The sounds are getting closer. Koki should leave before they reach her. ‘It is not our friends that are murderers, it is some other barbaric race,’ she says aloud and thinks of the Turkish Cypriot children her son had once played with by the well, and the man she had loved. They had not killed her son. So why could she now see her son’s blood on their hands? How could she hate them?
Agori! Agori! Agori! She cannot scream, or move, or cry. Her blood is frozen in her veins. The monster laid a rose on his body. A rose on his body! A rose on his body! He placed a rose on her son’s body and walked away. She rocks over the cross. She presses the crucifix into her chest until her skin rips.
‘The devil will take you. Black and darkened be your lives.’ Koki rocks like the sea, as though it is an external force that is making her do so. She cannot feel the pain in her chest, so she presses harder. The wood crumbles from the pressure. Why does she not just use the knife?
Koki hears a noise. She slides behind the door frame and peeks out. Just ahead Koki sees old man Vasos scampering from his villa and grabbing his wife and his most prized watermelon. He secures one beneath his right arm, although it has grown to such immense proportions that it keeps sliding even from the tight grip of his farmer’s hands and seizes the other, dear Old Maria, who is of equal diameter, round the waist. He is a man of a little world who still believes the earth is square and that a Greek coffee and a cigarette are the best remedies for everything. Until today Maria believed that heaven was reserved for people who fasted at Easter. She thought that the English spoke gibberish interspersed with Greek words. To her the world was this town.
At this moment Maria is spitting hysterically at the sky. ‘To hell!’ she calls to God on his throne. ‘Fall to hell! For that is where we’re going!’ She hugs her stomach and opens her mouth into an excruciating silent scream. Her face stretches to such proportions that the folds between the creases appear as white birds’ claws. Her husband grabs her by the arm this time and tugs her with fresh fervour. Weakened by her emotions, she relents slightly and shuffles alongside him, but as she sees the glow of the sky and approaches the little gate which would lead her out of her home, she changes her mind. Holding her black dress above her knees she runs back into the house. Koki watches, and after a moment Maria emerges. In this turmoil, she has succeeding in swooping up a sea bass which she had probably laid on the counter about a quarter of an hour earlier to prepare for lunch, and a Bible. ‘Jesus and Mary!’ she shrieks, as she stands there, clinging like a famished seagull to the book and fish, ‘bring down your hand and help us, do not let them take our house!’
‘Shut up, woman!’ gasps her husband, with a face as red as the heart of the fruit he holds beneath his arm. ‘We will be back before we even finish eating this watermelon!’
But this makes her sobs louder, and the old farmer struggles to sustain his pace. Maria stops again. Her mouth set into a line. These contours of hard work and antiquity and her sudden exhaustion make her appear, for a moment, as though she has grown from that earth-patch like one of the old lemon trees. Her ankles, just visible beneath the seam of her lace petticoat, are the colour and texture of two tree trunks, dusted with the dry terracotta soil. Her face still, her body rigid, her arms slightly raised with the two objects she has managed to seize in each hand. Her eyes turn to him, and with a look of desperation she pleads, ‘Get something, and get something else!’
‘We’ll be back soon,’ is his reply, but she wants to root herself there. She looks at her husband’s anxious feet and then at their pathetic possessions.
‘From all the land my grandfather had, from all the cattle we’ve grown and slain all I have to show for it is a watermelon, a fish and a Bible.’
Koki watches as the old man tugs harder at his wife and eventually they disappear behind the lemon grove.
Now Koki can hear something scrambling in the brambles, from the west, where the Loizou home tips over a hill. The little white house had always looked as though it would subside over the Kyrenia slopes and into the valley. Most of the time, what with the seven youngsters yelling in the fields and with their older sister, Yiola, singing unremittingly, the neighbours secretly hoped that it would.
Now only reticence imparts and echoes, like the desolate harmony of an unused church bell. Apart from two scuttling feet coming towards Koki the surrounding area is tranquil.
Koki quivers and rocks over the cross. A moment later, half crawling, half running, the eldest daughter Yiola appears. Her satin hair matted, her eyes red, her skirt ripped. Until today Yiola believed that God listened to music rather than prayers and musical notes drifted in the air like forlorn petals. She believed that she would be a seamstress who would marry a gardener who would have lots of children who would work in the fields.
Yiola stops when she reaches some bushes. Between gasping and sobbing she bends down and rubs her hands into the red soil on the ground. She repeats the motion about three or four times, and from a distance, if one had seen her from the back, it could have looked as though it were a normal day and that she was washing her widowed grandmother’s black laundry in the copper basin.
It is peculiar that during this manic scrubbing her whole writhing body suddenly comes to an abrupt halt. Then, kneeling peacefully in the prayer position, she opens her palms to her face and looks at them yearningly as though they are two midnight flowers. Koki stares curiously at that young girl’s face as she opens her mouth; it appears as though she is about to sing. ‘Devils!’ she says instead. ‘Devils!’ she repeats.
Her knees now buried in the soil, she proceeds to frantically smear it on her face. The problem is that her tears keep rinsing the soil away, which makes her claw the ground and her face with fury. ‘Make me ugly!’ she calls, and her mouth opens wide so that saliva trickles down her chin. Koki suddenly notices two men in green uniforms approaching Yiola. Koki finds the strength to move. Her breath quickens. She cannot stay, they will be here soon.
She tucks the crucifix into her dress so that it is flat against her stomach and stands. At just twenty-seven Koki is still young and her purple dress flows about her ankles and her unconventional red hair surges like fire around her. She is adamant to choose how she will die. But just as she is about to exit the house she remembers something and rushes back into her bedroom. She searches beneath her bed and retrieves a silver tin. A tin that has her savings and other sentimental things. She can hear the soldiers approaching, the crunch of their boots on the gravel. She stands up and runs out of the back of the house.
Moving briskly through the scattered shade of the lemon groves, Koki trips over a watermelon. A watermelon, cracked slightly in the middle, and a fish by its side. The dried thorns on the ground pierce the palms of her hands and her knees. She stands up, and wipes her hands on her dress. A lemon drops to the floor and there is a slight crunch when it meets with dead weeds. She freezes for the pause of a heartbeat. She looks down. Where’s the Bible, she wonders. She gets back down on her hands and knees and searches the surrounding area. A watermelon, a fish, but no Bible. Koki takes the watermelon in her arms and continues to run to Maria’s ovens that are tucked neatly at the back of the lemon groves.
The ovens stare at her open-mouthed. She lifts her dress and climbs into the one at the back. She puts the watermelon by her side and closes the door. The walls are still warm, like a sleeping body. She is engulfed in the soft, sweet smell of ashes and bread. It warms her like death when life is cold and for a moment the darkness seems eternal. She sleeps.
When Commander Serkan Demir enters Koki’s house with another soldier, it is empty. Serkan walks with his back as straight and unyielding as iron. He instructs the accompanying soldier to search the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom and beneath the bed. He must tap each floorboard with his foot, in case there is a basement and check the ceiling with the barrel of his rifle, for loose wood and hiding places, then he must search the perimeter of the house. ‘Being meticulous is important,’ says Serkan
with his chin held high, never looking at the soldier in the eyes. He wipes his finger over a shelf and looks at a photograph of a young boy.
This is the last house on the square, apart from the one at the bottom of the hill. That’s where he sent Berker. This town has now been conquered. He looks outside and marvels at what now belongs to the Turks. The morning sun is hovering on the promontory of the church and the shadows are long. The other soldier moves through the house and proceeds to check outside.
Serkan smiles again. He looks around at what is now theirs. Look at what they have! They own it. Every bit of land, every handful of soil, every house, every ornament, every single thing, big or small, is theirs. Feeling elated, he walks to the kitchen and puts his hand in the cupboard, retrieving a plate laden with thick slices of cured pork. He slams the plate on the kitchen table and stares at the pig’s flesh.
There is shouting outside. He lifts his head and looks out of the kitchen window. There is a man running. The soldier outside stands frozen, holding his rifle in trembling hands. Serkan kicks a chair out of the way, runs outside, takes aim and shoots the running man in the back. The man freezes and falls face down to the ground. Without lowering the rifle, Serkan turns it around and forces the butt into the soldier’s chest, bringing him to the ground. The soldier gasps for air and looks fearfully up at his commander. ‘Hesitate again and I’ll rip your heart out! Get out of my sight.’ The soldier heaves himself to his feet, bows his head and continues searching the perimeter of the house.
Serkan returns to the kitchen and resumes his inspection of the cupboard. There is a large finger of sesame bread and a tub of green olives. Serkan examines the olives; they are coated in coriander, garlic, lemon and olive oil. He holds the tub up to his nose. He takes a deep breath. It smells like home. He arranges the bread and olives on the table and pushes the cured pork out of the way.
Sitting down on the chair of the kitchen table, as though this is his house, he rips a chunk of bread and dips it into the olive oil. His feet are propped up on the chair beside him. He savours the taste of the olive oil on the soft bread. He throws an olive into his mouth, noticing the crunch of the dried coriander and that pungent sting of fresh garlic in the sides of his jaw. He takes the pip from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger and places it on the table.
The other soldier returns and shakes his head. ‘No one,’ he says.
Serkan grunts, ‘No one else, you mean.’ The soldier looks at his feet and does not wait to be offered a chair. The commander leans deeper into the chair, and the soldier turns and stands by the doorway with the rifle by his side.
Serkan looks around and sees a radio on the floor. He crouches down, looks at it closely, holds in the broken panel and tries to adjust the tuning. A Greek voice eventually can be heard. ‘Do not panic, we threw them into the sea.’ Serkan smiles. ‘Brainless idiots. I am already here.’ He then looks at the walls. The face of the Virgin Mary stares down at him from above. ‘Not even she can help you now.’
*
Walking away from the house and the little girl, Adem looks around at the shattered town. He remembers the place as it once was, buzzing full of life. He cannot stand to look at the empty homes. What’s he doing here? Has he made a mistake? Maybe he shouldn’t have come back. But he had to. He had to try.
He remembers his journey into Cyprus. Abundant in those black waves. In that dark sea. Deep as light. The ship rose and fell. Rose up as heavy as heat and fell as light as rain so that his mind and his stomach could not help but do the same. It was in this turmoil, where his soul was lost, when he was a fool enough, or human enough, to think that it was in fact the waves that were rising and falling.
Departing from the port of Tasucu, standing by the rail, a younger man had stood beside him; his head down, then up, then down again. His fingers pulling at the collar of his jacket. His foot tapping on the floor, not rhythmically, but manically.
Adem reached into his pocket and retrieved a packet of cigarettes. He pulled one out slightly and offered it to the younger man. ‘I don’t smoke, sir,’ said the younger man, but took one anyway and put it to his mouth. Adem struck a match. The man’s eyes flicked down to Adem’s badge.
‘You are my sergeant,’ the man said.
Adem nodded. ‘My commanding officer is Serkan Demir, barrack number seventy-six,’ he said.
The young man nodded. Adem noticed that the man was actually just a boy. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. His voice was just breaking. The boy threw the unfinished cigarette into the sea. A dark blue breeze touched their faces. The boy had sweat on his brow. The Turkish port drew further away and gradually turned black, and soon the lights from the rocking warships hovered in darkness like fireflies. Four hours across the water and they would reach Kyrenia.
On the deck, a little further down, other soldiers sat on wooden boxes and talked. In that immense darkness only the faint flicker of cigarette ends looked out to sea, like eyes. ‘The Greeks own pearls as many as sand grains and wine as much as the sea. They wear dresses of silk and diamond buckles on their shoes while the Turks wear goatskin robes,’ one of the Turks said to the others.
‘Their churches are lined with yellow gold that drips from the ceilings like wax and the priests wear red rubies in glistening chains round their necks, while our mosques are made of mud and stone,’ said another.
‘The Turks do not even have a mosque, they are forced to pray on their knees in the sun-starched fields and forced to eat the grapes that have already fallen from the vines.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the first, ‘and cutting onions does not even make them cry; for how decayed they have become.’
‘They cannot drink fresh mint tea as their mint is stolen by the Greeks to be dried in the sun for their salads.’
‘And when they kill a cow, the Turks are left with the carcass.’
‘And there is no nourishment for the Turkish children because the Greeks bathe in pools of milk and come out with skin as white as the moon,’ said the only man who hadn’t spoken yet. The other men laughed.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said one. ‘Where would they ever find that much milk, there’d need to be cows as many as stars!’ The other men held their stomachs and the laughter swept low over the sea like a hawk.
The boy and Adem shared a quick glance. Adem, leaning on the rails of the deck, looked at the silver light of the moon on the points of the waves. The young boy pulled at his collar again. Adem looked over at the men on the boxes. ‘People will believe anything,’ he whispered to the boy with a tone of discreet animosity coming up from the back of his throat. The young boy looked at him suddenly as though for the first time. ‘Have you ever been to Cyprus? Do you have any family there?’ Adem asked hurriedly and when the boy opened his mouth to speak, Adem intercepted him. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said definitely.
‘No to Enosis!’ One man stood and stamped his feet.
‘We will help our fellow Turks, our brothers, keep their land,’ shouted another. ‘They will not be discarded by the Greeks.’
‘Cyprus belongs to the Ottomans!’ called a younger man of about fifteen who was holding a rifle in his hand. ‘Long live taksim! Long live taksim!’ The men sang. ‘Taksim! Taksim! Taksim!’ Their voices drifted out to sea.
The boy looked at Adem again. Adem thought for a moment. An air of sadness came over him. ‘On the streets you can’t even tell a Greek from a Turk. They drink from the same wells, milk the same cows, raise the same children.’ His voice trailed off a little and he clenched his jaw. ‘My life could have been much different.’
The boy looked at him and scrunched his eyes against a strong gush of wind. He leant in with interest, but Adem shuffled his feet uncomfortably and looked out to sea.
It seemed as if a very long time had passed before either of them spoke again. Even before the tip of the sun appeared, the sky and the sea changed colour many times: from black, to purple, to navy, to red, to a pink that now streaked across the horizon.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s your name?’ Adem asked.
‘Engin,’ the young boy answered.
‘Vast, boundless, open sea,’ Adem said.
‘It was my mum’s choice; I’m afraid of the sea.’
In the distance planes seared through the sky, and then there was the muffled sound of bombs exploding. Engin’s face suddenly dropped and was consumed with fear. ‘They’re clearing the way for us,’ whispered Adem and noticed Engin’s shaking hands.
‘You will tell this story one day,’ he said to Engin. ‘You will tell it with your own tones, just as those men will tell it with theirs.’
‘If …’ the young boy said.
‘Only a story never told is true in entirety,’ Adem replied and the boy scrunched his brow.
‘My father owned the pawnbrokers,’ the boy said and looked at his fingers. ‘We exchanged memories for money. We sold things that people threw away to people that thought they needed it. The truth is nobody needs anything. That same thing would be back again a month, a week, a day later. A glass eye for a dollar. A broken watch for half. A diamond ring for fifteen. A shoe, a spleen, a teardrop. A china doll, a reel of thread, a crystal glass, a lamp, with and without the genie. A dream. A smile.’
Adem thought for a moment. ‘What the hell would anyone do with somebody else’s glass eye?’ They both laughed as the ship fell and some seawater splashed on the deck, bringing with it the smell of fish and salt.
‘My dad made me come here.’ The boy said and looked at the deck ashamedly. ‘I wanted to make him proud.’ Adem looked at the fear in the boy’s eyes.
‘I wouldn’t have chosen to come either,’ Adem said. His mind was full of memories. The boy looked intently at Adem, waiting for an explanation, but Adem remained silent.
A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible Page 2
