‘But you’re still a child. You’re too young for this!’ Emine was beside herself. ‘Promise me you’ll never go again …’ she pleaded.
‘I can’t,’ he replied.
Irini and Vasilis were still up when Markos arrived home late that night. He had shut the nightclub earlier than normal, as only a handful of hotel guests had turned up. The ones who had come drank plenty to help calm themselves, but did not stay long. Normally, the stage was strewn with flowers by the end of the evening, but tonight only one basket of carnations had been sold.
At first Markos did not see his parents, sitting silently in the darkness of the kipos, but then he noticed the glow of his father’s cigarette.
‘Father?’
‘Leventi mou,’ cried Irini, as Markos appeared at her side. She got up to hug him.
‘Irini,’ remonstrated her husband. ‘He’s only been at work.’
He was right, but her anxiety had been building steadily during the course of the day. They had neither telephone nor television, and the radio was not telling her what she wanted to know.
Markos sat down with them and poured from a half-empty carafe of zivania in the middle of the table. Irini had persuaded Vasilis not to drive to the smallholding that day.
‘I didn’t think it would be safe,’ she explained to Markos. ‘But I had hoped things would have settled down by now.’
‘What made you think that?’ interjected her husband.
Vasilis Georgiou had been at the kafenion, and his speech was slurred. He had spent all day listening to rumour, news and propaganda, and had returned to fill his wife with new anxieties.
‘There’s a civil war going on out there!’ he said, thumping the table. ‘They’ve rounded up lots of Makarios’ men. And your mother is none too pleased about that.’
Vasilis Georgiou was one of a large number of people who had turned away from Makarios when the Archbishop no longer put enosis at the top of his agenda, but it was only when drink got the better of him that he opened his mouth on the subject. He had no respect for his wife’s sentimentality over the man. He knew that Christos, like himself, was for enosis, but he was uncertain about his elder son.
‘Don’t exaggerate!’ replied Markos. ‘You’re just upsetting Mamma.’
‘Well what do you think is going on, then? You know nothing shut up all day with those foreigners … who are you to say what’s happening …’
Vasilis Georgiou was rambling drunkenly. Markos put his arm round his mother.
‘It’s Christos …’ she said quietly, appealing to her older son.
‘Hasn’t he come home?’
Irini shook her head.
‘He will, Mamma, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. He came back yesterday, didn’t he?’
‘I have an awful feeling,’ she said. ‘I had a dream last night. A terrible dream.’
She looked away. There were tears streaming down her face.
‘I know where he is,’ she said at last. ‘He’s fighting with … those men.’
A few uncomfortable minutes passed. Markos was silent. Vasilis lit another cigarette.
Irini went inside to bed. Listening for any footstep, any sound of her son returning, she lay awake until morning staring at the ceiling.
Just before dawn, the cicadas quietened down. Between now and the moment when the dogs began to bark and cocks crowed, there was utter silence. How could a civil war be raging with such total stillness? She persuaded herself it could not be true. Christos would walk in at any moment.
During the morning, tension built up. Hour by hour, scraps of news, real and fabricated, circulated. Sometimes the rumours exaggerated the severity of events, sometimes they underplayed it. Christos had not returned, and when Vasilis went to check at the garage, he discovered that he was not at work for the second day.
Everyone turned up for work at The Sunrise as they had been instructed by Savvas Papacosta, but the atmosphere was tense. Guests bombarded the reception staff with questions.
‘How is this going to affect us?’
‘Will our flight home be delayed?’
‘Will we get a refund if we leave a day or so early?’
‘Can we keep the same room if we can’t get a flight?’
They were all anxious, self-interested, suddenly feeling a long way from home.
Emine and Savina were alone in the salon that morning. Frau Bruchmeyer, as punctual as ever, appeared at midday for her monthly trim. She kept her silver hair short and gamine, a style that only suited a woman with such cheekbones.
‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully.
Emine helped her into a gown.
‘Good morning, Frau Bruchmeyer,’ she responded. ‘How are you today?’
The question was automatic. Emine was totally preoccupied.
‘I’m very well, thank you,’ came the reply. ‘But I think I am alone in this.’
‘You might be,’ said Savina. ‘But most of our customers haven’t shown up, so we don’t really know …’
Frau Bruchmeyer’s head was tipped back in the sink for Emine to wash her hair, but she continued to speak.
‘I don’t like the sound of what is happening,’ she said. ‘But I think we should all carry on as normal.’
Emine dared not open her mouth to respond.
When her hair was trimmed and dry, Frau Bruchmeyer gave them both a shilling and left. It was lunchtime now and she would take her usual table by the pool, unperturbed by the morning’s developments.
Making the excuse to herself that the telephone lines were only working sporadically that day, Aphroditi gave up waiting for a phone call from Markos. She knew from the brief conversation she had had with Savvas in the morning that they must continue as though everything was normal, so she dressed carefully, as usual – delicate yellow silk and topaz jewellery – and left for the hotel.
Markos did not seem to be around, so she went down to the hair salon to see Emine and Savina. Perhaps he would turn up a little later. For her, there was nothing in the world that mattered more than a few stolen minutes with this man, and she clung to the hope that he might feel this way too.
Emine and Savina saw a very different Aphroditi from the ebullient woman to whom they had become accustomed in the past few months. She was tense and unusually silent.
‘Perhaps she wishes she was in England with her mother.’
‘She looks peaky to me …’
‘Oh Emine! However she looks, you’re always imagining she’s pregnant! She’s just worried, like everyone else!’
Freshly coiffed, Aphroditi went up to reception. There was still no sign of Markos, and she killed time talking to the staff and a few guests who were loitering in the hope of finding out some new information. The dolphins still frolicked in the fountain.
Eventually she approached Costas Frangos.
‘Have you seen Mr Georgiou today? My husband was hoping to see him at the building site later.’
‘No, Kyria Papacosta,’ he replied. ‘As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t been in since he locked up the nightclub. That must have been at about one this morning.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, turning away. She was certain that he could read the agitation written on her face.
Aphroditi drove home. As she went up Kennedy Avenue, the main road that ran behind the hotels, she passed a group of National Guard troops. They were in control of Famagusta now. There had been little resistance of the kind that had been put up in Nicosia.
Inside the apartment, she switched on the radio. The newscaster reported that across the island things were generally quiet now. Aphroditi turned it off, put a record on the hi-fi and poured herself a sweet vermouth. With the shutters still down, she stretched out on the sofa, sipped slowly and stared at the phone, willing it to ring.
As Carly Simon sang, the alcohol took effect. Aphroditi closed her eyes.
It was dark when she opened them. The glow that had penetrated the shutters had gone, and night had falle
n. She sat up. The needle had got stuck.
‘You’re so vain … vain … vain …’
It must have repeated a hundred times, but she had been oblivious.
Only the sound of the telephone could penetrate her dreams. It was ringing.
She leapt up and snatched the receiver from its cradle, her heart beating. She was about to say Markos’ name when she heard her own.
‘Aphroditi!’ It was her husband’s voice.
‘Savvas,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘How was your day?’
‘Bloody terrible. Half the workforce didn’t show. None of the deliveries arrived … Markos Georgiou didn’t bring the cash I asked for …’
It was as if the true significance of the coup had not even registered with Savvas.
Aphroditi glanced at the wall clock. With a jolt, she saw that it was nine p.m. She must have missed that day’s reception. Had Markos been waiting for her?
Savvas was still talking.
‘Just tidying up some paperwork here first and I’ll call in at The Sunrise on my way home. I’m not letting all this …’
While listening to her husband’s complaints, she had been watching images flicker on the television screen. There was an old Melina Mercouri film showing.
‘Savvas,’ she said. ‘Have you heard any news?’
‘No,’ he answered firmly. ‘What’s the point? That lot won’t tell us the truth in any case.’
‘It’s just that …’
Her husband detected the note of anxiety that had crept into Aphroditi’s voice.
‘Look, I’ll be back about midnight,’ he said abruptly. ‘Don’t fret. Things have already settled down again, as far as I know. As long as we can keep going here, everything will be fine.’
Savvas Papacosta seemed oblivious to anything outside the barbed-wire boundary of his building site. Apart from gold and precious stones, everything they possessed had now been liquidated and poured into the project. Even the income from The Sunrise and the sizeable loan he had taken out were not enough to fund the current phase of construction. All he wished for was to hasten the day of the opening. Only then would he begin to recoup this enormous investment.
‘See you later, then,’ Aphroditi said. She heard a click at the other end.
She was shivering. The air-conditioning had chilled the apartment to freezing point, so she lifted the shutters and went out on to the balcony for some warmer air.
Why hadn’t Markos been to the site? she wondered. And why hadn’t he called her?
There was no way of finding out.
If she had turned on the radio again, Aphroditi would have discovered that the Turkish government was asking Britain to intervene. The Greek-backed coup in Nicosia, as far as the Turks were concerned, was a final move towards enosis, something they would not tolerate. Like her husband, she was too preoccupied with personal concerns to be aware of the danger she and everyone else on the island were in.
The night air was still. All over the town, other sleepless people sat out on their balconies gazing out into the darkness and up at the stars. The temperature had not dropped below forty degrees that day. Markos was sitting with his mother, holding her hand and trying to reassure her.
The Özkan family were all awake too, wondering what the next day would bring.
Not far away, across the inky blackness of the sea, Turkish naval units lay in wait.
Chapter Fifteen
WHEN APHRODITI WOKE the next morning, she saw a dent in the pillow next to hers. Savvas had already left.
The silence in the apartment was oppressive. She had to get out and find Markos. Hastily putting on her dress and shoes from the previous day, but leaving her jewellery on the side table, she hurried out.
In the foyer of The Sunrise, suitcases were lined up in organised rows. The guests themselves were less ordered. Several hundred people thronged round the reception desk, eager to settle their bills, the good manners usually observed by northern Europeans all now forgotten. The receptionists tried not to lose their tempers at the demands of the guests, many of whom were insisting on refunds, querying bills, and asking for explanations while dozens of others jostled behind them. There was change to be counted out, exchange rates to be calculated, receipts to be given.
A few small children chased each other round the fountain, squealing and laughing, oblivious to their parents’ anxieties. Costas Frangos tried to keep some kind of order, fruitlessly asking people to form a queue, trying to answer queries, organising taxis.
Aphroditi surveyed the scene, looking for one specific face amongst all these near-strangers. Several people approached her, clamouring for information, agitating to get their bills faster and demanding that she should help organise transport for them.
‘Mr Frangos will look after you,’ she said firmly, directing them to the hotel manager, who remained immaculate amidst the maelstrom of rudeness.
She wandered towards the terrace bar and the pool, and looked out over the beach. A few people stubbornly continued with their holiday routine, applying sun lotion, going for a dip and soaking up the rays. These were their precious annual days of hedonism and sunshine, and they were reluctant to give them up. When the queues in the reception area died down, they would stroll in to check on the situation, but for now they were not going to panic.
In their midst was Frau Bruchmeyer, who had no intention of going anywhere. This was her home. She looked up from her book and waved to Aphroditi from her sunlounger.
Aphroditi did not want to engage in conversation with anybody, so she returned to the foyer and retreated from the entrance. Chaos reigned outside, mostly created by the taxi drivers, who were shouting at each other, their cars clumsily parked and blocking each other’s exit.
Over by the door to the Clair de Lune, she saw the man she was looking for. Restraining herself from running, she went across to him.
‘Markos!’ she called breathlessly.
He spun round, a huge bunch of keys jangling in his hand.
With the noise going on all around them, they could speak without fear of being overheard.
‘Where have you been?’
Markos hesitated. ‘Look, why don’t you come inside? We can talk there.’
He double-locked the door behind them, and they went down the stairs and through a pair of velvet curtains into the nightclub.
‘I was worried about you.’
‘You mustn’t worry about me, Aphroditi,’ Markos said, taking her in his arms, stroking her hair.
‘It’s been two days!’
‘An eventful two days,’ he replied blandly.
His tone of voice was very matter-of-fact.
‘I’ve missed you,’ was all she could think of to say.
‘I had to be with my parents,’ he said. ‘They’re very anxious.’
She felt the light touch of his lips on her forehead and the unfamiliar sensation of being dismissed.
‘I have a few things to finish off before I leave,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you soon. I’m sure it won’t be long before things are back to normal.’
‘Couldn’t I stay with you here a while?’
‘Agapi mou,’ he said. ‘People will think it strange if they know you are here.’
‘I don’t think anyone will notice today,’ she said.
‘Even so, I think it’s best not,’ he said, stroking her arm in such a way that she was momentarily reassured of his affection.
He led her back to the front door and let her out. She was anguished by a sense of being embraced and pushed away at the same time.
Aphroditi heard the keys turn in the lock behind her, but after that, she was aware of little else. She felt disconnected from the world and drove straight across a crossroads, not registering that she had narrowly missed another car.
In this blind fashion she reached home and went upstairs to the apartment. She could think of nothing to do, so she rang her mother.
‘Aphroditi, I have been trying to call you but
I couldn’t get through. What’s going on? What’s happening there?’
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ said Aphroditi. ‘There’s a bit of a panic. It probably looks worse on the news.’
‘It’s terrible. Poor Archbishop Makarios!’
Artemis Markides still regarded Makarios as her spiritual leader, and the fact that he had been deposed was her main concern.
‘You should come over to England if things get worse,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of room here, as you know.’
‘I’m sure I won’t have to do that,’ said Aphroditi firmly. Leaving Cyprus to go and live with her mother was the last thing in the world on her mind. ‘We’re just coming to the final stage with the new hotel,’ she added, ‘and Savvas has no intention of stopping!’
‘Well, keep in touch, dear. I need to know that you’re safe.’
‘I will, Mother,’ answered Aphroditi.
The following morning, just as the sun was rising, Turkish planes were heard over Cyprus.
In the ground-floor apartment, Markos, Maria and Panikos gathered round the radio with their parents. They were avidly listening to the news on CyBC.
Turkey was demanding the restoration of constitutional order. They feared for the safety of the Turkish Cypriots and the imminent declaration of enosis by the perpetrators of the coup. Their ultimatum had not been met, so they had landed thousands of Turkish paratroopers in the north of the island. Kyrenia, just forty miles from Famagusta, was being bombed. It was the family’s worst fear.
‘Panagia mou,’ muttered Irini, her head bowed as if in prayer.
Maria sat next to her and took her hand.
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ she said softly. ‘The Greeks will come and save us.’
‘Do you think so?’ Irini said, momentarily reassured.
‘Of course they will.’
Her small son tottered round and round the table, oblivious to the events of the day.
Irini Georgiou looked up at Markos. He knew she was thinking about Christos.
‘I’m sure he’ll be with us again soon,’ he said.
‘I can’t listen to this,’ said Vasilis Georgiou, storming angrily towards the door. ‘Why didn’t Makarios come to some arrangement with the Turks? Weren’t they supposed to want the same thing? They could have got rid of that Sampson together! Now see what’s happened!’