Like his granddaughter he was cheerful; his eyes and lips smiled, like hers, but a vague melancholy pervaded his face and his gestures. In spite of his attempts, though, the painter couldn’t distinguish the elements that made him unique, not a trace of them.
The old man asked, simply and directly, who he was and what he was doing there. He told him that he was a very mediocre painter who answered to the adopted name of Lefteris Foteinos. He had painted here since his secondary school days. After the war he had settled for about two years in France. Now, though, as things had calmed down, he had decided to return. “It makes no difference whether you starve there or here…” He had come here to Cape Greco to work, but he had found the landscape adulterated. Directly, but not simply, he added that he was not at all pleased with what he had found. “This was one of the few places on the island whose natural beauty had not been destroyed by tourism. Here agriculture was to blame,” he observed. Mr. Barnabas smiled. “If you think that we did all this for the sake of agriculture, you are mistaken. We did it out of obstinacy.”
They drank the coffee, the refreshing, slightly brackish, water that Maria brought them and then the three of them remained silent for a while. Suddenly the question which had been tormenting him found expression; turning to Mr. Barnabas he asked him what he had meant by obstinacy. The old man did not answer. He turned the conversation elsewhere, to unrelated subjects, until the painter was convinced that he was not going to receive an answer. But he was given the answer later, as soon as Maria, hearing the child cry again, went into the little house.
“I’ll explain about the obstinacy now” said the old man. And he explained. “First I’ll tell you who we are…” Refugees from Lapithos. Hunted down, they had taken refuge in the Dekhelia forest. The English, from the neighboring army camp in the Base, offered them blankets, food, smiles. Traumatized by the evil which had so unexpectedly befallen them, they were taken in by the apparent humanity and assistance and were rather slow to perceive that behind the generosity there was a strong measure of guilt and that the smiles concealed calculation, remorse and malice, all mixed up. When they finally realized it, or it was proved to them by those who had suspected it from the beginning, and when armies of refugees began to arrive at the forest, forming a queue half a kilometer long, morning, noon and evening, in order to fill their plates with the insipid soup or a handful of lentils spooned out by the English cook who gradually ceased smiling and joking, Mr. Barnabas decided that he neither could nor should suffer this humiliation any longer. He called together a few of his fellow villagers and spoke to them. They listened in silence, without saying yes or no. But when he dismantled and loaded into his car the tent that the Welfare Department had issued to him, the majority of his fellow villagers, most of them his own age, followed him. They came and camped here, at the same spot where they later built these houses. With the small allowance given them by the government, less than they had spent on cigarettes previously, they bought tinned foods, milk and water, and one or two newspapers now and then. They lived. In a world of complete inactivity. He sat for hours outside the tent, gazing between the tents opposite him at the plain polluted by death and by the remains of death’s merrymaking, at old Pentadactylos, ashen in the shame of its defeat, and even further, beyond the constantly lit houses of Dikomo and Saint Hilarion, to his houses. His own house and that of his eldest son, Maria’s father, exactly opposite, and that of Mr. Coureas (who was now, too, his neighbour in the house across the way) a couple of paces further down, and on the corner the two-storied house of his brother.
He lived in his house, Doma they called it, with his old wife, with Maria, the spitting image of his Maria in her youth, and their young son Constantinos, who was in the second year of the Teacher Training College when he was called up. Ever since he was a child he had dreamed of becoming a teacher like his old man, but alas it was not to be… In the sunroom was the carved wooden chest, a priceless gift from his great grandfather, containing the memorabilia of four hundred years. Hanging on the opposite wall was the souvantza* with treasures of popular crafts which he had collected during forty years as a teacher all over Cyprus. In the high-ceilinged study were three bookcases, one on each wall, which he filled and enlarged continuously, waiting unhurriedly for his “old age” in order to enjoy them. “Where was the time previously, with the school, the house, the children, his Marias…?
He saw it so clearly, the Doma, he felt like running or shouting or remaining still, a column in the blinding light or darkness; morning and noon, until deep in the night it was there and he admired it, and he could not do anything, could not think of anything except those terrible final hours and the road he took to this barren corner of Cape Greco, to be buried in this boundless cemetery of centuries…
“Yes, Mr. Barnabas,” he had said, “that’s right! You are suited to each other, you and the landscape; now you have found what you were looking for… And surely I would have added my bones to these if Maria hadn’t suddenly appeared before me… The Turks set her free… After five months… She came here weeping and ill, and searched for me for five weeks here and there in the refugee camps, from Limassol to Larnaca. And I, in my selfish joy at seeing her alive - overcome by emotion - couldn’t see anything… I clutched her like a drowning man. I felt that I had found again all those I had lost… My eldest son, Maria’s father, Mihalis; he was an agriculturalist, the Turks killed him; the youngest, Costantis; we lost trace of him between 20th July and 15th August; my daughter-in-law Martha, Maria’s mother, my other Maria, my wife. All those I had buried with my own hands in the yard and the others that I heard had remained unburied when I left… They were all brought back to me by Maria, who was alive, whom they hadn’t killed, whom they had set free… Who came and slept in my tent, on the camp-bed. I didn’t sleep a wink the first night. I sat there, where you are sitting now, chanting the Psalms of David until dawn, all the hymns that I knew and those that I knew only the tune of, the funeral service and the resurrectional. Whatever came to my tongue… I, a sixty-five year old who had never dared to sing or chant, not even in front of my own wife… And suddenly on the third night something within me caught fire; something dissolved, and I said, “if my heart, this wretched old heart which has borne so much, though it would have been better if it hadn’t, with a little filling up could be revived, why not the land, this soil?”
The next day he put his plan into action. He called his neighbours together, young and old, and explained it to them. In detail. They looked at him with surprise and pity. They did not believe their ears. “What’s up with the teacher? The calamity has affected his brain… or the joy at seeing his granddaughter.” One by one they left him and returned to their tents. But once he had decided something he did not give up. He started on his own. He took two buckets and tied them to the ends of a pipe, fixed a piece of thick cloth on his shoulders to take the weight, and began to dig and carry earth from the state land of the surrounding area. From the neighbouring fields, which they had asked to settle on but which the government had not given them as it had other plans. He filled the bucket to the brim, bent down, settled the pipe on his shoulders, rose slowly, with difficulty, and carried them almost a kilometer on foot. He spread the crumbly earth on the rocks and shells and then returned to refill his buckets. A “crazy carrier” who attempted the impossible, who, with the toil of a whole day covered two or at the most three feet with earth. Even if he went to and fro like Sisyphus until the end of his life he would not manage to prepare even one acre for planting. And even if he did manage to cover a reasonable area, where would he find water in this arid place, which had been waterless and barren since the days of Saint Helen? They told him over and over again. His neighbours and his friend Coureas and Maria. But it was as if he did not hear them. He nodded his head and smiled or just looked at them ironically and continued… Five or six trips a day. Fifteen, no, nineteen trips in three days was his goal… His skin, unused to the sun, burned and peeled. His hand
s were bruised and calloused. His clothes and shoes were so caked and drenched with sweat that they could not be cleaned however much Maria scrubbed them with soap and water. This torment continued for four weeks… Five… Six… And a piece of arid land, a little more than a quarter of an acre, had been covered with rich earth…
And suddenly, like a joke at first, or to help the old fool, but more seriously later, as the hours and days passed, his neighbours, one by one, two by two, five by five and then in droves, began to follow him; loaded with buckets, with baskets, with wheelbarrows. What did they have to lose, apart from their effort? And anyway they had nothing else to do. And the truth of the matter was that the work progressed day by day…
After they had covered approximately two acres, about two spans deep, they managed, working at night by the light of lanterns, to construct a cart, which they pulled themselves. Taking turns, some dug, others loaded and others pulled the cart. On the return journey they pulled it loaded with stones, shells and logs; they unloaded it on the sandy beach, by the sea, and filled it with good earth, which the third group had prepared. However, they realized in time that clearing the area only delayed them without lessening the debris. At a meeting one evening they discussed it and decided to abandon the attempt. They took other decisions at that meeting, too. They would borrow a truck and tools, and a fourth group would start to dig for water. They appointed a delegation, which went to see the headman of the neighboring village. It was led by Mr. Barnabas and Mr. Coureas. The headman listened to their plans smiling indulgently, but he promised to do what he could. And he kept his word. Within a week he lent them a battered truck, tools and a small tractor. After this the spreading of topsoil, which had become the passion of all of them for a summer and then winter, proceeded at a faster rate, continually eating up the arid land, increasing their morale. While they were still doing this job the rains started, the first time they had fallen so copiously and satisfyingly at Cape Greco. A good sign. And suddenly, late one afternoon, Maria called them excitedly to see something. She led them about eight meters from the tents and knelt down. In front of her they saw the shoots of a wild tomato. They knelt around her and -felt the blessing of God pervade them. They were so happy that they did not sleep a wink all night. They drank beer and wine and ate olives, halloumi cheese and fruit. They sat in front of their tents, singing for hours and telling jokes, and when they finally fell asleep they dreamed of that green field, that Chimera which they would create with toil and trouble, that chimera which they had already created!
“How long did it take you?”
“Two years.”
The summer of the second year they borrowed ploughs and seed. They ploughed and spread fertilizer and insecticide. Then they sowed the seed and waited. They found water, too, about fifty meters down, brackish. They irrigated the land and waited. The earth rewarded them. One morning they found the field all green. They brought a priest from the village, pitched a tent nearby to serve as a church, and held a service. Months passed and the fruit of their labours grew. They harvested. They earned two thousand pounds from their first crop. The next year they reclaimed three more acres and increased their crop. Four thousand pounds clear. Ten thousand the next year after they had installed greenhouses. It was then that they had built these small, temporary houses.
The painter asked old Barnabas what had prevented them from building something more permanent, more comfortable, or from moving to the town and just working out here.
“To cut ourselves off from everything that is beneath this green?” he had answered. “From the bones, our graves? Under the tents and the concrete floors are our houses and our roots which extend from Lapithos, and Ai-Yiorgi, over there…”
“And are you happy?”
“We have found peace. Perhaps in time, if the Lord grants us years, that will come too… Who knows? What happens to the charcoal and carbon in the earth may happen to us. After many years it changes, and the carbon becomes diamond… That is what we hope.”
All that summer Fotinos went to listen to him, to see and talk to Maria. Every two, or at the most, three days he took the car and set off for that oasis in the centre of the lunar landscape of Cape Greco.
He drank a coffee or a lemonade with them, he meditated peacefully in her presence, which had become necessary to him; afterwards, sometimes, he spent two or three hours alone painting; sometimes he stayed with them; the three of them would go to the fields or down to the sea for a walk, a swim or to fish. They soon dropped the formalities. They called him by his Christian name: Lefteris. They invited him to share their often frugal, always hospitable meal. He made friends with the child, Diamantis, and often played with him. He must have been about two and a half years old and lived with them, from who knows what branch of the family. He asked a number of times but they did not explain. They just vaguely said the child was theirs… And he must have been for them to love and care for him so much, for him to resemble them… Surely the son of one of their many relatives who had been killed. And he stopped asking so as not to reopen old wounds.
His own wound, however, deepened… As time passed his passion for Maria became more despotic. Her eyes, which smiled at him so eagerly, so brightly, so tender and shiny, her body, toasted by the sun, bursting with youth and freshness, her quiet, slightly husky voice, everything about her, seen and unseen, every time they went and threw themselves into the waves together, filled him with passion… At times his tantalizing desire found another outlet, it made his whole body tremble, shiver and vibrate with persistent spasms. He hid in panic and shame behind the rocks, lying down until the paroxysm subsided; afterwards he dressed hurriedly and took to his heels like a thief before she emerged from the sea. One day though, he could not keep it to himself; when she saw him so agitated and pale and asked him what was wrong he suddenly caught hold of her hand and caressed it roughly, dumbly. She did not withdraw it. He was completely paralyzed with joy. He could neither pull her on top of him nor leave her. They went hand in hand back to the little house. The old man must have seen them; a wrinkle which he had not had previously creased his forehead; but he smiled at them.
The next day he went again to the settlement, for her alone; and again he dared to touch her. As soon as his cold palm covered hers, her fingers boldly entwined themselves with his. Then she pulled him onto her; her face slowly rose towards his. Her lips, still wet from the brine, were soft and cold…
“Maria…”
She opened her eyes to look at him and suddenly her eyes were filled with panic. She pulled away abruptly, covered her face with her hands. Sobs distorted her lips now. Letting go of his hand, which she had held for so long and squeezed, she ran behind the rocks… Her…
The next time he visited Cape Greco, three days after their first conscious contact, he did not find her there. And it was the day he had gone psychologically prepared to speak to her, to get her alone and tell her of his love, his passion, the hackneyed phrases which her presence made so new and original and mysterious… All the way there he had polished the phrases and words, searching persistently for an original expression, at the same time aware that as soon as he approached her, as soon as he saw her, as soon as he touched her, all these phrases would evaporate and only he would remain, plain and simple, humble before her…
She had taken the child to the hospital for inoculation.
In a way he was pleased; a great weight had been lifted from him. The hour of trial, of truth, had been postponed.
He entered the tiny kitchen and prepared coffee for her grandfather and himself. They enjoyed it sitting on the concrete steps. And, as every time he went there, they talked about various things, about painting, about books, which the old man loved so much although he was not able to read as much as he used to, especially after losing his bookcases at the Doma, about the weather, about birds, fish, dogs.
“I had a wonderful dog! The black one! They killed it!”
But he did not continue. They finished their
coffee and went for a swim. The old man was a strong swimmer. He found it hard to keep up with him. But he tried. He caught up with him only when the grandfather climbed onto the reef and stayed there to recover his breath.
He clutched the edge of the rock, breathing heavily and floated on the waves which broke over him.
“So after the war you went to France?” said the old man without looking at him.
“Yes, to paint.”
Something about the expression, the cold look of the grandfather disturbed him.
“For months after the war I couldn’t work,” he added. “I was afraid, I thought I was drained. Violence is something I have never been able to bear, I abhor it.”
“Have you experienced violence? Personally?”
“No. I avoided it as much as I could.”
“Then it would be better if you left Cyprus again.”
His voice was hard.
“Why?”
“Because sooner or later you will experience it. When you least expect it. And it will be unbearable.” He was silent for a little, threw water on his face and continued, staring into the water as though hypnotized. “Like Antipas… He was a commercial traveler; when the war started he was in the Gulf. If his wife Aimilia had not been enclaved over in Kyrenia, only from newspapers and other people would he have learned that there had been a war in Cyprus… When he returned from his journey he settled in Larnaca and, through the Red Cross, managed to secure the release of his wife from the Turks. After ten months of anguish and struggle. She seemed fine and in good health even though she had been enclaved for so many months. He embraced her, kissed her, caressed her. And she kept crying… Just as he did, from joy and happiness… He thanked God for returning her to him strong and healthy as he remembered her… When the friends who had gathered at their house to celebrate her return had dispersed, the young woman began to cry again… Suddenly and without cause… He comforted her, held her in his arms and spoke to her - But she did not stop crying… He took her to bed, switched off the light and made love to her… After so many months… She stayed unmoving in his embrace, a cold body. Only her tears which showed no signs of abating, showed that she was still alive… Enraged he switched on the light, to leave her and go, when he saw… why she was crying…”
Gregory Page 17
