The women always asked him for any news of what was happening outside, and his response remained cheerful.
‘It’s quiet at the moment, but you’re safer down here for the time being.’
When Markos was in the room with them, nothing taking place outside it really mattered to Aphroditi. He flirted with Frau Bruchmeyer in such a way that her eyes sparkled more gaily than her diamonds, but Aphroditi was sure that the smiles he gave her were different. Whenever he could, he touched her hand or arm, casually, fleetingly, but never accidentally.
Together, in this space meant for night-time, she felt the irresponsible pleasure of being removed from the world. There was nothing she could do to affect the actions of soldiers or politicians, and she believed that her moments of intimacy with Markos bound her more tightly to him than anything that had gone before.
Markos had always left before Savvas arrived at the Clair de Lune to sleep.
When he came, he immediately stretched himself out on one of the banquettes and the music had to be turned off. For several hours the women had to keep silent. Savvas’ nerves were frayed, his mood dark. During the past few days the Turks had destroyed several more hotels.
In spite of everything, Savvas wanted to believe that this was a hiatus, after which business would continue as usual. Meanwhile, he was feeling angry and frustrated that the days were passing without a solution. The current crisis had to be resolved by the politicians. There was too much at stake for everyone. It was July, the peak of the season, and in business terms it was a disaster that The Sunrise was empty and the opening of The New Paradise Beach might be delayed.
Its exterior was nearing completion. All the windows were now in place. They reflected the sky like a mirror, and when the sun rose, it was as if the whole building was on fire. The futuristic design was coming to life, and Savvas was confident it would take Famagusta into a new era.
The huge gleaming tower was an easy target for Turkish planes. Early one morning, they neatly dropped several bombs on to the roof. Moments later they exploded, blasting a huge space through the centre of the building and shattering every window. A fire ripped through the ruins. By the time Savvas reached the site, it looked as if both skin and flesh had been stripped off a body and only the skeleton remained, twisted and charred.
The ghostly figure of Savvas appeared back at the Clair de Lune that afternoon, his face and hair white with dust.
‘It’s a catastrophe …’ he whispered to Aphroditi. ‘Everything. Everything I’ve been working for.’
Aphroditi had never seen a man cry. Even when her brother died, her father’s tears were wept in private.
This was a different kind of grief. It was fuelled by anger.
She tried to comfort him, but the words sounded hollow.
‘We can rebuild it, Savvas …’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had seen what’s happened up there!’ he shouted. ‘We’re finished! Ruined!’
Chapter Seventeen
WHILE SAVVAS’ ATTENTION was entirely focused on his own patch of the city, Markos brought news that stretched well beyond Famagusta. In Athens, the debacle caused by the Greek-backed military coup in Cyprus had triggered the collapse of the junta itself. After seven years of military dictatorship, democracy was restored. In Greece, this meant the return from exile of former prime minister Constantine Karamanlis. In Cyprus, Sampson had resigned when the Turkish army invaded, and a new president, Glafkos Clerides, was sworn in.
For the new government in Athens, Cyprus remained at the top of the agenda.
‘So,’ explained Markos to Frau Bruchmeyer, ‘the parties responsible for protecting this republic, Britain, Turkey and Greece, are going to sit round a table and talk.’
‘An independent republic that has the interference of all those outsiders?’ exclaimed the German. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘As long as it helps get rid of the Turks and brings some kind of peace, does it matter?’ interjected Aphroditi.
‘And perhaps some real independence,’ added Frau Bruchmeyer. ‘You don’t want all these foreigners constantly meddling in your affairs.’
After a few days of sheltering beneath the ground, it finally seemed safe enough to come up again. They climbed the stairs and emerged into dazzling sunshine, feeling grubby and bedraggled.
Everything looked the same. The Sunrise was completely unscathed; the palm trees still stood like sentries at the entrance.
Both women went into the foyer. Savvas had insisted that the dolphins should continue to spout, and the sound of running water cheered the otherwise still and silent space.
Frau Bruchmeyer went over to the lift.
‘I shall take a shower,’ she said. ‘And hope to see you later.’
Aphroditi walked towards the terrace bar, took off her shoes and went on to the beach, from where she could see the line of hotels stretching both south and north of The Sunrise. Many of them had been hit. She could see a gaping hole in the side of one, balconies hanging lopsidedly from another, and some that leaned at dangerous angles. The absence of people on the sand and in the sea was eerie enough. With the damaged buildings as a backdrop, it was an apocalyptic scene.
She stood with her back to the sea and looked up at The Sunrise. Everything was aligned, symmetrical, intact, just as it had been the day the hotel was finished.
At about the same time, Markos was driving his Cortina out of the car park. His boot was loaded up with packages. Christos had still not come home, but Haralambos had rung a few days earlier to ask him to deliver some of the packages to the garage. There was no longer such danger in possessing them, given that EOKA B and the National Guard were both on the winning side of the coup and Makarios’ men were now defeated. With the Turkish army still on the march, Haralambos had wanted their unit to be armed.
When he had dropped everything off, Markos returned home. His mother was sitting at the table in the kipos, exactly where he had left her that morning. In the meantime, she had gone briefly to church to light candles and to pray that Agia Irini would bring the peace that her name implied – but more importantly the return of her younger son.
There was a freshly made cake on the table.
Irini was keeping her hands busy making lace. It was something Markos had watched her doing his whole life. She looked up at him. She did not need to ask anything.
‘The other boys in the garage haven’t heard from him yet. And Haralambos is away too.’
‘You mean they’re missing?’
‘Mamma,’ Markos said, putting his hand on hers, ‘they’re just away. Not missing. They’re probably on some kind of exercise.’
Even Markos was concerned now, and his mother could sense it.
‘Leventi mou, what are we going to do?’
‘There is nothing we can do. We just have to wait and try to be patient,’ he answered, more like a father to his daughter than a son to his mother.
Irini Georgiou crossed herself many times.
‘It’s your saint’s day!’ Markos exclaimed suddenly, noticing the cake. ‘Hronia Polla!’ He hugged his mother. ‘I’m so sorry, I forgot!’
‘Don’t worry, leventi mou. We’ve all got so much on our minds …’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Emine. She brought it round.’
At that moment Maria appeared with little Vasilakis, who was just over one year old now. The four of them ate large, sticky slices, the thick syrup running down their chins in the sunshine. Vasilakis giggled as he licked his fingers one by one.
‘Ena, thio, tria, tessera,’ his mother counted. ‘One, two, three, four.’ The small child clumsily tried to repeat the sounds after her, his little brow creased in concentration.
All their attention was focused on his efforts, and together they smiled, though not for a moment were they distracted from the weight of their anxieties.
It was quiet enough in Famagusta that day and the next, but elsewhere villages were still being captured b
y the Turkish army as it marched across the island. The National Guard continued to put up stiff resistance, but was being overwhelmed.
‘There are fifty thousand of them and more coming in by the day,’ Vasilis said to Markos.
‘That’s an exaggeration!’ exclaimed Markos. ‘You just make the situation worse when you say these things!’
According to the radio, the real figure was half that, but even as politicians and diplomats continued to talk, the numbers were increasing. Intensive talks were now taking place in Geneva between the foreign ministers of Turkey, Greece and Great Britain.
‘How can anything be agreed while the Turks have all those troops on the island?’ said Vasilis. ‘It’s not going to work, is it?’
Panikos was dutifully going to the electrical shop each day, and Maria was spending more time downstairs with her parents. Her pregnancy and the heat were exhausting her, and she needed help with Vasilakis.
‘Mamma, we have to give some clothes for all those refugees,’ she said. ‘I just heard there was an appeal.’
Thousands had already fled their homes in Kyrenia to escape from the invasion force. They had left with nothing.
During dinner the next evening, they listened to the latest news bulletin.
‘A peace agreement has been reached,’ said the announcer.
‘You see!’ cried Maria. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
‘Shhhh, Maria!’ said Vasilis. ‘We need to listen.’
What they heard reassured them all. The Greek, Turkish and British foreign ministers had all signed. Though the Turkish forces would stay, their numbers would be reduced. Both sides pledged not to violate the terms of the peace agreement.
They sat in silence listening to the good news that the Turkish commander had withdrawn his demand for United Nations forces to leave Turkish-controlled areas. Meetings had been held with Clerides, the new president, as well as the Turkish Cypriot leader, Rauf Denktaș.
‘So everything will go back to normal?’ said Vasilis. ‘Seems unlikely.’
‘But it sounds as if a ceasefire has begun already,’ said Panikos.
‘Thank God for that,’ whispered Maria.
For Irini it was all without meaning. If Christos was not there, she could not celebrate any kind of peace. She cleared the plates in silence, but her own food was untouched. As usual, she had laid a place for her younger son.
Close by, the Özkans were eating dinner too. They were relieved to hear news of another ceasefire.
‘Perhaps it means that Ali will return,’ Hüseyin said reassuringly to his mother.
‘I do hope so,’ she said, her words almost inaudible.
‘And has there been any news on Christos?’ her son asked.
‘Still nothing, as far as I know,’ she said. ‘They’re as worried sick as we are.’
‘Maybe he’ll be back now there’s been an agreement,’ Halit chipped in.
Emine regularly called on Irini, but had done so even more than usual in recent days. The women had been able to share their anxiety about their sons.
‘Why do you insist on going so often?’ said Halit, who felt that the two families should be keeping their distance.
‘Because Irini is my friend!’ said Emine firmly.
The days of sheltering in the nightclub had brought Aphroditi and Frau Bruchmeyer close. Although the atmosphere was far from normal in Famagusta, cafés still remained open, and the two of them went out together to pass the time.
‘I think I will go back to Germany for a few weeks,’ said Frau Bruchmeyer. ‘Just until all this blows over.’
Aphroditi’s face betrayed her disappointment. Their time together had been a welcome distraction from her constant desire to see Markos.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ added the elderly German. ‘I won’t stay away. There’s no life like the life I lead here …’
The women finished their coffee and left.
The following morning, Aphroditi arrived early to see her friend off. Markos was at the hotel to ensure that transport had been properly organised. The trio stood together.
‘Darlings,’ said Frau Bruchmeyer, ‘I will be counting the days until I am back here.’
They waved her off.
‘Markos,’ Aphroditi said under her breath, continuing to smile and wave, ‘I have missed you so much.’
There were plenty of empty rooms now, but discreetly they made their separate ways to the penthouse suite and made love as if for the first time.
A few days later, Emine was at the Georgiou home again. The optimism generated by the agreement had almost immediately begun to diminish. There was still much to be resolved, and a second set of talks in Geneva was anticipated.
‘My dearest Irini,’ Emine said tearfully, ‘I feel as if I should apologise.’
‘You? What for?’
‘For what is happening,’ responded Emine. ‘How could Turkish soldiers behave in that way? They’re shooting women and children now. And men are being taken off to camps.’
‘The ceasefire didn’t mean very much, did it?’
The women almost clung to each other. They did not always have much to say, but they knew the depth of their anxiety was the same, and this was comforting. They blamed their own sides for creating such chaos, never each other.
Rather than being reduced, Turkish forces and weaponry continued to build up.
Greek Cypriot villages in the mountains close to Kyrenia were attacked and captured, and thousands were still fleeing shells and mortar fire. Larnaca on the south coast became a target too. In spite of the ceasefire agreement, the Turkish troops were making gradual but relentless progress southwards.
As the women talked, there was the dull crump of mortar fire in the distance. Fighting continued on the edge of Famagusta, where thousands of Turkish Cypriots were still under siege, cut off within the old walls. The port remained closed.
Irini was ever hopeful that Makarios would return to save the situation. They had heard that their ousted president was now in Britain.
‘He says he wants to see both Greek and Turkish Cypriots living peacefully,’ she said.
‘But we need to get rid of all those outsiders first,’ said Emine. ‘While they’re still here killing people, that’ll never happen.’
Talk of the rape and slaughter of Greek Cypriots behind Turkish lines was now widespread, but at the same time Turkish Cypriots accused Greek Cypriots of murder and looting. Accusations and counter-accusations flew, of violations of human rights and indiscriminate acts of violence. Both sides were holding groups of hostages, and men, women and children from both communities were in flight. Despite the agreement, the island was not at peace.
Older people on both sides began to talk of a similar population exchange that had taken place once before. In 1923, Greeks and Turks in Asia Minor had been forced to pick up their belongings and leave their homes, passing each other on the road as they travelled from east to west and west to east. This time Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots were fleeing and, just as then, communities that had lived in harmony were wrenched apart, the balance of trust on which their lives had been based now destroyed.
Greek Cypriots captured by the army had been taken to Adana in Turkey. Many others had been killed, and families missing their men were desperate for news. The names of those in Adana were to be published, with a promise that they would soon be released. Irini had convinced herself that Christos’ name would be among them.
‘At least I’ll know where he is,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll get him back.’
There were nearly four hundred being held. When Christos’ name was not on the list, Irini wept, her hopes dashed. The rest of the family were feeling his absence keenly too.
Meanwhile talks continued in Geneva, with Turkey now demanding separate cantons on the island for the Turkish Cypriots. New demarcation lines in Nicosia were agreed, and both sides were ordered to adhere to the ceasefire.
‘Do they really think they can solv
e this?’ slurred Vasilis. ‘And come up with an idea about how we can all live together? From thousands of miles away?’ He was drunk and belligerent.
‘Isn’t it better that they keep trying?’ asked Maria. ‘And keep talking?’
‘If they agree on something, who’s going to make it work?’ he continued, directing his questions at his son. For Vasilis, this was men’s talk.
‘Markos, what do you think is going to happen?’ Irini asked, wringing her hands. ‘And when do you think we’ll get Christos back?’
She relied on her elder son for insight. He was more connected with the outside world. In spite of the hotel and nightclub being closed, he seemed to have plenty of business to attend to and was out a great deal.
‘I really don’t know, Mamma, but I do have faith in the big powers to sort things out for us.’
For the sake of his mother’s nerves, he made little of the threat hanging over them all. With general mobilisation in Greece and a large force moving towards the border with Turkey, the possibility of an all-out conflict between the two countries continued to be a real danger.
‘Try not to worry too much,’ he said. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’
He gave his mother a peck on the cheek and left.
The casual gesture almost reassured her. She so desperately wanted to believe him.
Chapter Eighteen
VASILIS, EVER PESSIMISTIC, turned out to be right. Turkey maintained its demand for separate cantons for the Turkish Cypriots and issued an ultimatum. Greece had twenty-four hours to accept the proposal and they would not wait for a decision. Peace talks broke down irretrievably.
Turkish troops were on standby across Cyprus and, before dawn on 14 August, they were issued with new orders to advance. Tanks began to move towards Famagusta. They were slow but sinister, and any remaining sense of security vanished. Their progress was relentless.
‘We have the National Guard to protect us, don’t we?’ said Maria, pale and full of fear.
‘I’m not so sure how they’ll hold out against the tanks,’ answered Vasilis.
‘Tanks …?’ said Maria quietly, holding the little one tightly to her side.