour of daylight. He wouldn’t be marvelling at the deep red sun setting in a cloudless sky over the village roof-tops, however, because it did so regularly.

Although middle-aged and with a lined face, Mihalis was still a fine figure of a man. How could he not be when he toiled for hours and days and years in the fields? His muscular frame filled his chair completely and his huge dark brown moustache made him look distinguished as well as strong. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to reveal solid hairy forearms. He had lit himself a hand-rolled cigarette and was drawing on it before blowing clouds of smoke into the still air. The sound of violins, singing, laughing and whistling could now be heard in the distance. The festival had begun.

Mihalis grimaced. He knew his wife Irini would try and persuade him to take a stroll with her later, around the village square. After all, it had been their elder son Andonis who had retrieved the cross from the sea earlier that day. Mihalis hadn’t gone along for that and knew he wouldn’t be attending the festival. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to participate in such social occasions. He would instruct their younger son, Marios, to accompany Irini.

Mihalis knew tonight’s celebrations couldn’t disguise the tense atmosphere that had descended over the village in recent times. The radio, the newspapers, word from the town, talk in his friend Vasos’ coffee shop, as well as the increasingly intolerant attitude of the Englezi, were hardening people’s hearts. So Mihalis now sought to avoid situations where confrontation might arise. He knew it could mean trouble for himself, his wife and two sons, and the extended family that he had vowed to protect. He knew he couldn’t stop himself from questioning the views of certain individuals and from making his own feelings known.

So, recently, though he missed the debates, Mihalis had taken to spending evenings at home, with Irini, Marios and the ever-present widow Xenu, wife of his late best friend. Mihalis accepted the responsibility he had for Xenu and her family. The widow had two sons, Yannis, who Mihalis had baptised, and Nigos. And also a daughter, Stella.

There sat the widow, opposite Mihalis. A small hunched woman, dressed, as custom dictated, totally in black. She was working on some embroidery. Marios, a more delicate version of his elder brother, was at the table too. He was mulling over a tattered old Bible, lent to him by the village priest. As a child, Marios had experienced a major affliction from which his body had recovered. But not his soul.

The winter festival was a time for looking forward to the year ahead and so Mihalis was playing dihi, a Cypriot form of patience. Mihalis against the cards. It was a challenge he now preferred to backgammon in the coffee shop against a fellow villager.

Before each game Mihalis would set a question for the cards. Will the crops be fruitful? Will my sons marry and live happily? Will I grow to an old age? Will harmony return to the village? Will Cyprus be free?

He had just finished another game, just received another disappointing answer. He tutted, lifted his head skyward and then took another frustrated drag at his cigarette.

The widow sighed supportively. “No luck again, Mihali?”

“None, Xenu,” replied Mihalis, stroking the top of his head. In his younger days it had been covered by thick dark brown hair. Now only a few greying strands remained. Mihalis’ balding head comforted him. It was a reminder that the future would soon be in the hands of another generation. It was a future to which they were welcome.

Mihalis shuffled the cards for another run at dihi but, once again, dihi seemed to be against him and Mihalis huffed. Marios glanced with sympathy at his father.

“We must put our faith in God, baba. Not cards,” he offered, pointing at the Bible in his hand.

“May the cats fart on you!” scoffed Mihalis, shuffling the deck for yet another game. “Let me tell you something, Mario. You won’t ever find a wife in that book. You should be out having fun with the other youths of the village, not sitting here with us old ones, washing your brain with ancient stories.”

But there was no malice in Mihalis’ voice. He knew his younger son was too thoughtful, too pure of heart to be out having what others called fun.

Now Irini arrived with a tray filled with chunks of juicy honeydew melon and slices of tasty hallumin. Mihalis admired his wife. She was still shapely and comparatively well-preserved for a woman her age. Perhaps it was due to Irini only carrying three children. After Andonis and Marios, she’d had a third son, who had died after only a few months. Irini had always wanted more children but somehow it had never happened. Mihalis was secretly relieved that they had managed to avoid bringing another mouth into the world, especially in view of the responsibility he had assumed for Xenu and her family.

Irini placed the tray on the table and sat down herself. Mihalis observed Marios, Irini and Xenu make their crosses before all four helped themselves to the morsels of food. Mihalis chomped into a slice of honeydew melon. It was cool, fresh and sweet. He nibbled at the hallumin. Salty, dry and hard. The contrasting flavours and textures complemented each other perfectly.

“I’m worried about my Nigos,” declared the widow between mouthfuls. “His brain’s taken wind. That cousin of his, Bambos, is a bad influence. I wish he and his friends would keep away. Stay in their own village.”

Irini rolled her eyes skyward. She had endured such moaning from Xenu on many occasions.

“Your younger son’s a wild one,” agreed Mihalis, not looking up from his new game. The cards, for once, were performing well. “Just like his father was, God rest his soul.”

“That’s what worries me,” sighed the widow. She put her hand to her cheek and rocked her head slowly, recalling her husband’s untimely death. The others round the table did likewise and for a moment there was silence.

“Compare Nigos with his brother Yannis, for example,” continued the widow. “Such a good son. Hard-working in the fields left by his father. But Nigos? He hardly lifts a finger to help. It’ll take gods and demons to put him on the straight road.”

“You’re too hard on Nigos,” countered Mihalis. “He has a lot of spirit. Unlike Marios here, who’s too timid even to face the world.”

Marios looked up from his Bible and smiled at his father. “I must have taken after you then, baba!” he said.

“Leave Marios alone,” insisted Irini, reaching across to her son and pulling affectionately at his cheek. “Each child brings its own fortune, Mihali. We should accept that and love each of them for what they are.”

Marios nodded and smiled knowingly. “And not impose your will on us,” he added, addressing both the widow and his father.

Irini turned to Xenu. “Nigos is still young, Xenu. Slowly his mind will develop. You put him, and yourself, under too much pressure. Now that Yannis is betrothed everything’s fine for him. He’s devoted to Martha. Nigos will settle down too when the time’s right.”

The widow sighed deeply. “Perhaps that’s true, Irini,” she agreed, helping herself to another slice of hallumin. “But I can’t help but worry about my children. My Stella’s another one. She’s growing into a woman and bringing me a thousand and thirty troubles. I try and teach her the trade of a seamstress but she’s got no patience. All she wants is to have a good time. She really lacks a father’s influence. I’ve got to find her a husband and soon.”

Marios looked up. If anyone could stand in the way of him devoting his life totally to God it was the widow’s daughter. But Marios knew they had other plans for Stella.

“Stella’s also far too young, Xenu,” cautioned Irini, sensing what might be coming next. “There’s plenty of time before she’s ripe enough to make someone a good wife.”

“But who’ll want her?” beseeched the widow. “Stella and those friends of hers. They’re so, what can I tell you? Girls are changing so much these days. It’s for weeping. We’ve got to act soon or who knows what might befall us? We need to talk seriously, Mihali. Andonis is becoming a fine tailor. It’s time he had a woman’s love.”

With his eyes still on the cards, Mihalis lifted a finger.

“Don’t force it, Xenu. These things must be allowed to happen naturally,” he warned, before laying down more cards. “Andonis will make it clear when he’s ready.”

“But he’s such a handsome young man,” persisted the widow. Her face displayed grave concern. “I’m just scared that his eyes might stray. That another might tempt him. Do you think eventually he’ll see sense and realise what’s best for him?”

For the first time this evening Mihalis was able to put all his cards on the table. He took a triumphant drag at his cigarette, raised his head and smiled at the widow.

“I’m sure of it,” he declared.

(to be continued)

[The Cypriot]

4
The pub
I biraria

I sipped every last drop of coffee from the cup. Now all that remained was the dark brown sediment at the bottom. For a moment I thought to turn the cup over into its saucer, as once Vasos’ wife would have done, to examine the ensuing patterns for some glimpse of what was to come. I smiled as I recalled Mrs Anjela’s superstitious ways. Then I imagined her grief and my smile disappeared. What use was knowing the future?

After an instant meal of Supernoodles I put on my coat and scarf again and strode down Muswell Hill. It was still raining. I lent into a sweeping wind which did its best to prevent my descent. I tended not to go out much in the evenings, especially when the weather was like this. I’d got into the habit of staying in and listening to the radio until sleep. Music, sport, drama, the shipping forecast. Anything to keep my mind from straying.

But earlier I’d accepted Dave’s invitation to go out for a drink. He lived not far away in Crouch End so it was easy enough for us to meet up. I was happy to oblige him every now and then. I knew how much he appreciated the opportunity to escape the demands of his wife for a few hours.

Dave was already in the pub when I arrived, sitting at a table near the juke-box. His cheeks were rosy and there was a half-drunk pint of beer before him. Others were in the pub, mostly middle-aged locals, many of whom I vaguely recognised. They appeared vaguely to return the compliment.

“Who loves ya, baby?” Dave said by way of greeting.

Dave was quick to gulp down his remaining beer before handing me his glass for a refill. I went to the bar to order another pint of warm bitter for him and half a pint of cold lager for me. It took a while to be served and I was reminded of Vasos’ coffee shop.

After I’d sat down opposite Dave, I took out my rolling tobacco. Dave frowned and offered me a cigarette from his packet. “Have one your mate Mr Marlboro prepared earlier. Made from pure tobacco. No funny Jamaican stuff.”

I lifted my head and eyebrows to indicate refusal.

“I prefer mine tailor-made,” I declared wryly and Dave laughed louder than my comment warranted. I sensed one or two disapproving glances from around the pub as I lit my do-it-yourself cigarette and took a deep drag. Dave drank his beer.

“Dave, there’s something you ought to know,” I announced with gravity, which made him put his glass down. His expectant look gave way to one of surprise when I added, “I’m quitting.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I asked for a pay-rise. I was refused,” I explained, before taking another drag of my cigarette. I could tell from Dave’s expression that he wanted more details but I didn’t feel there was anything further to add. Dave shook his head.

“But you can’t go, Tony. We’re such good partners. Me and the Bubble.”

“But we’re not equal partners. You and the Bubble.”

Dave seemed genuinely saddened and I in turn was touched.

“Will you tell Osborne I won’t be coming in?”

Dave nodded and said he understood before adding that it really was a great shame. We sat in silence for a few moments, drinking and smoking. It was Dave who spoke next.

“Tony, I hope you don’t mind but someone might be joining us later.” He looked sheepish. I frowned and found myself remembering an old saying, about one woman being owed to you by God. A foolish saying.

“Oh Dave,” I groaned.

Dave was unperturbed, “Come on, mate. You could do with cheering up. She’s a cousin of mine. Lovely girl. Lives nearby.”

I took a long and troubled drag of my cigarette. Such a trick could never have been played at the coffee shop. That was strictly a male domain.

“I thought it would be nice for Ruth to get out a bit,” he added. “Meet new people. She lost her husband a while back and, what with her daughter growing up and doing her own thing, she gets a bit lonely. You know how it is.”

I nodded. Now I felt as Dave was intending me to feel. Guilty.

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m sure your cousin’s a nice person. But you know I’m not interested in romance,” I pointed out before nervously taking another sip of my lager.

We sat in silence again while I was lost in my thoughts and Dave seemed to be gathering his. Finally, he gave me his look of sympathy and confusion.

“Tony. I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while and I want you to be completely honest with me,” he ventured.

Now he paused, looking for any clues my eyes might reveal. All at once I understood what he was driving at. I shook my head with amusement.

“You may think I’m strange, coo-chi-coo. But don’t worry, I’m not that way inclined.” Dave’s cheeks grew rosier and I couldn’t help but smile.

•••

When Ruth arrived it was I who spotted her first. It had to be her, unaccompanied at the door, shaking an umbrella. An elegant, not unattractive woman with flowing chestnut hair, looking round in search of a familiar face. She was wearing a distinctive long brown coat with furry cuffs and lapels. I hoped it was Ruth.

Dave noticed I was observing someone and glanced in her direction. He smiled in recognition.

“Ruth!” he called and I felt my heart beat a little faster as she waved back with a warm smile, making her way over to us across the now busy pub. Dave stretched out a leg to pull an empty stool towards the table.

“This is my mate Tony,” he announced, unconsciously adopting a fake foreign accent to pronounce my name, which embarrassed me. “He’s single,” he added, which embarrassed me further.

Ruth appeared surprised by my presence, though not unpleasantly so. She tucked her wind-swept hair behind an ear to reveal intriguing grey-green eyes which now peered into mine. I felt butterflies in my stomach. I felt uncomfortable.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I found myself saying, in my best English, getting up from my stool and offering Ruth my hand. I noted how soft and pale her hand was. A little cold too.

“Likewise,” replied Ruth. She released her grip to take off her coat, revealing a well-proportioned figure in a pale blue blouse.

We exchanged knowing smiles as we sat down.

“I’ll get the drinks in,” offered Dave, brushing aside my plea to do so and getting up. I turned to Ruth and shrugged helplessly. She laughed, shook her head at the departing Dave and came to the rescue.

“Goodness, what a day. Those kids really take it out of you,” she complained and noticed my puzzled expression. “Didn’t Dave tell you? I work in a youth club some evenings. At the Muswell Hill Centre. Do you know it?”

I nodded. The Muswell Hill Centre was only a few minutes walk away from where I lived, tucked away behind the shops on the other side of the Broadway. I often wondered what happened down there.

“You teach?” I enquired.

“Music,” she replied and my interest was further aroused. “I’m trying to set up this performing youth group. But the kids can be a real handful sometimes. Don’t you have any children?” she enquired.

I was troubled by her question. To make matters worse, my mischievous colleague had gone over to the juke-box and selected a popular soul ballad. The lyrics entreated me to feel brand new but now all of a sudden I felt old. I shook a lowered head.

Ruth continued, “I’ve got a daughter. She’s in the sixth form and getting on with her own life. The work at the club helps to keep me busy.” Then she added with a suggestive smile, “And young!”

I smiled back and nodded.

“And it’s more rewarding than working in the music shop. I do that during the day. To make ends meet. Still, enough about me. What about Dave’s mate Tony?”

I looked at her without answering. I didn’t feel there was anything worthwhile to say.

“Where are you from?” she pressed.

“Camden Town, at first. But now I live up in Muswell Hill,” I replied, aware that this was not the answer she was looking for.

Ruth laughed. “No, silly. Where originally? I mean, you’re not English are you?”

I found myself rubbing the bristles on my chin self-consciously. I wished I’d made the effort to shave before coming out.

“Oh dear. I should have warned you, Ruth,” interjected Dave, overhearing her as he returned from the bar with a round of drinks. “He doesn’t like to talk about that.”

Ruth accepted her glass of gin and tonic and took a sip. “I’m not after Tony’s life story, Dave. I just wanted to place him. Spanish? Italian? How about Greek? There’s quite a few living round here now.”

“Careful, Ruth,” warned Dave, wagging a finger at his cousin. “He’s touchy about people calling him Greek.”

“Turkish then,” Ruth suggested. Dave winced.

“OK, I wish I hadn’t asked,” she said with resignation. All three of us sipped our drinks as an awkward silence ensued. I knew I had to be the one to break it.

“I’m Cypriot,” I announced and then felt obliged to add, “I was born in a village in Cyprus. I had to come over to England when I was a young man. I’ve not been back.”

“I see,” she ventured, in a way which suggested she didn’t really see at all. How could she see? She looked at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry, Ruth. There’s nothing more to say.”

Ruth now looked at me with compassion.

“I’m the one who should apologise,” she corrected. “Where you’re heading’s more important than where you’re from. It’s what I tell the kids.”

I gave Ruth an approving smile.

“You should smile more, Tony. It lights up your face,” she suggested and I felt myself blush. The butterflies were returning.

I wanted to know more about Ruth’s work with young people and she seemed delighted to share her experiences.

“They come from so many different backgrounds. English, Irish, Caribbean, Indian. One or two Greek kids too, I think,” she enthused proudly before adding, “Or do I mean Cypriot?”

“It can’t be easy, trying to control so many different teenagers,” I noted.

“It’s not about control, Tony. It’s about showing them the right way. You just need to be on their level. Use their language,” Ruth explained. I rolled out my lower lip and nodded.

She made a point of inviting me to the Muswell Hill Centre one evening and I found myself accepting. We arranged a time. Dave thought this amusing.

“I should warn you, Ruth, Tony doesn’t like going out much so don’t be too surprised if he doesn’t show up,” he told her while giving me a wink.

“Now why would Tony do that? Surely he’s not the sort of bloke to let a woman down,” she suggested, addressing me more than her cousin. I was struck by her comment and knew it would play on my mind.

•••

In bed that night I reflected on what had turned out to be an eventful day. It had been a long time since I’d experienced so many different emotions. Frustration for not getting the pay-rise I’d asked for. Unease at the talk of my troubled homeland. Sadness at the news of Vasos’ death. Determination to pay my respects at his funeral. Empathy, perhaps even attraction, towards Ruth.

I added surprise to the day’s list. In myself, that I was still able to have such feelings.

Thoughts of Ruth remained with me as I approached sleep. That night I dreamt of a girl I once knew.

(to be continued)

[The Cypriot]

5
The festival
Do banairin

Erden had settled comfortably in his favourite spot. He was propped against an old, old olive tree at the top of a hill. A baby goat, hardy and lean, was sprawled on his lap, sleeping peacefully. Breathing in and out, the goat generated a soothing warmth to go with its reassuring heartbeat. The rest of Erden’s flock were around their goatherd chomping at shrubs and wild grass. And when they weren’t chomping they were bleating their contentment. Goats were such fine beasts, thought Erden. You could thrive on their dependency, gain strength from their unconditional devotion. Humans, by contrast, were too selfish and unreliable. They created only problems and heartache.

From this high vantage point Erden could take in a panoramic view of the whole village, stretched out before him, less than half a mile away. It was a familiar site. Home. To the left, Erden could make out the bell tower of the church of Saint Varnavas the Apostle; to the right, the minaret of the small village mosque. And, dotted around them, the whitewashed houses belonging to devoted followers of either religion, as well as the more numerous not-so-devoted followers. From Erden’s point of view all the houses looked the same. It’s only when you got closer that you sensed things weren’t as they should be. Erden didn’t like getting too close. It was safer and more peaceful up here against the olive tree.

However, on this particular day, as the light began to fade, the developing differences in the village appeared to have been set aside. A concoction of lively sounds carried through the evening air and up to Erden’s appreciative ear. Below, on the main road into the village, the goatherd could see people from other villages approaching. The festival had begun and all were coming to share in the harmony. All except Erden.

Erden leant back, until his head rested against the bark of the olive tree. He recalled that some time ago he’d used his knife to carve two names into it, his own and that of a local girl. A rare beauty, now in full bloom. She was slender, with an enriched complexion, straight brown hair and striking green eyes. How Erden longed for her. He glanced down and could still make out the now fading letters of her name. F-U-N-D-A.

Some years ago Erden had rescued her younger brother Zeki, after the boy had fallen from a tree. If it hadn’t been for Erden carrying him to the village’s Christian doctor the boy might have died. In the event, Zeki’s leg had been damaged beyond repair. But at least Zeki had lived, and for that people had Erden to thank. Funda had Erden to thank. And she did so by always showing kindness to the goatherd. More kindness than some of the others showed.

Erden smiled. How wonderful Funda was. How she thrived on attention. No doubt she’d be singing tonight. She was a born performer with the voice of an angel. Erden knew some of the bolder boys of the village were now showing a keen interest. They would swoon and openly declare their devotion. And it wasn’t just the Muslims who were attracted to her. How could a poor, simple goatherd compete? Some of these young men had well-paid jobs, in administration, in construction, in the auxiliary police. It was surely only a matter of time before one lucky young man’s family would make Funda’s father the right proposition, only a matter of time before Erden’s heart would be broken for good.

•••

Andonis returned from inside the now crowded coffee shop with a tray containing two small cups of thick coffee and two tall glasses of water. He saw that Nigos had sat at a table near the door with a backgammon set in front of him. Andonis frowned and gestured to his friend to join him at another free table nearer to the square, the focus of this evening’s festivities. Nigos raised his hands to indicate his reluctance to move; but after a moment he went over and sat opposite Andonis, bringing with him the backgammon set and a deep sigh. Andonis sat facing the square which was thronging with people. The usual sellers were offering the people a variety of delicacies. Shamishin, melomagarona and sticks of sujukos.

Small crowds had gathered around numerous performers. Two older men squared up for a traditional chatisman, a battle of wits through poetry and music. Each clever riposte was greeted with hoots and laughter from the audience, which Andonis noticed included Nigos’ brother Yannis and his betrothed Martha: though in truth the pair appeared more interested in each other than in the chatisman. Yannis looked for any excuse to touch Martha: to wipe a blemish from her cheek, to remove a loose thread from her blouse. She was happy to oblige him.

A group of younger men performed acrobatic dances to whistles and clapping from a different audience, which Andonis noticed included Nigos’ sister Stella. She was with her friends, and they were clicking their fingers and taking up provocative poses. Stella was a petite, pretty girl, with long dark hair and a distinctive mole on her cheek which always drew Andonis’ eyes. Andonis was aware that Stella had an admirer, a largish boy called Lugas from a neighbouring village. Lugas was innocently flirting with her this evening. Andonis was happy for Stella, though he knew, in truth, she would rather have been flirting with him.

At the far side of the square a garagiozis show was under way, delighting a congregation of children.

People who passed by the coffee shop acknowledged young Andonis, the tailor, as the man who’d retrieved the cross from the sea earlier that day. As was customary, they congratulated him and wished him long life. With a proud smile the tailor thanked them, shaking hands and revelling in his moment of glory. He noticed however that Nigos was becoming increasingly irritated.

After the pair had finally been left alone, Nigos took out some tobacco and started rolling himself a cigarette. He offered the tobacco and papers to Andonis, who declined. Nigos huffed and ran a hand through his unruly black hair.

“What’s wrong, Nigo?” asked Andonis, looking at his friend with concern. Nigos’ frown didn’t suit his chiselled features.

“Nothing,” lied Nigos, lighting his cigarette and blowing smoke into the tailor’s face.

“Yes, I know your nothing. Those hunched shoulders, the knotted brow, the lower lip that disappears. Why is ‘nothing’ having this effect on you?” asked Andonis affectionately. Today was a day when the tailor could solve any problem.

“I just don’t think it’s right, Andoni,” Nigos explained, gesturing to the crowds in the square. “People singing and dancing and laughing. Not the way things are.”

“Would you rather they cried instead of laugh?” suggested Andonis.

“Until we’re free, what’s there to laugh about?” rebuked Nigos.

Andonis smiled mischievously. “Let’s rejoice, Nigo. For isn’t today the day the Lord was baptised in the River Jordan?”

Nigos scoffed. “Since when did you believe in all that nonsense the priest chants?” he demanded.

“It makes my mamma and my brother happy. And look at all the people, Nigo. It makes them happy. Why can’t we be happy too?”

“You don’t have to live with what I have to live with,” huffed Nigos.

Andonis sighed. “Come on. Let it go a while. Let yourself go a while,” he urged, tapping his friend fondly on the shoulder. Nigos looked at Andonis and, though Nigos’ mouth gave way to a smile, his frown remained.

“You’re just jealous that your friend’s the brave hero tonight,” teased Andonis.

“Brave enough to take me on at tavlin, then?” challenged Nigos, opening up the backgammon set.

Andonis indicated his reluctance to play by raising his eyebrows and lifting his chin. Nigos could not disguise his disappointment but his friend ignored it. Andonis was too preoccupied with the scene in the square and, in particular, with the young Muslim woman who had just arrived, accompanied by a boy hobbling on a pair of wooden crutches.

The girl wore a long red skirt down to her ankles and a white, long-sleeved blouse. She had full red lips and straight brown hair mostly hidden by a white headscarf. Andonis’ heart pumped extra blood round his body at the sight of this girl. She had been there at the shore earlier that day, when he’d dived into the sea. She had been there afterwards to kiss him on either cheek and to wish him a long life. In better times his father used to get his beard shaved and his hair cut at her father’s barber’s shop. In better times his father and hers had been friends.

The girl’s voice was famous in the village. She was always at such public gatherings, singing to raise extra money for her family so that they might secure a better future for her crippled brother.

The girl bent down and laid a small wooden box on the ground in front of her. Then, without fear or embarrassment, she broke into song, accompanied after a moment by the boy who blew inexpertly into a harmonica with the broadest of smiles. The exquisite voice of the sister more than compensated for the musical clumsiness of the brother and soon a large audience had gathered. The pair were performing a traditional folk song, popular at weddings, to the delight of the people, the majority of whom clapped along, reminded of better times.

My slender plant of basil, so fragrant, sweet and rare
It’s you who’ll separate me from my mother’s tender care.

Andonis was entranced. The song was one his late paternal grandmother, Maria always used to sing, in the sweet Cypriot vernacular, adopted as her own. A song which, so the story went, Andonis’ grandfather had used to win Maria’s heart and bring her to the island.

“What are you looking at, Andoni?” sneered Nigos, turning his head to observe the performance. Then he glanced back at his friend and shook his head. Nigos took a long and loud sip of his coffee which annoyed Andonis.

“Be quiet, Nigo. I’m listening,” implored Andonis, not taking his eyes off the performance. “Doesn’t she sing beautifully?”

“What?” cried Nigos with disdain. Nigos raised a hand and clicked his fingers in front of his friend’s face. “Are you all right, man? Wake up! Leave the Turkish girl to beg and let’s play a game of tavlin.”

Andonis pushed his friend’s hand aside to clear his view. The girl had now finished her song and people were dropping coins into the box. She took her brother’s hand and directed applause towards him. The pair smiled and bowed.

“Better shoes from home, even if they’re tattered,” observed Nigos, quoting an old proverb.

“She is from home!” declared the tailor.

Nigos shook his head. Both young men continued to observe the girl.

“Look at those eyes, look at those lips,” noted Andonis. “Tell me she’s not the most beautiful girl in the whole village.”

“For goodness sake, Andoni. Stop playing games,” cautioned Nigos. “Some people might not appreciate them.”

Nigos was unsure whether he was more concerned about people or his own sister, Stella. He dragged at his cigarette self-consciously.

Andonis picked up his cup, slurped down the remaining coffee and gave a satisfied gasp before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Then he looked at Nigos and his eyes narrowed. Nigos looked hurt when Andonis rose from his chair.

“What about our game of tavlin?” Nigos enquired.

“I’m through playing games,” announced Andonis, though as much to himself as to his friend.

He picked up his glass of water, took a gulp from it then made his way over to where the Muslim girl was now preparing to entertain the crowd with another song. The people gathered there acknowledged the fine young man who’d retrieved the cross from the sea with nods and smiles and pats on the back.

Andonis’ eyes met those of the Muslim girl for a brief moment and he smiled his glowing smile. She couldn’t help but offer a hint of a smile in return. True, the girl smiled at everyone. The more Funda smiled, the more coins for the box. But Andonis felt he knew this smile. It seemed to be reserved for him.

Andonis nudged Funda’s brother and pointed to the instrument in the boy’s hands. The boy understood and handed over the harmonica. Andonis nodded his thanks, ruffled the boy’s hair with affection and placed the harmonica to his lips.

Funda had begun singing the famous breeches song and Andonis now accompanied her. He played expertly and the people began to clap in time to the music with even more enthusiasm than before. Funda looked at Andonis while she sang and gave him a nod of approval. Andonis nodded back.

O!... With forty yards of cotton cloth, with forty yards of cotton cloth,
They made, they made, they made a pair of breeches.
O!... The crutch it dangled far too long, the crutch it dangled far too long,
And swept, and swept, and swept the lower reaches.

Now playing with only one hand, Andonis contorted himself so that he could roll his trousers up to his knees with the other hand. Then he loosened his belt, pulling his shirt out and allowing his trousers to drop so they appeared baggy around the crutch - like a pair of breeches. Andonis was now dancing round and round as he played. And as he did so his trousers were falling down further, to an amused and delighted crowd. People were whistling their approval.

The poor old pair of breeches, which sweep the lower reaches.
And who will take them down for you and wash them in the pond?
And who will lay them out for you to dry out in the sun?
And who’s the able woman to put the iron on?

Andonis looked over towards the coffee shop and waved to his sulking friend. Nigos shook his head in disbelief.

O!... Instead of marrying a man, instead of marrying a man,
Who is, who is, who is a trouser wearer.
O!... Prefer to wed a breeches man, prefer to wed a breeches man,
A low-, a low-, a lowly needle seller.

Funda and Andonis had finished their performance to applause, cheers and bravos. Andonis grabbed Funda’s hand and offered her to the audience. She took her bow before offering Andonis in turn. More and more coins were being thrown into the box and onto the ground.

The tailor fumbled inside his pockets looking for coins of his own but all he could find was a brass thimble, one given to him by his grandmother, Maria. He pulled it out and looked at it a moment before presenting it to the Muslim girl. Funda blushed and looked across to her brother for approval. The crippled boy smiled and so she accepted the tailor’s offering.

Two Christian and two Muslim eyes met with tenderness.

“Thank you, sir,” she said graciously.

“The best a humble tailor can offer, I’m afraid,” he replied.

“What wind has blown to bring you here?” she whispered coyly, as if to herself as much to Andonis.

“The one that led to you,” replied the tailor with a smile which made Funda go weak. She looked at Andonis with warmth and a hint of trepidation.

Meanwhile the crowd was beginning to disperse. Not quite all the people had approved of Andonis’ antics. Andonis had noted that one man in particular, a powerful man of the village, had tutted loudly. And Stella had not been impressed either. Nor of course had Nigos.

Funda’s attention was diverted by a gasp from her brother. The boy was looking up at a tall and lanky red-haired gentleman who had just thrown a ten shilling note into the box. Funda rushed over to her brother and smothered him in a hug. Then she gave the man a polite smile of gratitude before crouching to collect the large number of coins which had missed the box. Her brother joined her.

Andonis looked at the man. He was clearly an Englezos, in his forties and with a bushy moustache not unlike that of Andonis’ father - except this one was the same colour as the earth. Then Andonis recognised the man. He’d seen him once or twice, at Mr Vasos’ coffee shop, in a soldier’s uniform.

“You’re too generous, sir,” Andonis observed, addressing the Englezos in perfect English and with perfect English irony. The man raised a pair of earth-coloured eyebrows in surprise.

“Your English is most impressive,” he acknowledged in a manner which Andonis recognised as innocently patronising. The Englezos’ piercing blue eyes stared into those of Andonis.

“Better, I expect, than your command of my language,” replied Andonis proudly. “I was good at school, sir.”

The Englezos nodded.

“I must tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. You and the Turkish girl work well together. It’s nice to see,” he declared.

“Our people have worked well together for a long time, sir. It’s only when outsiders come and...” Andonis checked himself. How could an Englezos even begin to understand?

“Well I, at least, am one outsider who appreciates the harmony I’ve witnessed this evening,” reiterated the Englezos, maintaining his dignified manner.

Andonis felt ashamed and lowered his head. “Thank you, sir,” he found himself saying apologetically, almost deferentially.

The Englezos nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

The festival carried on into the early hours of the morning. But people would be talking for longer.

(to be continued)

[brother]

I am well into this story, keep them coming cypriot.

[repulsewarrior]

Cypriot, I will try to say no more, but every time you make me cry, thank-you.