Aphrodite's Island (9 page)

I have seen it, of course. Perched on a precipitous crag, its towers and turrets look like something out of a child’s picture book. I am tempted, and besides, it would be rude to keep refusing.

‘Well, if you’re sure no one will object …’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Thank you. I’d like to come.’

As we climb out of the coach, one of the party, a large woman with dyed blonde hair and hands covered in enough rings to make effective knuckle dusters, exclaims, ‘Ooh, isn’t it
romantic
-looking! A fairy-tale castle!’

Mezeli, overhearing, smiles. ‘Funny you should say that. It was actually used by Walt Disney as the model for Snow White’s castle.’

I follow the others through the massive gateway and into a
maze of steeply climbing, cobbled roadways.

‘Of course,’ Mezeli is saying, ‘St Hilarion was not the original name of the castle. As you can see, it is built on two peaks and its original name was Didymos, meaning Twins. St Hilarion was a hermit who was reputed to have lived up here and later a monastery was built in his memory. It is from that that the castle gets its present name. However, when the Franks under Guy de Lusignan took over they must have misheard, or misinterpreted, the original name. That was the era of the troubadours and the cult of courtly love, so perhaps it’s not surprising that they opted for something more in keeping with their way of thinking. They called it not Didymos but Dieudamour – god of love.’

‘There!’ says the blonde. ‘I said it was romantic.’

‘There are romantic elements in its story,’ Mezeli agrees, ‘but I’m afraid they are outweighed by the more gruesome episodes. Siege warfare could be very cruel. Shall we move on up to the Royal Apartments?’

On the topmost summit we come to a large, airy chamber with a wide window embrasure looking out westwards along the coast. The sun is at its zenith and in the confined space of the narrow streets the heat was suffocating but here, thank God, there is a breeze. I sit down on the windowsill and gaze out. Below me the wooded slope drops precipitously down to the narrow strip of fertile land, where villages cluster among their olive groves and citrus orchards. Beyond that is a sea of such transparent turquoise that every reef and rock shows up as a cobalt stain and away in the west land and sea, silver and green and blue, melt into the amethyst haze of the horizon.

‘You will be told by the local guides,’ Mezeli is saying, ‘that this is where Richard Coeur de Lion married the Princess Berengaria of Navarre. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not true. They were married in Cyprus, certainly, but in the chapel of St George in Limassol. Richard was on his way to the Third Crusade and the ships carrying his bride-to-be and her entourage were driven onto the south coast by a storm. However, it is true that when
Richard left for the Holy Land he left Berengaria behind with his sister, Joan. This castle became the favourite summer residence of the new Frankish rulers, so it is quite possible that Berengaria spent a lot of time sitting in this room, which has always been known as the Queen’s Chamber.’

I lean my head back against the embrasure of the window and close my eyes. Mezeli’s voice murmurs on, but I am no longer listening. I am imagining Berengaria, sitting here day after day, yearning for her father’s palace in Navarre, wondering when, if ever, her husband would return. Not that it was a love match! I remember my history lessons. Richard needed a political alliance, and an heir, but no man was ever a more unwilling bridegroom. Poor Berengaria, languishing in the castle named after the god of love, must have thought that she had as much chance of being impregnated by Cupid as by her husband. A child born from the union of a god and a virgin. How such a blasphemous thought would have shocked her! There is the beginning of another story here. If I had pen and paper with me I would write it down, but as I do not I memorize it to be typed up later.

I sleep badly and wake the next morning with an amorphous sense of anxiety. This island seems to have a strange effect on me. To dispel the feeling, I go down to the pool. No one else is about and I have it to myself, but once again after a few lengths I feel exhausted. This is more than normal tiredness, brought on by stress and too many late nights. I remember my mother’s doctor looking at me and muttering something about anaemia. Perhaps I should have it checked out when I get home.

To distract myself I go back to my room and open my mother’s journal. I don’t know what I am looking for and flick through the pages aimlessly until an entry catches my eye.

I lower the book. The angel boy! Angel … Do I really remember, or am I just imagining a tall, fair-haired boy who played hide and seek with me in the garden, among the lemon trees and the bushes of scarlet hibiscus?

I shut the book. ‘Something happened … that he’s never got over …’ It must have been another woman, and those letters were written to her. ‘My only beloved’ … Who was she? What was there about her that had left such a vacuum at the centre of my father’s life? What power had she wielded that, even after so many years, she could draw him back to this island? Did he find her? I feel a sudden spurt of anger. What right had this stranger to wreak such havoc on three lives?

Beneath these thoughts another phrase from the journal is struggling to the surface. ‘Of course, there was Cressida on the way.’ Had it been a mistake, or a deliberate trap to force Stephen into marriage? I try to push the thought down, but it demands my attention. My very existence is the result of a deception. I was used to entrap a man into a loveless marriage. No wonder he never cared for me!

I hire the car again and drive out to Lapta. The Wentworths are busy in their garden, as usual, but they both seem delighted to see me and before long we are all seated round the table under the fig tree with glasses of Meg’s homemade lemonade.

‘By the way,’ Os says, ‘did you find anything of interest in those papers we gave you?’

I have to clear my throat before I can answer. ‘Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been reading my mother’s journal. It seems as though my father must have had some sort of affair with a local girl when he was here doing his National Service. Those letters must be addressed to
her, not to my mother.’

‘Then how could they have ended up in the same box with her journal?’ Meg asks. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have left them where she was likely to come across them.’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ I agree. ‘Maybe he hid them and she found them. Or perhaps the people who bought the house found them, and put them in the box.’

‘Ah, very likely,’ Os says.

‘Of course, even if my mother had come across them she probably wouldn’t have realized what they were. Anyway, they obviously never reached the person they were intended for.’ I hesitate. Should I be asking this? Curiosity gets the better of discretion. ‘I was wondering … you said you could read Greek, Os. I would really like to know what is in those letters. Could you translate them for me? Or is that putting you to too much trouble?’

‘My dear girl, it’s no trouble! I quite enjoy little exercises like that.’ Then he seems to have second thoughts. ‘But are you sure you want me to? I shouldn’t wish to pry into your private affairs.’

‘Well, they’re not really
my
affairs, are they? Since both my parents are dead now, I can’t see that anyone can be hurt. Perhaps it sounds as if I’m being a bit voyeuristic, but you see I know so little about my father. I’m beginning to think that he never forgot this girl, whoever she was, and it ruined my mother’s life. I should like to at least try to understand why it happened.’

‘Oh dear!’ Meg says, in shocked tones. Then again, more gently, ‘Oh dear!’

‘If that’s what you want, of course I’ll have a go at translating them for you,’ Os agrees. ‘It may take me a day or two, though. If I remember rightly the writing is pretty faded.’

I am beginning to regret my presumption. ‘Look, I really don’t want to be a nuisance. If it turns out to be too much of a pain, please don’t bother with it.’

Meg smiles at me. ‘Oh, you don’t want to worry about that. He loves a puzzle, and it’ll make a change from the
Telegraph
crossword.’

‘Exactly!’ her husband agrees. ‘Have you got them with you?’

I produce the letters from my bag and hand them over. ‘I’ll pop in, in a few days’ time, to see how you’re getting on.’

‘No, don’t bother to come out here,’ Os says. ‘I’ve got to come into Kyrenia to do some shopping sometime soon. I’ll drop them off at your hotel. Where are you staying? The Dome?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘That’s no problem. As soon as I have something to show you I’ll bring them in. If you’re not there, I’ll leave them at reception.’

‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble. Thank you very much.’

‘Now,’ Meg says. ‘How would you like a look round the house?’

I follow her obediently through the various rooms. I have a disquieting sense of familiarity, as if some memory lurks just around every corner, but I cannot honestly say that I recognize anything.

‘Well, why should you, after all?’ Meg says consolingly. ‘The place has had two different owners since you were here. All the furniture and decoration must be totally different. It’s not surprising you don’t remember it.’

I feel I have taken up enough of her time. ‘I thought I might take a stroll round the village, see if that rings any bells. Do you think there is anybody living here who might remember my parents?’

Meg sighs and shakes her head. ‘Not any more, my dear. This was a Greek village. All the inhabitants are Turkish now.’

‘What happened to the Greeks?’

‘All gone south in the exchange of populations.’

‘You mean they were driven out when Turkey invaded?’

‘Well, some of them fled to escape the fighting and some went voluntarily soon after, when it became clear that the Turks were in control of the north. The rest were told to go.’

‘So they just had to leave everything, their houses, their land, just like that?’

‘Yes. But they weren’t the only ones. Thousands of Turkish Cypriots had to leave their villages in the south, to escape the National Guard and the EOKA terrorists. They were given the
houses left empty by the Greeks. It’s true they probably got the best of the bargain, but there must have been a lot of tragedy and heartache on both sides. Anyway, I’m afraid that the only people who might remember your parents would be a few old ex-pats like us. Most of them would have been retired even then, so it’s unlikely that they’re still alive, but I could ask around for you.’

‘Would you? That’s very kind of you. I’d really like to meet anyone who knew them.’

I say goodbye and thank them again and set off along the narrow lane into the village. I pass one or two shops where
dark-scarved
women chat over baskets of groceries, and wonder if it was shopping in one of them that caused my mother that pang of homesickness. Old men sip tiny cups of thick coffee outside the
cafénion
and click their worry beads. I feel their eyes following me as I pass and am suddenly aware of my shorts and bare legs, but whether the looks express disapproval or mere curiosity I cannot decide. I turn a corner alongside the wall of a house. From an open window above my head comes the sound of raised voices – a man and a woman shouting in Turkish. In the background a child is sobbing.

Suddenly I feel dizzy. I have to stop and stretch my hand to the wall for support. The voices go on, in a language I do not understand, yet I seem to hear the words quite clearly.

I open my eyes. A young man has come out of a door a short distance ahead of me. A woman stands in the doorway, holding a snivelling child in her arms. They all stare at me. I take in a deep breath and stand up straight. Then I force myself to walk on past them. They respond to my murmured ‘Good morning’ with wordless nods, and I can feel their eyes following me until a bend in the road takes me out of sight.

When I get back to the hotel the man behind the reception desk hands me my key and says, ‘I have a message for you. Dr Mezeli was looking for you. He is on the terrace by the pool, if you would care to join him.’

My first instinct is to make an excuse. I feel too raw and wounded to want company. But as I turn away he comes into the lobby and greets me with a smile.

‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I looked for you at breakfast but you were nowhere to be found.’

‘No, I … I went out to see the Wentworths. You know, the people who live in the house my parents owned.’

‘Of course. You have your own researches to pursue.’ He fixes me with that sharp, attentive gaze and I find I enjoy the feeling of having his undivided attention. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, of course. Well … why do you ask?’

‘You look a little … strained. I hope you haven’t had bad news.’

‘No, no. It’s just … well, I’ve had rather an odd experience.’

‘Would you care to tell me about it? Let me buy you a drink.
Have you had lunch?’

It occurs to me that I have not eaten all day except for a rather dry roll I bought on the way to pick up the car.

‘No, not yet. Is it too late?’

‘Of course not. Shall we go outside?’

He touches my elbow and a thrill of pleasure goes up my arm to the shoulder and then straight down to the pit of my stomach. He leads me out onto the terrace and calls a waiter over. They speak briefly in Turkish and then Karim says, ‘Do you like fish?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘And to drink?’

I ask for a beer. He orders Coca-Cola.

As we wait a small boy, four or five years old, comes running along the terrace, catches his foot in the leg of a chair and would have fallen flat on his face had not Mezeli leaned forward and caught hold of him. He sets the child upright and says, smiling, ‘Careful, little one! Just take it gently. All right?’

The boy nods, round eyed, and Mezeli tousles his head and lets him go. In spite of myself I ask, ‘Do you have children of your own, Karim?’

He turns to me as if the question has taken him by surprise, then the sudden smile flashes out. ‘No, how would I? I am not married.’