He drove slowly.
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said to Savvas, with convincing sincerity. ‘It’s been a busy morning.’
‘Just a few points today,’ said Savvas brusquely, the last quarter-inch of a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. ‘Let me know about the rise in nightclub takings, would you? I need another eight hundred for wages this month and we have to find it somehow. Otherwise we’re going to have a problem on our hands.’
That annoyed Markos as much as anything. Why did people say ‘we’ when they meant ‘you’?
Silence, as so often, was his best weapon.
‘And do you know anything about these rumours?’
There was a small pause as Savvas sipped some water.
‘Rumours?’
‘About what all those Greek officers in the National Guard are up to?’
‘I only know what I read in the newspapers,’ answered Markos. ‘And I’m sure it’s all exaggerated, as usual.’
His disingenuous answer was what Savvas wanted to hear. In reality, Markos had no doubt that the junta in Athens was planning a coup against Makarios in Cyprus.
‘Oh well. Let’s hope it doesn’t affect business,’ said Savvas. ‘Tourists are easily scared. Especially Americans. I know we don’t have so many these days, but you know what they’re like …’
He lit another cigarette and swung round in his leather office chair so that he could look out of the window at the huge building site. Fifty or so men in hard hats were visible at various levels of scaffolding. Windows were being put in and a crane was moving panes of glass into position.
‘We’re getting there,’ he said. ‘But we need to keep the cash flowing in. I’ve already got a loan, but it’s not quite enough.’
Markos got up. He could see that his appointment with Savvas was over. He had told him what he needed to know.
‘Come again in a couple of days,’ said Savvas, swinging back to face him. ‘And bring some cash next time.’
Markos was already at the door. He was in a hurry to leave for more than one reason. Christos was expecting him at the garage. That morning he had found a note from his brother asking him if he could collect some packages to ‘take to the post office’.
There was plenty of activity going on and Christos needed his brother’s help more than ever. One of his group had been arrested when stolen weapons were found at his home. Christos did not even know where his friend had been taken. Rumours were flying that imprisoned EOKA B fighters were being tortured, and Christos was terrified that he would be named. It was more important than ever to keep his home clean.
When Markos drew up outside the garage, his brother beckoned him to drive right in. Christos looked exhausted, but there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
‘I think something’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘We have to be even more careful than before.’
‘It’s not the first time you’ve said that,’ said Markos sardonically through his open window. After the attempts on President Makarios’ life over the past months, plenty seemed already to have happened. With Ioannidis, an uncompromising advocate of uniting Cyprus with Greece, now firmly in control of EOKA B, Makarios was in greater personal danger than ever.
Markos skilfully manoeuvred his car into a space inside the garage but did not get out. Christos opened the boot and in the safety of the shadows carefully loaded in a few packages. Haralambos, who was changing some truck tyres, kept an eye out, watching for the arrival of other customers. Everyone who worked here supported EOKA B, but their customers were of all persuasions; even a few Turkish Cypriots were regulars.
When he had finished, Christos slammed down the lid and came round to the driver’s door. He bent down to speak to his brother.
‘Thanks, Markos. I’ll need these back soon, so you won’t have them for long.’
‘You’d better be extra careful,’ said Markos. ‘They’re really tightening their grip.’
‘I know, I know,’ answered Christos with impatience. ‘There must be informants.’
‘And you know what Makarios is saying …?’
‘What?’ asked Christos, wiping his oily hands on a grubby towel.
‘That EOKA B is responsible for threatening the independence of Cyprus.’
‘It’s Makarios who is the biggest threat to this island,’ said Christos. ‘Not us.’
Markos wound his window up, turned on the radio, and drove off.
‘Our love is like a ship on the ocean …’
One of the summer’s big hits was playing. Markos knew the words by heart and sang them at full volume. His mother had always told him he had a beautiful voice, and she was right.
The day was idyllic, the sea bright and sparkling, and as he drove towards The Sunrise, he caught a glimpse of a cruise liner coming into port.
‘… Rock the boat, don’t rock the boat, baby.’
He hoped nothing would rock his boat. At present, he felt things were nicely under control, and Aphroditi’s love and devotion were a delicious part of his day.
As soon as the song finished, there was a news bulletin. They were talking about an open letter that President Makarios had written to Phaedon Gizikis, the Greek president, who had been put in place by Ioannidis. It accused the government there of conspiring against him, and made a direct charge that it was following a policy calculated to ‘abolish the Cyprus state’.
The broadcaster read out an extract: ‘More than once I have sensed, and on one occasion almost felt, the invisible hand stretched out from Athens, seeking to destroy my human existence.’
Makarios demanded that Athens recall the six hundred Greek army officers who were now in the Cyprus National Guard and supplying men and materials to EOKA B.
Against the backdrop of this bright summer’s day, Markos asked himself the same question as everyone else who was listening to the radio. What reaction would such a blunt statement provoke? They did not have to wait long to find out.
Chapter Fourteen
A FORTNIGHT LATER, VERY early on 15 July, the presidential palace in Nicosia was attacked. Armoured cars and tanks burst through the gates and shelled the walls. Assailants broke in to find Makarios. Soon the palace was on fire.
News of the coup travelled fast on this small island. In homes all over Cyprus, people gathered round radios. In the Özkan house, in the Georgious’ apartment and in the offices at The Sunrise, everyone stood about in stunned silence. On the radio they heard only military music. Then came the announcement:
‘Makarios is dead.’
This was followed by a sinister warning:
‘The National Guard is in control of the situation. Anybody interfering will be immediately executed.’
News went around that there was a new president: Nikos Sampson, a former EOKA fighter.
Irini Georgiou wept almost inconsolably. She was very sentimental about Makarios. His shifting position on the subject of enosis had confused her, but whatever his political aims, she held on to the belief that any man of the cloth must be fundamentally good.
‘Another death,’ she said to her daughter. ‘Another terrible death. Poor man … poor man. When will all this end?’
She and Maria, who was pregnant again, listened to broadcasts throughout the day while Vasilakis tirelessly played a game with wooden blocks, lost in his own imaginary world. Makarios was blamed for having caused the situation, and the announcer told them that the National Guard had seized power to avert civil war.
By the time Panikos came home early from the electrical shop to be with his wife and son, Irini Georgiou was beside herself. All her men were missing. Her husband and her two sons had been out most of the day and not returned.
‘Where do you think they are?’ she kept asking, wringing her hands. ‘Do you think they’ll be back soon? Do you think they are safe?’
The questions were unanswerable, and neither Maria nor Panikos could do any more than provide futile words of comfort.
br /> Irini paced up and down, walked in and out of the front door, went a little way down the street as if she would find them there, returned to the house, sat down for two minutes and then repeated the process.
‘What are we going to do? What are we going to do?’ She was on the edge of hysteria and constantly crossing herself.
‘I’m sure they’ll return soon,’ said Panikos, touching his mother-in-law’s hand tenderly.
The hours passed slowly, and the first to appear was Vasilis.
‘Agapi mou, I’m so sorry. There were roadblocks on the way back. Such delays. You must have been so worried.’
They hugged each other and Irini wept copious tears.
‘If only we had bothered to get a telephone installed,’ said Vasilis, ‘then I could have called you.’
Not long afterwards, Markos walked in. He had not realised that his mother would be so anxious.
‘I had to stay at the hotel,’ he explained. ‘We needed to reassure the guests that everything is fine. That it’s business as usual.’
Now they were just waiting for Christos.
‘He’ll come soon, Mamma,’ Markos reassured her, even though he was not sure he believed it himself.
Irini began cooking a meal. It was the only way she could think of to occupy herself and take her mind off her son’s absence. She laid the table, including a place for Christos, and everyone else sat down to eat. The front door was left open so that they would see him as soon as he arrived.
Just as Irini and Maria were clearing the plates, a figure appeared at the door. Irini dropped some cutlery in her haste to reach her son, and Christos enfolded his mother in his embrace. He was thickset and more than a foot taller than her.
Irini inhaled the smells of sweat and car oil that her younger son always carried around with him, and gripped on to him tightly. Finally he pulled away.
‘You must be needing some supper,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m hungry as a wolf,’ he replied.
‘You know what’s been going on today?’ asked Vasilis, wondering if his son had even been aware of the coup.
‘Of course I know, Father,’ replied Christos, trying hard to conceal his feelings of satisfaction, which had grown with each of the day’s developments.
Irini Georgiou realised that her younger son did not share her sadness over Makarios’ death, and his general demeanour that evening confirmed to her something she had half known for some time.
Panikos was fiddling with the radio, trying to reduce the interference, and picked up another channel.
Suddenly there was a voice they all recognised. It was Makarios. It was as if he had risen from the dead. Describing how he had escaped from the palace when it was under attack, he told the interviewer that he had stopped a passing car, which had taken him to the Troodos Mountains. From there he had gone to a monastery, and then to Paphos, from where he was making the broadcast on a secret radio station.
‘Together we will carry on the sacred resistance and win freedom,’ he said. ‘Long live freedom. Long live Cyprus.’
For Irini, Makarios’ resurrection was even more extraordinary than his death. She was adamant that they were all witnesses to a miracle, and she wept even more that evening than she had done in the morning. All the men she loved had returned.
‘God must be on Makarios’ side,’ she said jubilantly.
Vasilis looked at her. When Irini Georgiou talked about Makarios, she was thinking lovingly of a bearded priest. His God-fearing wife venerated anyone in ecclesiastical vestments. Vasilis, though, saw a beady-eyed politician and believed that there were two very distinct sides to this man.
Everything at The Sunrise remained calm on that day. Members of staff were given instructions to tell guests that the change in the country’s leadership would have no adverse effect on them. The harbours and airports were temporarily shut but everything would be back to normal soon. Nicosia was thirty miles away and any troubles were being contained.
There were still people sunbathing on the beach on the afternoon of the coup. Tourists heard there was a new president, but this did not sound like such momentous news. American and European holidaymakers were more interested in trying to keep up with the developing scandal in Washington. The fate of another president, Richard Nixon, was in the balance, and this would have much greater personal repercussions for most of them.
The following day, for the first time in months, Savvas appeared at The Sunrise. Many of his workers at the building site had not turned up, so progress could not be made as normal. He was in a state of high anxiety.
‘Where is Markos?’ he demanded of Costas Frangos.
‘He is somewhere in the hotel,’ responded Frangos. ‘I saw him about ten o’clock this morning.’
Markos and Aphroditi met that morning as usual, but Markos had been delayed. Aphroditi was always agitated if he kept her waiting. Desire made her impatient. Today there was an additional cause of tension. She knew that the latest political twist in the island’s politics was ominous. More than anything, she did not want it to affect her own daily life. She had never been more fulfilled, never felt more alive, never experienced such intensity of pleasure, and she did not want anything to change. Within the walls of a room with Markos she cared for little but the moment. Clothes, shoes, lingerie – but not always jewellery – were cast to one side. They always let the sunlight stream in wherever they made love, whether it was on the ninth, eleventh, fourteenth or any other floor. Light reflected upwards from the sea, and the sun was usually still on the rise, illuminating every square inch of her skin. With Savvas the lights had always been dim and the curtains drawn.
As his wife and his right-hand man hastily pulled on their clothes, Savvas called the staff together in the ballroom to reinforce that all must continue as usual. Most importantly, everything possible had to be done to discourage the guests from leaving. He noted that things seemed to be functioning well and asked that this should continue.
‘You all know that we are rebuilding The New Paradise Beach,’ he said. ‘And the success of The Sunrise and the completion of the new hotel are entirely in your hands.’
Markos appeared at the back of the room and listened. He could hear an unmistakable note of greed clashing with a minor chord of panic in Savvas Papacosta’s voice.
As usual, the boss is short of information, thought Markos. He suspected that they would not be able to continue with business as usual that easily. He had called in at the garage that morning to return some parcels. Christos was not there, but one of his colleagues was, working alone.
‘Their unit has been ordered to Nicosia,’ he said. ‘Christos has gone.’
‘But isn’t it all over?’ asked Markos.
‘There’s still some opposition there …’ the mechanic answered. ‘A few lefties objecting to the new president.’
Whether or not it was a deliberate understatement did not matter. Within a few hours, Famagusta was alive with rumours of what was happening in the capital city, a place that was so close but had always seemed a world away.
Markos had met Nikos Sampson once when he had been active in the original EOKA. Born in Famagusta, Sampson had made a huge impression on the teenager. He was masculine, handsome and charismatic, and men and women alike adored and feared him in equal measure. He had a reputation for being a killer, and wore his ruthlessness like a birthmark. It was part of him, as ineradicable as his steely gaze.
Markos knew that Sampson would not be handing out any amnesties to people who had resisted the coup.
News soon filtered through that the hospitals in Nicosia were overflowing with wounded. Running battles had been fought in the streets. Machine-gun fire and sometimes tank cannon were still occasionally heard throughout that day. In crowded corridors doctors struggled to save the dying, whether they were Makarios supporters, EOKA B, or perpetrators of the previous day’s army coup. Wounds were wounds, and once flesh was torn apart by bullets and shrapnel, it did not matter
to whom it belonged. The medical staff scarcely had time to register names or look at faces as they cleaned and swabbed and tightened tourniquets. Every doctor and nurse, whether Greek or Turkish Cypriot, had their personal view on what was happening in the streets outside, but performed their tasks without discrimination.
As snippets of news came into the salon, Emine became increasingly anxious. That morning she had noticed that Ali’s bed had not been slept in, and she could no longer put aside her suspicion that he was involved in the TMT. As more reports of fighting and the wounded came in, she realised that her hands were shaking violently. She put down her scissors.
‘Why don’t you go and find Hüseyin?’ suggested Savina. ‘He might know something.’
Emine found her son raking the stretch of sand in front of the terrace.
‘Where was Ali last night?’ she asked.
Hüseyin continued with what he was doing without looking up. If he met his mother’s eyes, she would see that he knew something.
He shrugged.
‘Hüseyin! Look at me.’
Her voice was raised and one or two people glanced up from their sunloungers.
‘Mother!’ he hissed, embarrassed.
‘I want to know!’
Costas Frangos appeared on the terrace and beckoned him over.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Hüseyin said.
He hurried away, leaving his mother standing alone on the sand.
Back in the salon, Savina took one look at Emine and insisted that she go home. She was in no state to work.
Even before she opened the door to her house, her heart soared. She could hear Ali’s voice. He had returned.
‘Ali! Where were you? Why didn’t you come home! We have been so worried.’
She was torn between a desire to slap him hard and hold him tight. She chose the latter, weeping all the while.
Halit was sitting in the corner, quietly clicking his tespih, his worry beads.
‘Why did you go?’
‘I had to,’ Ali said, his voice cracking. He pulled away from his mother. ‘They might kill our people.’