A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible

by Christy Lefteri

  ‘Marianna?’ Paniko replies looking more confused. This was the most his friend had spoken about being in Cyprus since he had come to England.

  ‘Marianna Leonidas from your town.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Paniko nods. ‘Beautiful woman,’ he says with a big smile. ‘She lived next door to my grandmother.’

  ‘Well … I remember as she clapped from the edge of the circle. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.’

  ‘So, all the Greek men liked her.’

  ‘But I wasn’t a Greek man,’ Richard interrupts Paniko abruptly. ‘And yet I couldn’t stop myself, all night, I tried to catch flickers of her through the other people: her fingers on the wine glass, her shoulders, her eyes! Jesus Christ, she was beautiful.’

  Richard stops there and looks at his friend anxiously. Paniko rubs sweat off his brow and looks down. He sighs and nods, and then looks up at Richard, who starts to speak again.

  ‘You see, after that night your dear grandmother invited me to every party in the street. They all wanted to see me dance and your uncle even tried to teach me Greek. Marianna was always there. And perhaps I would have called myself an idiot and brushed it off had she not peeked at me through the glasses and bottles and people and smiled as though she had singled me out, as though she had seen me amongst all those things and paused just for me. And even on the quieter nights, I remember, whenever I used to come to your grandmother’s house and sit on the veranda, Marianna would stroll onto her own veranda and hang out washing or sweep the floor or pick grapes from the vine; whatever she was doing she would sneak looks at me and while I spoke to you or your grandfather I would catch an opportunity here and there to smile at her. There was something fiery in everything she did, from the way she brought out coffees, to the way she cleaned, to the way she hung out the washing. It was all done with a certain manner as though there was someplace else she ought to be.

  ‘One day your grandmother sent you and your grandfather to the co-op while I sat by the low wooden fence on the veranda eating watermelon and halloumi, which your grandmother had brought out for me before returning to her tasks indoors. Marianna strolled out barefoot and walked around her veranda. She did not say a word to me and leant over the fence at the far end and whistled as though I wasn’t even there. You see, this was the way with Marianna: I never really knew how she felt or what she was thinking. Then she meandered over, grabbed a chair and placed it against the fence where your garden met hers and where I was sitting. She had a way of crossing one leg over the other, placing her elbow on her knee and resting her chin in her hand. In this position, she swung her leg and looked across the field. But very gently and almost unnoticeably, her body inclined towards me, her shoulder slanting slightly in my direction. Young, unmarried girls were not meant to talk to men, especially Englishmen, so she remained quiet. We stayed there for a while and that whole time, all she did was stare ahead and sometimes up at the sky. While sitting there with her, time stretched out differently; it lacked that sense of restlessness. If I had not enjoyed the silence so much in her presence and felt a sense of relief that I cannot explain, just because she was there beside me, perhaps the rest of it wouldn’t have happened and my whole life would have been different.’

  Just then the door opens, bringing in the sounds and smells of Soho. Paniko looks anxiously at Richard and stands and puts on his apron.

  Serkan lights a candle in the church. The light sputters callously over the faces of icons. On the wall behind are a row of men with white beards in a golden aureole of light holding open red-rimmed books. On the adjoining walls saints look down from the backs of horses, in robes of blue and green and pink. The soldiers sit at the congregation as though at a Sunday service. Serkan stands on a platform at the altar. He stands as straight as a rifle. In the flickering light of the candle flame his face has the chiselled loom of carved stone. He stands like a statue. A memory of a hero. Half-remembered for his triumphs, as passers-by, in years to come, still salute him as they pass. Stones remain alive for ever. Unmoving even in the breeze. They have a silent voice of virtue. Splinters from heaven carrying messages to earth. Serkan fights a smile. The dome above is like the roof of a cave. Now the air is static. The rest of the soldiers face him. Serkan has a rock by his left foot that he has had his eye on for some time. At his feet there is also a soldier crouched down. His forehead is pressed upon the ground. His arms are flat by his face. His badge has been ripped out and is on the floor beside him.

  ‘Your thoughts should be consumed with victory.’ Serkan’s voice echoes through the church. ‘After the coup against President Makarios and the declaration of the notorious EOKA terrorist Nikos Sampson as provisional president of the new government, it is our job to re-establish security and order and to protect the Turkish Cypriots. It is our job to give our brothers a new life, a better life. One in which they do not live in fear. Fear of hunger. Fear of death. Fear of insignificance in their own homes. Our brothers will be free. They will not pray in the mud. They will keep their homes. They will keep their lives. It is up to us.’ He looks at the faces of the men in the crowd. He points at the man on the floor. ‘This man. This failure of a man could not protect his brothers and the future generations that rest in our hands. He could not kill a traitor. He could not throw a stone at the devil. He does not have the genes of an Ottoman!’ The crowd remain still, but unbeknown to Serkan a few have shut their eyes. Serkan hands his rifle to an officer who has been standing near him. He bends down and picks up the rock from the ground. There is a shooting pain in the base of his spine, but he will not flinch or move his arm up to his waist to support himself. Standing up straight, he holds the rock in his right hand. The soldier on the floor looks up; tears are in his eyes. ‘And so he cries,’ says Serkan in a softer voice, ‘like a child. You are not an Ottoman.’ He says, ‘We are made of stone.’ Serkan signals with his eyes for two of the officers to hold the soldier’s arms. He lifts the rock above his head and brings it down onto the soldier’s skull. Then he lifts the stone and brings it down again. Harder this time. The veins in his arms turn blue and he continues to bash the man’s head, as though he were combating sin. He imagines the casting of stones onto the devil’s landmark during the hajj. He pounds at the evil faster so that his rhythm matches the song of the cicadas.

  Now that he has finished Serkan flicks the blood from his hand and asks for a towel. He wipes his hands thoroughly, gives the towel back, removes a flask from his belt and takes a long swig. None of the soldiers can see that a drop of water is hanging from his chin. He wipes it with his sleeve and puts the flask back into his belt. Nobody moves. ‘Don’t go pulling any bullshit like that,’ he says.

  Then Serkan straightens his jacket and looks at the men he is addressing. ‘These hills will be burdened’ – Serkan stops and coughs into a fist – ‘I mean to say, laden, laden with domes and minarets, golden in the sun, just like they should have been. The children of Allah will toss emeralds into gutters instead of stones. Three hundred years ago the Ottomans wore robes of gold and rode on horses, now they walk with the goats.’

  ‘Now they are treated like the goats!’ calls a man from the crowd.

  Serkan ignores this and continues. ‘We ruled Greece for nearly four hundred years and Cyprus for three hundred. When the British took over in 1878 they described the Greek Cypriots as non-Muslims! Not as Greeks, or Christians, but as non-Muslims!

  ‘We will rebuild the domes and look upon them glittering in the sunlight; we will weave silk rugs for pavements and line the streets with marble. And from across the sea we will see the golden domes of Istanbul and our brothers living like kings within them.’ The soldiers clap and Serkan bends over the corpse on the floor. He takes off his jacket and unbuttons his cuff, rolling the white sleeves of his shirt, equally and carefully, to precisely above the elbows. He then straightens his arm and places his hand into the blood on the floor. He stands up and holds his bloody hand in the air like a rose. ‘They are trying to kill our ki
ngs with theirs!’ His voice bellows and pounds on the high shimmering dome of the church.

  Serkan walks over to the wall and smears the blood over the hand-painted icon. The crowd remains silent and the candle throws shadows over their eyes. ‘Let not Shaytan deceive you!’ His voice bellows through the church and he looks momentarily at the faces of the icons that look down at him. Serkan then dips his hands into a large silver basin. The clear water turns red. He asks for a towel. He wipes his hands and walks over the corpse and onto the carpeted aisle, wiping his feet. He walks towards the white light spilling in through the large oak doors of the church.

  Outside the church, on the hillside, Serkan stands up straight, with another shorter man beside him. With his hand shading his eyes, Serkan looks down proudly at Pente Mile Beach and then at the little sun-baked houses on the hillside. Most are empty now. Some people would have fled, others been killed and the remaining would be prisoners at Bella-pais. He stands beneath the shade of the church. The fields around him are speckled with yellow flowers. The soldiers have all exited the church and are resuming their designated tasks. The church is now empty and dark inside and is scattered with rifles and grenades.

  After a while a soldier drags in the first Turkish casualty and puts him on the floor, leaning against the stand of an icon, his leg bleeding through his trousers onto the ground. Serkan takes no notice. He looks down from the top of the hill at the tiny flakes of soldiers and prisoners moving lugubriously along unseen paths to Bella-pais. High above, the engines of British jets blast through the air. Somewhere, from the centre of one of the surrounding towns, a church bell tolls. The bells reverberate without reply like the song of a captive bird. Serkan clenches his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He purses his lips and juts out his jaw. His eyes narrow. The operation is moving too slowly. He decides to send out another group.

  ‘Berker,’ he calls, and Adem, who is unpacking medical supplies from a large wooden trunk, turns reluctantly to face him.

  ‘You are in charge! Gather another ten and head down the hill, there are probably some still clinging to the walls or hiding in the cracks – they are like cockroaches. I want you to do the centre of the town. I’ve already got some of those useless donkeys checking the hills. Take the women and children to Bella-pais. Kill the rest.’ Adem nods.

  Adem is about to walk away, but hesitates. ‘There was a soldier,’ he says, ‘surname Bulut, I have not seen him since last night – you sent him to Bella-pais and said he would return in the morning.’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ replies the man beside Serkan. ‘And address him properly in future, he is your commander … it’s not his job to count flies.’ Serkan narrows his eyes again and looks at the little man, irritated that he has spoken for him. Adem looks up at the church, shading his eyes from the sun. The little man follows his gaze.

  ‘This is the church of Saint Evlavios. Isn’t it beautiful?’ the peculiar man continues suddenly and unexpectedly, with a gleam in his eye. Serkan has had enough, he takes a step closer and raises the back of his hand to the little man’s face. Another flock of British jets soar through the air. Serkan looks up.

  ‘If only our father could see us now,’ the little man says.

  ‘Bloody hypocrite!’ says Serkan, and lowers his hand.

  In the mellifluous midday heat a lizard scuttles across the wall. Koki and Maroulla sit in the kitchen. Far below a church bell tolls unceremoniously. The crickets beat the air and the sunlight pounds around the edges of the door frame.

  The sound of footsteps becomes apparent. Koki looks up. The footsteps approach and Maroulla sees the movement of light in the glassy reflection of Koki’s eyes. The door has opened. ‘This is it,’ Koki whispers.

  In a pillar of sunshine stand two soldiers. Koki notices first their army boots, encrusted with mud. Then she looks up to where they stand, like pillars. They wear unbuttoned white shirts and green trousers. The little girl stands up. She does not curtsey this time or hold out her hand. The soldiers’ dark eyes emerge through the light and a rifle twinkles, suddenly silver. Koki stands up and raises her arms. She looks quickly at the watermelon on the floor. The soldiers point their rifles to the door, indicating for them to exit without a struggle. Koki walks in front, with Maroulla behind, and as she passes she bends down to take the watermelon.

  The soldier nearest to her pulls her hair with the same force as the sailors once pulled the full nets from sea on a good day. The skin around Koki’s eyes stretches. She succumbs and allows her body to be lifted upright and her scalp throbs with the beat of waves. She remembers how the waves pounded the hours, far far away at the bottom of the hill, and how the world moved to a different time. A slower time. A moment later the soldier is holding a gun to her head. ‘This is it,’ she whispers to Maroulla. The soldier takes no notice. He taps his finger on the trigger. Koki looks into the dark barrel of death, black until the end, and remembers her son’s face. She trembles and shuts her eyes and at that moment sees her dad’s face so many years ago and her own hand touching his and how the colour of their skin was so different especially in the clear November light on the morning he died. Would this be her last thought?

  A gunshot is heard and a bird flutters away outside. For a moment the crickets stop singing and the report echoes in the silence. Maroulla’s fingers touch Koki’s hand. Koki breathes out. The sunlight is red and hot on her eyelids. She dares to open them. The light is bright and envelopes her like the first light after sleep. As her eyes adjust slowly she sees that the white walls are stained with red. The watermelon has shattered into pieces. The red juice dripping on the walls. The soldier bends down; Koki notices the black flash and the crease of his boots as he crouches over the fruit. He picks up a piece, puts it into his mouth and closes his eyes, savouring the cool sweetness in that midday heat. He stands up and his trouser legs drop religiously over his boots. He picks up his rifle and signals again to the door.

  Koki and Maroulla are led down the hill. There is a hot breeze and the white cottonfield sways to and fro and the carcasses of dead butterflies flutter wild and white as though they were alive. The cicadas beat another minute. And another. And another. It is a long time, even in our life, that it takes to walk down that hill when you do not know what awaits. Ahead black smoke rises. The sun is strong and sits heavy on their shoulders. A pearl of sweat runs down Koki’s forehead.

  When they reach the bottom of the hill there is a soldier propped up on the trunk of an olive tree, basking in the cool shade. His rifle safely in his hands. About a metre away, standing upright in the sun, is Olympia, the schoolmistress, and Elenitsa, a young woman, holding her baby in one arm and a small bag in the other.

  The soldier nods at the ones approaching and pushes the new prisoners towards them using his rifle; he mumbles something in Turkish and walks away in the opposite direction.

  The two remaining soldiers stand upright and signal to the prisoners to keep walking. Now there is a silhouette of travellers walking along the dusty road. In front is Koki, with a purple dress that flaps about her ankles and hair that is like a flower in the sun-baked fields. Maroulla holds onto the string of Koki’s apron. Then Olympia, head down, shoulders jolting like a wingless angel. Behind is Elenitsa, holding her baby close to her chest. Then, on either side are two men with rifles so that the group walks across the land in the shape of a cross. Maroulla looks at the gold-coloured brambles on the floor. Her shoes crunch over tiny thorns.

  Ahead is a stray cat licking its paws and in the distance the frowning shadows of boats rest on white. They pass a field of blooming vegetables and trees. ‘My husband planted those,’ says Elenitsa, ‘look how red they have become … and the olives are ready for picking.’

  ‘My son Yiakovos killed his first snake beneath that fig tree over there,’ says Olympia, ‘with the help of a cat.’ She stops talking and nods at the ground, then looks at Koki. ‘Your boy doesn’t even have a name,’ she says to her. ‘He’s one of them.
’ Koki keeps her eyes on her feet. ‘He always stood at the edge of the port staring out at the domes of Turkey.’

  ‘He just wanted to be a fisherman,’ replies Koki.

  Unexpectedly an old song shimmers in the heat. They all look up and listen; a ghostly sound, not quite real, like the voice of the wind. ‘It’s the song of the dead,’ says Olympia. ‘An echo of the past.’ The song glides in and out of nets and sails and leaves and vines and hills and flames.

  ‘It’s the song of the dying,’ says the mother with the baby. They can all see the distant twinkle of a white sea and a glow of orange flames.

  ‘It’s the song of the ones still living,’ says Koki. ‘Maybe of the sailors calling us to port. Or of the wind calling us to sea …’

  ‘Or of God calling us to death,’ the mother interrupts, holding her baby tighter. They all continue through the town and the song blows past them softly with the breeze. The song gets louder as they draw nearer. It becomes apparent that it is sung with the weighty and grave tones of men’s voices. Slowly the words are audible:

  I shall always recognise you

  By the dreadful sword you hold,

  As the earth, with searching vision,

  You survey with spirit bold.

  The soldiers pause and hold their rifles tighter. The women look up as the words stroke their faces with the warmth of the sun.

  ‘Maybe they are coming to find us,’ says Elenitsa, ‘perhaps we have won. They are coming to us. I know it. They are coming!’

  The soldier on the left turns towards Elenitsa and bashes the back of her legs with the rifle. She stumbles, clutching onto her baby, but she manages to recover. Her face is now full of fear. The song continues to drift across the land, it flies overhead, fluttering with the wings of ancient stories.

  From the Greeks of old whose dying

  Brought to birth our spirit free,

  Now, with ancient valour rising,