1 The Assassins' Village

by Faith Mortimer

  Alexis was older than she. Leaving the island during the troubles between the Turkish and Greek Cypriots in the sixties he’d gone to London. There, he set up a small business making pitta bread. There were enough Cypriot refugees in England to ensure him a good living, and within two years he’d made enough money to return home to his family on a regular basis, bringing with him funds to enlarge the family home and provide his ageing parents with more comfort and luxury than they’d ever dreamed of. Some Cypriots, having done nothing with their lives, looked on with more than a little envy, but Alexis cared little for what they thought. Who were they to judge him? He decided it was better making money, albeit abroad, than remaining in a village full of narrow minds and suffocating thoughts. Pah! What did they know? They could only dream of the riches he was accumulating back in London.

  During one of his visits home he noticed Yanoulla. Years ago he had always rather fancied her. Making tentative enquiries to ascertain if she was still single, which she of course was, he set to work on her immediately. Knowing he was long overdue for marriage Yanoulla would do him very nicely.

  Alexis was not a good-looking man at all; short, running to fat, and with teeth badly in need of dental treatment. At first Yanoulla had a job keeping his wandering hands from following the path of his rather squinty eyes. After she had almost slapped him for goosing her as she stood waiting to be served in the local shop, she stopped and considered her options.

  Here she was, no longer young and fresh and approaching thirty - but still a virgin. The object of her love ignored her, or even worse ridiculed her overtures. And of late, Yanoulla found village life stifling with everyone knowing each other’s business, sometimes even before they knew it themselves. It was hard to bear.

  Here was Alexis offering her an outlet, an escape. She didn’t remotely love him, or even care for him. It was hard to envisage kissing his mouth with his protruding misshaped teeth, let alone having his squat, heavy body bouncing up and down on her in the marital bed. She shuddered at the thought.

  But, he had money. Even more so, he was rich, and would take her away from this place and her long-term misery. She would live in London, in a fine house with three bedrooms and a complete indoor bathroom. There would be central heating throughout – that was unheard of in Cyprus despite the cold mountain winters. They’d visit the sights of the city and perhaps the rest of England. She had some friends in London – all Cypriots knew someone there - so she wouldn’t be lonely. And, best of all she would get away from the heartbreak of Kristiakis’ indifference. It would be an adventure, and she would be the envy of all those left behind when she returned to visit; as she would if only to parade her new fashionable clothes and no doubt jewellery. The only drawback was being wed to Alexis but she was sure she could lick him into shape. She must cast her despairing thoughts aside and think of all the wonderful things she would receive.

  So, shortly after that year’s Easter celebrations, they were married. Alexis’ family turned up to pin the obligatory money onto her white wedding dress, and the party turned into one long noisy affair as only Cypriot weddings can. It seemed there were hundreds of relatives, from aunts and uncles to second and even third cousins, of all ages, all talking and eating at once. The band played long into the night and most of the men-folk had got rollicking drunk. The whole party was a cacophony of raucous sound that made Yanoulla’s head ring. She hadn’t spent too long wondering why he wasn’t already married; perhaps it would have been better if she had.

  Now, sitting in her bedroom and remembering the good things that had happened to her during her marriage, she spread her hand and counted on her fingers. There were the births of her two precious daughters and Alexis’ death. Depressingly that was all.

  Alexis turned out to be not so jocular. He was short tempered and loved his own way in all things. Perhaps Yanoulla should have taken more time and considered his age. Older people being set in their ways and accustomed to doing what they want. Too often, Yanoulla found herself giving in to his tantrums for the sake of peace and quiet, her little girls looking on with fear and bewilderment at their parents’ behaviour. For the sake of her children, Yanoulla stuck it out as long as she could, putting up with Alexis’ quick changes of mood, and his occasional lashing with the back of his hand. Alexis was particularly obnoxious when he’d been out with his mates, drinking or after the dog racing in town. She learned that for all his outward witty and light-hearted appearance to friends and family as a modern man, privately he still held the old belief of man being the chief breadwinner, head of the family and therefore his word was paramount.

  The years passed, the girls grew, with Yanoulla still harbouring fleeting thoughts for Kristiakis. Quickly realising that Alexis wasn’t mellowing with age, Yanoulla now considered him a complete and utter pig. True, she had a comfortable modern house with all the desirable plumbing she could want. She was proud of her very first washing machine and electric vacuum cleaner. Alexis allowed her an adequate clothing allowance, and adored bringing her home tasteless ‘sexy’ nylon underwear he bought from a market stall in the East end of London. But, apart from that he was as mean as could be. There was very little in the way of extras and she had to account for every penny she spent on housekeeping. The few pieces of jewellery he bought her were pitiful; she wasn’t even sure that the small gemstones set in the silver were real. His personal toiletry habits were suspect and his teeth were now so rotten his breath was permanently foul. When he rolled towards her in their bed she closed her eyes and mouth and tried hard not to take in deep breaths. Their coupling – you couldn’t call it love making – was completely revolting to her. She hated the magazines he brought home and waved under her nose; a ringed podgy finger pointing out to her just what position she was to assume for him that night.

  Gritted her teeth and silently bearing it, she had one thought in her mind. If only she could be rid of him…

  Alexis was greedy and one day, Yanoulla saw just the chance she was looking for. The local fishmongers were selling oysters at half their usual price. Alexis adored them and she bought a dozen. She hid nine under some vegetables in the bottom of the fridge, and buried the remaining three in the garden for thirty-six hours. She then dug the three up, washed and chilled them, and carefully marking their shells with a tiny black feltip dot, added them to the other nine. Tonight they would make a fine supper.

  Alexis returned home, tired and irritable after working a long day in the factory’s office. His gluttonous eyes lit up at the sight of his half dozen oysters. He wolfed his down with a large pint of beer in no time at all, barely pausing to ask Yanoulla what type of day she’d had. Yanoulla ate her share of the oysters slowly; she’d only eaten two when Alexis had begun to eye hers speculatively.

  ‘Are you going to eat those or just sit and look at them?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not very hungry. You have them,’ she’d replied with a smile.

  She sat back and watched as he slurped and sucked the cold raw shellfish into that cavernous mouth. Finishing his beer, Alexis belched loudly and then demanded what else they were having that evening. After eating an enormous plateful of oven-baked lamb and roasted potatoes, he wiped his greasy mouth on a cloth and told her that he was going out with his mates.

  Yanoulla felt no qualms for what she’d done. Instead, in an almost dream-like state, she calmly cleared away the dishes, washed them well with hot soapy water and sat down to watch her favourite programme: Coronation Street. The girls were staying over with school friends for the evening so she didn’t have to worry about them. When Alexis returned, complaining of feeling unwell she knew she wouldn’t have long to wait.

  Within hours, Alexis had all the signs of food poisoning. He vomited copiously, followed by violent diarrhoea and abdominal pain. Alexis rolled around their bed in agony; Yanoulla tended to his needs for as long as she could before knowing she’d have to give in and call for assistance. Gasping for breath, and groaning with pain he pleaded with her
to call 999 for an ambulance. Dragging out the time, she reluctantly got dressed and then left the house to find a local phone box. Without missing a heartbeat, she lifted the receiver and made the call that would bring the peal of ambulance bells rushing into their street.

  The doctors did their best but the bacteria had infected the bloodstream. Alexis’ fever grew, accompanied by chills. His blood pressure dropped shockingly low due to the septic shock and his skin blistered with revolting lesions. Yanoulla played the devoted wife to the letter, staying by his bedside when allowed, and then alternating her time on the hard wooden chair in the outside corridor. She sipped at a cup of tea in the early hours, biding her time. The hands moved slowly around the clock face on the wall opposite where she sat.

  Finally, she had the call she had been waiting for. Yanoulla was shown into the sisters’ office on the medical ward and requested to take a seat. The young and pretty Staff Nurse looked grim and unhappy as she prepared to face Yanoulla. In a quiet but firm voice she informed her.

  ‘I am very sorry. We have done everything we could. Your husband has passed away…’

  The post mortem showed Alexis died from a bacterium present in the raw oysters that he’d eaten.

  Yanoulla said. ‘But I ate the same food and I haven’t suffered any side effects.’ She was told that although the bacterium was naturally present in the sea it didn’t alter the appearance, taste or smell of the oysters. Therefore, regrettably there was no way of knowing it was there. There was an added bonus, (Yanoulla thought). As Alexis had been over fond of alcohol, his liver was in poor shape, thereby predisposing him to the bacteria entering the bloodstream. There was nothing they could have done.

  Yanoulla walked away. A free woman once again and feeling completely void of guilt. In fact, never had she felt so ecstatic.

  ~~~

  When her two girls were grown up and working for their living, Yanoulla decided it was time for moving back to Cyprus. She’d had enough of the ghastly wet and cold English weather and longed for the sun-filled days of her native land. She was now completely independent. Alexis’ parents were both dead and buried, taking away any obligation to care for them. Her daughters were young women commanding their own lives. Having been brought up in London they were lively and strong-willed, which was just as Yanoulla wanted them to be. They were Londoners and happy to remain in England with their friends. They knew their mother would welcome them with open arms whenever they visited her in Cyprus. Yanoulla’s yearning for Aphrodite’s Isle became stronger and at the beginning of the new century she made all the arrangements necessary for her homecoming. With tear-stained faces, her daughters waved goodbye at Heathrow airport, and Yanoulla climbed aboard the Cyprus Airways flight to Larnaca. Soon, in just four and a half hours, she would be back to where she really called home.

  Agios Mamas had changed during the years she’d been away. She noticed there were more ruins, more empty houses and quite a few new faces. Some of these newcomers were Cypriots who’d reclaimed old family homes to use as weekend cottages, while the rest were mostly foreigners. There was now a mix of nationalities littered throughout the village, British, Scandinavians, and Dutch, American and even a Greek or two.

  Yanoulla’s family had sold their own house long ago to a Cypriot property developer, so she began making enquiries for a vacant one. She found just what she was looking for; a modest two-bedroom stone house positioned on the outskirts of the village. It possessed a minute courtyard boasting an old, but working bread oven. A shady balcony hung over the courtyard from what was to be her bedroom. Off to one side of the house, a small shady patch of land with a couple of almond trees and some straggly bushes would be perfect to grow flowers and a few vegetables. Yanoulla was delighted. Within a month after agreeing a price, she had once again taken up residence in the village of her birth.

  Alas. True happiness was not for Yanoulla. If she had felt like a foreigner in England then life back in the narrow enclave of Agios Mamas was in some ways little better. Yanoulla quickly found that when Cypriots moved far away to escape the rigours of strife, or simply to try and better themselves abroad, on returning home they are often viewed with suspicion, distrust and sometimes, pure jealousy. They after all did not stay and put up with the hardships. They escaped, made fortunes and came back flaunting their new wealth. Or this is how some Cypriots view the returnees.

  Although Yanoulla had only married Alexis, and hadn’t acquired any wealth of her own, the older villagers looked down their long hairy noses at this ‘Charlie’, this Anglo Cypriot and wouldn’t entirely accept her back into their midst.

  Despite her regular visits to church and living a quiet life, she stood out as being different. For one thing she didn’t dress in black, despite being a widow. The old women dressed like ravens, hissed and gossiped together as they sat on their stiff hard chairs in the late evening sunshine. But Yanoulla had lived too long away to be bothered with the ‘old ways’ and did a little flaunting of her own. She was relishing her newfound freedom and Alexis was no longer around to slap her down.

  Krisitakis found the new Yanoulla a bit of a puzzle, and her emancipation a little scary in his narrow world. He would have preferred to watch her from a distance, but for almost the first time in his life he was lonely for female company. All the young women were married and living in the towns. He owned no vast tracts of land or a profitable business bringing in loads of money. As he grew older, he lost some of the youthful appeal he once used to his advantage.

  But to her he was perfect. Yanoulla had noticed immediately that he was still lean and dark from hours spent working in the sun. Surreptitiously glancing at his face as she sat demurely in the back of the church, she was startled to realise his eyes were still the dark blue pools she had once wanted to drown in, his legs long and hard. She dreamed of wrapping her own legs around him as he held her down in his arms.

  Sitting there, Krisitakis felt her gaze upon him. He was no fool. He was single and lusty still. Here, was a woman with a body that had kept much of its youthful firmness. She was probably still available if he read her signals right.

  Within days they were lovers.

  ~~~

  Giving herself a little mental shake, Yanoulla returned from her daydreams back to the present. She thought that compared to the majority of her age group she had done something with her life, albeit it hadn’t been a very happy one. Most others from the village had never gone much further than Limassol, let alone left the island. Her days in England had at least opened her eyes on a new world and, despite her hatred for her late husband, she could thank him for that. Alexis! Dead and buried and not a word ever breathed that had led to the authorities to even suspect her role in his death. She refused to think of it as murder. He had been a complete bastard deserving exactly what he got.

  Returning home from England, Yanoulla joyfully discovered that Kristiakis was unattached, and she decided to have one final pitch for him. Knowing it might all be thrown back in her face, it was still worth one more try. Almost stealthily, she waited and watched him from a distance. She remembered only too well her humiliation during those awful summer festivals long ago. This time she would maintain her pride. A look here, a small smile and a walk with just a little more than a sinuous grace. Finally, one fine day she almost fainted with excitement when he made the first move.

  His teeth looked brilliantly white against the dark tan of his face; that morning he had shaved off the old-fashioned and heavy moustache that many Cypriot men favoured. Approaching Yanoulla, his smile had almost been that of a shyer, younger man.

  Yanoulla’s balcony doors needed adjusting; they dragged on the floor, making it difficult for her to close at night. Kristiakis, the handyman-builder was just the person for the job. A discussion took place over the price of materials and the time that would entail for the labour involved. There was some gentle haggling over the price – this was the East after all, and Kristiakis set to work. One small job led to another and
after a few days of consolidated effort they both stood back admiring his work. Standing in the cool dim interior of Yanoulla’s bedroom one thing had led to another on the white lace heirloom of a bedspread. Yanoulla neither expected nor received an offer of marriage. Besides, she reasoned one husband had been quite enough to live with, and as far as Kristiakis was concerned he liked his carefree life as a bachelor too much.

  Sadly, their idyllic little arrangement was shaken one day when Auntie decided enough was enough.

  ‘Yanoulla is undesirable as a long-term partner for my nephew.’ The old dragon of an auntie had begun her familiar bleating about babies and marriage, and the newly available nubile Marina.

  Yanoulla bit her lip thinking back to their last vitriolic argument. If only he’d been honest about it, instead of denying it all. When he’d finally admitted he was attracted to Marina and had in fact been seeing her, Yanoulla literally saw red. What was more galling despite finding him out was that he was going to continue to see her.

  They argued ferociously. ‘I am a free man!’ Kristiakis repeated.

  The final insult he flung at her was his parting shot. ‘You are too old for me. Our affair has only been a bit of fun to pass the time. We’ve both enjoyed each other for the sex, but things change. I have to move on. I have other plans to make.’

  Well! Yanoulla would see about that. Too old and other plans? Not if she had anything to do with it. If only he knew just what the new Yanoulla was capable of. She would show him and that sloe-eyed little strumpet Marina. She’d get even. She was reminded of her favourite Macbeth quotation from Act 1 between Macbeth and his Lady.

  Macbeth had asked. ‘What if we fail?’