by Nadia Marks
‘It’s not been long since he left us.’ Maroula looked at Hatiche. ‘She still needs to express her grief.’
‘It takes everyone in different ways,’ Hatiche observed. ‘Sometimes even after you think the pain has passed it rises unexpectedly and you just can’t hold it in.’
‘I know . . .’ Maroula added with a sigh, ‘I remember when my bappou died, my yiayia would suddenly start her lament in the middle of the night months after he had gone.’
The lament for a loved one when the grief took hold was an intrinsic part of grieving in the village. Hearing their neighbour voice her pain in the rhythmic sound of her wailing did not alarm them, but reminded them that they must pay her a visit. It was a collective duty to help a fellow villager through their grief.
3
Maroula’s pregnancy was as difficult as it had been easy when she carried Lambros. The complications were manifold. First she bled throughout most of her early stages, making her fear that she would lose the baby. After that stopped, Dr Elias explained that she must pay attention to her diet because she had too much ‘sugar’ in her blood. She didn’t understand this. How did sugar get into her blood? she repeated.
‘It’s only for a short while,’ the doctor tried to explain. ‘Once you have given birth you will return to normal and you can eat all the glygo and baklava you want. But for now, you must be good if you want yourself and your baby to be healthy.’
‘I don’t understand, Hatiche,’ Maroula complained to her friend, who was always at hand to help. ‘With Lambros, I ran about and did everything and more, but now I must be careful what I do and I have to give up eating!’
‘Every pregnancy is different. Do as the doctor says, eat the right foods and you’ll be fine,’ Hatiche told her friend. But Maroula wouldn’t listen and she was told she must spend the last few weeks of her gestation in bed. Hatiche, as always, was there to help.
‘Stop apologizing,’ she told Maroula. ‘I have to cook for all of my lot, what difference does it make if I cook for yours too? Besides, wouldn’t you do the same for me if I needed it?’
Anastasia was born after three whole days of agonizing labour. Maroula’s screams could be heard all over the neighbourhood and there were moments when even Hatiche, with her optimistic nature, wondered if she would survive the birth. For three days and nights she stayed by her friend’s side assisting the midwife while Andreas and little Lambros moved next door with Hassan.
When at last she entered the world, Anastasia looked as defiant and alert as she would grow up to be, which was quite the opposite of Leila.
‘Well, look at this little one!’ the midwife had said after washing and wrapping the newborn in her swaddling clothes. ‘I’m sure she’s been here before . . .’ she added, handing the baby to Hatiche as Maroula had fallen into an exhausted sleep. ‘I’ve never seen one just born with eyes as bright and open as this one’s.’
Thus the first few hours of Anastasia’s life were spent cradled lovingly in Hatiche Hanoum’s arms, which her mother always believed was the reason why the girl felt a closer affinity with the Turkish woman than with herself.
‘She’d rather spend time with you and Leila,’ Maroula would say to Hatiche when Anastasia was big enough to wander off on her own across the yard to the house next door. ‘According to both of my children, you are a better cook than me,’ Maroula would tell Hatiche, pretending to feel hurt, ‘but then again I remember saying something similar to my mother when I was that age.’
‘Don’t you know that food tastes better in someone else’s house?’ Hatiche would remind her. ‘I always preferred your mother’s cooking to mine at home, too.’
‘Why don’t I cook dolmades for us all today,’ Maroula suggested one day, aware that of late Hatiche had been responsible for most of the cooking for both families. ‘Andreas has brought home some succulent vine leaves,’ she continued. ‘I’ll show you the way my mother taught me to make them.’
The truth was that Andreas hadn’t been bringing home much of anything lately, and since the death of his old father the previous year he had been left alone to run the grocery shop, making business harder than ever. One of the farmers from the nearby town had taken to driving his horse and cart to the village every other day with fresh produce as well as poultry from his farm, and once a week he arrived with newly slaughtered meat. The competition hit the small store badly.
‘I don’t know what we are going to do, wife,’ Andreas often complained to Maroula. ‘The shop is being hit hard, I hardly make a profit these days. Now the old man is gone maybe we should listen to Savvas and try our luck in the city.’
‘The city! The city! You’re always going on about the city . . .’ Maroula replied, alarm rising in her voice. ‘If things are hard here, how much harder would they be there?’
‘Savvas has a plan.’ Andreas gave a sigh. ‘He knows people in the city, we should listen to him.’
Hatiche and Hassan were aware that their friends were struggling to make ends meet so they discreetly tried to share whatever they could with them. Aside from Hassan passing on sewing work to Maroula, taking meals together was another way in which they could help and it was an event that they all enjoyed.
‘So how about it, shall we start?’ Maroula asked Hatiche eagerly as she fetched the bag of freshly cut vine leaves. ‘There’s enough here for all of us,’ she continued and went to fetch her biggest pot.
Their boys had already started school by then, and as their mothers had done before them, they walked to and from their different classrooms together. Anastasia and Leila, still pre-school, were out in the yard playing in the sunshine while the women sat at the kitchen table stuffing vine leaves. A huge bowl full of minced lamb and rice spiced with salt, pepper, oregano from the hills and cinnamon sat on the table while a plate held the blanched leaves.
‘The leaves have to be softened in hot water first,’ Maroula said, picking one up and spreading it on the palm of her left hand, ready for stuffing.
‘And you think this is news to me?’ Hatiche teased Maroula. ‘I think your mother’s recipe is the same as mine!’
‘Yes, well, that might be the case,’ Maroula smiled, ‘but does she cook it with kolokasi in tomatoes and lemon juice and does she also stuff onions to go in the dish?’
‘Well, if you stop talking and start cooking, I’ll be able to tell you,’ the other woman replied and their laughter spilled out into the yard where their little girls were playing. Their mothers’ laughter always made them feel safe; they didn’t need to see them, so long as they could hear their voices, they knew that all was well.
When she was very small, Anastasia liked playing with Leila and dolls, but soon enough she discarded these girlish pursuits to join Lambros and Orhan in their rough-and-tumble scrambles around the countryside, leaving Leila behind to trail after them wailing that she was being left out.
‘She’s as tough as any boy,’ Orhan would tell his friend when he complained that he didn’t want his sister around.
‘She should be playing with the girls, not running after us,’ Lambros objected. But Orhan was very fond of Anastasia, in fact he preferred her to his own sister who was always whining about something. By the time they reached puberty, Orhan’s feelings for Anastasia had tipped into longing, but he would never ever admit it or speak about it to anyone, especially to Lambros. It was his own lonely secret that he carried around with him.
He never tired of looking at the girl, not just because he loved her: Anastasia was growing up to be a beauty and no one could help but look at her. At twelve she looked sixteen, her figure already that of a young woman’s, her skin white and smooth as satin. Her huge eyes the colour of deep amber dominated her face, framed by long black lashes that curled upwards towards her eyebrows, which looked as if they had been painted in a straight line across her high forehead. Her perfect Greek nose gave strength to her delicate oval face, while her lips curved faintly upwards at the corners, making her look as if she we
re perpetually smiling.
Comparing his own physical appearance to the object of his love made Orhan’s heart sink with dejection. She was a beauty and he was mediocre. Examining himself in the mirror, he wished he had grown to be taller, stronger and generally more of a match for the girl. He had a kind face, warm brown eyes and a wide smile but he would have preferred Lambros’s broad shoulders and strong muscled arms. However, his wit, kindness and brains made up for any physical shortcoming and Anastasia loved that in him. He always treated her with consideration and respect and listened to what she had to say even though she was a girl, which was more than most people in her life. For her part, she treated him with sisterly familiarity and affection which kept Orhan in a state of concealed hopefulness.
With time and age the boys’ rough games were deemed inappropriate, and Anastasia, who had always loved running wild around the countryside with them, was encouraged by her mother to consider more feminine pursuits.
‘You are getting older now, my girl,’ Maroula would say, remembering how she had been at her daughter’s age, ‘and there are things you need to learn. It won’t be very long before the proxenia start to arrive. There are many young men in the village who’d want you as their bride,’ she continued, forgetting how she had broken all the rules and had made her own choice of a husband when she was a girl. The main way a marriage proposal was ever made in those days was through proxenia, either through a match-maker or by the family of the young man. Rarely did a decent and pious girl ever choose her own mate and if so it was always frowned upon.
Leila was willing enough to give up childhood games and become a ‘young woman’ but Anastasia was reluctant; she missed the freedom of childhood, although spending time with her beloved Hatiche Hanoum, who took it upon herself to teach her how to cook some of her favourite dishes, was a bonus. On discovering that she had a willing pupil, Hatiche decided to seize the opportunity to teach her some Turkish too.
‘Unlike your mother you’re doing well, Anastasia mou,’ she joked, pleased that finally a Greek was picking up Turkish as well as she and her family had learned Greek.
Spending time with Hatiche was always a treat for Anastasia, but if an opportunity arose to do something with the boys she was ready and Orhan was more than willing to include her. One treat they all enjoyed was attending any performance of the shadow theatre on its tours of the villages in the summer months. Its arrival was eagerly anticipated by the entire village, Greeks and Turks alike; they couldn’t wait to be entertained by the puppeteer, who would set up his screen, a large white sheet, in the main square to entertain them with the tales of the popular fictional character called Karagiozis, his son Kolidiris, and all his friends and foes. The chairs would be supplied for the spectators by the village kafenion and set in rows under the night sky. Standing behind the screen, illuminated by a lantern, the puppeteer would masterfully make his paper puppets caper on their sticks, representing a host of characters speaking in different voices and acting out comic stories, as his audience, young and old, erupted into raucous laughter.
They would sit for an hour or two and be transported by these shadowy figures into an exaggerated world of farce that spoke of family squabbles, misunderstandings and wrongdoings. They laughed to their hearts’ content at the expense of the protagonist, Karagiozis, a simple-minded peasant who was always getting himself into scrapes.
These moonlit summer nights in the mild, scented mountain air, sitting next to Anastasia, feeling the warmth from her body, her laughter mingle with his, made the young Orhan’s heart explode with happiness. Anastasia too was flooded with tenderness and affection for the boy beside her who always made her feel cherished and loved.
Orhan and Lambros were excellent students, and as they were now in their last year of compulsory schooling, their parents were urged to encourage their sons to continue their education further.
‘You’ll do him a great disservice if you don’t allow him to carry on learning,’ Lambros’s teacher had said to Andreas and Maroula one winter’s day when he asked to see them. ‘I understand it is difficult for you financially, as with most people, but your son is my most promising student. He has always been the best in the school.’
Bursting with pride, Andreas and Maroula couldn’t believe their ears; nobody in their family had ever been praised so highly before. ‘I can’t promise anything,’ the teacher went on, ‘but I would like to try to arrange a scholarship for him to continue his secondary education at a high school. It might take some time but it’s fine to wait, even if it takes another year.’
Both Lambros and Orhan were keen on their education and they had been hoping they would be allowed to continue with school and eventually be trained as teachers. But they also knew it would be a costly affair; schooling from then on would not be free. Whereas Hatiche and Hassan had the means to pay for their son to continue learning, Andreas and Maroula knew that the fees would be an unmanageable burden for them. Besides, there was no high school, Greek or Turkish, in their village and both boys would have to travel to Paphos or to one of the bigger villages near the coast and stay in lodgings that would only add to the cost.
That night, after speaking to the teacher, Andreas and Maroula sat in the kitchen on their own by the roaring fire and tried to go over what they had been told.
‘One thing is for sure,’ Andreas said, ‘we can’t stand in the boy’s way. Let’s see if this scholarship comes about and as the teacher said, there’s no rush, so the boy can come and help me in the shop while we wait. God only knows how I need the help now the old man’s gone.’ He let out a long sigh and stretched his legs under the table. ‘If I had been given the same opportunity I wouldn’t be struggling now to scratch a living . . .’ He folded his arms behind his head and exhaled again. ‘Look at my brother Savvas.’
‘What about your brother Savvas?’ Maroula replied. ‘Savvas didn’t go to school for any longer than you did, so it’s not just down to education, is it?’ she reminded her husband, but her voice didn’t carry much conviction; she knew well enough that schooling led to opportunities and that was something none of them had ever enjoyed. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘Savvas was lucky.’
Maroula was right. Andreas’s brother, five years his senior, was lucky. He too had only completed the elementary school, like most children in the village; nevertheless he seemed to be doing well. He was always urging them to join him in the island’s capital, Nicosia, but Maroula’s reluctance to leave her home and her friends, especially Hatiche, would always put an end to any such discussions. Then again, even if over the years Andreas had thought it a good idea to relocate to the city, he too was reluctant to leave the village and abandon his old and ailing father. After his mother had gone he felt duty-bound to stay with the old man, but now that he had gone too he had started to think all the more often about it.
‘That shop is like a noose around my neck,’ he said under his breath, as if he was talking to himself. Then, looking at Maroula, he added, ‘If the good teacher manages to get that scholarship for our boy then we have no option but to go. God will provide and Savvas will also help us.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Maroula let out a long sad sigh and got up to make some mountain tea for both of them. ‘Maybe Savvas is right, things have worked out for him, but then again that was a long time ago and he had no option but to leave.’
4
Savvas was trouble. Andreas adored his charming brother, he could do no wrong in the younger boy’s eyes, but to everyone else, especially his father, he was nothing but trouble. There had been four boys in all: Elias, Stavros, Savvas and Andreas. Their mother had kept trying for a girl and praying every night in front of the icon of the Panayia, but it never happened; instead she lost two of the boys she already had. Her first two sons perished in childhood, one dying of pneumonia, the other from a snake bite. ‘Why is God punishing me?’ she wailed in despair after each child’s untimely death and vowed to Agia Ekaterini, the patron saint of the
ir village, that she would do whatever she asked, if only she kept her remaining boys safe. She doted on her two sons, especially Savvas.
Every morning without fail, at sunrise – just as the saint had instructed her one night in a dream – she would walk up to the church on top of the hill, through rain, snow or storm, to light a candle in front of the saint’s icon and pray for the safety of her two sons. On religious holidays she would visit twice daily, and she did this until her dying day.
‘You spoil that boy,’ the father would tell his wife on hearing about his elder son’s latest exploits. ‘He thinks he can do whatever he likes regardless of the consequences.’ His father was right – what Savvas liked to do, regardless of the consequences, was fall in lust and seduce every girl in the village, making each of them think she was the only one for him. Tall and slender, with mischievous hazel eyes and a head of black curls, he was easily the best-looking boy of his age, and it wasn’t hard for most girls to respond to his advances. Puberty and sexual awakenings hit Savvas early, at an age when most boys were still running around the countryside climbing trees and making up childhood games. His idea of fun was to chase whichever girl had captured his attention at that moment and then move on to the next one.
‘You are not being honourable,’ his father would try to reason with him when he was a little older. ‘We are a decent family. Choose one girl of your liking and we will go to her family and arrange a match.’
But Savvas was an incorrigible flirt; he couldn’t contain his seductive urges and had a string of girls of marriageable age dreaming in their beds at night that they would be his bride.
