A Blind Man's War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘I don’t know. He spent all night at a table with that German boy from the UN before he left. You could try there.’

  ‘OK.’ I’d get round to asking her directly, but not yet. Something held me back.

  ‘And I promised David that I would talk to you. Some of your regular friends have been calling wanting to know where you are.’

  ‘When I am available, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. The choice will always be yours, you know.’ I had started to talk about something else. Again she didn’t take the bait.

  ‘Tell David that I’m considering my options, and when I get back to business he’ll be the second to know.’ It sounded as though she was already telling me no without using the word. I could hear pots and pans being rattled around in the kitchen. It was getting on for lunchtime, and I wanted a beer.

  ‘I’m going down for a Keo,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you join me in the bar?’

  ‘OK, sailor. Twenty minutes – I’ll take a shower first.’ As I reached the door she said, ‘Charlie,’ again. I turned. She had moved from the window, and the sheet had dropped to the floor. She had a perfectly ordinary body, and I loved every wonderful damned inch of it. I tried not to compare her with other women I had known, but when I did it was like comparing Cinemascope with jerky silent films. Which was stupid. She was half in shadow and half in bright light, like those postcards of women you could buy in Germany just after the war. Then she said very clearly, ‘It may be very unfashionable, but sometimes I just long for someone to make a choice for me, Charlie. Remember that.’

  ‘Is that what you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. If you try it we’ll find out.’

  I said OK, stepped through the door and shut it behind me. For the first time I looked closely at the rugs in the corridor over the uneven wood floor. I was sure that they were the same pattern as those in Yassine’s club in Ismailia.

  I had trudged upstairs wanting to get something settled. I trudged downstairs more uncertain than ever.

  Yassine intercepted me at the bottom of the stairs before I could get to the bar.

  ‘Don’t go out on the street for an hour, Charlie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Fucking Greeks. Someone’s been killed out there.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A soldier, I think. I have locked the gates – the area will be swarming with police in a few minutes.’

  I had heard pop-pop sounds while I was wrestling with Steve, but hadn’t identified them as gunshots.

  ‘What else do you know?’

  It was the first time in our acquaintance that I had seen Yassine truly rattled. He removed his fez, and mopped his face with a handkerchief he carried in one sleeve.

  ‘The woman with the baker’s stall said he was a man who came in here a lot. Listen. Here come the police.’ Sirens. Bells. The hammering sound of boots on flagged paving. People shouting. A woman sobbing. No requiem for the dead ever gives you the real noises.

  Half an hour later I did go outside. My nose wasn’t bothering me: I just had to make sure it wasn’t Pat. Collins sat in a Land Rover parked up behind a civvy police car and an ambulance. Between them they blocked the narrow street. He was smoking a fag, and looked blank. I’d seen that look on his face before after he had shot the boy up in the Troodos, but he risked a small smile when he saw me.

  ‘Where did you spring from?’

  ‘Doing an errand for Mr Watkins.’ I nodded at the ambulance, and asked, ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘No. Just some German lad who works for the UN.’

  ‘Was he in his UN clobber?’

  ‘Yes. And I don’t understand why they did it. It was a stupid hit . . . it will turn the UN against them, just when EOKA was making some headway over there.’

  ‘Maybe it was nothing to do with politics.’

  He took off his cap, and dragged his forearm across his brow: David Yassine wasn’t the only one sweating. He said, ‘Charlie, this is Cyprus. Everything has to do with politics.’

  ‘Do you know where Pat Tobin went off on leave to?’

  ‘No, and you’re not the only one asking for him.’

  ‘Who should I ask next?’

  ‘You could always try praying.’ Bloody comedian; they can’t bloody resist it, can they? Before I left him I asked, ‘I suppose the German guy was killed?’ It was an afterthought, and one I was still ashamed of days later. It should have been the first thing I asked.

  ‘No. He took one in the back of a knee, and the other shot missed completely. Rank amateurs.’

  ‘He’ll be OK then?’

  ‘Apart from being on a stick for the rest of his life. Yes.’

  ‘I wonder what he did to annoy them.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. Don’t hold out on me if you hear anything, Charlie.’

  I remembered his sympathy for the girl captured by the GCs.

  ‘No. Of course not. You’ll be the first to know.’ That was one better than Steve’s message to Yassine.

  A civvy Brit policeman sauntered towards us like a model on a catwalk. He had git written all over his face. He looked me up and down as if I was a piece of dog dirt on his shiny shoe, and asked me, ‘ ’Elp you, squire?’ the way police do. He was telling me to buzz off, of course.

  I gave Collins the look, and told the cop, ‘No, I was just leaving.’

  When I was about ten paces away I heard him ask Collins, ‘Who was the titch? Someone you know?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ Collins said, and that made me smile.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Black Spot

  When the captains and the kings had departed, taking their ambulances and cars with them, I went out again, but not very far. I remembered the Turkish café to which Pat had taken me soon after I arrived. It seemed like years ago. That’s what fear does to you: it makes you remember dangerous places as though you’ve known them all of your life. Your subconscious is scanning all the time for that little clue which tells you to run. I sat down at the back in deep shadow.

  The place was empty at first, and the big man who ran the place came out from a door covered by a beaded curtain, to set a glass of raki – that’s what the Turks call the aniseed stuff – a jug of water, and a small black coffee in front of me. A few minutes later a couple of locals came in, and sat at a table near the door. They just had the coffee. Finally a third guy came in, and immediately came over to sit at my table. He said, ‘Can we help you?’ in good English.

  ‘An English policeman asked me that an hour ago. He didn’t mean it either.’

  ‘What did he mean? Your English policeman?’

  ‘He meant me to go away.’

  ‘Maybe I mean that as well. A man was shot near here today – this is a dangerous street.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Pat Tobin’s. He brought me here a few weeks ago.’

  ‘We know nobody of that name.’

  ‘Pity. He told me to stay away from you and your friends – that you would start a riot, and blame it on me.’

  ‘He sounds like a sensible man. You could always leave now. My friends will not stop you.’

  ‘Pat took off a few days ago, and nobody knows where he’s gone. That is not characteristic behaviour for him, and his friends are worried. I am not here because I wish to compromise you or your colleagues, nor for my health. I am here because I am one of his friends. You are a chance I was willing to take.’

  He stared at me for a minute. I could hear flies buzzing against the window. One of the decent things about England is that we’re often short of flies. One of those frozen moments until he asked, ‘Why are you worried for him?’

  ‘The British police and the Island police are asking questions about him. He probably doesn’t know that. I wanted to warn him.’ That was about halfway along the road to truth, wasn’t it?

  ‘I still do not know him. I am sorry.’

&nbs
p; His jacket had been expensive once. Tweed. Its cuffs must have frayed for they had been piped with leather.

  ‘OK. In that case I will not bother you further,’ and I leaned forward to stand up.

  He held up both his hands, palms towards me. It has probably been a friendship gesture since the Neolithic.

  ‘No, stay. I did not mean to be rude. Have another drink. We are a hospitable people, and this is a friendly town.’ He stood up himself, and held his hands up again. This time I noticed his fingers and fingernails were stained by oil: a mechanic of some sort then. He registered my thought processes. ‘I have a carburettor to change on the nurse’s car. Then I will wash my hands and join you . . . for the other half. Isn’t that what you British say?’

  ‘Yes, it is, but—’

  ‘You will be safe if you stay here. I promise it . . .’

  As he walked out he gestured to the two gorillas at the door. They, too, stood up. One followed him; the other, and larger, came to sit at my table in the chair my interrogator had vacated. He smiled. No teeth.

  These Turkish Cypriots talked with their hands. The giant sitting opposite me held his up, but at right angles from his body, and made swivelling movements with them from the wrist, as if describing the heft of a woman’s breasts. This is not my fault, he was telling me. He grinned when the owner of the joint put an unlabelled bottle of wine on the table between us, and flanked it with two grubby glasses. The owner polished the glasses and the bottle on his pinny for us. To be honest that didn’t make much difference. He poured us a decent glass of thin red wine each.

  ‘Comes from a vineyard planted by Attaturk himself,’ he told me proudly. That must have been in the 1920s. ‘Drink.’

  I drank. Old Attaturk could make a fair old bottle of wine. All I could do now was wait, so I might as well enjoy it. I was sure that if I tried to leave I should feel the rough side of my silent companion’s mighty hands.

  When the mechanic returned he was in his Sunday best, and called for another bottle of wine. I had just discovered that Turkish wines are one of the hidden treasures of the world, so I didn’t complain.

  ‘The Lebanese says you are indeed one of Mr Tobin’s friends and maybe even one of ours as well.’

  ‘That is less certain. I hardly know you—’

  ‘And you English never kiss on a first date.’ He suddenly giggled. It was an odd girlish sound. ‘I’m sorry. Pat taught me that joke.’

  ‘You have news?’

  ‘Three days ago he came here and asked to borrow a car. We gave him a small Fiat from the war. They call them Topolinos.’

  ‘Don’t worry about what they call them. Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know. He went to the food shop run by the Englishwoman married to Hayri . . . bought enough supplies for an expedition.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all I can tell you. I am still waiting for my car.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’ I stood up. ‘I have used too much of your time already.’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Bassett. We have opened the bottle. It would be impolite to leave before it was empty.’

  I did what I was told. So would you. The mechanic had an undefined authority that I wasn’t prepared to challenge. I held out my hand, and he shook it.

  ‘I’m Charlie,’ I told him. ‘What do they call you?’

  He smiled, and for the first time looked truly dangerous.

  ‘Now, Mr Bassett,’ he said, ‘why on earth should I tell you that?’

  A proper hero in a proper book would tell you how he rushed home, jumped in his car and set off at once in pursuit. But not me. I was too drunk by the time I got back to Yassine’s place to do anything except sleep it off. My new pals must have seen me back; I doubt I could have found the way on my own.

  I remember opening my eyes in the late afternoon sometime. Steve was looking down at me. Concerned. She said, ‘I’m dancing tonight. Will you wake up in time to watch me?’ She didn’t seem all that mad at the state I was in.

  ‘Course I will, pet. Just a bit tired.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  I shut my eyes again. Love me or leave me. She left me of course.

  I was awake, cleaned up and sober again by the time she danced. David Yassine sat with me. He told me, ‘I was wrong. She can dance. She could give the girls at the Kettle a run for their money. I am very pleased with her.’

  ‘Where do you find your dancers, David?’

  ‘Here and there, old friend, here and there.’

  ‘Where did you find Stephanie?’

  ‘There. Didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ask her.’

  At the end of her set Steve collapsed on the ground with a dramatic clash of cymbals. Then the stringed instrument pedalled a couple of bars into the darkness, fading away like smoke. Polite applause. She came over to sit with us, and the barman brought her lemonade without being asked. I could smell her perfume evaporating on her body. She was taking deep breaths.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked her. ‘What were you doing when you met David?’

  ‘Sitting in a window in Amsterdam,’ she flashed back without hesitation. ‘He said I could do better than that. How about you?’

  ‘Someone asked me if I’d ever seen a belly dancer, and took me into his club.’

  ‘You sleep with the dancer?’

  ‘It was the quickest way of learning enough Arabic to get by.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses! Does that mean we start square?’

  ‘Yes, of course it does. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘It helps. Give me a cigarette, one of you.’

  Yassine was distracted by a new dancer advancing to the small stage. She was a recent addition to his stable. She oozed sexual invitation, but looked young – on the cusp of womanhood – and that left me a trifle uneasy. When the lights went down for her our table was in darkness. Steve leaned over, and touched my arm. I asked, ‘What?’

  ‘I just wanted you to know how happy I am. If my life was always like this I’d want to live for ever.’ She squeezed my hand. I suppose I felt something similar, but it was never the sort of thing I could say. I smiled across at her in the half-light. She added, ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ve made up my mind about anything.’

  My dad once told me there’s always a bloody but.

  When she left us to go and get changed I tugged Yassine’s sleeve to get his attention. He didn’t take his eyes off the dancer.

  ‘You were wrong, David. The man shot this afternoon wasn’t killed. He was just winged. I think it was that Jerry who taught us how to play spoof.’

  ‘I was wrong then, but now I’m right – you slept through the update, Charlie. He died of shock in the ambulance, and they didn’t bring him back. The UN is furious and is threatening to pull out . . . The Governor’s calling a special parliament tomorrow. Apparently the poor young man survived three years in a concentration camp, only to be murdered in our dirty little backwater, by silly little schoolboys who can’t tell the difference between a German and an Englishman. They’ve already arrested the shooters – they are both thirteen.’

  ‘And they will become martyrs of the fucking revolution. Their classmates will post pictures of them up in the village squares, and volunteer to follow them into battle – and so it will go on for ever. What a bloody mess we’ve made of things.’

  ‘You British?’

  ‘No, my generation. You and me. All of a sudden I can’t wait to go home.’

  Yassine took a minute to consider his response before he said, ‘You swear too much, Charlie, did you know that? You should clean up your language.’ Then he stood up and walked away.

  I kept my word to Steve: I took a room of my own. In the small hours I couldn’t sleep, and lay awake digesting the implications of what Yassine had told me.

  I’d complained for years that the Palestinians and Israelis had no place fighting each other, because they were both Arab tribes with identica
l concerns and needs. There was nothing they did apart that they couldn’t do better together. You could say the same for the Pakistanis and the Indians. And you know what I’ve said about the Greeks and the Turks – can anyone tell them apart in the dark? Now David had told me that the German guy had copped it because no outsider could tell the difference between a Brit and a Jerry at six feet. So why did we spend six years murdering each other in the 1940s? Suddenly that didn’t make so much sense.

  Yassine’s new dancer put her head round my door before breakfast. She was a cleaner in the morning and a dancer at night, and looked even younger without the blue eye make-up they danced in.

  ‘Just checking. I’ll clear the room up later if you like.’ Her accent put her in the bullseye of England.

  I asked her, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Halifax. You?’

  ‘God only knows these days. Sometimes I feel as if I’m from bloody everywhere. I have a house in a place called Bosham, down on the south coast. Will that do for now?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Charlie Bassett.’

  ‘I’ve heard people talk about you.’

  ‘Nothing good, I hope. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jessie, but Mr Yassine calls me Reem – because of my white skin.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘White antelope.’

  ‘It’s a pretty name,’ I told her firmly, ‘but I prefer Jessie.’

  ‘So do I, but he pays my wages.’

  ‘How old are you, Jessie?’

  Her next smile was the smile of a thirty-year-old.

  ‘Old enough, so don’t go fathery on me.’

  ‘OK. I’ll remember that. You can tell the kitchen I’ll be down in five minutes.’

  Yassine was in a foul mood; cursing the kitchen staff, and following the cleaners around the bar quality-checking their work. Everyone looked jumpy.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked him.

  ‘You bloody British are.’

  ‘What have we done now?’

  ‘Some delegation of English schoolteachers is calling for martial law. It was on the radio.’

  ‘How will that matter?’