Now Richard inhales deeply and drifts, like a balloon, around London, past Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s, and Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament, in every direction, he flows aimlessly with the rhythm of the traffic and the footsteps of the Londoners, following the steam of coffee from every corner, until dusk falls and everything is soaked in that silvery light and everything suddenly takes on that grey haze of unfamiliarity, like when you look at your face in the mirror for too long or stare too hard at the lines on the back of your hand.
He stops on the footpath of Westminster Bridge and looks at the smoky reflection of the Houses of Parliament in the water’s surface. As the sun sets the reflection turns to a shadow and the evening traffic mounts. From beneath, a boat’s horn, and from the road, a siren. People rush past him faster than the cars. He looks down into the river. A wind blows. Cool and crisp. Richard reaches into his pocket and takes out the recipe. ‘Egg-lemon soup,’ he reads again and shakes his head and laughs. He stuffs the piece of paper back into his pocket and heads home to pack. But first to the co-op!
It is late by the time he starts making the soup as he wanted to pack first. In his bedsit Richard boils the chicken on the hob, with the recipe on the counter by his side. He runs his finger down to the next instruction and nods, as though somewhere inside he is listening to Amalia’s voice. He takes three eggs and cracks them into a bowl. He squeezes two lemons and puts the juice into the eggs and whisks. Then he lights a cigarette and moves over to the window and looks down at the lights and people and cars until the chicken boils. The steam and the smoke roll out of the window.
When the chicken is done, he takes it out of the water and puts it on a plate. He then fills his palm with rice. ‘One palm full for each person,’ Amalia had said, ‘but always make double. It is the Greek way!’
‘What the heck!’ Richard says and pours two palms full of rice into the pan of chicken broth. He waits for the rice to soften and expand, and then, with a ladle, he scoops some of the chicken broth and pours it slowly into the egg-lemon mixture. ‘This part is the most important,’ Amalia had said. ‘You must introduce the hot water slowly to the eggs, otherwise they will be in shock and break.’ Richard fills up the ladle with a second helping of broth and pours it slowly into the mixture. He inspects it closely, holding it up to the light and smiles to himself. He looks down again at the recipe. He nods and pours the mixture into the rice and broth. He mixes it with a spoon and watches as the broth turns creamy-yellow. The kitchen fills with lemony steam. Richard inhales deeply. He adds salt and sprinkles it with pepper. He fills up a bowl with the soup, cuts some chicken into it, grabs a spoon and a piece of bread, and sits in the armchair. With his slippers on and a soft evening breeze flowing through the window and the television flickering gently, he finishes the bowl and falls asleep for the night with the taste of Cyprus in his mouth.
On the last page of the little green book is her mother’s blood. Not a rose. Not a rose that sparkles with sugary dew. Not a rose, whose stem is a hundred miles long. Not a rose. Not a prize. Nor immortality. Just her mother’s blood. Her mother’s blood spread upon the page. Nothing more. Nothing less. Maroulla flicks through the pages. White. She flicks again. Nothing. All white and bare like the snow on the Troodos Mountains. The girl sighs as the bright lights of the airport shine on the pages.
She closes the book and Koki leads her through a spinning door into a dark street full of people and cars. They are bombarded with cool air, like that of the winter, and enveloped by the smell of fumes, and sounds, almost as loud as the war. Koki looks up at the lights of a departing plane. ‘Can you believe we were just on one of those things?’ she says, and Maroulla looks up, bewildered. She does not answer.
A taxi pulls up in front of them. The driver looks at them expectantly. He has his elbow out of the window and his hand on his chin. His features are hard and heavy. ‘Taxi?’ he says, and Koki nods. They climb into the back of the car and Koki pulls the letter out of her bag and shows him the address. The driver nods and the car starts and edges through miles of traffic along wide roads. Koki notices a Bible on his dashboard at the front. Maroulla notices how the houses are joined together, ‘Like people ready to dance the kalamatiano,’ she says, and Koki laughs at this comment and then the two remain silent as the traffic clears and the car cruises through unfamiliar streets and beneath unfamiliar trees. The air sweeping in through the window is dry and smells of ash.
For the whole journey the driver picks on some fish and chips, half wrapped in a newspaper on his lap. The smell is nauseating and the tang of vinegar hangs in the air. After a while the streets become dense and the buildings grand, and the people scuttle here and there manically. It is strange; unlike Cyprus, there are no stars in the sky. They pass buildings with pillars and arches, churches with tall towers, parks and cafés, barbers and co-ops; some are already closed and others have metal shutters pulled halfway down over the door. Soon the car signals and stops at the first convenient place. The driver turns around and, with a disinterested air, stares at Koki. ‘That’ll be one pound,’ he says mechanically as Koki takes the money from her bag and inspects it in her palm. Having changed the money at the airport, Koki looks down at it, confused. The driver points to the one-pound note in her hand and Koki passes it to him. Then she reaches into her bag and retrieves the address. She looks at it, and then at the road sign, and then at the buildings. The driver points ahead at the block of flats they need to go to. Koki turns to face Maroulla, opens the door and they step out onto the pavement. They walk past a few shut market stalls; on one a woman packs away her boxes. But as they approach the last stall, a short man in a leather jacket calls out to them, ‘Watermelons! Watermelons! Juicy and red, like the heart of the Mediterranean! They are authentically Russian!’ The two look towards him, and there, on a stool brimming with lemons and apples and pears and strawberries and cherries and grapes, are a dozen green watermelons.
Koki takes Maroulla’s hand and they walk towards the entrance of Williamson Court and enter swiftly as an old lady exits. They stand in a concrete corridor that smells slightly of urine and has a closed umbrella propped up against one of the walls and muddy shoes against another. There are voices and the sound of a television or a radio emanates from above. Koki hesitates for a moment, swallows hard and looks down at Maroulla. ‘Number nine,’ she says to Maroulla, and they head up the staircase.
As they climb the steps, following the numbers, a familiar smell drifts down towards them. There, in the middle of London, within these grey walls, is that comforting and very distinct smell of egg-lemon soup. Koki cannot believe it. She cannot understand how on this cold evening, in this strange place, hugging her with warmth, is the scent of home. It becomes stronger as they reach the third floor; the smell of Cyprus seeping towards them, teasing them, luring them into its arms. Koki stops and waits outside the door. She looks down at her shoes, then at Maroulla and finally builds up the courage to knock on the door. They wait a couple of moments. There is a loud cough and then slow footsteps. The door opens.
There, standing before them, with a perplexed look on his face, is a middle-aged man with grey hair, holding a spoon in his hand. He looks from Koki to Maroulla and back up to Koki. Koki stands awkwardly in the doorway while the lines of his creased brow unfold, and suddenly his face lights up, he gasps and a stream of tears run down his face. He drops the spoon. Within the slits of his grey eyes unravels before Koki a picture from long ago; of a man beneath a tree, a world yet to be broken. His eyes are eyes that she knows; a glassy, grey reflection of her own.
Maroulla looks up at this strange man and watches as he raises his hand gently to Koki’s face and touches her red hair, with the tips of his fingers, as though he were touching a flame. The man slowly shakes his head, pauses for a moment and then embraces her. He holds her tightly and cries as Koki returns his embrace. ‘Kyriaki,’ he says. ‘My daughter.’
The little girl peeks into t
he bedsit and heads towards the smell of egg-lemon soup.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to all the people who opened their heart and told the story of the past; as painful as it was to remember. Reliving the memories of good and bad has been an emotional journey I will never forget. With special thanks to my uncle Chris for the journey we made to the North of Cyprus. Thanks to Katina Evangelou, Tasoulla Hadjipetrou, Elli and Christakis Blissi, Georgina Loizou, Eva and Agathi Spanou, Helen and John Christodoulides and many others for answering questions and sharing the details of your lives. A special thanks to my dear grandmother, Katina Evangelou, and my grandfather, Kyriacos Lefteri, for the hours they spent telling me stories.
I would also like to thank my good friend Claire Bord for making this happen and for always being there. Thank you also to Dr Rose Atfield for being an inspiration, a mentor and a friend from the very beginning. A big thanks to Celia Brayfield for your time and advice, and thanks to Brunel University’s Creative Writing Programme that has guided me along this path.
I am grateful to my lovely agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, for everything you have done and for making magic happen. Many thanks also to Vicki Satlow. A humungous thank you to Jon Riley at Quercus and especially my editor Charlotte Clerk for all your time and wisdom.
Thank you to my dad for his constant support and to my brothers, Kyri and Mario, for reading it and for endless and wonderful conversations.
Thank you to my husband, Michael. He touched this book with his imagination and his heart. He knows every word and every page inside out, back to front and mixed up in a Greek salad! Thank you for all your help.
Finally, to my mum, whose encouragement and unconditional support gave me the strength to write this book. Thank you for the stories at bedtime, for holding my hand, for opening doors, for being my friend. I miss you x
A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible Page 27
