by David Poyer
“That’s all. Take charge and dismiss the men, Sergeant.”
“Comp’ny. Ten-SHUT! Dismissed.”
As they crowded out Givens saw Cutford for the first time. The black corporal, just ahead of him, looked pensive. For a moment he was tempted to catch up with him, say something, but then he remembered the freezer; his terror at being locked up, abandoned. What do I have to say to him? he thought. Nothing. And him to me? He’d just tell me to shut up. He’d just call me Oreo.
Oreo.
He did not care, did not think, about faraway conflicts. His conflicts was here, every day.
He hungered for the touch of strings, and went below.
14
Nicosia, Cyprus
She struggled in the grip of the sea. Above her glimmered light, but so faint and far she knew she would never reach it. Not burdened as she was. But still she grasped Nan tighter, and with her free hand clawed upward.
The sea, crushing, invading … she tried to cry out. But it poured into her open mouth, choking her scream, strangling them both.…
Susan woke. Her free arm was tangled in the blanket someone had thrown over her in the night. A dream. But the pain was real; she was sore as she came up from sleep. The marble floor had impressed itself into her bones. Then she realized that it was not discomfort that had awakened her, nor the dream. It was a hand on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry, it’s not much,” muttered the young woman apologetically, holding out the tray as she bent over her. “We’re not equipped for so many people. There’re blankets, water, but not much in the way of supplies.”
“Thank you, this will be fine, Miss Freed,” she said, looking from cookies and toast to the official’s tired smile. She had probably been up all night, checking in refugees. Susan wasn’t hungry, but thinking of Nan she took a few of the wafers. “It was good of you to think of breakfast.”
“We’ll have something hot soon, tea or coffee. How’s your little girl?”
She glanced at her daughter. Nan lay curled into her mother’s coat, face shadowed against the morning light by a sleeve. “She’s still resting. She looks better, I think … maybe the fever will break today.”
“Do you think she’ll want to eat? We have a limited amount of cereal back in the staff kitchen. Bring her back when she wakes up and we’ll fix that and some powdered milk.”
“Thanks very much, we will,” said Susan. She looked after the woman as she picked her way between the blankets and luggage and the people who dozed or chatted in low voices, holding her tray awkwardly aloft. It had been nice of her. But what she really wanted was to go back to the hotel, poach herself under scalding water, then crawl onto a mattress for about twelve hours.
Unfortunately, Susan, that doesn’t seem to be possible just yet, she thought. But maybe tonight it will be. Maybe it was a mistake, minor rioting … perhaps the local police would have it straightened out.
She sat up carefully to avoid disturbing Nan. Rubbing her eyes, she saw that the refugee group had grown during the night. The stone floor was covered with blankets and clothing, leaving not a square inch more of space, and those who had come late sat against the walls, watching those who slept with thinly concealed envy.
“Coffee!” yelped someone, and she saw that near the counter one of the marines was easing down a pot. Steam rose from it as he broke open a roll of paper cups. Susan gave Nan a last glance—she was still, breathing in the shallow rhythm of sleep—and got up to join the line that formed. People stood silent, cups in their hands, waiting. An old lady smiled at her. “Good morning,” she said.
“Oh … good morning, Mrs. Stanweis.”
And “Good morning,” someone else said, and then, standing there, the smell of coffee getting stronger as the line shuffled forward, they began chatting. It made the whole morning different; all at once it was almost like Monday at the office, as if they bumped into one another in the American Embassy in Nicosia, Cyprus, every day.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Some. That floor’s pretty hard.”
“Are they still shooting?” asked a man.
“I heard some a little while ago … the marines won’t let us go out. They locked the gates.”
“Who is it? What have you heard?” Dr. Stanweis asked the guard, who was standing by the coffeemaker, arms behind his back.
“Uh, I’m not sure, sir. But things are pretty tense out there. There were crowds in the streets when I came in from watch, a little while ago.”
“Cookies and toast! You’d think they’d have more than that in an embassy … don’t you have any cream to go with this, Sergeant?”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
Susan half-listened to the chatter, saying little. Some of the people, she saw, were frightened; others cool. Mrs. Stanweis approached her as she stepped away, balancing two cups, one of them, Nan’s, syrupy with sugar. She supposed the caffeine would be all right, considering the circumstances.
“Mrs. Lendman, how nice you look this morning. I don’t see how you do it. How are you? How is your little girl?”
The old woman was bright-faced despite the hour, despite the circumstances. Ferdy, cradled in her arms, looked sullen, and snarled when Susan tried to pet him. She jerked her hand back. “It’s Lenson, Mrs. Stanweis. Susan Lenson. She’s sleeping, thank you.”
“Did the aspirin help?”
“Yes, thank you! I think they’re helping her fever.”
“I’m just glad I had a few in my bag. Leon always says there’s nothing better. And he’s been practicing for forty years. The young doctors, they all say there’s no one left like him in all of southern New Jersey—”
When she got back to their place Nan was awake, sitting up and looking around. She looked hot and confused, and coughed as her mother set the cup beside her.
“Mommy, where are we? I had such funny dreams—”
“I know, Bunny. Everybody has those when they’re sick. Don’t wipe your nose with your sleeve, use this tissue. Look, cookies for breakfast! And you can drink coffee this morning, just like Daddy does.”
“Don’t like coffee.”
“There’s sugar in it, baby, try it. And this nice lady is Mrs. Stanweis; she gave us the aspirin for you last night.”
“Hullo,” Nan said unwillingly.
“Hello, Nancy. Do you remember Ferdy Dog? Ferdy, this is Nancy, she’s a pretty little girl, say hello.”
The dog growled. Nan glanced at her mother, then buried her face in her T-shirt top. “She’s shy around animals,” Susan was saying, embarrassed, when a jovial voice caught their attention.
“Good morning, all! I’m Fred Persinger, the American ambassador here. If you’ll give me your attention for a few minutes—”
The ambassador was not a short man, but his shape gave one that impression; he was almost round, with a round head, a round chin. He was wearing blue slacks and a white golf shirt, so casual looking that Susan felt concerned. Did he understand how serious this could be? He smiled as he stood by the desk, waiting for the murmur to quiet, but his eyes gave the impression that he had been required to smile so long at so many people that a smile was all there was left; that he would crack a joke and slap a back on the way over the brink. He raised a hand, smiling, and then one of the marines stood up behind him, looking grim, and the crowd quieted.
“I know this isn’t a political rally back in Philadelphia, but it sure looks like one!” He paused for his laugh, and drew a few nervous chuckles.
“Well, folks, I hate to say welcome, considering the circumstances, but welcome. There does seem to be some confusion out there about who owns this island, but right here you’ll be safe. So we’ll just sit tight for a day or so, till they sort it out, and then we’ll head for the airport and all go on about our business.” He pronounced it “bidness.” “As you can see, we’re not known for our hotel accommodations—but that just makes us try harder! If there’s anything we can do for y
our comfort, please ask Ms. Freed—she’s my assistant, this attractive young lady—or one of my aides.”
“Mr. Persinger?” Mrs. Stanweis fluttered her hand.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the ambassador, bending forward at the waist.
“Will we be able to send telegrams? I’d like my family to know where I am.”
“You sure can. We have facilities for that, we’re in touch with Washington right now. I’m sure Ms. Freed can take you down there in the basement and get a little message out. Yes. In back—?”
It was a short man with a grizzled brush-cut. “Ambassador, Joe Bunch, here. I’m a veteran, Korea. If that crowd turns ugly—can we hold them off? I noticed our gate guards aren’t armed.”
“Glad you asked that, sir. No, this building isn’t designed to be defended. Few U.S. missions are. We feel since both sides are our friends, we won’t need to worry about defense. We can close ourselves off from the street, we have an iron gate for that, and there are always the local police in case of trouble. No sir, I think that’ll be sufficient.”
“Are you sure? The embassy in—”
“You have a point there, Joe, and I’m going to look into it this very morning, that’s a promise,” said Persinger smoothly, and went on. Susan had to admire the way he shunted the man aside, leaving him still standing but with nothing left to say. “Any other questions? No? Then, thank you, and I’ll be about my business.”
His pep talk over, the ambassador disappeared back into his offices. But his attempt to calm them had made her nervous again. When Nan had finished her hot drink she drifted up past the desk, wanting to see these gates for herself. At night, coming in, she hadn’t noticed them.
An iron gate? she thought, when she stood behind it, looking out past the back of a silent guard. They were light metal, filigreed like a New Orleans balcony; compared to the stone walls into which they were set they seemed flimsy. The marines who stood by them, on the other hand, looked as rough and heavy as the walls, and for that she was glad.
A current of cool air came through the bars. She glanced back into the hallway. Smoke-hazed, filled with people, it seemed cramped, almost fetid, although she knew it was not; no one had been there more than a day. But it was a bit close, and the air from outside was fresh, smelling of rain. She moved the last few feet to the gate. One of the guards glanced back at her; he grinned. “Getting tired of indoors?”
“Yeah, a little.” She leaned her head against iron, against the smoothness of many coats of black enamel. The metal was thin, but she was grateful for whatever protection it offered.
She looked into a deserted street. The roadway glistened with rain, and there was still mist in the air. The unaccustomed cold made her shiver. Above the buildings she could see the gray underbellies of clouds, seeming to scrape the tops of the hotels. A storm, yes, the weather was turning mean; the orchards would get their rain, and more wind than they wanted. How wet it is, she thought. I thought it was supposed to be dry here.
She was about to turn back to Nan when one of the guards straightened and stepped up to the gate, looking out.
“What is it, Corporal?”
“People coming, Sergeant.”
“Locals?”
“No, don’t think so—”
They were Americans, ten or a dozen of them; she couldn’t see whether they had driven up or walked; they were just there suddenly. The younger marine—the corporal—talked to them through the gate for a few minutes. The discussion became heated, with ID cards and drivers’ licenses thrust through the openwork. When he finally drew back the bolt, the gate opened inward to a press of bodies. He had time for only a brief glimpse at IDs. One of them shouldered past Susan, a dark man, dropping his passport back into a sport coat; their eyes met briefly, then he was past, inside. The next face Susan saw was Moira’s, and her friend saw her at the same time. They met with a tight hug, and she could feel Moira’s dampness, her shivering.
“Betts! I’m so glad you made it here. Is Nan with you?”
“You bet she is.” Susan held her roommate at arm’s length, studying the bruise that marred the Ox’s perfect complexion. “I figured you’d stay at the digs, out of the way! What happened to your face?”
“It’s turned bad out there,” said the archaeologist, looking back into the crowd that pressed still against the gate; the guards had regained control, were letting them through one by one now. “Michael! I’ll be inside, with Susan here.—Yeah, even in the hills. They won’t talk to us anymore, and the man who owned the land ordered us off. I don’t know why … on the way back, some people tried to stop our car, and there was a fight. Anyway, the airport’s closed, so we decided it would be best to come here.”
“I’m glad you did. But I hope you brought something to eat.”
“Uh-oh.” Moira winced. “Food problems?”
“Looks like there might be. There are a lot of people here.”
“Yeah, I see that. Well, we didn’t bring much to eat, but does wine count?”
Susan had to laugh. “It’s certainly a plus.”
* * *
Cook, Moira’s grad student, had a small radio. They lay around on Susan’s blanket and listened to it through the morning. They could hear Turkish being spoken, but none of them knew it, so they stayed with the Greek stations, and later found a British Forces broadcast in English. Both sources agreed that tension was building hourly along the line of demarcation. The British said that a move forward was imminent. The Greek-speaking stations agreed, but added, in strident accents, that if an advance beyond the cease-fire line began, the army and people would resist, and that Athens, the mother country, would not stand back this time.
“I don’t get it,” said Susan. “Why would the Turks attack? They already have half the island, and only about a third of the Cypriotes are Turkish.”
“It’s all for show,” said Moira. “Why do men make wars, anyway? To prove they have balls.”
“I think it’s a little more serious than that,” said Michael, opening his mouth in Susan’s presence for almost the first time. He had a gentle smile, long, sun-bleached hair that fell over his forehead and sprang up in a cowlick, and she liked him immediately. “Probably the new Turkish leadership. They want something to unify the country, and they’re generals—war is a natural. Don’t forget, this island’s only fifty miles from Asia. The Turks owned it for a long time. It goes back and forth. Our bad luck to be here when it’s happening again.”
“Not everybody seems to take it as fatalistically as you do,” said Susan. She nodded at the radio, where a speaker was holding forth on blood, fire, and resistance to the last bullet.
“It’s their home,” said Moira, and changed the subject, looking at Nan, who was sitting up, looking sleepy. “And how’s my niece doing? Feeling better this morning, huh?”
“Hi, Moy-ra!” Nancy shrieked. “Mikey! Where’s your bottle?”
“We’ve got to empty one first,” grinned Michael, patting his clinking knapsack.
* * *
There was very little for lunch. Canned soup, a few more cookies, and that seemed to be the end of the embassy’s supply. She took Nan back to the kitchen for the promised cereal, but it was gone. Someone else’s child, there were three or four others among the families camped in the crowded hall.
The afternoon wore on much like the morning. They hung above the radio, their sole source of news, until Nancy, growing costive, demanded they turn it off. Susan was glad enough to comply. After a while her daughter napped, and Michael brought out a pack of cards. They played whist and passed one of his bottles of rodakino around through the afternoon and on into dusk. It was too sweet, and she only sipped at it. The corridor darkened gradually, and around the four of them as they played the other people prepared for sleep. Ms. Freed came out to snap on the lights, but nothing happened. The power had gone off sometime during the afternoon.
It was a little after that, as if the gradual withdrawal of day was a cue, that t
he far-off shooting began again. Susan suspended a hand rich with royalty—it was almost too dark to distinguish jack from queen—as they turned to the courtyard windows to listen. More shots, drifting, it seemed, above the low roofs and into the open windows on the wind; and then, closer, the sound of shouting.
“A real Kristallnacht,” said Moira softly. She shuddered.
“Riots?”
“Not that harmless.” The archaeologist was biting her lip, looking at the falling darkness outside the windows. “It’s going to be bad. I can’t say Moslems are my favorite people, but I wouldn’t want to be one tonight in Nicosia.”
“They’ll kill them?”
“At least beat them, burn their houses and shops. There aren’t many here anymore. Most of them went to live on the eastern side of the island. But there were a few that stayed. They had homes here, too.”
They listened somberly, each imagining him or herself at the mercy of a crowd like that.
They tried to go back to cards, but Susan could not concentrate. She found herself still listening, and from time to time she heard the sounds of guns again. And then shouts.
“Jeez, they’re getting closer, aren’t they?” said Moira.
“Maybe it’s the wind,” said Michael, but as they suspended play again to listen Susan felt sweat trickle along her forehead. They were closer, all right. Maybe on the next street over—
Something flickered at the corner of a window.
“I can’t take this.” Michael jumped up, upsetting the bottle; sticky wine gushed over the blanket. “Oh, hell. Moira, can you get this? I’ve got to see what’s going on. I’m going up to the gate.”
“Be careful, Mike.”
“Sure.”
He left. Moira mopped at the stain with a tissue, gave up, and tipped the bottle back for the last swallow. “Jeez,” she said again. “You don’t think they’d bother us, do you, Betts? These people don’t have anything against Americans that I know of.”
“You’re the expert here, not me,” said Susan; but she was thinking, and what about the people who tried to stop you on the road, Moira? The ones who gave you that bruise?
