by Hilary Green
‘Ours?’ I query.
‘Yahweh, God, Allah. Essentially the same. Are you thirsty? Let’s go and have a drink under the Tree of Idleness.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s the name of the bar in the square.’
We sit in the shade of the huge tree which gives the bar its name and sip lemonade, looking across to where the arches of the ruined abbey frame a distant view of the sea. I lean back in my chair and sigh.
‘What a perfect name for this place! I could sit here all day. No wonder the monks forgot their vows! Peace and idleness. It makes all our working and fighting and rushing about seem pointless.’
‘Be careful,’ he warns, smiling. ‘You’re in danger of succumbing to the temptation of the lotus eaters.’
‘If only! Do you realize I’ve only got a few days of my holiday left? I hate the thought of going back to work.’
‘I thought you enjoyed your job.’
‘I did – I do. Oh, I suppose everyone regrets coming to the end of a holiday. But I have to admit this place does seem to have a special magic. I can understand why my father had to come back.’
Karim gets up and takes some money from his pocket to pay for the drinks. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the house where Lawrence Durrell wrote Bitter Lemons.’
When we return to the square he says, ‘Now, how about lunch?’
‘Here? Under the Tree of Idleness?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I’ve got a better idea. Jump in. It’s not far.’
We drive out of the village, past a cluster of new villas embowered in bougainvillaea and hibiscus.
‘Holiday homes,’ Karim says. ‘The tourist trade is an important part of the local economy, in spite of efforts to cut us off from civilization.’
A little further along the steep hillside he turns the car in through some gates and pulls up outside a large, white-painted house. I follow him up the steps, assuming that this is another of his favourite restaurants. We enter a spacious, cool hallway with white walls and a floor covered in tiles of an intricate design in exquisite shades of blue. On one wall hangs a beautiful rug in similar shades, but there is no other decoration. A woman in a black dress and a white headscarf appears and greets Karim in Turkish, then bows and smiles at me before retreating.
Karim says, ‘Welcome to my home.’
I gaze at him, stunned. ‘This is yours?’
‘My father’s. But I live here. This way.’
He leads me out into a courtyard enclosed on three sides by the house and on the fourth by a wall which rises to first-floor height and is pierced by a series of archways, each one supporting a profusion of jasmine and roses and framing a view of the coast and the distant mountains of Turkey. A table is set for lunch under the shade of an acacia tree.
‘Karim,’ I murmur, ‘this is beautiful!’
He nods. ‘Yes. I am fortunate.’
‘Are your parents here?’ I ask.
‘No, no. They live most of the time in London. My father’s main business is there. They come out from time to time, for a holiday or to check on the staff in Gazimagusa.’
‘What is your father’s business?’
‘He’s a merchant. He imports and exports, mainly from the Turkish mainland.’
The woman, who seems to be a housekeeper, returns with wine and mineral water. Embarrassed, I say, ‘You don’t have to give me wine, you know. I’m quite happy with water.’
He shakes his head. ‘There’s no reason to deprive you, just because I have this odd little habit. Please, let me pour you some.’
As he fills my glass I ask, ‘Have you always lived here? I thought you said you grew up in Famagusta – Gazi … what do you call it?’
‘Gazimagusa. Yes, so I did. We only moved here after –’
‘After the invasion?’
He gives a slight, ironic grimace. ‘After the peace operation.’
‘What made your parents move to London?’
His face darkens. ‘Things were very difficult in Gazimagusa prior to the division of the country, especially where we lived. There was a lot of hostility, a lot of trouble. We – the Turkish Cypriots – were confined to the Old City. People were being massacred in the surrounding villages, and we were virtually under siege. My father already had an office in London. He managed to get us on a flight. He won’t come back here to live. Too many bad memories.’
‘So why this house?’
‘When things settled down, after the fighting was over, there was a lot of property left vacant by the Greek Cypriots. My father had the opportunity to … acquire some land. To begin with it was just olive groves, some citrus orchards. Then he saw that the tourists were beginning to come back. There was a shortage of accommodation. He built villas, like those we saw on the way here. It was a shrewd move, from a financial point of view.’
I look around me. ‘Your father is obviously a very successful man.’
‘Fortunately for me,’ Karim agrees. ‘Otherwise I could never have been educated in England. The government here cannot afford to pay for students to study abroad.’
The woman reappears with a selection of mezes. Karim encourages me to try various dishes, but I can’t help noticing that his face, as so often, is shadowed as if some unwelcome memory has been reawakened.
I say, ‘You must have been too young to remember much about the fighting.’
His dark eyes flicker up to my face and then drop again. ‘Oh, I remember it all right.’
I hesitate, not wanting to pry, but I have a strong desire to share whatever it is that troubles him. I say quietly, ‘What happened, Karim? Tell me about it.’
For a moment he is silent, then he begins. ‘Before the fighting started we lived in the outlying suburb of Karakol. When the invasion came, the Greek National Guard arrived and surrounded us. An officer told my father, “If the Turkish army comes here, they will find only the dead.” That night some of our resistance fighters came to the house and told us we must leave, bringing only the barest necessities with us. My mother woke me and told me to get dressed. My sisters were crying, but my mother slapped them and told them they must be silent or we should all be killed. We crept out of the house and found the street was full of people. All our neighbours had been brought out of their houses in the same way. In that terrible silence we followed the fighters through the dark streets towards the walls of the Old City. I was very frightened, but I dared not speak or cry. When we reached the city a miracle happened. We were led into the mouth of a tunnel that had been dug under the walls. No one knew it was there, except the resistance people. When we reached the other end we were taken to one of the buildings which had been used by the old Venetians to store grain or stable horses. The city was under siege and that stable was home to us and dozens of others for three weeks. By the end there were only three days’ supply of food left in the Old City. More than twelve thousand of us were crammed inside the walls. Twice a day we got a bowl of watery soup and a little rice. I was hungry and afraid all the time. The National Guard were pounding the city with their heavy weapons. They had mortars and “tank buster” rifles. We dared not go out and the noise went on day and night. My father was trying to find a ship, or someone who would take us to the British air force base. We heard that the British were evacuating people and he offered to pay whatever was required to get us out, but no one would risk trying to break through the National Guard forces. We prayed daily that the Turkish army would come to our aid, or the United Nations, but it seemed no one heard or cared about what happened to us.’ He stops and shakes his head, without looking at me. ‘It’s not a subject for a day like this.’ Then he draws a deep breath and looks up, smiling that sudden, bewitching grin. ‘Eat your lunch. I thought you liked Turkish food.’
‘I do.’ I quickly turn my attention to my plate. ‘And this is delicious.’
For the rest of the meal we talk of other things – of music and films and my life in London. When we have finished he says, ‘Now, I am a
great believer in the tradition of a siesta. Come with me and I’ll show you where you can rest.’
He leads me into the house and to a white-walled room on the ground floor with long windows whose light curtains billow softly in the breeze from the sea. Seeing the big double bed, its sheets turned down ready, I experience a sudden lurch at the pit of my stomach. Am I about to be seduced? Normally the prospect would be delicious but today, as so often recently, I feel only a deep longing to lie down and sleep.
I need not have worried. Karim says only, ‘There is a bathroom through that door. If you would like to take a shower after your sleep please feel free to do so. There is no hurry. Sleep as long as you like.’
Before I can thank him the door closes behind him. I slip off my dress and lie down, revelling in the cool air on my skin and the crisp freshness of the sheets. As I drift towards unconsciousness it occurs to me that perhaps it was a mistake to drink wine at lunch after all. On the other hand, there is something seductive about this delicious drowsiness. I picture Karim, leaning towards me, tempting me with tasty morsels of food, smiling and attentive. Then I remember his face when he spoke of his early memories and, on the edge of sleep, I twist over in bed and murmur, ‘Poor boy, poor boy!’
When I wake the patch of sunlight from the window has moved across the floor to the opposite wall. There is a tap at the door. Expecting Karim, I pull the sheet across my body and call. ‘Come in.’
It is the housekeeper, carrying a tray.
‘Dr Mezeli asks if you would like some tea.’
I sit up. ‘Oh, lovely! That’s just what I need. Thank you.’
The woman puts the tray on the bedside table. ‘He asks also if you would like to go swimming later. If you have not brought your costume, he says there are some belonging to his sisters but—’ She pauses, looking at me with a glimmer of a smile behind her grave composure, ‘I think they would be too large for you.’
I smile back. ‘It’s very kind of Dr Mezeli, but there’s no need. I have my costume with me – just in case. Please tell him I should love to go swimming, and I’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
Karim is sitting under the acacia tree reading a book when I join him, freshly showered and wearing my bikini under my dress. He rises as I approach.
‘Did you sleep?’
‘Yes, I did. I don’t know what you put in that wine. I can’t usually sleep in the middle of the day.’
He smiles in return. ‘Well, I think it has done you good. You were looking tired.’
It strikes me that his story of a habitual siesta was fabricated for my benefit and also that my need of it had been anticipated.
‘You’re very thoughtful,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
I had been slightly disappointed by the beaches close to Kyrenia but Lara Beach, along the coast to the east, to which he drives me, is much more attractive. A shallow cove encloses a crescent of sand bisected by a smooth outcrop of rock on which children clamber and young men stretch themselves to sunbathe. The water is like green crystal, fringed with the creamy effervescence of waves. We spread our towels on a patch of dry sand, strip off our outer garments and run down to the water’s edge. His body is as I guessed it would be – lean, lithe and deeply tanned – and he swims with powerful strokes that soon carry him beyond the breakers. Normally I would have matched him stroke for stroke, but today I content myself with splashing around in the shallows. He comes back quite soon and we sit quietly in the edge of the waves.
‘Do you regret leaving England?’ I ask.
He clasps his arms round his knees. ‘Sometimes. I miss the things we’ve talked about: the music, the theatres, even the climate when it gets too hot here!’
‘But you never considered staying?’
‘Oh yes. I nearly did. I was offered a fellowship.’
‘Why didn’t you take it?’
‘Oh, various reasons. Mostly because I felt I was needed more here. I came here to take up a post with the Department of Antiquities and Museums.’
‘But now you work as a tour guide.’
He shrugs. ‘The department can’t afford to pay me to work full-time. The tour guiding fits in very well.’
‘So you wouldn’t want to come back?’
‘I …’ He hesitates. ‘I’m not sure. Much of the work I came here to do is in hand. There is not the same urgency. But I wanted to get away from London. Any ex-pat community can be a bit claustrophobic, you know, and as you said, living between the two cultures can be difficult at times.’ He looks at me. ‘Don’t sit too long in the sun. You’ll burn.’
I laugh, touched by his concern. ‘Do stop worrying about me! Anyway, the sun will be down any minute.’
It is true. I have slept away half the afternoon and now the sun is dipping towards the headland that closes the western end of the bay. We sit on until it has disappeared in a sudden upsurge of blood-red clouds and then drive back towards Kyrenia.
We eat dinner at a restaurant called the Harbour Bar and towards midnight find ourselves sitting at another café table, sipping thick black Turkish coffee. The café is right at the end of the quay, close under the castle wall, where few tourists penetrate. A little group of local men argue animatedly inside the bar but we have the outside tables to ourselves. The wind has dropped and the waters of the harbour lie still and black, reflecting the lights along the front like a mirror. The air has the texture of warm milk.
After a silence, Karim says, ‘Why aren’t you married, Cressida?’
The question takes me by surprise and for a moment I don’t know how to answer. Then I say, ‘The usual reasons, I suppose. Too busy building a career, not wanting to be tied down …’
‘You’ve never wanted marriage?’
‘No. Well, not until … I suppose lately I have thought about it more.’
‘There must have been boyfriends. Wasn’t there anyone special?’
‘No. Yes … Well, I thought he was, for a while. But it was all a mistake.’
‘Tell me about him?’
‘His name was – is – Paul. He’s good-looking, intelligent, fun. We had some good times together. He’s got a good job, too, in computers.’
‘Were you together long?’
‘Almost a year. I’d begun to think it was going to be permanent.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘It was when my mother got ill. I had to spend a lot of weekends down in Hampshire, looking after her and coping with her affairs. Paul hated that. He’s a party animal. He lives for the weekends.’
‘Didn’t he come down to Hampshire with you?’
‘To begin with he did. Then, when she had to go into hospital, he just couldn’t hack it. Hospitals frightened him. After that he stayed up in town. When I came back to the flat after my mother’s funeral I found a note from him. He said he needed to get away, to think things out. Actually, I found out a few days later he’d gone to Spain with a girl he met at a party while I was away.’
‘He left you, while you were at your mother’s funeral?’ Karim’s voice is heavy with incredulous disgust.
‘Yep.’
He is silent for a moment. Then he says, ‘The man is not only a bastard, he’s a fool! Forget him.’
‘I have,’ I say. Then more honestly, ‘I’m trying.’
‘Were you … living together?’ There is a hesitation in his voice.
‘Oh yes.’
After a moment he asks, ‘Was he the first?’
My first reaction is annoyance. What right has he to quiz me like this? Then something tells me that this is a time to be honest. ‘The first? No.’
He goes on as if compelled to ask, against his better judgement. ‘Have there been many others?’
I glance at him. Why is he asking? ‘Two or three – well, three.’ It was almost true, if you didn’t count the boy who, out of pity, relieved me of my virginity on a Sixth Form field trip, or the Finn at that party whose name I was too drunk to remember.
He doesn’t look a
t me. In the silence I study his profile, trying to work out what is behind his questions. I have never met anyone quite like him before. In the end I decide to turn the tables.
‘Why aren’t you married, Karim?’
He withdraws his gaze from the dark water and meets my eyes. ‘Not for the reason you’re thinking of.’
‘Why then?’
‘You have to understand,’ he says slowly, ‘marriage is not a simple thing in my society. You do not meet a girl at a party and live with her for a year and then decide to marry. In fact, it’s not easy to meet a good Muslim girl at all.’
‘So how do you find someone to marry?’
‘Usually an introduction is arranged. Not an arranged marriage, you understand. Neither party is obliged to proceed further. But parents agree to introduce children who they think may be compatible.’
‘So, what went wrong in your case?’
He gives a rueful, self-mocking grin. ‘Every time I go home my parents have found some suitable new girl for me to meet. I’m afraid I have offended most of their friends by failing to pursue the connection. That’s one reason why I don’t go back to England very often. It’s a curious fact that expatriates of my parents’ generation are far more conventional and rigid than our people who have stayed here.’
‘What about the girls themselves?’ I ask. ‘Were they offended?’
He laughs briefly. ‘Oh no, I think most of them felt they had had a lucky escape.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ I say and momentarily our eyes meet. I press on, ‘You must have met lots of girls at uni.’
‘Oh yes.’ There is something almost wistful in his tone. ‘No shortage of pretty girls. But none of them would have been … suitable.’
‘Because they weren’t Muslims? Is that so important to you?’
‘It’s important to my family. And I think it is important to the success of the marriage. An English girl, a non-Muslim, might find it difficult to accept our ideas, our way of life.’
