The Sunrise (39 page)

A practical issue was the location for burial. There were few places to dig within the grounds of the hotel.

‘There are the rose beds,’ suggested Emine.

These were at the edge of the terrace outside the bar. There was little choice, and with the early spring rains, the ground was soft enough.

Early the following morning, Markos was buried.

Panikos had found tools and, with great effort, been out to prepare the grave. At five o’clock, they filed outside. Even Mehmet and Vasilakis, bleary-eyed and uncomprehending, had been woken and brought downstairs.

Markos was wrapped in a sheet and lowered into the ground by his father and brother-in-law. Each of them, except for Hüseyin, who hung back, threw a rose into the grave before the earth was shovelled in.

‘
Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison
,’ his family chanted. ‘Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.’ They knew the words of the service by heart.

Hüseyin kept his head lowered. He watched his tears drip on to his shoes. In spite of what the dead man might have intended towards him, Markos was the one who had lost his life. There was no sense of justice or of joy. Hüseyin looked at Irini Georgiou’s face, creased into a thousand lines of grief, and felt unutterable pity.

Observing the expressions of those who stood around this grave, he realised they were each burying someone different. Each of them had his or her own Markos Georgiou.

Afterwards they ate
koliva
, the traditional food for mourning. Maria had prepared it, substituting rice for wheat. Most of the other ingredients were still plentiful in their store: sesame, almonds, cinnamon, sugar and raisins.

For Irini, no day had ever been blacker. She was beyond tears. That afternoon, she and Vasilis lay silently in their darkened room.

The Özkans went to wash and change their clothes after the burial, as was Turkish Cypriot tradition.

‘We don’t want to bring bad luck on ourselves,’ said Emine.

‘It’s a bit late to wish that now, isn’t it?’ observed Halit.

As he stood in the shower and felt the water cascading down over his shoulders, Hüseyin knew that he would never rid himself of the blood he still saw on his hands, or of the guilt he felt. Every time he looked at Markos Georgiou’s parents, it only intensified.

A few days later, Irini asked Panikos if there were any churches she could go to.

‘There are,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know what state they are in.’

‘Irini, you can’t leave the hotel,’ said Vasilis, quietly but firmly. ‘There are Turkish soldiers out there. Turkish soldiers who killed your son.’

‘But …’

In all the months they had been inside The Sunrise, she had scarcely thought of God. She had kept their icon of Agios Neophytos on display in their bedroom, but it had never seemed that he was watching over them. Each day that Christos had been missing and her prayers had gone unanswered, her faith had waned slightly. With the death of Markos, there was only a little residual conviction. The woman who had once crossed herself many times an hour was almost without belief now.

They had heard on the radio of the efforts Makarios was still making to help bring peace to the island, but she had lost faith even in him.

Perhaps within the walls of a church she might find God’s comfort again and He might hear her when she prayed. His absence had left a void in her life and she yearned for her faith to return.

Hüseyin knew what had happened to most of the churches but he hesitated to tell Kyria Georgiou. Icons and treasures had been stripped from them long ago and many of them were subject to wanton vandalism. When they were bringing Markos’ body to the hotel, they had noticed several such churches with their doors broken down.

‘I don’t think the churches are what they were,’ said Panikos gently. ‘And in any case, it’s not safe for you to go out there.’

Hüseyin overheard his mother and Kyria Georgiou talking.

‘I can manage not going to church if I must, but these clothes … they feel so wrong,’ Irini said.

Guests had abandoned many different kinds of clothing in the hotel but none of them had left anything suitable for mourning. Irini could no longer wear her usual colourful floral shirts or button-through dresses, and Emine had nothing to lend her.

‘I know where to find something,’ Hüseyin interrupted. ‘I’ll go now.’

Hüseyin had got to know every street and alleyway of the city in the recent months. He knew which shops had been emptied of their contents and which were untouched. There were several small stores that specialised in
yinekeia moda
, ladies’ fashions, of the kind that had no value to the Turkish soldiers, even for sending home to their wives. These were the outlets that sold blouses, shirts and dresses for the elderly woman.

At the back of such a shop, Hüseyin found the clothes that every woman needed when she must live out her days like a shadow. There were racks of black garments never wanted or desired, and he brought home for Irini more than she could ever wear.

The Georgiou family observed the memorial services over Markos’ grave three and nine days after the funeral. Irini did not mention going to a church again.

Irini knew that for every sorrow she had, Emine endured the same. Both their lives had been subsumed in wave upon wave of ever-increasing catastrophe and sorrow. Day to day the two women kept very busy cleaning, tidying and preparing food, and it left them thankfully little time for reflection. Sometimes when their tasks were done they sat together and wept over their losses and their missing sons, who were never far from their thoughts. On other occasions they cheered each other by reading the coffee grounds. Now that her faith had gone, these activities helped to sustain Irini during these dark days.

The atmosphere in the hotel changed after Markos’ death. Even the small boys seemed more subdued for a few weeks. They missed the magic tricks Uncle Markos had performed for them, the teasing he subjected them to and the laughter that followed him around. Mealtimes were more perfunctory and there was no longer any music. The record player gathered dust in the corner of the ballroom.

Irini continued to cook. Even the day after she had buried her son, she had immersed herself in the preparation of sweet
loukoumades
and
daktila
. While her fingers were kept busy kneading bread or shaping biscuits, for a few minutes at a time her mind was absorbed by something other than the loss of Markos.

Vasilis’ grief was a quiet state of being. He spent most of his days on the rooftop, tending to his pots of herbs and tomatoes, which were thriving in the sunshine, and doing guard duty. Halit kept him company. Vasilis gazed out at the sea for hours at a time, continually smoking but making sure to keep the glow of his cigarette out of sight. He also kept a few bottles on the roof.

Hüseyin continued to be withdrawn for many more days and found himself unable to eat. His mother often brought food up to his room.

‘Kyria Georgiou is anxious about you,’ she said one day, stroking his cheek.

Hüseyin was lying on his bed and tears began to course down his face.

‘My poor boy,’ said Emine. ‘You did what you had to do.’

Only time would lift the guilt he felt at what he had done to the sweet woman who, even that day, had specially cooked his favourite dish in an attempt to encourage him to eat.

Hüseyin soon realised that the adults needed him in many different ways, not least to lift their morale. With three sons gone, he had to be stronger than ever.

When he had returned after moving the body, he had emptied his bulging pockets and shoved the bunch of keys and the velvet pouch to the back of a drawer. One evening, when there was no one around in reception, he tried out some of the keys. One of them opened the door that led down to the nightclub from the reception area.

He crept down the stairs and made his way towards the strongroom. He unlocked the outer and inner doors. The remaining keys fitted the various safes and there was a satisfying clunk as the mechanisms responded. In spite of this, the doors did not open.

Hüseyin immediately realised that they also required a combination. He suspected that Markos had gone to his grave with these locked firmly inside him.

Back in his room, he replaced the keys in a drawer. The green velvet pouch was tucked in the corner and he took it out to see what it contained. Something glinted inside. As he turned it upside down, a string of dazzling blue stones poured out into his hand. They were a translucent azure, like the sea beyond his window, and even in the half-light they seemed to shimmer. The gems were uniform, except for the clasp, which was bigger than the rest, and each one was set in gold.

He replaced the necklace at the back of the drawer but it pricked his conscience that such a thing should be in his possession. It no more belonged to him than it had done to Markos.

Did it now belong to the Georgiou family? Or should it be returned to the original owner? For now he would keep it in the drawer with the keys. The latter were of no use without the safe codes, but the precious stones must still have a value.

I
T WAS NOW
July. The days were hot and the nights short.

From their rooftop lookout point, Vasilis and Halit noticed that troop movements had become much more frequent. Hüseyin had seen this too and wondered if it might be connected with the missing soldier. The disappearance of a colleague was bound to have prompted greater vigilance.

It was harder for everyone to remain inside the hotel on these warm days. Even Panikos, whose rotund belly had always made him too ashamed to swim, yearned to go and splash in the waves with his children. For Hüseyin, the gentle lap and swell of the sea was a temptation stronger than a siren’s song. One night, he crept out of the fire door and went down on to the sand. He knew he must not make a sound and his body slid into the sea without a splash. In his entire life he had never been alone in the water; it was an infinite space shared by everyone. A dense blackness spread out before him, occasionally illuminated by bright flashes of phosphorescence. He kept his body beneath the water, cutting through it with his limbs and barely stirring the surface.

He swam a long way out to sea and then lay on his back and looked up at the stars. He felt almost delirious with freedom.

His father and Vasilis were keeping watch towards the road, but even if they had been looking the other way they would not have seen the figure in the sea.

After a while, Hüseyin began to swim back to shore. In front of him was the row of giant concrete blocks that lined the coastline. At the far end of the beach he could just make out the huge cranes still keeping watch over Savvas Papacosta’s building site. It reminded him of a graveyard and the water suddenly felt cold on his skin. He shuddered.

He looked towards The Sunrise and its dark empty windows. Their hotel looked as sinister and uninhabited as all the others; no one would have guessed that ten people were living inside. Then he saw the lights of a jeep. It was moving northwards along Hippocrates. Almost at the same time, another came from the south. They both stopped out of sight and Hüseyin deduced that they must be somewhere in front of the hotel.

He wondered if his father and Vasilis had seen them. He swam back as swiftly as he could and ran noiselessly up the beach. Still dripping, he slipped through the fire door and retrieved a towel that he had hidden behind reception.

He sprinted up the fifteen flights of stairs to the roof and found the two men frozen to the spot, observing what was going on in the road beyond the car park.

He greeted them with a whisper, but they did not turn around, wanting to keep their eyes on the situation developing in front of them. The strong bars on the gates were enough of a barrier between them and the soldiers, but they could hear shouting. The iron railings did not protect them from that.

‘Can you hear what they are saying?’ asked Vasilis.

‘They’re too far away for that,’ Halit answered. ‘All I know is that they have never taken such an interest in this place before.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Vasilis.

‘Me too,’ admitted Halit. ‘It doesn’t feel good.’

‘Can I have the binoculars?’ asked Hüseyin.

He spent a moment adjusting them and then focused on the men at the gates. One of them was not in uniform. He was a small man, much shorter than the Turkish soldiers, with a bald head and a neat beard. Hüseyin remembered seeing him before. He was the man that Markos had been meeting at the wire.

Since the night when Markos had failed to turn up for their rendezvous, the Turkish Cypriot who had been the conduit for guns and jewellery had returned every day to the spot where their meetings had always taken place.

He was angry with himself for being duped but even angrier with Markos Georgiou. He should never have trusted him. He was a Greek Cypriot. After a few weeks, he realised that Georgiou was not going to appear. He had people leaning on him in Nicosia to either get the money back or secure the blue diamonds that had been promised. There was no option but to go inside the city.

He knew that Markos Georgiou had worked at The Sunrise, as he had had business dealings with him even before the war, so that was where he would go and look for him. He unravelled the wire, refastened it and set off.

He had rarely been to Famagusta and was not familiar with its layout, so it took him an hour to find the main street. From here, he reckoned he could find the seafront.

Rats scuttled about in the shadows. It seemed that they had taken over in this city. He saw a troop of three running along together purposefully, unbothered by his presence. From nose to tail they were a yard in length.

He knew to keep close to the buildings. As he was making his way down a street full of shops, he disturbed a snake. He must almost have stepped on it. Since childhood, when a viper had crept across his bed, he had had a phobia. When this one slithered away, leaving a trail in the dust, he let out an involuntary cry of fear.

He no longer felt safe being near the buildings and edged slightly further out on to the pavement. It took him from obscurity to visibility. When an army jeep turned out of a side street, the two soldiers travelling in it saw him immediately. He stood there, blinded by their headlights, not even attempting to run away as the vehicle roared towards him and screeched to a halt. Soldiers leapt out, shouting at him, waving guns and screaming abuse. There was an air of anarchy about them, a madness brought about by months of doing almost nothing except guarding an empty city where nothing stirred except vermin and reptiles. They could smell some action and their excitement was palpable.