‘Kalispera, Gianni,’ said Savvas, stopping to greet the man on reception. ‘Everything in order today?’
‘Busy, Kyrie Papacosta. Very busy indeed.’
It was the answer Savvas liked to hear. Despite his focus on The Sunrise, he wanted The Paradise Beach full of contented guests. Hosting regular parties was one way he had found to keep their loyalty, but tonight’s event had a particular purpose.
That morning, an embossed invitation had been slipped under each door.
Mr and Mrs Papacosta
request the pleasure of your company
at the Paradise Patio
Cocktails
6.30 p.m.
Now, as Savvas and Aphroditi moved through to the patio to greet their guests, a few dozen people were already gathered there, all of them looking out to sea. It was impossible not to be mesmerised by the sight. In the balmy early-evening light, there was a rosy tint to the sky, the sun was still warm on the skin and the lithe bodies of the boys who lingered to play games of volleyball on the beach were sharply defined by the shadows. It seemed entirely credible that Aphroditi, the Goddess of Love, might have been born on this island. It was a place to be in love with life itself.
There was a pattern and rhythm to the way the couple circulated, asking guests how they had spent the day, listening patiently to descriptions of wonderful swimming, clear waters, perhaps an excursion to see the medieval city. They had heard everything before but exclaimed politely as if it was for the first time.
In the corner of the room, a young French pianist moved his pale fingers seamlessly from one jazz favourite to another. The sound of chattering voices and clinking ice drowned out his music here as in every other venue. Every evening he made a journey along the row of hotels, playing for an hour in each one. At five in the morning he would put down the lid of the Steinway at The Savoy, the last of the bars where he had a nightly engagement. He would then sleep until late afternoon and be back at The Paradise Beach for six fifteen.
Savvas was shorter and stouter than most of his northern European clientele, but his suit was better cut than any in the room. Similarly, his wife’s clothes were always more chic than those of their guests. However well dressed they were, whether from London, Paris or even the United States, none of the women matched Aphroditi for glamour. Though the American was more than ten years her senior, Aphroditi cultivated a Jackie O style. She had always loved the way Jackie dressed; more than ever since her marriage to Aristotle Onassis, every magazine was full of her image. For years Aphroditi had devoured everything to do with her icon, from the days when she had refurbished the White House and entertained foreign dignitaries with cocktails, to more recent times with images of her on islands not so far away from Cyprus. Jackie’s was the style she favoured: immaculately tailored but feminine.
Though the whole impression was flawless, it was her jewellery that made Aphroditi stand out. Most women bought a necklace or bracelet to go with an outfit, but Aphroditi had dresses made to match her jewellery. Usually this reflected a classic Cypriot design but sometimes it had a more modern touch. When people met Aphroditi and were reminded of Jackie Onassis, they sometimes doubted whether Aristotle’s gifts to his wife matched up to those given by Savvas Papacosta to his.
Several waiters moved about the room with trays of drinks, but behind the bar, in a dark suit, was the young man who was in charge of the event. Markos Georgiou had begun as a plongeur in the kitchen but had quickly progressed to waiting at tables, then to mixing cocktails. He was ambitious, charming with customers and had spotted Savvas’ need for a right-hand man. Within a few years he had made himself indispensable to the hotel’s owner.
Markos was the man with whom lone male drinkers drank a late-night whisky (he would memorise their favourite brand and pull it from the shelf without asking). Equally important, he never forgot a woman’s name nor how she liked her drink, flattering her by serving a gin and tonic with a twist of lemon rather than a slice.
He had a smile that dazzled both men and women equally. Whoever received a flash of his white teeth and green eyes felt the fleeting touch of his charisma.
Markos, always tuned in to his boss, was ready for the imperceptible nod that was his cue. He came from behind the bar, skirted round the outside of the crowd of milling guests and whispered in the pianist’s ear.
The young player smoothly rounded off the melody, and as he did so, the bright tinkling of a cocktail stirrer tapped against a glass silenced the sound of convivial chatter.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Savvas, who was standing on a low stool so that he could be seen. ‘It is my great pleasure to announce that tomorrow evening we have the grand opening of our new hotel, The Sunrise. This special event marks the beginning of a new era for us and the realisation of a long-held dream: to open a hotel in Famagusta that will rival the best in the world.’
Markos was now back behind the bar. He listened intently to Savvas Papacosta but all the time he was watching Aphroditi, who gazed admiringly at her husband and at exactly the right moment put her hands together. For a few moments there was a warm ripple of applause, then once again a rapt silence that allowed Savvas to continue.
‘The position of our new hotel is unmatched by any other in this resort. It faces precisely east, and from the moment the sun rises, guests will enjoy better facilities and entertainment than anywhere on this island. One of the main features of the new hotel will be our nightclub, the Clair de Lune.
‘You are all warmly welcome to join us this time tomorrow for cocktails and to see some of the facilities our new hotel will offer. A coach will leave from here at six twenty and bring you back at eight thirty, unless you wish to enjoy a ten-minute stroll along the beach afterwards. Enjoy the rest of your evening and we look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’
Guests gathered round Savvas and Aphroditi to ask questions. Their elegant hosts answered them all with a smile. They hoped of course that some of their regular clients would transfer their loyalty to the new establishment. What they did not mention was that not all of them would be able to afford it. A room at The Sunrise at the height of summer would be beyond the budget of all but the very wealthy.
After ten minutes or so, Aphroditi looked over to Markos and made a summoning gesture. It seemed imperious and unfeminine, but he could not ignore her. She was the boss’s wife.
He came over and Aphroditi broke away from the circle to speak to him. They looked straight at each other, eye to eye. The noise in the room meant that Aphroditi had to lean in to make herself heard. He caught the aroma of her perfume and the waft of sweet vermouth on her breath. In spite of the obvious expense of everything she wore, he found the combination of these smells cloying.
‘Markos,’ she said. ‘People will want to look around the nightclub tomorrow. Can you make absolutely sure that everything is ready by six thirty.’
‘By all means, Kyria Papacosta, but you know it won’t be operational until the following day?’
His response was polite, as was hers:
‘I understand perfectly, Markos. But we need to start promoting it and giving people an impression of it. Even if guests continue to stay in this hotel, we will be expecting them to come to The Sunrise for such entertainment.’
She turned her back and walked away.
There was always a measured formality between them which hid a deep-seated mistrust. Aphroditi felt threatened by this man who was always somewhere in the background. She could not help noticing a blemish on his cheek and felt a momentary pang of satisfaction that his otherwise faultless face was mildly flawed.
Though the hierarchy was clear enough, Aphroditi felt that Markos Georgiou’s presence challenged her own position. They trod carefully around each other, Aphroditi always expecting some kind of slight that she could mention to Savvas. She had no proof that Markos undermined her but she was always looking for it.
She was furious that Markos had been given freedom to specify everything for the
nightclub in The Sunrise. Even its name. It was the only area of the hotel in which Aphroditi had played no part. This rankled with her. She could not understand why her husband gave this man so much liberty when he was so controlling about every other aspect of this enterprise. She particularly disliked what it was called: Clair de Lune.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ she had moaned to Savvas. ‘It’s the one place in the hotel that will never see the light of the moon!’
‘But it will only open when the moon is shining, agapi mou. That’s the point.’
Undaunted, Aphroditi was determined to find something to criticise.
‘Most people won’t even understand what it means. It’s French.’
The argument had taken place one evening when they were in a taverna by the sea.
‘Why not “Panselinos”?’ suggested Aphroditi, glancing skywards.
‘Look, Aphroditi,’ said Savvas, trying to keep his patience. ‘Because that means “Full Moon”, which is not the same. Markos chose “Clair de Lune”.’
‘Markos! But why should …’
Aphroditi did not hide her anger whenever her husband put Markos first.
The name of the club itself did not bother Savvas one shilling, but his wife’s constant criticism of Markos Georgiou was wearing. He wanted to please Aphroditi, but at the same time he did not want to offend the man on whom he relied for a good proportion of the hotel’s projected profit.
The name apart, Aphroditi particularly disliked the decor.
‘It just doesn’t fit with the rest of the hotel,’ she moaned to Savvas. ‘Why did you let him do it?’
‘It’s meant to have its own atmosphere, Aphroditi. It’s meant to be different.’
Aphroditi did not appreciate that this small piece of the hotel was about the night. It was not intended to connect with the light, airy feel of the ground floor. The Clair de Lune aimed to attract those who preferred night to day, whisky to water, and who relished late-night conversation and cigars.
‘I loathe that dark purple …’
Aphroditi had only been down to inspect the nightclub during daytime hours. It was true that the decor, when strip lights illuminated it, looked gloomy, but with gentle, low-wattage lighting, the space had its allure. There were copious lampshades with gold fringing, thickly piled mauve carpet and low onyx tables arranged around a small stage. Down one side there was a bar with an impressive display of Scotch and Irish whiskies. Even though it could seat one hundred and fifty, the room seemed intimate.
Aphroditi, who had been able to choose the aesthetics of the hotel, was not allowed to influence even the smallest detail of the nightclub’s design. Savvas had given Markos carte blanche, and there was not a single aspect that he would allow his wife to change.
In those frantic days before the hotel opened, signs were installed above the door and even the front of the bar was embellished with its name in mother-of-pearl inlay. Aphroditi had lost the battle. She knew it was futile to try to change what was now a fait accompli, but nevertheless bitterly resented Markos’ victory.
Markos could not help being pleased that Savvas had been as good as his word. He knew that he was more than Savvas’ major-domo, whatever Aphroditi wanted to think. Day by day he had turned himself into Savvas Papacosta’s right-hand.
When The Sunrise opened, he rather hoped that the boss’s wife would not be around as much. He found her manner with Savvas proprietorial. It was often the way with wives, he felt. They behaved as if they owned their men.
Privately, he wondered why the boss’s wife was even working in the hotel. When she was Aphroditi’s age, his own mother already had her three children and only left the confines of the house and their orchard in order to go to the village market. Even now, it was just once a year that she left her home in Famagusta to go to Nicosia. The rest of the time she was tending the house or the garden, making shoushouko (a grape and almond sweet) or halloumi, or creating lace. Markos accepted that times had changed, and that girls – his sister, even – now dressed differently, thought differently and even talked differently. In spite of all this, the very existence of Aphroditi in his workplace bothered him and he treated her with great caution and exaggerated politeness.
One thing he was certain of was that she would play no role in the nightclub. It would be entirely his own domain. Savvas Papacosta was aiming to attract a set of the super-rich whose taste for cabaret had been whetted in Monaco, Paris and even Las Vegas. He had told Markos that with the right acts and music, they could make more profit for the hotel than the accommodation and catering put together. It would be on a different scale from any similar venue in Cyprus, open six days a week, from eleven at night until four in the morning.
At eight o’clock precisely, Markos watched Savvas and Aphroditi Papacosta say their farewells and slip away. It would be seven or eight hours before he himself left. The pianist continued to play and he knew there would be a core of clients who would linger to enjoy the atmosphere until well after midnight. Some of them would return after dinner and spill out on to the patio to enjoy the balmy warmth of the night. Others, mostly men (though occasionally a lone female guest), would perch on a bar stool to give him their views about business, politics or something more personal. From his position behind the bar, Markos was adept at making the right responses and adjusting to moods that changed with the level in the whisky bottle.
He readily accepted offers of ‘a stiff double’, clinked glasses with a smile, toasted whatever the customer wanted to toast and stealthily lined up the drinks beneath the bar. Clients happily reeled off to bed after an evening of satisfying conviviality, while Markos poured the unwanted liquor back into the bottle and cashed up.
He drove past the new hotel on his way home. It was two thirty in the morning and lights were still blazing inside The Sunrise’s reception area. Numerous contractors’ vans were parked outside as people continued to work through the night.
There to the left of the main doors a huge sign had been erected, ready for illumination: ‘Clair de Lune’. He knew that everything inside was in place, as he had already inspected it that morning. Whatever Aphroditi Papacosta imagined, there was little with which she would be able to find fault, and for the group of guests who would be given a privileged preview of facilities that night, he was confident that the nightclub would be the main attraction of the new hotel.
Savvas Papacosta was giving him an exceptional opportunity. It was something Markos had dreamed of.
Chapter Three
WITHIN TEN MINUTES, Markos drew up outside his home in Elpida Street. Like most buildings in the residential outskirts of modern Famagusta, it had several floors, each with its own balcony, and each occupied by a different generation.
On the ground floor were Markos’ parents, Vasilis and Irini. On the first there was an empty apartment that would eventually be occupied by Markos’ younger brother Christos; on the second was his sister Maria with her husband Panikos. Markos lived alone on the top floor. If he leaned right out over the balcony, there was a glimpse of the sea and sometimes the possibility of a breeze. Everyone shared the rooftop, a permanent site for drying laundry. Rows of shirts, sheets and towels hung there, dry as paper after an hour. Rusty metal rods sprouted up like saplings, ready for another storey if ever needed for children of children.
At this time of night Markos would not stop at his parents’ place, but in the morning he would sit in their small garden for ten minutes before going to work again. His father would usually have left for his smallholding by ten, but his mother would make him the sweet Greek coffee that he loved and take a break from her chores.
When Vasilis and Irini Georgiou had built the apartments in the city, they had replicated in miniature everything they had enjoyed when they lived in the countryside. A vine that grew over a trellis to give them shade, five closely planted orange trees and a dozen pots from which his mother harvested more tomatoes than they could consume. Even the gerania had been propagated from cut
tings of their plants in the village. There was also a tiny corner of the kipos fenced off with wire where two chickens scratched and fussed at the ground.
For Irini Georgiou, the most important feature of the garden was the cage that hung just to the left of her door. Inside it was her canary, Mimikos. His singing was her joy.
At three in the morning everything was still, apart from the cicadas.
Markos found his key, let himself into the shared hallway and began to climb the stairs. When he reached the first floor, he could hear his brother, Christos, along with some other voices inside the empty apartment. There was nothing in there but the bare concrete of walls and floors and the sounds were magnified.
Markos put his ear to the door and listened. His brother’s voice was raised, which was not unusual, but one of the other men inside sounded even angrier. He recognised the voice of another mechanic from the garage where Christos worked. Haralambos Lambrakis had exerted huge influence on his brother.
The two brothers had always been close and fond of each other. There was a ten-year age gap and they had joshed and played around together for Christos’ entire life. Since he had been old enough to walk, the younger one had followed the older around, copying what he did and what he believed. He had idolised Markos.
At the age of eighteen, Christos was far more radical than Markos had been at the same age. Just the previous morning they had argued over the burning issue of enosis between Cyprus and Greece. As a younger man, Markos had always believed passionately that this union should happen. He had been a member of EOKA, the National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters, and supported its cause when it was fighting for the end of British rule on the island. Since independence had been achieved a decade earlier, though, he had moved away from its extreme ideas.
After the military coup in Athens five years before, most Greek Cypriots valued their independence from the mainland more than ever and no longer wanted unification with Greece. There was now rivalry between the Greek Cypriots such as Christos who still campaigned for enosis and those who did not, and between them hung the threat of violence.