by Defne Suman
As for Panagiota, she was tossing and turning on her narrow bed, her nose blocked. There was nothing to wake up for now. At the Agia Triada fair she had lost not only Stavros but also the love-of-small-touches. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall.
New Year’s Eve
‘Is Mademoiselle Edith ready? I won’t go in. Would you please let her know I am here, Christo.’
Butler Christo, with his usual unflustered demeanour and inscrutable expression, ushered Avinash into the brightly illuminated hall and disappeared behind the staircase. Hoping to find a clothes brush, Avinash searched to the right and left of the mirror, on the coatrack and umbrella stand behind the door. Although he’d come from the Hatuniye Mosque in a covered carriage, the city’s dust had seeped into his clothes, his hair and his felt hat trimmed with satin just out of its box. In desperation he brushed the dust off his shoulders with his hand. Taking out his pocket watch and chain, he checked the time.
Five to seven. They would be late, which upset him.
He had arranged for one of the consulate cars to drive them, but it would take at least an hour to get to Bournabat given the ruinous state of the wintry roads. The guests invited to the New Year’s Eve party at the Thomas-Cook residence had been requested to arrive at approximately eight o’clock, with dinner to be served from nine.
Was she doing this on purpose?
In the silver-plated mirror he straightened the lapels of his jacket, the matching velvet bow tie, his hat. Then he turned around and dusted off the tails of his green tuxedo. He pulled at his newly oiled moustache. It was pushing the limits of Avinash’s patience to be late to a New Year’s Eve ball at which all the Europeans, Levantines, high-ranking officers and wealthy local Smyrna families would be assembled. Edith had somehow not learned to respect his need for promptness.
He left his hat on the console table in the hall and in three strides was at the sitting room door, where he came face to face with the butler.
‘Could you tell me what’s happening, Christo?’
His voice came out louder than intended. He was more tense than he thought. Covering his mouth, he coughed. The butler held the door open. Avinash hurried through, impatient, after which the door was closed quietly behind him.
The ceiling lamp had not been lit; in the dim light of the wall-mounted night lamps, the room looked gloomy. As always, it was messy. Whenever he went into that room, Avinash couldn’t help thinking that Edith was too lenient with her servants. The tea tray had been forgotten on the table in front of the window, biscuit crumbs were scattered about, drips of milk stained the wooden floor. One of the navy-blue armchairs was occupied by a pile of books brought down by Edith from the library upstairs. A crystal ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes had been pushed under the armchair, and the smell of the cigarette butts mixed with the marijuana smoke and the aroma of old coffee grounds left in a cup in a corner of the room.
Avinash’s sensitive nose ached.
Because of the gloom, he was at first unable to make out Edith’s form. For a moment he thought the butler had brought him in there to wait for her. But no, unfortunately not. Edith was in the room. Dressed in a sea-green evening dress which came down to her ankles, she was sprawled out on the sheepskin-covered divan, unconcerned about wrinkling her gown. She was smoking a pipe and staring, with half-closed eyes, into the waning fire in the fireplace. She had kicked off her shoes; one lay under the divan, the other was not visible.
Avinash was both surprised and angry. ‘Edith, mon amour, what are you doing?’
Instead of answering, Edith laid her head back on the gilded pillow behind her and exhaled the smoke she’d been holding in her lungs for who knew how long. As her face disappeared in the blue haze, she wiggled her white-stockinged feet.
‘Edith, it has gone seven o’clock. We must leave. The motor car and chauffeur I have arranged are waiting for us at the station. Edward particularly asked that we be there by eight.’
Without opening her eyes, Edith murmured, ‘Ah, Edward! Edward and his New Year’s Eve party of the century… Ah, these British! One must be on time. They even take pains to add a note to their invitations. “It is requested that guests display sensitivity to the hour of arrival.” Ha, ha, ha! And you, Avinash darling, want to be just like them.’
Letting her arm hang down, bare beneath her sea-green evening dress, she dropped the pipe on the floor, then lifted her head with difficulty and looked into Avinash’s face.
‘How do you like my hairdo? Zoe styled it.’
Avinash approached her. Edith had wound a thick black turban around her head and pinned an emerald brooch right in the middle. Above the turban, her raven-black hair, unchanged from her youth, was gathered in a huge bun on top of her head. The prematurely greying roots were hidden under the turban. With her eyes outlined in kohl, she resembled a Hindu prince. Was this a new fashion or was his lover making fun of him?
‘It is very becoming, Edith. Come, please get up.’
Edith sat up a little straighter. She checked her drop earrings with their stones the colour of her dress. The pearl necklace she’d wound three times round her neck was awry.
‘Your dress is getting crumpled. Come, Edith.’
He looked at the watch he was holding in his hand. It was seven after seven. Edith, propped up on one elbow, was trying to light the pipe she’d picked up from the floor.
With one step, Avinash grabbed the ivory pipe from her hand. ‘Edith, for God’s sake, what is going on? Why this devil-may-care attitude on such an important evening?’
Edith watched the opium pipe roll across the antique Usak carpet, spilling ash as it went, before replying.
‘And what is so important about this night, Sir Avinash? Or should I say “Sri” Avinash? Sir Sri Avinash! Not very proper? I’m reading a book. The author is really a poet, but this book I’m reading is about spiritual things. You’d like it. He says a person’s journey is a journey from rules to love, from discipline to freedom, from morality to spirituality. Wait a minute – what’s it called? I learned that “Sri” business from that book. You add it as a prefix to respected people’s names. “Sri” instead of “Sir” – ha, ha, ha!’
She laughed at her own joke for a long time. Avinash was frowning. Seeing this, she switched to Greek, as if fooling around with him in bed.
‘Ade vre Avinash mou, come on, are you upset? He’s a very good writer. He says… What was it? “For the evil inside a person…” Wait a minute, what was it he said? The book should be around here somewhere.’
Wringing his dark hands helplessly, Avinash sat down on the end of the divan, next to her little feet.
Edith’s addiction to hashish had really taken control of her in the last few years. He cursed the day he’d given her a waterpipe full of the stuff as a gift twelve years ago. That waterpipe was still upstairs in the bedroom and Edith was now unable to sleep or make love with pleasure without first smoking hashish. It had become impossible for her to attend a social gathering with a sober head. Everyone agreed that she had become very strange. In conversations she laughed in inappropriate places or walked away without waiting for the person speaking to finish their sentence. Sometimes she would sit in a corner with a mysterious smile on her face. Her old friends, afraid of her ill-judged laughter and the comments she made in her deep voice, were too scared to be with her.
The sheepskin thrown over the divan was as warm and soft as bread just out of the oven. Clearly Zoe had warmed it beforehand with water bottles. To get Edith up from this hot opium bed and out into the winter’s night would be harder than he’d thought.
‘Let’s tell Christo to make you some coffee.’
‘Not necessary. I’m fine. My head is as clear as day.’ Saying this, she lay back on the gilded pillow and settled her legs on Avinash’s lap.
‘Then get up and let’s go. If we keep on like this, we’ll even be late for dinner, which will be a shame.’
‘Shame! Shame!’ repeated
Edith, like a parrot.
Avinash closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The devil was telling him to slap her face, take her by the arm and throw her into the car. Then they’d see whether she would say another word all night long.
‘Do you know what the really shameful thing is, Avinash?’ She had stopped laughing and the deep crease between her eyebrows had appeared. ‘The really shameful thing is that we are still waltzing at balls, doing the polka.’
‘Why do you say that? How many balls have there been since the world war? People have been staying at home for years. Tonight, for the first time, society will come together. Edward has worked very hard, as you know, to have this be the ball of all balls. He’s even brought a jazz orchestra over from America for tonight.’
‘Should we not take account of the war that’s going on now, because it isn’t our war? Haven’t we lived in this country for centuries? Not you, okay, you’ve just recently come, I don’t dispute that. But my family settled in Smyrna in the 1700s. The only French thing about us is this language we speak. And that’s with a strange accent, as you know. Look at our family tree – you can’t find a single individual born in France. As for the ones organizing this ball of all balls, the Thomas-Cook family, they’ve been controlling trade with the Orient for at least three generations. Caravans and the ocean weren’t enough for them, so now they’ve taken over the railways. Insurance companies, mining, banking, import–export – everything is in their hands and the hands of their important friends invited to this ball. There’s no end to the bids they’ve won from the Sultan because of their privileges. It’s thanks to their encouragement that Greek soldiers and Turkish armed gangs have destroyed the land beyond these mountains, pitting villager against villager. My beloved country is weeping blood. Given all this, is not these children’s war’ – she waved her hand towards the kitchen, where her Turkish and Greek servants worked together – ‘to be considered our war?’
Avinash was staring at the now extinguished fire. He spoke softly.
‘There is always a war going on somewhere, Edith. Since the beginning of time, human beings have created with one hand and destroyed with the other. What is yours today was someone else’s yesterday and will pass to someone else tomorrow. Birth and death complement each other; good and evil find their own places in the universe. There will never come a time when wars will cease and the world is peaceful. But your numbered days will come to an end; the day you leave the world will arrive. To spend the happy life God has blessed you with in displeasure is the greatest sin of all. You, like everybody else, have a duty in this life. Please, let us go.’
‘For me the happiest life is right here,’ Edith said, like a spoiled child. Extending her leg, she tried to roll the pipe back towards her. Seeing that her lover meant to prevent this, she pulled his hand to her and placed it between her legs. ‘Or here.’
‘Edith, I beg you, stop. High-ranking officers, generals and top officials from the consulate will be at the ball. Being late will put me in a very difficult position.’
Edith pouted sulkily. Looking at her from close up, Avinash realized that behind the kohl, her eyes were small and bloodshot because of the hashish. He stood up.
Edith yawned. ‘Go. Go. You go by yourself. Much better. I do not wish to be in the same place as those snobs.’
‘Don’t be funny, I beg you. Of course, we shall go together. Come.’ Grasping her by the shoulder, he tried to raise her from her opium bed.
‘Oh, ho, ho! Sir Sri Avinash, take it easy! May I remind you that I am not your wife. You can very well attend a gathering without me. Out of interest, why didn’t you make a date with another woman? I am sure there are throngs of young women who would love to go to this ball on your arm. The neighbouring houses are filled to bursting with girls from Paris and London who chase after officers. You don’t even have to go out onto the street, just standing on my balcony will be sufficient. They are all surely dying to attend the ball of all balls. Please, go ahead. Oriste. I probably don’t need to show you the way to the balcony.’
Jerking her arm from Avinash’s grasp, she rose, picked up the pipe, took a pinch of hashish from the silver box on the side table beside the divan and packed it into the bowl of the pipe. Standing in her stockinged feet on the orange, red and green antique rug, and without taking her almond-shaped eyes off Avinash’s face, she lit the pipe with Monsieur Lamarck’s lighter.
Even in the dim light the shadow that fell across Avinash’s face was obvious. Of late, Edith had reminded him many times that they were not married. The old wound continued to burn.
Years earlier, in the first twelve months of their relationship, Avinash had stuffed into his pocket the diamond ring he’d had Manuel Usta make, rung Edith’s doorbell, and asked her to be his wife. Coincidentally, on that beautiful April day, Edith happened to be wearing a long, layered, white dress like a bridal gown, with skirts that swept the ground; she looked precisely as Avinash had imagined she would. On her head was a straw hat decorated with cherries the same colour as her lips. Those were the years when her spirits were light with the freedom afforded her by her new home, when her coal-black eyes were sweet with happiness. They were sitting in the garden of the house on Vasili Street, beside the ornamental pool. (Avinash had planned the scene exactly this way.) The cool spring day refreshed their skin; the almond and plum blossom that had fallen from the trees was like a pink and white rug beneath their feet. It was as if everything had come together on this happy day, ready for a diamond ring to seal their love.
But, unluckily, just as he was concluding the speech that he had written and rewritten over the course of many weeks, had pondered on, had practised time after time as he walked along the quay, had corrected and revised, a mischievous breeze gathered strength and blew Avinash’s hat off his head, exactly as it had done on the day he first came to Smyrna. Edith giggled like a little girl. That the most important moment of his life should be interrupted by the wind was enough to make him angry, but what really upset Avinash was that instead of being captivated by the magic of his words, Edith was amused by the tricks of the wind.
However, that little burst of laughter was quite innocent and unimportant compared to the sight that met him when he returned with his hat restored to his head. Sitting beside the stone pool, her feet covered with almond blossom, the young Edith was twirling the huge diamond ring rapidly in her white-gloved fingers. Then she put it into its box decorated with gold-embossed flowers and handed it back to him.
The young spy, who had run from success to success, had never known defeat in his life and did not recognize it. Thus it took a while for him to realize the significance of the box in Edith’s hand. It was a day when even the sea, sparkling like a porcelain pool, had seemed to be supporting his plans. It was the day before Easter, the whole city was got up like a bride. Tablecloths had been starched, balloons were hung in front of shops, multi-coloured lamps lit up the doors of taverns. Avinash had arranged an elegant, highly polished, victoria-style carriage in which to parade his fiancée up and down the quay after he’d given her the ring. Now, confronted with this unexpected hitch, he raised his eyebrows. Disbelief spread across his face.
Edith, on the other hand, was smiling, with a teasing sparkle in her black eyes. Avinash looked in vain for traces of shame or regret in her fine, delicate features, but all that he saw, thanks to the light shining through the holes in her straw hat, was a dance of dots on her pink and white face. He returned the box in his palm to his jacket pocket and managed to walk to the black iron garden gate. The carriage he had arranged was waiting at the corner of the street for the engaged young couple. Its handmade brass lanterns shone joyfully in the sun. Without even greeting the coachman, he sat down on the leather back seat, all alone, and departed.
Edith had refused him because he was from India. He was not French or British; he was nothing. The white woman had simply used the black man for a short while for her own pleasure. Most certainly she was saving herself
for someone else – one of those Levantine high-society snobs she danced with at the balls at the Sporting Club. What other explanation could there be for that self-confident smile he’d just seen on her face, that expression devoid of guilt?
All of the young spy’s doubts had come to the surface and salt had been poured upon the wounds opened by those doubts. Avinash was an insignificant, worthless, second- or even third-class human being. His being an Oxford graduate and working for the British did not change this fact. It was as it was. In her letters, his mother had for a long time now been saying that she had found him a wife-to-be. She kept writing that the wedding would take place on Avinash’s first visit to Bombay. In his replies, which were never lacking in words of love and respect, Avinash determinedly avoided the subject. He was sure that when he informed his mother that he had married Edith, the Bombay bride issue would be closed. She might be angry at first, but eventually she would be pleased at the idea of him having a ‘French bride’. At any rate, her son was not a traditional Indian; he was a modern man who had studied in Europe. His family would understand.
Now, though, everything had changed. Avinash had been defeated. In the back seat of the carriage going clickity-clack over the stones of the quay, he put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and took out the box decorated with embossed gold flowers. Manuel Usta had worked on the box as much as he had the ring, attaching miniature feet underneath it. How fine, how elegant it was. The workmanship, the beauty, the value. It was a symbol of his love. What could spoiled Edith understand of this? At the first opportunity he should go and put this ring on the finger of the girl his mother had chosen, then return with her to Smyrna. Edith and her snobbish Levantines could go to hell. He would have built a mansion fit for a Turkish pasha at Kordelio, with its own dock, its own boat, his children swimming like fish in their private sea bath.
