by Hilary Green
I have found Ferhan, the Turkish girl who is referred to in your father’s letters and who was obviously a close friend of the woman he fell in love with, whoever she was. Of course, she is middle-aged now and married. She and her husband keep a shop in the village of Karaman, not far from Kyrenia. I have not spoken to her, because I thought you would prefer to do this yourself. She would probably be more willing to talk to you than to someone like myself with no direct connection to the case.
Can you find the time to make another visit to Northern Cyprus? A few days should be sufficient. I know it’s a long journey for such a short time but I’m sure you would find it worthwhile.
If you can’t get away, or don’t think it is worth the effort, I could, of course, talk to Ferhan myself and see what I can find out and then pass it on to you, but I doubt very much whether that would prove to be a satisfactory solution. I do hope you will come. Quite apart from anything else, I should be very happy to see you again.
Yours,
Karim
My hands are shaking so much that it is hard to keep the words on the page in focus. He wants to see me again! He has gone to the trouble of searching out Ferhan in order to have an excuse to write to me. What other explanation could there be? ‘You did not leave me your address …’ Did he expect me to offer it and was his failure to ask simply an extreme example of his courtesy? Was what I interpreted as coldness simply self-restraint? ‘I do hope you will come …’ Of course I will go! I will see him again. The chance of meeting Ferhan will be a bonus but we shall both know it is only a pretext.
I force myself to stop and think. Of course I cannot go. I do not have the strength for the journey. It is true that, towards the end of each fortnight, when the effects of the chemotherapy begin to wear off, I have a few days when I feel a little stronger – but they do not last long enough to cover even a brief visit. Besides, do I really want Karim to see me like this? My hair is coming out in handfuls and the bones in my face stand out like a skeleton’s. What good could come of it for either of us? There is no question of a long-term relationship and I have no desire for a brief affair. I remember the Hickman tube dangling from my chest and shudder.
I cannot decide how to reply to Karim’s letter. Should I tell him the truth? At least that would put him right about the cause. But suppose he really does care, enough to jump on the next plane? I can’t cope with that. I could write and say that I cannot get the time off for another visit to Cyprus and ask him to speak to Ferhan for me, but of course he will know that there is the summer holiday coming up soon. He will conclude that I don’t want to see him again and I am just making excuses. But I owe him greater honesty than that. As each day passes I put off the task of writing.
A letter has come from the hospital giving me an appointment with the consultant. I enter the room with a sense of numb foreboding, to be greeted with an encouraging smile.
‘Sit down, my dear. How are you feeling?’
‘I – I’m not sure. Some days I feel better, some days worse.’
‘Well, I’m happy to be able to tell you that your latest tests look promising. It seems that you may be in remission, or at the very least that the disease has reverted to the chronic stage.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘So what happens now?’
‘We’ll give you a rest from the drugs for a few weeks and see how you get on.’
‘So it could all start up again?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid that this is likely to be only a temporary respite.’
‘How long?’
‘There’s no way of knowing. It could be weeks, it could last up to a year. Your best chance is still a bone marrow transplant. Have you had any success in tracing a relative?’
‘No. No, I’m afraid not.’
‘What about your father’s birth mother? Have you been able to trace her?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
I shift uncomfortably under the doctor’s gaze. The fact is that I have made no attempt in that direction. The whole enterprise seemed so complicated and so unlikely to succeed that I never mustered the energy to try.
‘That’s a pity. Well, we must just keep hoping that something will come up on the Anthony Nolan register. Meanwhile, you must rest and gather your strength. And remember, you are still at great risk of infection. You must be very, very careful.’
‘Can I get rid of this thing?’ I ask, indicating my chest.
The doctor smiles. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get one of the nurses to remove it.’
When I get back to the flat the first thing I see is Karim’s letter lying on my desk. The sight sends a sudden sharp, physical thrill go through my body. I will go to Cyprus after all! I know it’s mad, that I am taking a risk that is unjustifiable by all normal standards, but it doesn’t matter. The remission may only last a few weeks. This longing has been gnawing away at me ever since the letter arrived. While I have the chance to satisfy it, I will grab it. After all, I am not infectious. There is no risk to anyone else. Of course, no travel insurance will cover me, but I have money. The sale of my mother’s house has left me with a useful nest egg and I am still getting sick pay. I can pay my own expenses. I will see Karim again – and he will see me …
I sit at my dressing table. I am thinner than ever. The mirror shows me hollow cheeks and skin of a lifeless pallor. But make-up will help and at last I am as slim as a catwalk model. I never thought I would achieve size zero! I might invest in a new dress, something expensive and fashionable. After all, I might as well spend what I have. There is no point in saving. I comb what is left of my hair. The scalp shows pink. The hospital has given me a wig, which looks almost like my own hair, but I hate wearing it because it makes my head uncomfortably hot. Imagine that in Cyprus in mid-summer! I could wear a hat, of course. Karim was always on at me to wear a hat. But even indoors, or at night?
I drop the comb and turn away from the mirror. What am I thinking of? Even if I could disguise the way I look, what right have I to deceive him like that? He needs to see that the relationship has no future. I make my decision. I shall go to Cyprus. I shall see Karim once more but we will meet honestly, without any attempt at concealment. And it will be for the last time.
CHAPTER 16
The journey takes my last reserves of stamina. The flight, with its long, pointless wait on Turkish soil before taking off again for Cyprus, seems interminable, and when we land I almost faint in the stifling heat of the arrivals hall while queuing for immigration checks. I have not told my consultant, or anyone at the hospital, what I am doing, knowing that they would forbid it because of the risk of infection. It’s my life – I’ll take my chances. When I finally get through customs I see Karim waiting for me and my heart begins to pound. He comes towards me, his face, usually so guarded in its expression, alight with pleasure. Then I see it change as he gets close enough to see me properly.
‘Cressida! What is it? You’re ill! You shouldn’t have come.’
It is too much. The heat and the light and the noise overwhelm me and my legs give way. I feel myself caught in his arms and held tightly against him. For a moment I close my eyes. This is where I want to be, where I have wanted to be since we first met. His arms are strong and he smells of aftershave and sweat and that indefinable personal scent, which every individual has and which I would have recognized among a thousand others.
I manage to mumble, half coherently, ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t not.’
He holds me away and looks into my face. ‘What is it? No, don’t try to answer now. This isn’t the place to talk. Can you walk? My car is quite close. I could get a wheelchair …’
‘No! I can manage. Just hold on to me. I’ll be OK.’
I let myself be half carried out into the pitiless sunshine and helped into the passenger seat of the Mercedes.
‘Just relax. We can talk later. All that matters for now is to get you somewhere you can rest.’ He speaks calmly but I can hear the underlying anxiety
in his voice.
I close my eyes and feel the sweat beginning to evaporate in the cool rush of the air-conditioning. Karim drives without speaking and I drift into a half-doze in which I am dimly aware of the change in the engine note and the varying pull of g-forces as the car leaves the flat plain of the Mesaoria and begins the tortuous climb into the Kyrenia Mountains. The sun was low when I landed and when I open my eyes it is dark. As we crest the pass I see the lights of the town far below. At the bottom of the hill Karim turns, not towards Kyrenia as I expect, but in the direction of Bellapais.
‘Where are we going?’
He glances sideways. ‘I thought you had gone to sleep.’
‘No. Just dozing.’
‘All the decent hotels are fully booked. I thought you could stay with me. I hope that’s all right?’
I think of the house on the hill with its cool white rooms and its courtyard brilliant with bougainvillea and oleanders. ‘That would be perfect.’
When we arrive, the housekeeper in her dark dress and white headscarf comes forward to greet us. If she is surprised by my appearance she gives no sign of it. Karim gives instructions in Turkish and, as if in a dream, I find myself effortlessly transferred to the bedroom where I rested on my first visit. Karim has disappeared and the woman, with unobtrusive efficiency, helps me to undress and settles me between clean, white sheets. I sleep almost at once.
I wake to sunlight and the scent of thyme from the hillsides beyond the house drifting in through the open window. I lie still, waiting for the nausea, which is always worst first thing in the morning, to abate. I think back to my meeting with Karim the previous evening. We said so little. He caught me in his arms, but that was because otherwise I should have fallen. I remember how his face changed at the sight of me. Is he regretting the impulse that made him write to me? He disappeared as soon as we reached the house and left me to the housekeeper’s care. Perhaps he was repelled by my appearance. Probably he is more than ever convinced that I am suffering from AIDS and wants to keep as far away from me as possible. At least I can clear up that misunderstanding, for all the good that will do.
There is a tap on the door and the housekeeper comes in with breakfast on a tray. I drag myself out of bed and take a shower, then carry the tray out onto the little balcony outside the window. As I set it down I see that there is a note propped against the coffee-pot.
Dear Cressida,
I have to work this morning. I am booked to take a party of tourists to Salamis. I’m very sorry about this. I tried very hard to find someone to take my place, without success. Please don’t be angry with me for not being around to entertain you. I would have told you last night, but I thought it better to let you go straight to bed. I do hope you are feeling better this morning. Probably it will be a good thing for you to have a quiet day. Please use the house as if it were your own and ask Kezia for anything you need. There are books in my study if you need something to read. I shall be back about the middle of the afternoon and then we can talk. Look after yourself till then.
Karim
I fold the paper and pour myself a cup of coffee. I cannot decide whether I am disappointed or relieved. All through the flight I buoyed myself up with the thought that I would soon see Karim again. Now, faced with the reality, I realize that somewhere along the line I convinced myself, on the flimsiest evidence, that Karim was in love with me. I remind myself of the resolution I made before leaving England. If I was mistaken about his feelings, so much the better. I can finish the relationship without hurting him. Soon there must be a conversation that will resolve matters one way or the other and part of me is anxious for the moment to arrive. On the other hand, the prospect of a morning spent relaxing in the beautiful garden without the pressure to explain or the emotional turmoil that must follow is seductive.
I take my time over breakfast. Then I dress and make up with great care. He has seen me at my worst. I might as well make the best of myself now.
Karim returns, as promised, in the early afternoon. I am dozing in a long chair under the shade of an orange tree in the garden with a book in my lap and wake to see him coming down the steps from the terrace. The sight of his lean figure with its dancer’s movement sends a stab of pleasure and desire through me. He squats beside me and takes my hand.
‘You look better today. Did you sleep?’
‘Like a log. And I do feel better. Yesterday I was very tired.’
‘That was obvious. I feel bad about asking you to come. If I’d realized …’
‘No, I wanted to come. I need to … to make some kind of conclusion. What the Americans call “closure”, I suppose.’
Instead of drawing up a chair, he sits down on the grass close to me.
‘Cressida, tell me. What is wrong with you?’
I tell him, simply, without attempting to minimize the seriousness of the condition, and see his face tighten and grow pale beneath the tan.
‘It’s not all bad news,’ I add. ‘I’m in remission, thanks to the drugs. It could last quite a long time – up to a year the doctor said.’
‘A year? That’s good. But there must be something more permanent. There must be a cure …’
‘A bone marrow transplant from a compatible donor. But as you know I haven’t got any close relatives and the chance of a match from anyone else is very small.’
He kneels up and takes both my hands. ‘What can I say? Sorry is such a futile word! If only I’d known before …’
‘Did you think it was … something else? Something worse?’
‘Worse? What do you mean?’
‘Did you think it was AIDS?’
‘No! The thought never entered my head, I swear! Is that what you meant, on that last evening?’
I study his face. There is no hint of reserve now, only open distress and – yes, love. ‘Then why? Why were you so … aloof?’
He lets go of my hands and turns away. ‘I thought it would be better if we didn’t see each other again. Better for both of us.’
‘But why?’
He makes a gesture with his shoulders and arms that encompasses not only the two of us but the island and its people. ‘We come from such different worlds. I couldn’t imagine you giving up your life in London to settle out here and I couldn’t see any future for myself in England. Besides, I knew my parents would never accept you as a daughter-in-law. I told you, they are very traditional. If we … if we wanted to make a life together I could only see that one or the other, or both, of us would have to make great sacrifices. I didn’t think it would work – but …’
‘But?’
‘Once you had gone I began to realize what I had lost, what I had thrown away. And now …’
‘Now it’s too late. I suppose it was always too late. Probably it’s better this way.’
He shakes his head. ‘I won’t believe that.’
‘You must,’ I say. ‘You were right all along, Karim. There is no future for us.’
He puts his arms round me and kisses me very gently on the lips. My body responds tumultuously but the very strength of my desire exhausts me. How bitterly ironic it is that now that what I longed for is within reach I am unable to grasp it.
He strokes my face. ‘Never mind the future. We must squeeze every last drop of happiness out of the present. At least now we understand each other.’
I nod and swallow. ‘Yes, at least we have that.’ It is tempting to lie in his arms and forget my good resolutions. I draw a long breath and extricate myself from his embrace. ‘Have you spoken to Ferhan?’
‘Yes. She is ready to talk to you tomorrow, if you feel up to it.’
‘Good.’
He takes my hand again. ‘Are you sure this isn’t going to be too much for you?’
‘No, it’s OK. After all, it’s what I came for.’
‘Is it?’
I look into his face. ‘No, not really. That was just the excuse.’ There is a moment’s silence and he touches my cheek with the tips of his fin
gers. I turn away. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not up to – anything physical.’
He sits back. ‘Of course. I understand. Don’t worry about it.’
The village of Karaman is perched halfway up the steep slope of the mountains above Kyrenia, its houses clinging to the hillside in a series of terraces. Karim stops the car outside a small shop that appears to double as a bar, though the tables outside are empty at this time in the morning. He helps me out and leads me into a dim interior that smells of spices and grain and leather. After the sunlight outside it is a moment before I am able to make out the features of the woman who comes forward to greet us. As my vision clears I see a slender, erect figure with a strongly boned, dark face, a complexion lined and weathered by the sun and dark hair touched with grey at the temples. Karim speaks a few words in Turkish and then turns to me.
‘This is Ferhan Osman. Ferhan, this is Cressida Allenby.’
The woman extends her hand and I shake it.
‘Dr Mezeli tells me you are looking for information about your father.’ The voice is unexpectedly deep, the English only slightly accented. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you. I have often wondered what happened to him myself. But you look tired! Come through to the back room and sit down. Will you have something to drink? Coffee? Or apple tea, perhaps?’
I ask for coffee and sink into the chair Ferhan draws out for me. I feel her looking at me, but her dark eyes under the heavy lids give nothing away.
‘So! You are Stephen’s girl.’
‘You knew my father?’
‘Not well. Ariadne was my friend and she spoke of him often.’
‘Ariadne! That was her name? The girl my father fell in love with?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No. I didn’t know she existed until I came across some letters my father wrote to her and he never mentioned her name. What was she like?’
