Aphrodite's Island

by Hilary Green

  ‘No, don’t bother to come out here,’ Os says. ‘I’ve got to come into Kyrenia to do some shopping sometime soon. I’ll drop them off at your hotel. Where are you staying? The Dome?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘That’s no problem. As soon as I have something to show you I’ll bring them in. If you’re not there, I’ll leave them at reception.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Now,’ Meg says. ‘How would you like a look round the house?’

  I follow her obediently through the various rooms. I have a disquieting sense of familiarity, as if some memory lurks just around every corner, but I cannot honestly say that I recognize anything.

  ‘Well, why should you, after all?’ Meg says consolingly. ‘The place has had two different owners since you were here. All the furniture and decoration must be totally different. It’s not surprising you don’t remember it.’

  I feel I have taken up enough of her time. ‘I thought I might take a stroll round the village, see if that rings any bells. Do you think there is anybody living here who might remember my parents?’

  Meg sighs and shakes her head. ‘Not any more, my dear. This was a Greek village. All the inhabitants are Turkish now.’

  ‘What happened to the Greeks?’

  ‘All gone south in the exchange of populations.’

  ‘You mean they were driven out when Turkey invaded?’

  ‘Well, some of them fled to escape the fighting and some went voluntarily soon after, when it became clear that the Turks were in control of the north. The rest were told to go.’

  ‘So they just had to leave everything, their houses, their land, just like that?’

  ‘Yes. But they weren’t the only ones. Thousands of Turkish Cypriots had to leave their villages in the south, to escape the National Guard and the EOKA terrorists. They were given the houses left empty by the Greeks. It’s true they probably got the best of the bargain, but there must have been a lot of tragedy and heartache on both sides. Anyway, I’m afraid that the only people who might remember your parents would be a few old ex-pats like us. Most of them would have been retired even then, so it’s unlikely that they’re still alive, but I could ask around for you.’

  ‘Would you? That’s very kind of you. I’d really like to meet anyone who knew them.’

  I say goodbye and thank them again and set off along the narrow lane into the village. I pass one or two shops where dark-scarved women chat over baskets of groceries, and wonder if it was shopping in one of them that caused my mother that pang of homesickness. Old men sip tiny cups of thick coffee outside the cafénion and click their worry beads. I feel their eyes following me as I pass and am suddenly aware of my shorts and bare legs, but whether the looks express disapproval or mere curiosity I cannot decide. I turn a corner alongside the wall of a house. From an open window above my head comes the sound of raised voices – a man and a woman shouting in Turkish. In the background a child is sobbing.

  Suddenly I feel dizzy. I have to stop and stretch my hand to the wall for support. The voices go on, in a language I do not understand, yet I seem to hear the words quite clearly.

  ‘You hit her! Laura, what were you thinking of?’

  ‘I gave her a smack, that’s all. She’s got to learn to do as she’s told.’

  ‘But there are other ways …’

  ‘She’s your daughter too, you know! Perhaps if you stayed at home …’

  ‘Stay at home? What have I got to stay at home for? A grizzling kid and a wife who’s always plastered.’

  ‘Do you blame me? Why should I sit around here, so you can go swanning off every day looking for your lady love? I was going to say your little bit on the side, but she’s much more than that, isn’t she? I’m the little bit on the side, the afterthought, the note in the margin!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! How many times do I have to say it? There isn’t anyone else. I’ve had enough! I’m going, and if I don’t come back you’ve always got the bottle for company!’

  ‘Go then! What do I care? … Now see what you’ve done? This is all your fault! If you hadn’t been a naughty girl Daddy wouldn’t have gone away. If he never comes back it’ll be because of you.’

  I open my eyes. A young man has come out of a door a short distance ahead of me. A woman stands in the doorway, holding a snivelling child in her arms. They all stare at me. I take in a deep breath and stand up straight. Then I force myself to walk on past them. They respond to my murmured ‘Good morning’ with wordless nods, and I can feel their eyes following me until a bend in the road takes me out of sight.

  When I get back to the hotel the man behind the reception desk hands me my key and says, ‘I have a message for you. Dr Mezeli was looking for you. He is on the terrace by the pool, if you would care to join him.’

  My first instinct is to make an excuse. I feel too raw and wounded to want company. But as I turn away he comes into the lobby and greets me with a smile.

  ‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I looked for you at breakfast but you were nowhere to be found.’

  ‘No, I … I went out to see the Wentworths. You know, the people who live in the house my parents owned.’

  ‘Of course. You have your own researches to pursue.’ He fixes me with that sharp, attentive gaze and I find I enjoy the feeling of having his undivided attention. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well … why do you ask?’

  ‘You look a little … strained. I hope you haven’t had bad news.’

  ‘No, no. It’s just … well, I’ve had rather an odd experience.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me about it? Let me buy you a drink. Have you had lunch?’

  It occurs to me that I have not eaten all day except for a rather dry roll I bought on the way to pick up the car.

  ‘No, not yet. Is it too late?’

  ‘Of course not. Shall we go outside?’

  He touches my elbow and a thrill of pleasure goes up my arm to the shoulder and then straight down to the pit of my stomach. He leads me out onto the terrace and calls a waiter over. They speak briefly in Turkish and then Karim says, ‘Do you like fish?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘And to drink?’

  I ask for a beer. He orders Coca-Cola.

  As we wait a small boy, four or five years old, comes running along the terrace, catches his foot in the leg of a chair and would have fallen flat on his face had not Mezeli leaned forward and caught hold of him. He sets the child upright and says, smiling, ‘Careful, little one! Just take it gently. All right?’

  The boy nods, round eyed, and Mezeli tousles his head and lets him go. In spite of myself I ask, ‘Do you have children of your own, Karim?’

  He turns to me as if the question has taken him by surprise, then the sudden smile flashes out. ‘No, how would I? I am not married.’

  I feel my heart bounce and come down with a thump. ‘I’m surprised. I thought you would be – married, I mean.’

  ‘Why? You aren’t – at least, I assume …’ He glances at my left hand.

  ‘No, but – Well, I suppose I thought that out here attitudes would be … very traditional. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ he agrees. ‘And you’re right. But perhaps that is exactly why I am not married.’

  When the drinks arrive he says, ‘So, what was this odd experience?’

  For a moment I am silenced by the contrary impulses of embarrassment and the urge to confide in someone. Then I say, ‘Karim, do you believe in reincarnation?’

  His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Reincarnation? I’m a Muslim, not a Hindu.’

  ‘No, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that – not as part of your religion.’

  ‘So why are we discussing theology?’

  ‘We’re not. It’s just that one or two of the things that have happened to me lately …’ I trail off and try again. ‘Ever since I’ve been on the island I’ve
had this weird feeling, a sort of déjà vu.’

  ‘But of course. You have been here before.’

  ‘But it’s not just that some places look familiar. OK. You’re going to think I’m bonkers but I’ll try to explain. Twice, when I’ve been listening to one of your talks I’ve sort of dozed off …’

  ‘I’m sorry. Am I that boring?’

  ‘No! No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. It’s more like going into a sort of trance and then I find I’m making up stories, except that I’m not making it up. It’s more like being told by someone else. Oh, this is hopeless! You’re going to think I’m schizoid, hearing voices …’

  He leans over and touches my hand. ‘I don’t think that. These stories, are they connected with what I was talking about at the time?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s like the people you were talking about speak …’ I stop myself but he is not shocked. He is nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘There is a condition known as hypnogogia. It occurs when people are somewhere between sleep and waking, and makes them highly suggestible. Sometimes people have hallucinations or hear voices. It’s the origin of a lot of ghost stories.’ He smiles at me. ‘I don’t think your experiences are evidence of reincarnation. I think they just mean that you have a very vivid imagination and you aren’t sleeping too well.’

  I think about this for a minute. It’s reassuring, but … ‘OK. But there have been other things, nothing to do with your talks.’ I tell him about the angel boy and the explosions.

  He smiles. ‘What sort of tree were you sitting under?’

  ‘What? A fig tree, I think. Why?’

  ‘That was your mistake, you see. There is an old island superstition that if you fall asleep under a fig tree you will always have bad dreams.’ He stops and leans over to touch my arm with his fingertips. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke. I can see it has upset you. Did you say you left the island in 1974?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I think this was not a dream but a memory.’

  ‘You mean I really was out there, while the bombs were dropping?’

  ‘The Turkish troops landed at Five Mile Beach. It’s a cove about five miles from here along the coast towards Lapta. The Greek Cypriot National Guard met them and almost drove them back. The fighting went on for several days and Turkish planes were bombing the National Guard positions. If you were in Lapta then you would have been quite close.’

  I gaze at him. ‘But surely I would never have forgotten an experience like that.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite possible,’ he replies. ‘After all, we know that people can suppress the memory of traumatic experiences.’

  My fish arrives, red snapper grilled, with chips and a side salad. I realize that I am ravenous. He watches me eat for a minute, then says, ‘Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?’

  I don’t hesitate. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you.’

  ‘Excellent! I’m delighted. About eight? I’ll take you to one of my favourite restaurants.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Good. Are you coming with us tomorrow? We are going to Gazimagusa.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You would call it Famagusta. You’ll want to see it because of Othello.’

  ‘Othello? Of course! I’d forgotten the play is supposed to take place in Cyprus.’

  ‘I’ll show you Othello’s tower.’

  ‘His tower? He didn’t really exist, did he?’

  His enigmatic smile returns. ‘Well, that’s a matter for conjecture. All that is known is that once, during the time when Venice ruled the island, there was a lieutenant-governor called Cristoforo Moro, which I suppose might be interpreted to mean he was a Moor. He mysteriously returned to Venice minus his wife. I suppose there may be some basis in that for the story of Othello, but no one knows for certain.’

  ‘Minus his wife. Do you think he murdered her, like he does in the play?’

  ‘Who knows? She might have died in childbirth, or of some infectious disease. Or gone off with another man, perhaps. Will you come – to Famagusta?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘Good! And then we’ll have dinner. Oh, by the way …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remember to wear a hat.’

  ‘For dinner?’

  ‘No, silly! When we go to Famagusta. I don’t want you passing out from the heat.’

  I laugh, pleased by his concern. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll remember.’

  In bed that evening the reference to Othello comes back to me; it is not Shakespeare’s play but Verdi’s opera that drifts into my mind. The strains of Desdemona’s heartbreaking ‘Willow Song’ run through my head as I settle down to sleep. Oh, salce … salce … salce…. This time, the dream, or whatever it is, does not take me by surprise.

  CHAPTER 11

  The coach journey to Famagusta is a jolly affair. All the people in the group are behaving like old friends and seem happy to include me, and I make an effort to join in. However, the city itself has a sobering effect on all of us, including Karim. Usually he is brimming over with enthusiasm and information, infecting everyone with his own fascination with the history of his island, but today he is much less forthcoming, as if there are things about this particular place that he prefers not to recall. I feel in sympathy with him. The ruined walls of the old city, with their potent reminder of defeat and decay, seem to be echoed in the bleak prospect to the south, where the empty shells of luxury hotels in the no man’s land between the two halves of the island look out onto golden beaches that were once alive with colour and movement but now lie deserted and silent.

  Back at the hotel I take a long shower, order a spritzer from the bar and lie down for half an hour, listening to Verdi on my headphones. When I get up to dress for dinner, I cannot make up my mind what to wear. The clothes I might have worn for a night out with friends in London seem too flamboyant, exposing too much naked flesh. I do not want to appear too formal but I have an instinct that Karim will expect me to have made an effort. In the end I opt for a new summer dress that I bought specially for the holiday and have not yet found an occasion to wear. The fabric is patterned in shades of blue and green, which I know flatters my colouring, and the cut is good. I have lost weight recently, and my breasts were never big, but the low, scooped neckline gives a hint of cleavage, while the smooth, flowing line emphasizes my newly slim hips. Then I can’t make up my mind how to do my hair. During the day I wear it wound into a thick plait; now I try putting it up, then take it down again. Finally I take my hot brush and work it into soft waves, so that it frames my face in a halo of pale gold. By the time I have finished my make-up and darkened my eyelashes with navy mascara I feel almost satisfied. But no amount of foundation or powder will obliterate the faint violet shadows under my eyes.

  Karim is waiting in the hotel foyer when I come down and I see from his eyes that I have not wasted my time. I sense that he enjoys the appreciative looks from the hotel staff as we go out to the car. The car, to my surprise, is a Mercedes convertible; admittedly not new, but still not the sort of vehicle I associate with a local tour guide. We drive up into the hills above Kyrenia, to a building which looks more like an English manor house than the typical Turkish restaurant I was expecting, and where the menu owes more to provincial France than the Middle East. I had been hoping for something a little more exotic and he senses my disappointment.

  ‘I’m sorry. Don’t you like this kind of food?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure it will be delicious,’ I say hastily. ‘I just thought perhaps you might introduce me to some of the real local cuisine.’

  He smiles. ‘Perhaps another evening, if I may. Not everyone is happy to try Turkish food, so I thought I would play safe for tonight. And the food here really is excellent.’

  And so it is. We eat crayfish, followed by a deliciously tender and piquant steak au poivre and Karim orders a bottle of smooth, full-bodied Turkish wine that surprises me by its quality. As he fill
s my glass, I notice that his contains only mineral water.

  ‘You don’t drink?’

  ‘Alcohol? No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Is that a matter of taste, or of principle?’

  ‘A matter of religion.’

  ‘Of course.’ I feel myself blush. ‘I should have thought. Muslims don’t drink, do they?’

  ‘Not officially. Though I know plenty who do.’

  ‘But not you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you a very devout Muslim?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I can’t remember the last time I was in the mosque. But I was brought up that way. My parents are believers. What about you? Are you a devout Christian?’

  I shake my head. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid. The only times I go into a church are for weddings and –’ For a moment, memory catches at my throat ‘– and funerals.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, smiling, ‘we have that much in common, anyway.’

  For a moment we are both silent. Then he says, ‘What did you think of Famagusta?’

  ‘It’s fascinating, but it makes me shiver. So many terrible things have happened there.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It has seen a great deal of suffering.’

  ‘You mentioned that siege, when the Turks took the city from the Venetians. I started reading Bitter Lemons on the plane out here and Durrell talks about Famagusta in the first chapter. Is it true they promised the Venetian governor safe conduct and then arrested him and tortured him to death in that horrible manner?’

  Immediately I could kick myself for my lack of tact. His expression has changed and when he speaks there is a harshness in his voice that I have not heard before. ‘Ah, of course! The savage and perfidious Turk! I should have known you would have read that story.’

  ‘Isn’t it true, then?’

  He meets my eyes. ‘Oh yes, it’s true – so far as I know. It was 1571, for heaven’s sake! Things like that happened in those days.’

  I struggle to make amends. ‘Karim, I’m not trying to criticize you, or your people. I didn’t mean it that way at all.’