by Nadia Marks
10
Cyprus, 1950
To describe Anastasia as a free spirit would have been an understatement. Where that unconventional disposition of hers came from neither she nor anyone else knew, considering the way she was brought up.
She was living on a far-flung island in one of the easternmost corners of the western world, touching the fringes of the Middle East, yet Anastasia behaved as if she was familiar with life in Paris, Vienna or Milan. Did the Italian and French fashion magazines she devoured at Kyria Thecla’s workshop or the cinemas she frequented with her friends on Sunday afternoons have anything to do with it? Perhaps that was part of the explanation. Yet it was still far from clear how a girl who had spent her formative years in a remote village high in the mountains of Cyprus, where girls were expected to conform to strict local traditions, could find such confidence to voice her own opinions, not only to her family but to anyone who would listen. Perhaps, if the midwife who delivered her was to be believed, Anastasia had visited this world before – otherwise how else could her understanding of things beyond her experience be explained? With time her poor mother decided that the midwife’s surprised observation must be the only reason for her daughter’s irrepressible independence; she could see no other explanation.
‘We need to marry her off as soon as possible,’ was Andreas’s only solution to his daughter’s rebellious nature. ‘Once she’s married with a couple of babies she’ll be like everyone else.’
‘She doesn’t want marriage, Andreas,’ Maroula reminded her husband in despair. ‘We can’t force her, and she won’t listen to me.’
‘You never listened to your mother, either, when she wanted to find you a husband, if you remember.’ Andreas insisted, ‘We must keep on trying.’
‘I didn’t want to be married off because I wanted to marry you, not because I was against marriage, in fact I couldn’t wait to be married, unlike our daughter,’ Maroula countered. ‘She insists that she doesn’t see the point of marriage unless she falls in love.’
‘Just like her mother!’ Andreas teased.
‘Yes, Andreas mou, but by the time I was her age I’d found you,’ Maroula replied, ‘and we were already engaged . . . but our daughter, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be interested in anyone!’
‘It’s simple,’ Andreas replied confidently. ‘We’ll find someone she can fall in love with. Savvas and I know plenty of well-to-do young men that she might approve of.’
Anastasia was a notable beauty in the city, and despite her mother’s concerns that she would soon be left on the shelf if she didn’t accept a marriage proposal, at twenty she was still young enough and with a substantial dowry to be considered an excellent catch. It was not as if no one was interested in her; on the contrary the proxenia, the marriage proposals, arrived with alarming frequency via a matchmaker or directly from men who happened to see her and liked what they saw.
‘I don’t know who this man is, why would I want to marry him?’ was the girl’s invariable reaction when Maroula informed her about a new proposal. ‘When I agree to marry, it will be to a man I know and love, not to some stranger!’
‘You will get to know him, then love will follow,’ her mother would try to reason. ‘That’s how proxenia works.’ But Anastasia would not be convinced.
‘I’m not ready for marriage. When I am, I’ll know, and then I’ll let you know,’ she would tell them, hoping they might relax their relentless campaign.
Maroula was at a loss; her daughter had a mind of her own and of late had given her even more reason to worry, due to her startling modern ways.
‘What man is going to find her attractive, looking like a boy?’ she asked her husband when Anastasia came home one day having had her long dark curls cut à la garçonne into the fashionable bob worn by the models in the French magazines. ‘As if wearing trousers in public isn’t enough, now she has no hair either,’ her mother despaired. ‘Do you think she has a secret love and won’t tell us?’ Maroula asked her husband, not knowing how else to explain her daughter’s behaviour. ‘Do you think she’s unhappy?’
‘How should I know? She’s your daughter. You’re a woman, you find out,’ Andreas replied.
Maroula’s fears were unfounded. Anastasia was more than happy with her life; she had her family and friends, she had her brother and Orhan who were always ready to take her out to the fashionable cafes and movie theatres any time she wanted. She found much to enjoy in her work which kept her stimulated and interested. For now she desired nothing else; life was fun enough without being bound by ties and duties to a husband.
Most young girls of marriageable age stayed at home with their mothers waiting for proxenia and learning the virtues of housekeeping and modesty. Anastasia, on the other hand, wanted none of this. She had decided that after completing her dressmaking training she would apply for work with Kyria Thecla, who was expanding her business and had offered a position to her star pupil along with young Victoria. The stylish new look from Europe was taking the capital by storm and all the prosperous ladies were eager for the latest exciting designs. Anastasia had a feel for the drape and fall of fabrics, and a knack for adapting the basic cut from existing Vogue patterns for each customer, making every outfit unique.
She insisted on walking daily to the workshop without a chaperone. Her route took Anastasia via Nicosia’s commercial quarter, past the municipal market and bazaar and through the back streets that crisscrossed the old town, past diverse shops and stalls whose Greek, Turkish and Armenian vendors had become well acquainted with the cheerful young beauty who never failed to greet them when she passed.
‘Kalimera, Anastasia! God be with you,’ they called as she breezed past them like a breath of sweet air and a good omen to the start of their day. Working made her feel free and independent and her heart swelled with new possibilities ahead.
‘There is no need for you to work,’ her parents protested when she first decided that earning a living was her plan.
‘Your father and uncle earn enough between them to support all of us,’ her mother tried to convince her.
‘Yes, but you won’t always be there to support me, will you?’ she replied, having already made up her mind.
‘Your husband will be there to take care of you,’ her father said. At which point Anastasia stalked out of the room in a rage, refusing to engage in further discussion with them.
‘I have no option but to work,’ Victoria told Anastasia when the latter complained of her parents’ inability to understand why she wanted to earn a living and their obsession with finding a husband for her. ‘If I had a chance not to work I’d be more than happy, but my family depends on what I can bring home . . . And as for marriage?’ The girl gave a hollow laugh. ‘Without a dowry that would be a fine thing!’
‘If a boy falls in love with you the dowry won’t matter,’ Anastasia replied, knowing that her friend was sweet on one of Kyria Thecla’s sons and forever encouraging her to give the boy a sign. What Victoria lacked in a dowry and breeding she made up for with her good looks, even if she herself was unaware of them. Dark and sultry, with intense fiery black eyes and full lips, she exuded a raw sexuality that no male could ignore.
‘Dino can have the pick of any girl from a good family,’ was her response, ‘so why would he want me, or Kyria Thecla have me as a daughter-in-law? What can I bring to the bargain?’
‘He likes you! I’ve seen the way he looks at you!’ Anastasia replied. ‘And in any case,’ she protested, ‘love is not a transaction!’
‘Believe what you will,’ the other girl replied, and looked down at her sewing. ‘Anyhow,’ she sighed, ‘I think Dino looks at all the girls that way.’
‘He certainly doesn’t look at me that way,’ Anastasia insisted. ‘It’s you he favours, my friend, I know it, and if you gave him some encouragement instead of scowling at him every time you saw him you might be surprised!’
‘The trouble is, Anastasia mou,’ Victoria said, looking up fr
om the collar she was stitching, ‘you and I are different. For a start, boys always look at you adoringly, and like Dino you also have the pick of the best if you ever want to get married. You, my friend, have the support of your family, their money, their connections.’ She paused to take a deep breath before continuing. ‘I, on the other hand, have to fend for myself, because nobody is going to look after me.’
Victoria’s words lingered disturbingly in Anastasia’s mind. Her friend’s brief outburst, she decided, wasn’t vengeful or mean: it was simply realistic. Victoria was speaking the truth. Not only did her words highlight Anastasia’s privileged position, making her sound like a spoilt child, they also had a surprising impact in revealing to her how she had been behaving towards her parents. She acknowledged that, unlike Victoria, she was fortunate to have parents who supported and protected her and that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt her to become a little more thoughtful and tolerant towards them. After all, she reflected, they only wanted what was best for her.
Panos was a fine young man from a family as affluent as the Constandinous, and was acquainted with Lambros and Orhan from around the neighbourhood. He was aware of Anastasia, having noticed her a number of times, chatting with the boys in cafes or at the movie theatre, or walking alone to work. He found her intriguing; she was distinctive, like no other girl in Nicosia.
His mother, Kyria Froso, was a regular customer at the bakery and shop and the proxenia came directly from her in the way of an afternoon visit to Maroula and Penelope. The two women didn’t often meet their prosperous customers in a social context, so when Kyria Froso’s maid called round one morning with a message that her lady wished to pay them a visit that afternoon the two sisters-in-law were impressed and curious to know the reason for the call.
It was pleasantly warm for early summer so they decided to receive their guest in the front garden, which was still in bloom and shaded by a small orchard of citrus trees and one tall, majestic palm laden with yet unripe dates, providing plenty of cover. Maroula and Penelope fussed about with preparations for their visitor, laying the table with their best linen and china and deciding to serve lemon tea, a more elegant variation on their usual Turkish coffee. Kyria Froso was one of their most valued customers and frequented the Nicosian social circles with whom they wanted to make a good impression, because no matter how long they lived there they would always be considered provincial.
‘What prompted this all of a sudden?’ Maroula asked Penelope, moving the table under the date palm, her curiosity getting the better of her. ‘Do you think she has something to say to us?’
‘Well, she does have a son,’ Penelope replied, giving her sister-in-law a knowing smile and a nod.
‘Could it be that she wants our Anastasia for him?’ Maroula said with hope in her heart.
‘And why not? Where are they going to find a better bride than our girl?’
‘And do you honestly think there is any chance that our girl is going to accept?’ she replied with a sinking heart. ‘That, Penelope mou, would be nothing less than a miracle!’
While Anastasia was hardly eager to meet Panos, given her recent resolution after her chat with Victoria to behave more reasonably towards her parents, she agreed.
‘They are a good family and there’s no harm done by meeting with them,’ Maroula had said to her when she realized that for once Anastasia was not going to storm off in a rage at the suggestion. She knew by now that the whole practice of proxenia infuriated her daughter, who told her often enough how she perceived it to be primitive and demeaning.
‘If he likes me so much, why didn’t he come himself instead of sending his mama?’ was her only response to her parents when they broke the news of Kyria Froso’s visit.
‘His mother said he had asked her to come and speak to us out of respect,’ Maroula explained.
‘Respect is important,’ Andreas added. ‘It shows he’s a good boy, and in any case, this is how we do things here, my girl, get used to it,’ he said, starting to lose his patience with his daughter and her defiant ways.
‘I’m just doing this to appease everyone,’ Anastasia told Orhan, explaining why she had agreed to the meeting. ‘I’ve refused so many times, I thought I’d comply just this once to keep them happy. But honestly, Orhan mou, as you know, I have no interest in getting married to anyone.’
Orhan had met this Panos. He and Lambros had seen him in town and had often exchanged a few words when they came across each other. He had to admit that he was a personable young man, while wishing with all his might that he wasn’t. His heart ached with the prospect that his beloved might find this match to her liking.
‘I know they only want what’s best for me,’ Anastasia continued, oblivious to Orhan’s silence and sudden queasy expression, ‘but I promise you, I’m not interested, especially in some stranger. Besides,’ she continued with a mischievous glint in her eyes and suppressing a giggle, ‘who needs a husband when I’ve got you?’ She moved closer and nudged him with her elbow. ‘Haven’t I always said we’re like an old married couple?’ Her giggle turned into infectious laughter.
Panos thought he recognized a little of himself in Anastasia. He had recently returned from Athens, where he had been studying architecture, and saw himself as something of an artist, a nonconformist, unlike most young men in his circle.
He was twenty-seven years old and as an only child he was now being urged by his parents, especially his mother, to think about marriage.
‘You’re not getting any younger,’ Kyria Froso told him repeatedly. ‘You need to find a suitable wife and start thinking about setting up your practice. You didn’t spend all those years and all our money on your studies to sit around doing nothing.’
He had been aware of Anastasia for a while and although his mother introduced him to plenty of girls of marriageable age from prosperous families, his thoughts kept wandering back to the girl who looked as if she had stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
‘I’ve met her brother,’ Panos told his mother when he tried to explain his interest in Anastasia. ‘He’s a nice boy, studying to be a teacher, and they live quite close.’
‘I know exactly who they are,’ Kyria Froso replied. ‘She’s the grocer’s daughter!’
‘And is that a problem?’ Panos replied, well aware that his mother was a snob.
‘Not quite our class of people, but they have money. The family own the bakery and the grocery shop.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ the young man replied, exasperated. ‘Why does everything have to come down to money?’
‘It helps,’ she said, and quickly added, ‘So would you like me to go and pay them a visit?’
Anastasia’s first impression of Panos was one of pleasant surprise. Here was a young man who she thought was indeed likeable and who appeared to shun convention, despite conforming to the extent of sending his mother to ask about her – although after spending some time talking to him she was willing to overlook that. The fact that Panos was older than she was and had lived for several years in Athens met with her decided approval and she considered it an asset in his favour. She was at last meeting someone who was well read, had travelled abroad, and had experienced a life she had only ever imagined from reading magazines and watching films.
He was fine-looking too: tall, slender, bespectacled, with a good head of brown hair and a preference for casual yet well-cut clothes which gave him an avant-garde air. At first glance she established that his sartorial taste was to her liking; then, after talking to him for a while, she decided that she liked him enough to agree to see him again and get to know him better. In fact, she thought with amusement, something about Panos reminded her of Orhan, but with better taste in clothes.
‘I liked him!’ Anastasia announced after the young man left. ‘I think we could become good friends.’ She looked at her brother and Orhan to gauge their reaction.
‘What do you mean, you could become good friends?’ her mother shrieked.
‘The
boy didn’t come here to ask you to be his new pal, Anastasia!’ her father added sternly. ‘He came here with a serious proposal of marriage!’
‘And you all know how I feel about that,’ Anastasia replied defiantly, stealing a look at Orhan, who had sat silent throughout the entire visit. ‘I liked him, isn’t that enough?’ She looked around the room at them all. ‘I only just met him!’
Panos, on the other hand, was sure Anastasia was the right girl for him. He liked her unconventional spirit. He could see from just the two hours they had spent together at her parents’ house that she was an intriguing and exceptional person, unlike the young women his mother had been trying to foist on him, with their dowries and social status and bland and tedious ways. Here was a girl, he thought, who had not only beauty but also individuality and a personality that sparkled. Other girls he had been presented with since his return from Athens had been far too submissive and eager to please. Anastasia reminded him of young women he had met in Athens; she, he thought, had a slight air of defiance, aloofness and self-assurance which he found challenging, making him all the more determined to wait and win her over.
‘So, what did you agree?’ his mother asked eagerly the minute Panos walked through the door of their house when he returned from the meeting with the Constandinou family. Panos had insisted he must go alone for that initial introduction meeting for the marriage proposal, not with his parents as tradition requested. Sending his mother to make the first approach had been conventional enough and against his modern beliefs. ‘So . . . tell me!’ Kyria Froso insisted impatiently. ‘Did you give the word?’ The word being the promise that a marriage proposal had been agreed.
‘No, Mother,’ Panos replied, ‘I’ll leave that to you in due course, but we will meet next Sunday with Lambros and Orhan and the four of us will go for a drive.’
‘What exactly does that mean?’ his mother persisted. ‘What do you mean, go for a drive? What did the parents say?’
