Aphrodite's Island (12 page)

As we eat, we talk, casually, about nothing in particular. Then, over the dessert, he says, ‘So, what have you been doing today?’

I have been waiting for an opportunity to bring this up. I put down my fork and take the papers out of my handbag. ‘Reading this.’

He glances down at the sheets, then raises his eyes to mine with a slight frown.

‘Your father’s letters?’

‘Well, the first one. Os hasn’t got any further at the moment.’

‘Are you sure you want me to read this?’

‘If it wouldn’t bore you too much.’

‘It wouldn’t bore me at all, but it is rather personal.’

‘I’d like you to read it. I’d really like to be able to talk it over with someone.’

‘Very well.’ He lowers his eyes again and does not speak until he has read the whole letter. Then he looks up, his gaze inscrutable. ‘So, how much of a shock has all this been to you?’

‘Well, considerable,’ I reply. ‘I’d never suspected any of it until the other day.’

‘So what do you want to do?’

‘I’m not sure. I wish I knew who she was – the woman my father loved. He doesn’t even mention her name. Do you think there is any chance of tracing her?’

‘Not without a lot more information,’ he says. ‘And even then it would be difficult.’

‘We know she lived in Ayios Epiktetos.’

‘Which is now Catalkoy. But all the Greeks from there left years ago. Anyway, she had moved to Athens.’

‘Yes, but she came back – and she had a mother and father, and a brother.’

‘A terrorist, it seems.’

‘Who kidnapped my father, apparently. Why would he do that?’

‘To avenge the family honour? To have had an affair with his sister would be an insult only death could avenge.’

‘But he didn’t kill him. I know he survived, because he came back to England with us.’

‘You’re quite sure about that? You couldn’t be mixing up the time?’

‘No, because he used to take me to school and I didn’t start school till after we came back.’

‘Right. But I don’t see that it gets us any farther. Why do you want to find this woman, anyway?’

I hesitate and shrug my shoulders. ‘I don’t know, Karim, to be perfectly honest. Curiosity? What was it about her that made her so special? My father spent the rest of his life regretting that he lost her, so it must have been a very intense affair.’

‘But suppose you did find her. Suppose you gave her the letters. Don’t you think it might just cause her pain? She will have made a life for herself. She has a husband, children. How are they going to react?’

‘What about us – my family? My mother drank herself to death because my father could never really love her as she loved him, and I’ve grown up feeling that in some way it was all my fault. I want to see this other woman face to face and tell her that she ruined three people’s lives.’

Karim reaches across the table and lays his hand on mine. ‘I understand that. But it isn’t going to be easy.’

‘Perhaps the other letters will help.’

He turns his attention to the letter again. ‘There’s a name here – Ferhan. That’s a Turkish name. Catalkoy … Ayios Epiktetos … used to be a mixed village in those days. Greek and Turkish Cypriot children would have grown up side by side, so it’s quite possible that your father’s mistress had Turkish friends. Ferhan might still be there, or someone may know where she is now.’

‘Could we go there and ask around?’

He shakes his head. ‘People are inclined to be suspicious of anyone who asks too many questions, particularly a foreigner. Leave it with me. I have friends in Catalkoy. I’ll make a few
discreet
enquiries. If I find anything helpful I’ll let you know.’

I feel warm with gratitude, and relief. This makes us more than casual acquaintances. ‘That’s really good of you, Karim. Thanks.’

He returns my smile. ‘Listen. Tomorrow I have a day off. I’d like to show you
my
island. Can I?’

‘I’d love that.’

‘Good. I’ll pick you up at ten. OK?’

‘Up there? What do you think I am, a mountain goat?’

‘Come on! It’s not so far.’

I stare up at the sheer-sided crag above us. This morning Karim collected me, not in the usual Mercedes but in a Range Rover, and we headed up into the mountains east of Kyrenia. At the top of a pass we swung off the road and onto a narrow, stony track which clings to the top of the saw-toothed ridge I had seen from the coast. For several miles we wound our way around the sides of the precipitous gorges that carve themselves into the flank of the mountain, bouncing and jolting over the potholes, with Karim chuckling at my gasps of alarm. Now we are standing in an empty, level square of dusty ground, which seems to be as far as we can go.

‘But there’s nothing up there,’ I protest.

‘Look again!’ he says, laughing.

I screw up my eyes against the intense blue of the sky and slowly begin to make out shapes that are not the work of nature, but which yet seem to grow out of the honey-coloured rock as if an organic part of it. Little by little, as I concentrate, what had appeared to be a jumble of boulders, cracked and fissured by wind and weather, resolves itself into walls and towers.

‘There’s a castle up there?’

‘Buffavento. Come on.’

He takes my hand and leads me up a steep, rocky path. By the time we reach a paved road and a solid, imposing gate tower I am already gasping for breath.

‘How on earth did they ever get the supplies they needed up
here to build a place like this?’

‘Who knows? How did the builders of Salisbury or Lincoln Cathedral manage?’

‘At least they started at ground level. Why would anyone want to build up here?’

‘A watchtower to warn of invasion, originally. The Byzantine rulers built it as a defence against Arab invasion in the twelfth century. Later it became a handy place to stick your political opponents.’

We pass under the archway, following a cobbled street that climbs still higher and higher, past the ruins of buildings whose purpose I can only guess at. Eventually, we emerge onto a level platform that gives us for the first time a view to the seaward side of the mountains. I gasp. On all sides the rock drops away sheer for hundreds of feet, so that we look out over the tops of the pines that clothe the steep ravines. A raven, disturbed by our approach, rides a current of air on a level with our faces and caws a sinister warning. Far below to the north lies the sea and the clustered villages of the coastal plain and beyond, where the distance dissolves in an amethyst haze, there is a faint suggestion of snow-capped peaks.

Karim touches my arm. ‘Turkey. Those are the Taurus Mountains. Now you see how close we are.’

He turns to point in the opposite direction, where the slope flattens out into a dun-coloured plain.

‘That’s the Mesaoria, the bread-basket of the island. It doesn’t look like it now, because the harvest is over, but in spring it is covered in wheat. And there, in the far distance – can you see? – that is Lefkosa.’

‘Nicosia?’

‘If you insist.’

I put up my hand to my hair. On the climb the sun beat down fiercely but now, without the shelter of the mountainside, we are catching the full force of the west wind which, even at sea level, constantly sets the waves dancing and the flags outside the hotels
rippling and cracking. Up here it makes my ears sing and, looking down at the vertiginous view, I feel suddenly dizzy.

I feel Karim’s arm round my waist. ‘What is it? Are you feeling faint again?’

For a moment I cannot answer. Then I say, as calmly as I can, ‘No, I’m all right. Just a bit giddy for a minute. I’m not very good at heights – and I think I must be out of condition. That climb … the heat, you know …’

His voice is contrite. ‘I’m sorry, I should have thought. It was silly of me to bring you up here when I know you’re not well.’

I pull free of his supporting arm. ‘I’m all right! Honestly. I was just out of breath. Look, I’m fine now.’

He studies my face for a moment, then turns and leads me into a huge vaulted chamber.

‘Take care, there’s a hole in the middle of the floor!’

I peer down into an apparently bottomless shaft. ‘What is it? A well?’

‘An oubliette. Somewhere to throw things you wanted to get rid of – rubbish, or an inconvenient prisoner.’ He moves to an arched window in the opposite wall. ‘Look, there’s our car, right down there. See?’

‘Oh yes! God, I knew it was a long climb, but I didn’t realize we’d come that far.’ I squint at the winding thread of track. ‘The road seems to go on. Why is it blocked off down there?’

‘It leads to a military base. We’re not allowed to go any further.’

‘Another one! Everywhere I go I seem to pass army camps.’

I see his face harden in a way I am beginning to recognize. ‘It’s necessary. Without the Turkish army we should all be pushed into the sea.’

I say sadly, ‘This is such a beautiful island, yet it seems to be full of the relics of wars.’

Suddenly his face relaxes into a smile. ‘Not everywhere. Come on, I’ll show you somewhere that was built as a place of peace.’

‘Bellapais. The Abbaye de la Paix. Built in the aftermath of the
Crusades as a place of peaceful contemplation. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

I gaze up at the soaring Gothic arches framed by the dark spires of three tall cypresses. ‘Yes, it is. It must have been
wonderful
to come back here, away from the desert and the fighting. Why did the monks leave?’

We stroll along the cloister, the air heavy with the scent of thyme and the endless whirr of cicadas. Karim says, ‘The
monastery
was closed down by the church authorities. The last few monks were found to be living a life of luxury and each in
possession
of several wives.’

I laugh. ‘Oh dear! I wonder how they squared that with their vows.’

Karim grins in return. ‘I imagine they didn’t try. I’m afraid the atmosphere here didn’t lend itself to austere contemplation. Too easy, too warm. Or perhaps the goddess Aphrodite resented the intrusion of our celibate, male deity and set out to subvert them.’

‘Ours?’ I query.

‘Yahweh, God, Allah. Essentially the same. Are you thirsty? Let’s go and have a drink under the Tree of Idleness.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s the name of the bar in the square.’

We sit in the shade of the huge tree which gives the bar its name and sip lemonade, looking across to where the arches of the ruined abbey frame a distant view of the sea. I lean back in my chair and sigh.

‘What a perfect name for this place! I could sit here all day. No wonder the monks forgot their vows! Peace and idleness. It makes all our working and fighting and rushing about seem pointless.’

‘Be careful,’ he warns, smiling. ‘You’re in danger of succumbing to the temptation of the lotus eaters.’

‘If only! Do you realize I’ve only got a few days of my holiday left? I hate the thought of going back to work.’

‘I thought you enjoyed your job.’

‘I did – I do. Oh, I suppose everyone regrets coming to the end of a holiday. But I have to admit this place does seem to have a
special magic. I can understand why my father had to come back.’

Karim gets up and takes some money from his pocket to pay for the drinks. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the house where Lawrence Durrell wrote
Bitter Lemons
.’

When we return to the square he says, ‘Now, how about lunch?’

‘Here? Under the Tree of Idleness?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I’ve got a better idea. Jump in. It’s not far.’

We drive out of the village, past a cluster of new villas embowered in bougainvillaea and hibiscus.

‘Holiday homes,’ Karim says. ‘The tourist trade is an important part of the local economy, in spite of efforts to cut us off from civilization.’

A little further along the steep hillside he turns the car in through some gates and pulls up outside a large, white-painted house. I follow him up the steps, assuming that this is another of his favourite restaurants. We enter a spacious, cool hallway with white walls and a floor covered in tiles of an intricate design in exquisite shades of blue. On one wall hangs a beautiful rug in similar shades, but there is no other decoration. A woman in a black dress and a white headscarf appears and greets Karim in Turkish, then bows and smiles at me before retreating.

Karim says, ‘Welcome to my home.’

I gaze at him, stunned. ‘This is yours?’

‘My father’s. But I live here. This way.’

He leads me out into a courtyard enclosed on three sides by the house and on the fourth by a wall which rises to first-floor height and is pierced by a series of archways, each one supporting a profusion of jasmine and roses and framing a view of the coast and the distant mountains of Turkey. A table is set for lunch under the shade of an acacia tree.

‘Karim,’ I murmur, ‘this is beautiful!’

He nods. ‘Yes. I am fortunate.’

‘Are your parents here?’ I ask.

‘No, no. They live most of the time in London. My father’s main
business is there. They come out from time to time, for a holiday or to check on the staff in Gazimagusa.’

‘What is your father’s business?’

‘He’s a merchant. He imports and exports, mainly from the Turkish mainland.’

The woman, who seems to be a housekeeper, returns with wine and mineral water. Embarrassed, I say, ‘You don’t have to give me wine, you know. I’m quite happy with water.’

He shakes his head. ‘There’s no reason to deprive you, just because I have this odd little habit. Please, let me pour you some.’

As he fills my glass I ask, ‘Have you always lived here? I thought you said you grew up in Famagusta – Gazi … what do you call it?’

‘Gazimagusa. Yes, so I did. We only moved here after –’

‘After the invasion?’

He gives a slight, ironic grimace. ‘After the peace operation.’

‘What made your parents move to London?’

His face darkens. ‘Things were very difficult in Gazimagusa prior to the division of the country, especially where we lived. There was a lot of hostility, a lot of trouble. We – the Turkish Cypriots – were confined to the Old City. People were being massacred in the surrounding villages, and we were virtually under siege. My father already had an office in London. He managed to get us on a flight. He won’t come back here to live. Too many bad memories.’

‘So why this house?’

‘When things settled down, after the fighting was over, there was a lot of property left vacant by the Greek Cypriots. My father had the opportunity to … acquire some land. To begin with it was just olive groves, some citrus orchards. Then he saw that the tourists were beginning to come back. There was a shortage of accommodation. He built villas, like those we saw on the way here. It was a shrewd move, from a financial point of view.’

I look around me. ‘Your father is obviously a very successful man.’

‘Fortunately for me,’ Karim agrees. ‘Otherwise I could never
have been educated in England. The government here cannot afford to pay for students to study abroad.’

The woman reappears with a selection of
mezes
. Karim encourages me to try various dishes, but I can’t help noticing that his face, as so often, is shadowed as if some unwelcome memory has been reawakened.

I say, ‘You must have been too young to remember much about the fighting.’

His dark eyes flicker up to my face and then drop again. ‘Oh, I remember it all right.’

I hesitate, not wanting to pry, but I have a strong desire to share whatever it is that troubles him. I say quietly, ‘What happened, Karim? Tell me about it.’

For a moment he is silent, then he begins. ‘Before the fighting started we lived in the outlying suburb of Karakol. When the invasion came, the Greek National Guard arrived and surrounded us. An officer told my father, “If the Turkish army comes here, they will find only the dead.” That night some of our resistance fighters came to the house and told us we must leave, bringing only the barest necessities with us. My mother woke me and told me to get dressed. My sisters were crying, but my mother slapped them and told them they must be silent or we should all be killed. We crept out of the house and found the street was full of people. All our neighbours had been brought out of their houses in the same way. In that terrible silence we followed the fighters through the dark streets towards the walls of the Old City. I was very frightened, but I dared not speak or cry. When we reached the city a miracle happened. We were led into the mouth of a tunnel that had been dug under the walls. No one knew it was there, except the resistance people. When we reached the other end we were taken to one of the buildings which had been used by the old Venetians to store grain or stable horses. The city was under siege and that stable was home to us and dozens of others for three weeks. By the end there were only three days’ supply of food left in the Old City. More than twelve thousand of us were crammed
inside the walls. Twice a day we got a bowl of watery soup and a little rice. I was hungry and afraid all the time. The National Guard were pounding the city with their heavy weapons. They had mortars and “tank buster” rifles. We dared not go out and the noise went on day and night. My father was trying to find a ship, or someone who would take us to the British air force base. We heard that the British were evacuating people and he offered to pay whatever was required to get us out, but no one would risk trying to break through the National Guard forces. We prayed daily that the Turkish army would come to our aid, or the United Nations, but it seemed no one heard or cared about what happened to us.’ He stops and shakes his head, without looking at me. ‘It’s not a subject for a day like this.’ Then he draws a deep breath and looks up, smiling that sudden, bewitching grin. ‘Eat your lunch. I thought you liked Turkish food.’

‘I do.’ I quickly turn my attention to my plate. ‘And this is delicious.’

For the rest of the meal we talk of other things – of music and films and my life in London. When we have finished he says, ‘Now, I am a great believer in the tradition of a siesta. Come with me and I’ll show you where you can rest.’