Kaya is wanted by the Turkish government for desertion, corruption, fraud, embezzlement, misappropriation of funds, dereliction of duty, insubordination, aiding and abetting the enemy, espionage, harbouring fugitives, obstructing justice, and suspicion of murdering a Turkish war hero. There can be no question of his returning to the north, or to Istanbul and his children. But his losses—of family, of home, of country—don’t seem to affect him all that much. Or so his new colleagues believe. He will admit to a certain nostalgia for daily swims in the sea, but after all, the beaches of Agia Napa are only an hour’s drive away. Here in Old Nicosia he belongs to a tennis club and likes to frequent the many rooftop bars and sit out with new friends, drinking aperitifs and watching the evening’s first dancers while the sun sets stupendously over the Mesaoria.
One morning not long ago he returned to Deryneia. A hill town, it’s the best spot from which to observe Varosha. Kaya was accompanying a dozen Greek Cypriot government and military officials who, scanning the ruins through high-powered binoculars, resembled men plotting a re-conquest. He answered their simple questions, chiefly about the condition of major buildings and roads, and he made helpful references to a large-scale map on which an NCO took notes and marked corrections. In due course, the discussion touched on his former residence, the officers’ club. Through binoculars it was visible, just, between the hulks of two hotels, a dash of glittering white with the turquoise sea beyond it. Suddenly he wanted to tell them how he used to play there in the shallows with his children when they were younger, and how in the evening little Yil and Hava liked to watch the small owls in the tangerine trees, but he struggled to find the words in Greek and heard himself lapse into his beautiful mother tongue, then trail off without finishing.
People never notice when a charmer is overcome. They’re too busy performing for him, auditioning for his approval, while taking at face value the exterior he’s always staging—polished, winsome, witty, gracious, constantly shifting but somehow solid. Who can say what ruins lie behind it?
PLEASE
I LEFT MY SOUL IN THERE
OPEN UP
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank the following people for various kinds of support: actual editing, helpful conversations, encouraging words or notes, and other generous acts and gestures. Cheryl Cohen, Bernard Covo, Michael Holmes, Helen Humphreys, Smaro Kamboureli, Alice Kuipers, Maureen Lascelles, Alvin Lee, Amanda Lewis, Ginger Pharand, Anne McDermid, David McDonald, Stephen Myers, Scott Richardson, Sandra Ridley, David Ross, Alexander Scala, Helen Smith, Janice Weaver, Martha Webb, Christina Yianni, Janice Zawerbny, Irene Zouros, and Eleftherios Zouros.
Mary Huggard. Elena Heighton. Liam Fenton. John & Christina Heighton. Pelly Heighton. Esme & Alita Varvis.
I’m also thankful for the support of both the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.
Finally, inevitably, I want to thank my editor and publisher, Nicole Winstanley, for her keen insight, energy, patience, fierce belief, and advocacy on behalf of her lucky writers, now including me.
The Nightingale Won't Let You Sleep Page 32
