Maroulla opens her eyes. Colourless and open as mirrors. ‘Is it time?’ she asks. Outside, the crickets’ pounding knocks like a clock. A never-ending reminder of the passing of time, even if there were no one to tell it. Koki leans over and touches Maroulla’s arm. She cannot bear to look again at Daphne. She holds Maroulla’s hand in between her palms.
‘We have to go,’ says Koki gently. ‘It’s not safe here,’ and Maroulla stares at Koki’s flamelike hair, rippling in the light like fire in a breeze. Maroulla shakes her head and removes her hand and rubs her eyes.
‘I’m not meant to,’ replies Maroulla, ‘we’re not supposed to talk to you.’
Koki leans forward and blows out the candle. A ribbon of smoke rises. ‘Not a good idea,’ she says, ‘it is not safe, sweetie, we have to be in darkness.’ Maroulla looks at Koki and creases her brow. She is confused; she shakes her head and looks over at her mother.
‘I didn’t want to go alone,’ Maroulla says.
Koki leans closer to her, ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to.’ She stands up, takes the watermelon and holds out her free hand. Maroulla looks at it. Her mother had always instructed her never to talk to the red-haired woman, or her Turkish son. Maroulla looks outside. There is a distant flash of light and the man in green has gone. Koki’s hand trembles and Maroulla looks intently at it. ‘Come on,’ Koki says gently, ‘it’s OK.’ Maroulla looks once more at her mother and finally takes Koki’s hand and stands up.
Maroulla brushes her dress with her hands. She looks around. She checks the pocket of her apron for the green book and the scissors. She crosses the veranda and takes her first step. Maroulla walks a little behind Koki; she will not hold her hand. She follows like a moth pursuing a flame, her tiny feet shuffling behind, sometimes forced into a run. Maroulla looks down as she walks, and stares only at her feet and the dried thorns. She does not want to look ahead. The sky is full of black smoke. She had never before noticed how big darkness could be, how it stretched out across the world like a dreamless sleep, further than the furthest she had ever known. Further than the café where the men sat, further even than the hilltop where Christaki rode his donkey, further even than the church they had visited once at the very point of the world. Further than the rose.
Maroulla looks up at the sky and, still running, when another flash fills the sky, she trips and grazes her knees on those dry thorns. Her knees and palms burn, but she does not cry. She will not cry. Koki stops and looks back; she sighs, walks towards the girl, stands above her for a moment and then kneels down, putting the watermelon on the floor. She helps her up and takes her hands into hers, she rubs them soothingly between her palms, she licks her fingers and pads them gently on her knees and dusts her dress. As Koki looks down, brushing the girl’s legs, Maroulla looks at Koki’s forehead and eyelids fuzzy and unfamiliar, especially in the darkness. A breeze blows and Maroulla catches the smell of jasmine from Koki’s hair. It reminds her of her mother, and Maroulla nestles her face into Koki’s hair. She reaches up and holds the ringlets and just then a stream of tears flows. Koki puts her arms round Maroulla and holds her close as Maroulla cries on her shoulder. After a while the girl stands straight and looks at the woman kneeling before her. Koki reaches up and, with her hand, brushes the hair away from Maroulla’s forehead. The sky flashes. ‘We have to go,’ she whispers. The little girl nods.
This time, as they walk, Maroulla holds onto the string of Koki’s purple dress. They follow the trail of thorns, through the fields of wheat and the fields of cotton, accompanied always by the sound of the crickets. Maroulla feels as though they are climbing higher and higher. They are going to the hilltop.
They are far out of the town now, on a road that does not even have a name. They follow the trail of thorns until they reach a tiny house on a hill, hidden behind some sycamore trees. They approach the house from its side. Maroulla notices that the haste in Koki’s walk has subsided, and now, for the first time, the little girl feels as if she is leading. Koki’s arm draws across Maroulla’s chest as she guides the girl so that she is tucked safely behind her. They make their way around the house to the front door. As they ascend the veranda steps, Koki peers inside the window, and Maroulla cannot help but mimic Koki’s movements, reminding her of the game of hide-and-seek she had played with the other children yesterday.
Koki opens the door. The house is dark inside, highlighted only by the moonlight flooding through the window. It is empty apart from a cat that scuttles away at the sound of the footsteps. There is a candle on the table with a box of matches beside it, but Koki knows they must not light it. She sighs deeply, puts the watermelon down and sits on a wooden chair. In the moonlight her eyes are a transparent blue, like the bottom of a flame. The little girl is standing by the doorway. She puts her hand into the pocket of her apron and feels the cover of the green book, then the handle of the scissors. She closes the door, walks into the house and sits on a wooden chair next to Koki. She puts her elbows on the table and rests her face in her hands.
Koki stands up and opens the cupboard. Inside is a loaf of bread, olives and dried wheat. She finds a knife, slices the bread and puts it on the table next to Maroulla with some olives.
Koki takes a few bites of the bread, but it is hard to swallow. There is water in a jug on the table. She pours it into two glasses. Koki watches the girl pick at the inside of the bread and eat it, leaving the crust on the table. Then Maroulla drinks the water, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and resumes her original position, with her chin in her hands. Koki stares at Maroulla: at her pale cheeks, at her sad eyes, at the way she sits so still, slumped into that chair, like an abandoned doll.
They sit like this for a while, unmoving; and though they sit together, they are both far away, lost in their own thoughts. Soon Maroulla’s eyes begin to close and she leans on to the table, resting her head on her arm. Koki lifts Maroulla and carries her to a bed in the adjoining room. She puts her down and lies down beside her. Koki lies on her back and looks up into the darkness. Her son’s face flashes into her mind, she imagines him beside her, smiling. His voice fills the room, he is saying words that she cannot understand, words that merge with the crickets and Maroulla’s breathing and the distant waves, and soon she is asleep.
The girl dreams. There is a red rose on a hill and all around is black. A strong wind blows her dress. She tries to walk forward. The girl wakes up. The crickets pound the air. The night pulsates. Koki is sleeping by her side. Maroulla sits up, gently climbs over Koki and gets off the bed. The room is grey from moonlight; there are no shutters in this room, just a thin net curtain. Maroulla looks at the picture over the bed. A man with fairly long fingers sits on a chair, a woman stands behind him with her hand on his shoulder. Neither are smiling. On the bedside cabinet there is another picture, this time of a girl, she is standing next to a bus, looking at the camera. She is smiling as though she is going somewhere and her eyes are a little sad. Her hand rests on the door. Next to the photograph is a ceramic moneybox and a silver tin with a mixture of buttons and some pins. Maroulla remembers how her mother had kept buttons rolled up in a piece of cloth, always in the third drawer down, beneath her scarves. Maroulla looks down at the dress she is wearing and remembers the day the button had fallen off.
Searching with the tips of her white fingers, as though she were dipping them in water, her mother could not find a green button to replace the one that had fallen off, so she chose a black one instead and sewed it into the gap at the base of the spine. It was a bit smaller and smoother than the others. ‘No one will ever know,’ her mother had said as she pulled the needle through the buttonhole, into the air so that the black thread straightened into a line. The needle came down again and her mother licked her thumb to tie the knot. She cut the stray thread with the scissors and held the dress up.
Maroulla places her feet into her shoes next to the bed. She stands up and straightens her dress. With her fingers she feels the button at the back of the dress. She
walks out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and out onto the veranda. The night is thick and the leaves of the grape vine and the trees are soft around the edges as if seen in the reflection of a lake. She breathes in; the air is black and heavy. A short breeze tiptoes across the veranda and brings with it the sickly-sweet perfume of jasmine. Then all is still again.
There is no road leading down the hill. She walks through the field. At the end of the flat field there is a wheatfield. The wheat stands tall like a platoon of soldiers. The little girl hesitates and decides to walk round the field and then down to the silver road of thorns.
The thorns lead her past the well and over a little stream that passes white and cold over stones and rocks. The moon is low and looks like an opening in the darkness. It shines on the dead flowers, sprinkling them with silver, so that the dead leaves glimmer slightly in the darkness. Maroulla follows them and on the way she stops at a tree. Something drips onto her face and she looks up. The tree has a large trunk with broad shoulders and thick branches that jolt out like arms. And on each on of these branches, hanging delicately, is a horde of flowers. Red as blood even in the moonlight. They drip with dew from the heat. The girl stands beneath and holds out her arms. The droplets fall onto her face, like the rain on the mountains, she remembers. She feels cool now and a red breeze blows.
Maroulla looks up at the tree. Red shimmers all around. The crickets’ song beats in the air. There was a fig tree in their garden, like most orchards in Cyprus, but she had never seen these flowers on it before. This is definitely not what she is looking for, but she will take one back for the woman anyway. She jumps and tugs one off the branch. It leaks onto her hands like ink. She is surprised that it is warm and soft, like her body. She holds it in her arms and looks down at it. She struggles to see it in the darkness. Then, feeling it soak her hands and her dress and smelling something rotten and rank rising from it, she chucks it fearfully to the floor. The sky flashes and the ground rumbles. She suppresses a cry and spins around suddenly. Her heart beats fast and, terrified, she runs back past the cornfield and wheatfield, trying hard to remember the way she had come. She runs frantically until she gets back to the house.
Adem and Engin walk through the town. Adem touches the photograph in his pocket. He tries to picture her face now, after all these years. There would be lines round her eyes and mouth. They walk across the dark land. Engin shuffles behind, always uncertain, always anxious. ‘Now I know the pathways like the lines on my palm,’ Adem says, as they walk round the bends and over the bumps, following the road as he had done so many times before. ‘When I first came here the paths would appear to change; sometimes they looked deep, aged almost, and at other times they would be so smooth that I could hardly see them. I remember my first week in Cyprus, years ago, and those long walks, following yellow paths at dusk. One path would lead to the port, the other to Bella-pais or St Irakleon, another to the wheatfields or Pente Mile, another fell beneath the shadows of palm trees and large eucalyptus trees where birds flocked in hundreds. It was impossible, even after a month of living here, to remember where each one led.’ If only he had known then that those paths would one day remain etched on him, deeper even than laughter lines or scars.
They continue round the well, through the field, past the chicken shed, underneath the lemon groves and down along the silver path that curves into the centre of the town. The white stone of the church is iridescent in the moonlight. Outside, beneath the arches, is the wooden chair with an empty bread tray that one of the nuns would have left after the service. The doors are open, and from inside drifts the thickness of ash and the stillness of dead flames.
They continue silently along the path. They pass the fishmonger’s on the right. Adem looks in through the open shutters. Engin hangs behind; he bites his nails and looks around anxiously. The scales of the fish shimmer in the darkness. On the floor is the dark lump of a body. Adem closes the shutters.
They continue; the dried olives from the arched branches that were scattered in hundreds on the path crunch beneath their feet. Adem walks towards a small house. ‘The gate to Nikos’ house is still open,’ Adem says, touching the gate with his fingers, feeling the grain of old wood, the small splinters piercing his skin. He closes it and it screeches on its hinges. ‘I remember Nikos standing in his garden, with his grey overalls and those eyebrows that obscured his eyes, leaning on the gate, saying that he would fix it that weekend. That was twelve years ago now.’ There is a deep sadness in his voice.
Engin stumbles as he walks, trying desperately to keep as close to Adem as possible. The air is thick with the smell of flowers and rotting bodies. Vines lie over sleeping houses where orange courgettes hang like severed limbs. Adem remembers the women sitting in the speckled shade, sewing wedding dresses with silk. Silver needles and white cloth flashing in tiny pools of light.
He suddenly stumbles over a large mass on the ground. He looks down and sees Nikos’ face staring back at him. His eyes and mouth are open. His arms spread out like a dead bird. His stomach, bigger than before, drooping to the left. Adem looks up at Engin, who is hovering awkwardly above the body. Adem leans over and closes Nikos’ eyes. He touches his skin and notices the creases. He lights a match and looks at his white hair, that was black when he had last seen him, and the liver spots on his forehead, that were not there last time. He carries the match over his body. There is a hole in his chest. Open, like a flower. They have taken his heart.
Engin bends over and vomits to the right of the body. Adem puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ He says, and a gasp of tears escapes Engin, and then he swallows hard and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He nods. ‘We just have to keep going,’ Adem says, and Engin nods again.
In the distance the faint whistling of falling bombs can be heard, continuous like the song of the cricket. A few metres down a twisted fig tree bleeds onto the ground. A shimmer of red catches his eye. The arms hold the hearts that hang from silk. The tree bleeds as though it were the end of spring and the blossoms were falling. The thinner arms of the tree arch from the weight of the hearts, some bigger than others, and the tree looks, in that darkness, like an old man holding the weight of the world.
Adem notices something hard beneath his foot. He looks down into the darkness and scrunches his eyes. He bends down and feels it with his fingertips. The rough of leather, the slice of paper. A book. He lifts it up and lights another match. An orange glow illuminates a word inscribed in gold calligraphy. He recognises the ancient Greek script. Bible.
Standing by the tree of hearts, at the edge of the night, with his head bent down and a match flickering in his hand, Adem opens the book that is resting in his palm. The leather is red and the pages inside are translucent and as thin as a layer of skin. He looks up and wonders about the owner of this book. He sees them praying before their last breath. He sees their eyes staring at the hearts of their loved ones. He opens his jacket and tucks the book into his inside pocket.
Finally they reach the first place Adem was looking for. The shoemaker’s hut. The door is locked, so he looks in through the small window on the side. It is too dark to tell but he can smell the mustiness of leather and dried mud and that black aroma of the hot iron that always clung to the walls and his clothes. He can smell the residue of footsteps, of a thousand journeys, from here to the sea or from the sea to the mountains; in the cracks of leather he imagines a grain of sand, soil from the hills and on rare occasions even a thorn from a distant land. He stands on the step of the doorway, looks down at his boots and a sinking feeling overtakes him.
He lifts the metal hook, opens the window, climbs in and signals for Engin to follow. Adem walks like a blind man in a familiar room; his memory has not faltered. With his hands he searches the worktop for a candle. Finally, feeling old wax on the wood, he finds a match, strikes it on the stone of the wall and lights the wick. A halo of gold expands in the darkness. Dust swirls in the orange light. All around, shel
ves line the walls and on these shelves, touched by a veil of light, are thousands of shoes, one piled on top of another. As unmoving as the night. ‘No more journeys,’ Adem says and a breeze blows through the window.
Engin stands quietly looking up at the shelves of shoes and their elongated shadows. ‘What are we doing here?’ he whispers, but Adem does not answer. Instead he picks up a shoe and inspects the sole; it is worn and grey from friction. He feels the side of the heel. The glue is fraying. He turns it around and inspects the top; the tongue is bent and it has no laces. He puts this shoe down and picks up another. It is the shoe of a young boy this time; rounded at the front. The sole has unglued and the top is scratched a hundred times. Adem imagines the boy running through fields, chasing lizards. He can hear his mother calling. He puts the shoe down. In a pile on the floor is a pyramid of farmers’ boots with old mud and manure greying in the crevices.
He takes another shoe and walks round the counter and perches on a wooden stool. He turns the shoe over to look at the sole. ‘A working man,’ he says to Engin and lowers his eyes to the stool opposite. Engin sits down somewhat reluctantly, with a worried look in his eyes. He looks over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ Adem says, ‘we’d be able to hear anyone coming.’ Adem rubs his palm across the sole. ‘It is rough,’ he says, ‘you can tell a man’s life from the lines on his shoes and the creases on his face.’ Engin looks down at the shoe. Adem reaches to the left and picks up a brush, which he uses on the surface of the shoe; he works all the way round from toe to heel, covering the sides of the shoe as well. When he has done this he brings the shoe closer and inspects the scuffs and scratches. He picks up a thin brush, dips it into a tin and repairs a bit of leather that has lifted off. ‘The difference is that shoes can be fixed a bit, smoothed over,’ he says, looking up at Engin.
A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible Page 4
