by Jo Bunt
“Why were there clashes? Come on, you are not normally so reticent to share information, so spill it.”
“I’m not sure I know all of the details,” he lied.
“Nah, I’m not buying it. Come on, get chatty.” I nudged him playfully in the ribs with my elbow.
“I am not trying to be evasive.” He lowered his voice and I realised that his views could possibly get him into trouble with those around him. He placed his hand on my arm and ushered me to a table outside a nearby café. The coffee shop looked almost British with its green and white striped canopy and white plastic chairs set around round plastic tables with English menus propped up between tomato sauce and vinegar bottles.
Stefanos ordered us two coffees and a jug of water without even consulting me on what I would like to drink. I bristled at the assumption. I calmed myself down by reasoning with myself that if he had asked me what I wanted I would have said exactly the same, but it was the arrogance of his actions that irritated me. If he noticed my discomfort he didn’t acknowledge it. He waited for the drinks to be placed in front of us before he continued talking.
“There were some suggestions about amendments to the constitution which were not well received by the Turkish Cypriots. They rejected these suggestions and it led to some heavy fighting. Mainly between extremists though, not really fights between Greek and Turkish neighbours. Many Turkish people chose to live in enclaves where they thought they were safer. But remember, it was their choice.” His words were self-assured but they were spoken quietly.
“How much of a choice do any of us really have though, Stefanos?” I asked gently. “They wouldn’t have left their homes to live in enclaves unless they felt that they didn’t have any other option or that their families were in danger.”
Stefanos shrugged. I was beginning to hate that shrug. It really meant he didn’t agree with me but was trying to bite his lip. I appreciated the effort but I didn’t back down.
“So if all this was happening back in... when? ‘63? The problems were rife long before the Turkish invasion in 1974, right? So the invasion can’t be taken as an isolated incident, can it? It was just the culmination of many attacks against the Turkish Cypriots.”
I knew I was playing devil’s advocate and was likely to be shot down but it was the fastest way to get an answer from him.
Stefanos chose his words carefully. “Certainly youcould see it that way. However, you could also conclude that the Turkish have a history of overreacting and that the strength of their overreactions showed they were waiting for an excuse to start a war.”
“No one wants to start a war!” I said louder than intended.
“I used to think no one wanted to start an argument either and yet, here you are, Leni.”
That silenced me for a minute and I sipped at my scalding coffee wondering whether he was right. A reluctant smile edged its way up my face. Generally I shied away from any kind of quarrel but I was enjoying bantering with Stefanos.
“Please remember Leni, that sometimes peoplewant to play the victim. Some see problems where there are none, fights where there is apathy, hate where there is dispassion.”
“Eloquent. Why’s your English so good?”
“I study at University in England. I come back in the busy season to help my father and work on my tan. The rest of the time I study English and History and dream of a unified country.”
“Can it though? Can the island be unified? I mean, can Turkish Cypriots and Greek Cypriots forgive each other and live side by side again? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. You talk to individuals such as my parents and the answer is ‘yes’. They do not hold a grudge against any individual Turkish man or woman. And yet...”
“What?” With my eyes I urged him to continue.
“My mother still weeps for the niece that she lost. Our churches have been knocked down in the North to be turned into mosques or to make way for Turkish hotels. Our graveyards that once held our families have been built upon. How do we move on from that? Forgiveness is something that does not just happen once. You have to forgive every day. My mother wakes up every day and forgives the men that killed her sister and her niece. I don’t find it quite as easy.”
“So you don’t think you can live side by side then?”
“Actually I do. There are places where Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots live side by side today.”
“Really? Where?”
“Pyla. It is not far from here,” he said, pointing off to his left. “It is now the only place where we live harmoniously side by side. There are about eight hundred Greek Cypriots and five hundred Turkish Cypriots.”
“I would love to see that. Could you take me there?”
Stefanos nodded. “Let’s go today.”
I ignored his blatant attempt to sidetrack me from my foray into Varosha.
“So, if a resolution can be reached about the Ghost Town, you think unification would be possible then?”
“Anything is possible, Leni.”
Stefanos took my hand and looked at me softly, his simple words loaded with meaning.
I snatched my hand back from him as if stung. “Stefanos, I’m married!”
He smirked. “Yes. But he is not here with you. I am.”
He leaned in closer to me as I pushed myself as far back in my chair as I could. Even at this enhanced distance though I could feel his warm breath on my face.
“Sorry Stefanos. No,” I frowned. I wasn’t entirely sure if his overtures were genuine but nonetheless it was disconcerting.
“You are an interesting woman, Leni.” He laughed and sat back in his chair in bafflement. “Never have I been attracted to a woman who annoys me quite so much.”
“If this is your way of seducing me, it really isn’t working.”
He laughed even more at that, his ego not showing the slightest dent. “You argue with me all the time, you think that you are always right abouteverything, and half the time you look at me like you think I am an idiot. And yet, I still want you. Why is that?”
It was my turn to shrug.
“You know, I meet a lot of English girls here in the summer. They are younger than you and they agree with everything I say, they hang on every word and they cry when they have to leave me to go home. I could have any one of them, you know.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
He smiled broadly and turned his attention to the women passing a few feet away from us. Within seconds he was attracting admiring glances and second looks from a variety of ladies. At least he didn’t seem heartbroken at my rebuff. Even though his attention was unwarranted, I felt aggrieved that he had so swiftly extinguished his ardour. I got the impression that he was trying to make me jealous and, angrily, I acknowledged he had succeeded.
I took the correct change out of my purse to pay for our coffees and placed them on the saucer by my side.
“Stefanos!”
He snapped his head round to look at me. “Huh?”
“Whilst I might not be about to leap into bed with you, could you at least wait until I’ve finished my coffee before you snare my replacement?”
“Sure. Drink up.”
“Are you that desperate?”
He scoffed. “No. I want you to meet someone, that’s all. C’mon.”
He stood up and started walking away with his hands in his pockets. I picked up my bag and nodded my thanks at our waitress and followed him into the sunshine.
“Where are we going?” I asked as I trotted after him.
“I’ve told you, there is someone I want you to meet. I was in Famagusta to meet a friend. See? Not to spy on you. We have a little business to take care of but after that I am sure he will be happy to talk to you about the problems between the Greek Cypriots and the Turkish Cypriots.”
“Is he as biased as you are?”
“No. He sees things more clearly than I do.”
“Greek or Turkish?”
“Neither. He is Briti
sh but he has been in Cyprus for a long time. He does a little work with the UN and the rest of the time he works at the museum. Do a little shopping or something, huh? Meet me in front of the museum in one hour. It is down this road to your right hand side. Okay?”
“Okay. That’d be great.”
Stefanos smiled and started to walk away from me, looking at his watch.
“Stefanos?” I called after him.
“Yes?”
“How do I know you’ll come back for me? What if you meet up with one of these women who are more interested in your company than I am?”
“Ha! Then she can wait. They are always happy to wait for me.” He grinned “They are well rewarded for their patience.”
He walked backwards a few paces to see what effect his remark had on me then turned and continued on his way with a smile.
Picking a direction at random I began to move cautiously through the unfamiliar streets. People jostled me out of the way on their way to meet friends or to go to work. Twice people spoke to me in Greek or Turkish and I had to reply that I didn’t understand them. They looked surprised that I was British. In just a few days the sun had coloured my skin mocha. The only thing that gave me away as a foreigner was that I was wandering aimlessly through streets that I should have known well.
Once or twice people looked at me and smiled, their eyes holding onto mine for a fraction longer than was usual. Each time I wondered if they were going to say something. I thought there might be a flicker of recognition, a spark of kinship, but then they were carried away on the tide of people.
I don’t know quite what I’d been expecting but perhaps, deep down, there was a part of me that hoped for a sudden embrace from a stocky stranger with cries of, “You are the spitting image of my good friend Helene. God rest her. You must be her daughter.” I wondered, as I looked into the sea of brown eyes whether I might see my own peeping back at me in mirror image. Where was the fanfare? Where was the welcoming party proclaiming that Helene Kostas’ lost baby had returned?
Laughing inwardly at my own deflated sense of self-worth and my pointless drive to belong somewhere, I suddenly realised that there were no longer any people in the streets or any shops or boutiques. I had obviously come to the end of the shopping district and I found myself back at the Green Line looking at the fence that divided North from South. For a moment I panicked, scared that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to Stefanos. I sucked the air into my lungs and forced it out again to make way for the next.
I looked back to the fence and pushed my fingers through it. Was Stefanos right? Was there any point to me going into the Ghost Town? What was I trying to prove? There was unlikely to be a large book on the kitchen side entitled The Kostas family – our life story. There wouldn’t be a box full of old family photos with a gift tag saying For Leni, with love. I stood by the fence, my fingers entwined in the diamond of wires separating me from the place where I was born. What is this drive in us to visit the place of our birth? Is the same thing that drives salmon upstream? Was I nothing more than a fish? I had to be capable of more than reacting to a vague idea that I should be somewhere else.
The sound of falling stones caught my attention and I snapped my hands back as if an electric current was now pulsing through the wire. Was I even allowed to touch the fence? Was I about to get confronted by a Turkish soldier? No one came out of the shadows and all was silent again. It was difficult to see much of interest from where I was standing. The buildings themselves weren’t that impressive or noteworthy but their direct contrast with the inhabited buildings behind me was stark and foreboding.
A strong breeze suddenly sprung up and caressed me with its soft fingers, teasing my scalp until the hairs on my head and neck stood on end. I shuddered at the sudden chill. I surveyed the buildings for any sign of life at all. I was sure that someone was watching me. I don’t know how a gaze can connect with someone as clearly as a hand but sometimes there is as much touch and solidity in both. I knew that the ‘sensible’ me would leave here now and go back to Stefanos before I was late, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I was missing something important.
My heart was thrumming too loudly as my eyes darted from building to building. Mum or Helene might have stepped foot in any one of them. Their feet would have travelled these roads when both of their futures were filled with promise. Life had once suggested endless opportunities ahead of them and their unborn children.
I shook the fence in frustration and the ripples came to an abrupt halt at the metal poles either side of me with a ‘clank’. I’d never known such confusion. I needed someone to talk to but the only two people who knew what I intended to do were both set against the idea of me exploring the Ghost Town. Right now I wanted my husband. I needed him so much that it felt like a physical blow to my gut. He was my best friend, my lover and my soul mate. Since I’d lost the baby, I’d done nothing but push him away. I couldn’t bear to look into that strong face and see the reflection of my aching heart. I’d closed down the vulnerable part of me that used to love unreservedly.
Perhaps it was time to not only get back to Stefanos but to get back on an airplane and go home. All of a sudden I was desperately tired and I slumped over, deflated and de-energised. If I’d had the energy I would probably have cried, but even that seemed beyond my capabilities right now.
I was no longer so sure that I could find any answers here in Cyprus. The only people I could trust to help me with the turmoil I was in were at home waiting patiently for me to pull myself together. As I lowered my gaze and started to turn away a rush of wind caught my hair and blew dust in my eyes.
“Leni!”
I blinked away the dust but my vision wasn’t clearing as quickly as I needed it too.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“Leni!” The voice shouted again. An impatient wind carried the noise from afar. It was a little girl’s voice. At last my vision cleared enough for me to peer around into the deserted street. Nothing moved. I turned back to the wasteland behind the fence and there, standing in the doorway of a building that had been left half completed, was a beautiful little girl with plaits hanging over her narrow shoulders. Anna was waving to me.
Chapter eighteen
Cyprus, 1974
Whispering through the fog in her head, Pru heard urgent voices. Hushed. Greek. She tried to ask what had happened to her but it felt like a long walk back to consciousness. When eventually she pushed open her eyes, Helene and Mrs Kostas were crouched over her. Helene put her hand behind Pru’s neck and lifted her head off the hard cold floor.
“Here. Drink.” A glass was pushed into Pru’s sore lips where the icy liquid stung her cracked mouth. As she sipped, she could feel the progress of the water down her throat and spreading across her chest. The water tasted stale. Stagnant. Dust danced in the pellucid liquid and grit stung her throat. She tried to look more closely at the women but their images swam in front of her eyes and her pulse hammered out an uneven beat inside her head.
“Seet up!” commanded the old woman.
Pru was too tired to move but equally too tired to fight with the imposing Greek woman. She tried to push herself up using her elbows but she lurched to one side. The glass tumbled from her hand onto the hard stone floor and smashed, sending shards of glass across the tiles as it crumbled. Suddenly, as if the scales had fallen from her eyes, Pru saw it all. Time froze as she retreated within her own mind unable and unwilling to stop the memories flashing before her face.
She saw herself having just returned from helping deliver Helene’s baby. She was tired and thirsty standing at the kitchen sink. Then she was lying on the floor of her apartment amid jagged splinters of glass. There was deep black blood oozing across her abdomen. She was shouting and screaming for help. “Somebody save my baby!” No came. She remembered the feeling of desperation as she had tried to cling onto her fragile consciousness as it was being drawn away from her.
Pru’s hands flew to her s
tomach as the images bombarded her. The wrenching in her chest threatened to split her in two as the sob she had been holding back all day unexpectedly burst from her in a voice that she didn’t recognise. The acidic realisation of grief burned through her veins and made her scream. “Noooooo!”
She balled her fists up and pressed them against her eyes to blot out the burning images. Pru grunted and hummed with no rhythm or tune in the hope that the voices would quieten in her head. But still she could hear them whisper. “You lost your baby. He’s dead. Gone. Forever. What will you do now you useless piece of shit?”
“Nooooooooo! No! No! No!”
Pru rubbed her hand across her sagging, deflated stomach and the cotton material of her hospital gown snagged against her barbed wire stitches marking out the perimeter of Pru’s own personal war zone.
“Is he dead? My baby?” Pru whispered looking at the two worried looking women in front of her. “Please, can you tell me the truth? I don’t trust them at the hospital. Is he really gone?”
Helene stood and held onto the worn kitchen table, swallowing with difficulty. Her face told Pru everything that she needed to know. Mrs Kostas placed her fat hands on Pru’s shoulders and nodded twice. The last of the fight left in Pru fled her body at that very moment. The only thing that Pru possessed now was body-numbing apathy. Pru could have sat, unfeeling and unflinching until the sun rose and the seasons changed, had it not been for the gurgle and bleating from the cradle on the table-top. All three women looked towards the wicker cocoon and then Helene looked back to Pru with pain and guilt etched all over her face.
“It’s okay. Go to him. None of this is your fault and it isn’t his either.” Pru wiped her face on the sleeve of the borrowed coat she was wearing and was surprised at the lack of tears adorning her face.
“Ees a girl. You remember?” asked Helene as if talking to a simple child.
