‘Your dad made you come too?’ Engin said, and Adem laughed again.
The ship rose and fell. A general passed every ten minutes. Two of the men on the boxes were asleep with their heads rocking over their chests. The other three laughed occasionally or raised their voices to tell an anecdote. One of them still smoked, but the seam of the sky was almost the same colour as the cigarette tip so that now they could see his fingers and the cuff of his sleeve. The deck was now scattered with other soldiers standing upright with hands in their pockets or else crossed over their chests. A few were deep in conversation. Behind them another sixty black ships rose and fell. ‘The air is different without the crickets,’ said the boy. ‘It’s thinner and so is time.’ He looked over at the stranger beside him with fear-stricken eyes.
Adem took a glance at the other warships that followed them. They were like a flock of seabirds travelling south.
‘We learnt in school that in Egypt they launch a ship with white sails full of flowers into the sea for the wind to take,’ said the boy, looking at his feet. ‘And here we load it with bombs.’
‘I guess all bombs start off as flowers,’ Adem said. ‘The blossoming of a hope of prosperity and safety and protection.’ He noticed the boy’s distress and realised how different he was from the others. Some knowledge or intuition of the bigger picture, of the bitter picture, lived and breathed within him. It gripped him with sadness and fear. Something which cannot be acquired or taught; not compassion or wisdom but a blank, black knowledge of something that can only be felt as a foreboding when the reasoning of others seems crazy.
‘We all have a devil,’ Adem said. In the distance the light of another port shivered over the sea. The boy remained silent. Then, nodding his head, the boy moved closer to Adem. ‘That’s where I used to live,’ Adem whispered. The boy leant forward slightly with interest. A white seagull swept low over their heads. The underside of its wings touched with gold light that flickered from the bottom of the world. Adem imagined the little boats in the port with nets falling over the deck and sun caps left on the benches by boys that would never return. He imagined the donkeys shuffling their feet by the carts, awaiting a journey to the mountains to collect olive oil or to the fields to collect wheat. And the smell of the bread fingers and the rosewater and the early morning incense. That musty smell of burning olive leaves rising from the church.
‘You are afraid to remember, aren’t you, sir?’ Engin said suddenly and Adem turned quickly and looked into the boy’s eyes.
Adem hesitated and took something from his jacket pocket, slipping it into Engin’s hand. The boy brought his fingers slightly forward and looked down. A photograph. A girl with unusual-looking hair and clear eyes stared back. ‘She is not Turkish, ‘Engin said.
‘No,’ Adem replied.
‘Your wife?’ Engin asked.
‘No.’
‘Someone you think about then?’
There was no reply. Adem took the picture back and slipped it into his breast pocket. He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped and moved closer to Engin and spoke in a whisper so that his voice and the sea merged together. ‘I had to leave,’ he said, and at this his eyes became larger and he moved even closer and grabbed hold of Engin’s arm. His grip was tight. His eyes staring fixedly at Engin. ‘They would have killed me,’ he said and looked into Engin’s face, searching for something, reassurance, perhaps, or the words he had longed to hear all these years – you did the right thing – yes, you did the right thing. Engin leant back slightly, and turned his head a little to the left, but his eyes were soft as he looked at Adem sideways with the face of someone who cannot bear to look directly at an open wound.
Adem continued, his breath quicker this time, his words sharper. ‘Many years ago I came to Cyprus and while I was here I fell in love with a Greek girl. Times were hard. The Greeks and Turks were at each other’s throats. The towns were already divided. People started sniffing around. They beat me and …’ Adem suddenly stopped there and a new wave of rage filled his heart. He then took a deeper breath and looked down. He let go of Engin’s arm, who immediately rubbed it. ‘She never really knew how bad it was and one day I just got up and left. What else could I do?’
The boy looked out as the ship drew nearer to the port and the sky began to turn blue. Adem noticed sweat beads on the boy’s forehead. ‘I’m here to find her,’ Adem said definitely. ‘I will not leave until I have found her.’ And his voice flew above the sea.
*
Further and further from the little girl, the memory of his journey into Cyprus fades away. Adem touches the photograph in his pocket. He walks towards the well where he had arranged to meet Engin. They had been separated at the commencement of the first attack and told to search different houses. Adem had promised to meet Engin at the well. As he approaches he sees the boy standing there pulling at his collar, eyes darting here and there.
Somewhere far from the Mediterranean coast a man sits in an armchair dressed in grey. The bedsit is completely still apart from the black and white flickering of the television. A cup of tea is cold on a cardboard box. A midsummer morning. A taxi rolls by on Queen Victoria Street, past the memorial. Its pillars cast shadows in the sunlight. A flock of seagulls sweeps across the Thames and dives left, towards Trafalgar Square, to pick up the first crumbs of the day. Laughter sounds faintly from the television and Big Ben chimes over the mighty chessboard of towers and forgotten kings.
Richard is half asleep still. His head tilts to the left, onto his shoulder. The lines on his face are deeper than they should be. The pathways of a long-ago journey etched onto his skin. His hair recedes slightly at each temple, making the shape of a grey bird flying in a young child’s drawing. And his eyes, if they were open, would be a clear grey sky buried somewhere in deep clouded lids. A train rumbles far below him, but he does not feel it this time. A large green-bottomed fly buzzes around the cup of tea and finally sits on the handle.
A phone rings somewhere on another floor and Richard opens his eyes a little and focuses on the television set. He suddenly remembers the sound of the crickets. In fact, although he wouldn’t admit it, he has never forgotten. Even after all these years he still wakes up each morning with a memory of Cyprus; with its sweet citrus smells and dusty fields and yellow-red flowers that lined the hills. It has been fourteen years since the international treaties of 1960 named the Republic of Cyprus and gave Cyprus its independence from Great Britain. It has been fourteen years since he had sat on that ship watching the Mediterranean Sea roll away. He remembers the lights of Kyrenia Port flickering in the distance like fireflies, and finally disappearing into the back of the world like the sun at dusk.
In this grey room, where he has lived ever since, he looks towards the wardrobe where his officer’s uniform still hangs, uncreased, with its badges on the left breast.
He nods off again and some time later the telephone rings, and Richard looks towards the cabinet in the far corner of the room where it is located. Richard looks at his watch, 12.30 p.m. It rings again, but he does not stand up. It continues to ring like the phones in homes whose occupants have gone out, to work, or for a meal, or to catch a film. The telephone stops and after a minute starts again and continues to ring like a phone in a home where the elderly occupant has died. Like William at Number 27.
‘Answer it, you old fool!’ a woman calls from a window above and a pigeon flies low and lands on his windowsill. The floorboards tremble slightly from the train deep below. His bedsit is unfortunately located over the Circle and District Lines, in between Blackfriars and Mansion House stations. He imagines those faceless travellers with their newspapers open like blankets or rolled into cones and filled with steaming chips.
Richard picks up his mug of tea, takes a sip, realises it is cold and places it back on the cardboard box. It is highly annoying when, about half an hour later, there is a knock at the door. The voice that follows is familiar and has a heavy accent.
‘Cam on
Ndinckey, mboy, I’ve got lunch, chips and fish!’
There is a pause and another knock. ‘Get that, how do you say? Mbonny? Mbony arse of yours off that stinking chair and cam and open the door. Food is getting cold.’
Richard heaves himself reluctantly out of the chair and opens the door. Paniko’s weighty features seem grave and his hefty shoulders slump over his chest. He holds a brown paper bag in one hand and a box of cigarettes in another.
‘You know I don’t like to be called that.’
‘OK, Rrriiichaarrrd,’ says Paniko, rolling his rs and extending his vowels in an attempt to sound English. His face falls again. ‘Why you no answer the bloody phone?’ He does not wait to be invited in. He speaks sombrely as he walks to the centre of the room. ‘The damn kids, five of them! I feel like a damn goat herder. My cousin Andro, the one in Luton, had heart attack last night. It’ll be me tomorrow, what with the café and the wife. He live, though. Poor fool!’
Paniko puts the paper bag on the cardboard box. The television is now showing Laurel and Hardy and he laughs as Hardy bites his hat. Then he touches the controls on the left of the television set and changes the channel.
‘Make yourself at home,’ Richard grunts, ‘take the only armchair as well.’
Paniko’s Greek manners do not pick up on the hint of sarcasm and he obliges, sitting down on the edge of the cushion. He rubs his head. ‘All morning, from six, I am at council for stupid alcohol licence, soon you need licence to piss in this bloody country!’ Paniko changes the channel again; he looks agitated now. ‘Something’s going on in Cyprus, I’m not sure …’
‘You just can’t forget about that measly little spot of a country, can you? It’s been twenty-four years since you left. You’re one of us now,’ Richard says, sounding quite convincing.
‘When you in Cyprus did you forget about London?’ Paniko flicks the channels again. Nothing.
The train rumbles and the floorboards and windows tremble slightly. ‘I forget about this place even when I’m here.’
‘Fourteen years and you no once visited my café. Fourteen years and all you done is sit on that ugly kolo of yours,’ Paniko indicates, pointing to his backside. ‘You no work. You no have children. You no visit me. You stuck in this hole like a ndamn mole since you came back. You stop your life completely. Why? God knows … maybe not even him.’ Paniko shrugs his shoulders and sticks out his bottom lip. He stands and flicks the channels again.
Richard does not answer. The phone rings twice. Richard walks across to the cabinet and picks up the receiver. The faint resonance of a female voice is heard. Richard nods sharply at Paniko, whose back jolts slightly. ‘Yes, Elli, don’t worry, he’s right here. Yes, I understand. Greek men, yes … well … a donkey might be more useful, yes, I understand, yes … yes … yes.’ Richard holds up the receiver and Paniko stands up. He cups the receiver with his hand and talks in an inaudible whisper. The female voice on the other end is louder and lyrical. Richard stands by the window now, lost in his thoughts, staring at the window frame.
‘At least you never married, you lucky sod!’ says Paniko, putting down the receiver. ‘I got an embroidered tablecloth as a dowry! An embroidered tablecloth? What the hell was I going to do with an embroidered tablecloth? And not forgetting the saucepan! I should have told them there and then that I’d rather eat from the floor!’
Richard does not reply. A cloud blocks the sun and darkness fills the room. Paniko drops his head and stares at the ground, but continues to talk in a lower tone as if he cannot bear the silence. ‘I have to sit to piss because she says I no can handle my penis. She just about lets me shit alone. I tell you I’m going to eat her when I get home. The woman can break a camel’s back!’
Richard reaches for the paper bag, takes out two newspaper parcels, places them onto the cardboard box and opens them neatly. The steam rises. ‘When you told me to set up a place for you I no think for one minute that you be in this hole all these years. I would not help if I knew, there two Cokes in as well,’ says Paniko, all in one breath with a full mouth.
And yet, Paniko finds comfort in visiting this unchanging room, a place where he can come and discuss Cyprus with his friend and the life they used to have there. Paniko normally drinks and talks, usually through Elli’s persistent attempts to get him home or to work, about the parties and festivals and glasses of ouzo of the past. He remembers the thick black hair of young Greek women and the thick black coffees in the café by the port. He never mentions the riots and the coup and the uncertainty, although they play on his mind. He does not even refer to the Turkish or the British or the Greeks. He simply talks about the big feasts they used to have and trips to the beach and excursions to the mountains. He remembers eating snails with toothpicks and all being together, Paniko’s whole family and Richard. How he loves to talk of Cyprus! And Richard always listens with his own pains and his own failed dreams. He has never been able to tell Paniko the truth about his life, the secrets that he has kept hidden all these years.
Paniko changes the channel again and stares intently at the TV. His eyes have widened and he leans forward. ‘Something is going on,’ he says suddenly and jumps to put the volume up. Paniko is standing now, listening anxiously. The voice of the news reporter resonates through the room. ‘Thousands of Turkish troops have invaded northern Cyprus after last-minute talks in the Greek capital, Athens, failed to reach a solution. Tension has been running high in the Mediterranean island since a military coup five days ago, in which President Archbishop Makarios, a Greek Cypriot, was deposed. The coup led to fears among the Turkish Cypriot community that the Greek-backed military rulers would ignore their rights and press for unification for Cyprus with Greece, or enosis. Archbishop Makarios became the republic’s first elected president in 1959 only after agreeing to give up plans for a union with Greece. A Turkish armada of thirty-three ships, including troop transporters and at least thirty tanks and small landing craft, has landed on the northern coast.’ Paniko slams a fist onto the top of the TV and brings his hands up to his face. ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,’ he says. ‘Oh God, Mary and God, Christ and Mary!’
Richard stands up, his face is pale, his hands shake. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says and moves closer to the television set. The news bulletin finishes and Richard flicks between BBC1 and ITV frantically. ‘They have to tell us more than that …’
Paniko raises his arms in the air and remembers his other family members, “My cousin Maria! Bambo and Litsa! Elena and the kids! Grandmother Zoe! Mario! Andro …’ And the list continues as Paniko shakes his head from side to side. ‘What if they hurt them?’ He looks up at Richard with a desperate look in his eyes. Richard is holding his head in his hands.
‘You English!’ cries Paniko, ‘always pretending you care. Well, you have drunk the wine and tasted the lemons. What do you have to be upset about? This is our home now. Ours! The Greeks! Not you English. Or the Turkish. You all came and mixed everything up!’ He moves his fingers around in a circle and then slumps his shoulders as though he suddenly feels ashamed of his words.
Richard does not reply. In his mind he has a flash of a woman standing by the river and shakes his head, dispelling a thought that would be too painful to remember, especially now.
‘Oh God! I must get to the café, my wife. She will go mad if she finds out before I get there; she will have a fit and die …’ Paniko’s broken English cannot be sustained, due to his emotions, and he starts rambling in Greek as he rushes out of the bedsit in a panic.
As Richard stands there by the open door he remembers the jasmine flowers, hanging like snowdrops in the white light of the summer sun, and he cannot stop himself this time, he remembers Marianna, with eyes and hair as dark as the night. He remembers her as though it was yesterday and all those years had never passed. And he remembers a little girl, red hair tumbling to her waist, passing by him, and a sense of fear fills his heart.
*
Koki wakes at the darkest hour. Her cheek is pressed aga
inst the base of the oven, covered in ash. A flash of light streaks through the crack of the oven door. The ground rumbles. Ash falls on her head. She sits up and pauses for the blink of an eye. When she pushes the door open the crickets’ song explodes like light. There is another flash. The sky blazes with red and yellows. Night turns to day and back again. The ground shakes beneath her feet. She climbs out of the oven, takes the watermelon from beside her and feels her way along the bodies of lemon trees.
As she reaches the clearing, the bombs stop for a few moments and darkness settles, soft and thick around her. Just for this brief interlude, the moon drops on the town. And for that moment all is touched with the silvery-white of childhood dreams. The tips of the leaves, the wooden wheels of the vegetable cart, the trays and baskets scattered about the gardens, the piles of onions, the strings of garlic, the washing lines that criss-cross the air like a web. Another flash and the sky turns red and all these things before her glow with the orange-white of a fire poker.
Koki reaches the bottom of the hill. All is dark apart from a candle that flickers in the doorway of Daphne’s cottage. She wonders if Daphne and her daughter Maroulla have left. She has to get past the house to get out of the town. Koki trembles as she nears; she places her feet carefully on each step, afraid that the crunching brambles may be heard, hoping and praying that it’s not a soldier in there. She approaches slowly, holding her breath, keeping her eye on the doorway for any movement. She stops behind a fig tree and winces as another burst of light fills the sky. She takes a breath, then she peeks round the tree and looks properly at the house. She realises that the orange glow is shrouding the body of a little girl. Koki looks around, then she remains completely still, listening for any movement from inside the house.
Eventually she creeps towards the door and crouches down, putting the watermelon on the floor. In that hush the girl’s chest rises and falls. Like the waves. Koki scans the room quickly. She notices the mother’s body and the blood seeping onto the little girl’s green dress.
A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible Page 3
