The Sunrise (4 page)

A few people looked up from their work and nodded as she crossed the floor of the reception. She acknowledged them with a smile. One hundred or more of them would be working until midnight, everyone focused on reaching the almost impossible deadline.

The hotels were mostly positioned directly on the beach so that guests could walk straight on to the sand. As they drove along Kennedy Avenue, Aphroditi and Savvas caught brief glimpses of the sea in the narrow spaces between the buildings.

‘What a perfect night,’ said Aphroditi.

‘It couldn’t be more beautiful,’ agreed Savvas. ‘And tomorrow it will be even more so.’

‘Do you think everything will be finished in time?’

‘It has to be. Everyone knows what needs to be done. So there’s no question of it.’

‘The flowers are being delivered at eight.’

‘Darling, you’ve worked so hard.’

‘I feel a bit tired,’ Aphroditi admitted.

‘Well, you look beautiful,’ her husband reassured her, patting her on the knee before changing gears. ‘And that’s what matters.’

They drew up outside The Paradise Beach.

At only five floors, it was modest compared with their new venture, and perhaps a little tired-looking too. Visitors approached through a car park and then up a short cobbled path. Palm trees stood to either side of the main doors; inside there were a few more, but the latter were fake. They had seemed innovative when they were installed five years earlier, but times had moved on.

‘
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.