Friday, July 26, 2013

Life In A Haven For Spies

As exotic as his surroundings were, Lucky was experienced in the ways of hotels, so he fit in with little trouble. His parents were nomadic people at heart and he’d moved with them about the country since he was six months old. Lucky knew to leave his shoes outside the door every night so they’d be taken away for cleaning and polishing to be returned early the next morning. He knew that a boy who smiled and said "yes, sir," and "no, ma’m," to the staff would be rewarded with small favors, extra treats, and easily bent rules in return for his politeness. He was also generous with tips, spreading his allowance around as far as it would go. He took care to learn all the polite Greek words he could, such as "efharistoh," for thank you, and "parakalo," which meant both you’re welcome and please.

Even more important was Lucky’s confirmed commitment to the CIA kid’s central creed: "Never tell." It was a creed that served him well in the "below the stairs" world of hotel employees. It was a world not just of tips, but of many small favors that could quickly add up to a big favor. It was a world where a quick eye and a closed mouth could gain the kind of respect that would be bestowed on few adults in the "up the stairs" world. Even then, the downstairs guys would always trust a kid like Lucky more than an adult.

With no other children to play with, and nothing to do all day, he wandered the hotel, poking into everybody’s business. By now he was a master of the art of getting anything he wanted by hotel phone. He’d dined with all the splendors of white linen and china and silver, complete with lit candles and a "leetle wine, monsieur" disguised on the bill as soft drinks or milk by knowing waiters who shook their heads at the barbarity of Americans who would not allow their children such necessary drink. He’d ordered up big console radios so he could spin the dial, searching for entertainment. He’d had cards and games delivered, a record player with a stack of platters to play on it. And once he’d even ordered up a baby sitter to watch his brother while he slipped out to tour the city by taxi.

Lucky had seen liquor delivered to rooms, as well as poker chips and had spotted mysterious packages delivered by the white-gloved concierge himself, so it must have been something very special, sir. He’d even seen women delivered - "party girls," the head bellman had called them with a leer and knowing laugh, so the boy was pretty sure what kind of parties he meant.

You never made the mistake of mentioning such things to your mother, who learned the dangers of room service in Paris when she was taking a nice hot bath in a most luxurious suite. She’d thought the velvet rope dangling on the wall next to the tub was an ingenious device to help people step out of the water. And wasn’t she surprised when she pulled on the rope and a French waiter rushed in to see what madam wanted and there she was, standing in her altogether screaming in alarm for her wounded modesty. While the waiter wrung his hands wondering what was troubling madam, was there perhaps a bug in the bath she’d like him to fetch out?

The staff gave him complete freedom of the hotel and protected him during emergencies. When he fell off the verandah wall while tightrope walking and ripped his best trousers, he avoided a scolding by getting them mended on the sly. A shilling to the bellman won him a false identity when the fellow was called before a British boy’s mother who wanted to know who it was who’d stripped her son of all his marbles in an illicit match, where the stakes were for "keepers." The British family was just passing through, so Lucky only had to duck his head low for a day or two.

Sometimes he helped the maids on their rounds, so he could investigate rooms where particularly interesting things seemed to be going on. These were always very adult, and therefor sinful, such as packets of rubbers, or small black and white cards with naked women and men on them "doing it," and cast off lingerie much more revealing than anything his mother would ever dream of wearing. Once he saw a pistol left on a night stand and was amazed that the maid seemed untroubled and merely dusted around it. She reacted with much disapproval, however, to the charred contents of an ashtray in another suite, tsking and wrinkling her nose at the odor, which was powerful and certainly not tobacco. Lucky asked what it was, but she either didn’t have the English to explain - or thought it best he not know. Later he learned it was hashish, as plentiful in the Middle East as corn in Iowa.

The hotel was as thick with different languages as it was intrigue. Groups of men of every nationality would gather in small knots for whispered exchanges that leaped from one tongue to another with bewildering speed. Harsh Arabic would mingle with nasal French, musical Italian, staccato German, and heavily-accented English. Meanwhile, their women would engage each other in nervous small talk, with much casting of quick looks at their men as if they were expecting a signal.

These women invariably deferred to the men, which disgusted Lucky’s mother who said no American woman worth her salt would put up with such behavior. Lucky heard her discussing it with an Egyptian she’d befriended. The woman was dark and petite and wore a slender gold chain on one ankle. Her husband was a Lebanese architect who said he was building a luxury hotel in Beirut. He carried the plans under his arm and upon introduction to anyone he thought had money, would immediately roll them out for display.

"I’ve even seen wives walking three paces behind their husbands," his mother said in tones of heavy disapproval. "Don’t they know this is the Twentieth Century?"

She thought her new friend would agree with the criticism – the woman had lived in New York for several years, after all. And she was openly critical of her husband when he behaved foolishly in public.

Her answer, however, surprised Helen. "But this is how it should be, my dear," the Egyptian said in her excellent Empire English. "Of course, walking behind a man is ridiculous. I have a modern marriage and my husband values my opinion. However, it is my own view that American men are too weak. I like a man with a firm hand. It’s much more exciting, don’t you think? Sometimes I test my husband… telling him that I plan to do some ridiculous thing or another. We fight about it, and then I give in and tell him what a big strong man he is, and oo-la-la, we have such a time afterwards, Helen. Such a time." The woman winked at Lucky. "When you marry, you should always tell your wife what to do," she advised. "If you don’t, my sweet, she won’t know how much you care for her."

Lucky’s mother was shocked and quickly changed the subject. Later she said he was to pay no attention to her friend’s opinion and that if most women in the world knew how American women expected to be treated they’d soon be demanding the same. The boy promised to do as she said, but found himself fantasizing about the Egyptian woman’s comments about having "such a time" with her husband. Whenever he saw her, it was all he could do to keep himself from staring at those knowing cat’s eyes and the gold chain about her tiny ankle which disturbed him powerfully, although he couldn’t say why.

Sometimes Lucky grew lonely - he rarely had other children to play with. Even so, he treasured those long weeks he spent at the hotel. He sat in the Empire Room, day after day, eavesdropping on conversations he didn’t quite understand, but teasing his imagination with more possibilities than a radio drama.

However the biggest, most intriguing question during this period was the daily appearance of the red faced Colonel. Each day there was a fresh banana poking out of his coat pocket, with a big green feather stabbed into it - standing up like some kind of flag, or call to arms.

It was an eccentric mystery to contemplate during the lazy summer in the Empire Room of that fine hotel that sat near the ancient gates of Nicosia.

* * *

Several weeks after Lucky arrived in Cyprus he ventured out of the hotel to investigates the mysteries of the streets. At first he was disappointed. The hotel was situated on the edge of a wealthy old neighborhood of mansions and elegant gardens. It was hot and the streets were usually deserted by mid-afternoon. The people who lived there were mostly Europeans - predominantly British - with a few rich Middle-Easterners. Like the hotel, the only Cypriots he saw were servants and gardeners and never any other children, since the inhabitants seemed to be past child-rearing age.

Then one day he came upon two Cypriot boys trying to fix a flat rear tire on their battered bicycle. The tallest boy was about his age. The other, much smaller, was about five or six. Lucky watched them wrestle with the wheel for awhile. It was stubborn thing with many rusted parts and refused to separate from the axle.

"Want some help?" Lucky asked. Without thinking, he’d spoken in English. Although he’d later learn to speak and act like a Cypriot native, he only knew how to say "please" and "thank you" at this point.

Smiling, the oldest looked up at him and said, "Yes."

Lucky was pleased. "Do you speak English?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "Yes," he replied.

Finally! Two kids to talk to about important things, like flat bicycle tires and wheels that wouldn’t come off. Lucky crouched down with them and slowly spun the offending wheel, casting an experienced eye over it. The tire had almost no tread, which is how things usually were with his own bike back home. He saw a little flaw in the black rubber and a tiny glint of metal.

"A nail," he announced to his two new friends. "That’s your trouble. You picked up a nail."

"Yes," the oldest boy replied.

Then he started messing with the rusted axle nut again, trying to break it loose with his fingers. Lucky stopped him.

"Wait a minute," he said. "We need some tools."

Now the little brother spoke up. "Yes," he said.

Lucky jumped to his feet. He knew just what to do. "Stay here, okay?" he said. "I’ll be right back!"

"Yes," both boys chorused.

Lucky rushed off to find his friend, Peter, the head hotel maintenance man, who spoke excellent English. He was also such a nice guy that he used to let Lucky help him trim the hedges and mow the grass - Peter lounging under a tree, smoking cigarettes and regaling Lucky with his boyhood adventures in the mountains, while Lucky happily toiled in the garden. But when Lucky found Peter and explained the problem, his friend was reluctant to lend him the necessary tools.

"They are gypsy boys, Mister Lucky," he said. "Thieves."

Lucky was outraged in behalf of his new friends. "They’re not gypsies," he scoffed. Although, other than Hollywood movie images, he had no idea what a real gypsy looked like. "They’re just ordinary kids."

Still, Peter refused. Lucky was at a momentary loss. Then his face brightened as he got an idea. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a silver shilling.

"Maybe you could fix it for us, Peter," he said, holding up the coin. "You’re good at that stuff, right? You told me how you used to be an engineer at Cyprus Mines."

Cyprus was known throughout the world for the quality of its copper mine – in fact, Lucky learned, Cyprus meant copper.

"Of course, I was an engineer," Peter said, squaring his shoulders. "The best mining engineer in all of Cyprus. But the boss, he didn’t like me, you know? On account of his ugly daughter, who I wouldn’t marry."

"You told me about that," Lucky said. "And I don’t blame you. Who wants to marry an ugly girl, even if her father is rich?"

Peter eyed the shilling, considering the bargain. "It’s not very much to fix a tire, Mister Lucky," he said. "There is not only my work - but patches and glue cost money." He rubbed two fingers together. "Common things cost too much these days. It’s because of the English, you know. So many taxes, so many rules." He spit in the dust. "Those damned English!"

Lucky was sympathetic - but only to a point. As a much traveled young man he knew the value of things. He’d been cheated before and knew how to stand up for himself.

"I know what you mean," he said. He spit into the spot Peter had marked. "Stupid English." He held up the shilling. "But this is more than twenty five cents in American money," he said. "For twenty five cents I could buy two comic books and a Coke in the States. But this is closer to thirty five cents and for thirty five cents I could buy three comic books and a Coke. Or, two comic books and some peanuts to put into my Coke."

Peter laughed, shaking his head in admiration. "You are almost a Cypriot, Mister Lucky," he said. "You have a Greek’s warm heart and a Turk’s tight fist to make a bargain."

Lucky didn’t have the faintest idea what Peter was talking about, but he took it as a compliment. "So, you’ll fix the tire?" he asked. "For a shilling?" Then he became a little embarrassed. Peter was a poor man and Lucky had been raised to sympathize with the poor. "That’s all I’ve got, honest," he said. Lucky had a sudden thought and fished into his pocket and pulled out an oversize marble. "Except this cat’s eye," he said, very reluctant. It was one of his most prized possessions. "I could let you have that if you needed it for anything."

Although Peter’s oldest son would have been overjoyed to have such a prize, after a moment’s hesitation, the man waved it away. "No, no, Mister Lucky," he said. "We can fix the tire for a shilling. I just remembered that I have a whole tin of patches my good friend Demitrios gave me. For nothing."

Peter titled his head back and made a tsking sound. "For nothing!" he repeated. "A whole tin of tire patches - fifty or more. And the glue as well. He did this just to show his friendship. He’s that kind of a man, my Demitrios. He found a broken crate of tire patches in the English army supply house. They were of no use to anyone - since the crate was broken how could they easily transport it without much work and expense to repair the crate? So Demitrios kindly took the crate off their hands and saved them the trouble. And although he sold a few tins to some Turks - which is no sin because they are Turks and may they eat the Devil’s shit in Hell - he gave the rest away to good friends like me. The man who stood at the baptism of his oldest son."

Peter patted Lucky on the back, white teeth gleaming in his dark face. Friendly eyes shining. "And so it is only right that I now help my new friend - Mister Lucky. Who generously wants to help some gypsy boys with their problem."

"They’re not gypsies," Lucky insisted.

Peter shrugged. "We shall see," he replied. Then he lifted a warning finger. "But just in case, do not show them the marble in your pocket, Mister Lucky. Gypsy boys like to gamble - even for marbles. And they will cheat you of everything you have."

Lucky was intrigued. "I don’t think they’re gypsies," he said. "But if they are, I’m pretty good at playing keepers."

The back garden gate of the hotel was rather large and made of heavy wrought iron bars, painted white. When it came open the hinges made a loud shriek and the two Cypriot boys jolted up in surprise. They saw Lucky, but then they saw Peter towering over him and took fright. The oldest boy grabbed his brother by the collar and they ran down the street, leaving the injured bicycle behind.

Lucky cried after them: "Wait! Wait!"

About fifty yards off, the two boys stopped beneath a large rose tree, whose pink and white blossoms littered the cobblestone street. The oldest boy shouted something in Greek and made defiant, obscene gestures. His little brother shrilled defiance as well - hoisting a middle finger at Lucky and Peter.

Lucky shouted back: "Yo, there’s nothing wrong! Peter’s just going fix the bike, okay?"

"They’re gypsies, that’s for certain," Peter said glumly. "Never mind their bicycle. Keep your shilling."

"No, please, Peter" Lucky said, realizing that there’d been a misunderstanding. "Fix it anyway, okay?" And he shoved the silver coin into Peter’s hand.

Now that he noticed it, the two kids were dressed in rags. But that hadn’t meant anything to him before. He’d recently lived outside Clearwater, Florida - just down the highway from a two-story clapboard house crammed with poor folks. "Florida crackers," his parents had called them. And they’d told him not to play with the many kids who scrambled all around the house - all bare-footed and dressed in rags. Some of the kids had big, running sores on their heads and extremities, which his mother identified as "Florida sores" and said they were infectious.

"They’ve probably got cooties, too," she’d warned him.

Lucky, who was experienced in finding fun on the road wherever it presented itself - ignored his parents warnings and soon his mother had taken pity on the kids and had dragged them into the house to feed them and scrub them down with strong soap and bleach. And so it was that Lucky looked past the smelly rags the gypsy boys wore and saw two playmates. A valuable thing to have when you are all alone in a big hotel. Once more he pointed to the bike. "Fix it, Peter," he urged. "Please!"

Grumbling, Peter crouched down to examine the tire. Turning the creaky wheel and muttering many Greek deprecations. Finally, he said, "Let’s take it into the garden."

He came to his feet, picking the bike up, and walked back toward the hotel’s garden gate. Immediately, the two gypsy kids started howling. Lucky saw them run forward, stooping down to pick up large stones from the street.

He lifted both hands, trying to reassure them. "Don’t worry," he cried. "We’re just fixing’ the bike."

Lucky had to duck fast the biggest boy hurled a stone straight for his head. He didn’t bother arguing, but beat a hasty retreat with Peter, slamming the gate behind him. Big pieces of broken cobblestone sailed over the stone fence after them.

Peter laughed. "They’re angry with you," he said. "The gypsy boys think you stole their bicycle, which is a great insult for little thieves like that."

"Never mind," Lucky said. "They won’t be mad once get their bike back."

Still laughing, Peter got to work. Squirting oil here and there, quickly freeing the main axle nut and doing all the other things that were necessary to remove the wheel. First he extracted the nail, then he peeled the tire from the rim and extracted the red rubber tube. Quickly, he pumped it up with a little foot pump and then he carried it to a large marble cistern that gathered the overflow from the main hotel well. The cistern sat beneath a rose trellis and Peter had to scoop pink blossoms off the water before he immersed the inner tube. The cistern had been hollowed out by hand to make a perfectly rectangular receptacle. The workmanship for such a lowly object didn’t impress Lucky – he was too young to realize the amount of labor and care that went into such a thing. Instead, he admired the many little oily rainbows bubbling around the streaked marble sides as Peter spun the inner tube, looking for the leak.

Peter knew all the hotel gossip and so while they were working Lucky asked him, "Did you ever see the Colonel with the banana in his pocket, with the feather in it? You must have. He comes in every day."

The gardener laughed. "Of course I have seen it, Mister Lucky. Everyone has. The Colonel is quite the joke, you know." Peter shook his head. "Damned English. Just to make our lives miserable, they send all their crazy ones to Cyprus when they are too old and weak in the head to live on their own island."

Lucky asked, "But who is he?"

Peter snorted. "Only an old spy," he said. "Of no use to anybody."

The gardener waved his hand, indicating the back end of the hotel, dripping in bougainvillea, citrus and rose blossoms. "They’re all spies, here," he said of the hotel residents. "Cyprus has much experience with spies, you know. They have afflicted us since Aphrodite was a girl of no importance. In our history, we’ve suffered spies from the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, Romans, Syrians, Turkish - and now the damned English!" Peter lifted his hand from the cistern and dramatically smote his forehead. "The spies in Cyprus are worse than locusts, Mister Lucky," he cried. "Or even gypsies. Give me a gypsy thief before you give us all these damned spies!"

Lucky was getting worried about all this talk of the hotel being infested with spies. It was true, of course. A quiet boy with big ears could hear and see many things from his post at the Empire Room coffee machine. And he’d already picked out several men he was certain were involved in "the great game" as Mr. Kipling described the spying business in "Kim" - a novel that was a new favorite of his. He’d read it before, of course, but the book had revealed many new levels now that Lucky’s father was part of "the great game" as well.

To draw any possible suspicion away from his father, Lucky openly - and a little rudely - mocked Peter. "Come on, the Colonel can’t be a spy! That’s… that’s… well, as stupid as saying my mother or my little brother were spies. Besides, who ever heard of a spy with a banana in his coat pocket with a dumb feather stuck in it?"

Peter took no offense. "Listen, Mister Lucky," he said. "I have a nose for such things." He tapped a long forefinger against his classically Greek nose. "I can smell a spy a mile away. You’re too young and innocent to know of such things. You come from too good a family. A gracious family. Your father is a diplomat. I know this. Everyone does. He’s a good man. A man who sees and wants only the best of things for this world. So how could a son of his know about such a dirty business as spying? But I have seen many things in my life, Mister Lucky. And I know a spy when I see one. Like I said, I can smell them.

"Although it does not take a good nose to suspect the Colonel. Why, it’s well known to everyone in Cyprus that he’s a spy. He’s crazy, of course. And a little foolish. He was an English spy in India for many years. And then he retired - on a very small pension. Too small to return to his home in England again. So now he lives in Cyprus, where things are very cheap for Europeans, but quite dear for us. Even so, his pension is too small to pay for all the gin and tonics he likes to drink. And so the Colonel has returned to his old business, selling little secrets that he picks up at bars and tavernas."

"Who does he sell them to?" Lucky asked.

Peter shrugged. "To anyone who feels sorry for him," he said. "His secrets are of little use to real spies. But they buy him drinks and give him a few pounds for unimportant errands."

Lucky immediately understood. The Colonel was not just a double, but a triple and maybe even quadruple agent. Working for everyone and anyone. But in spying history those sorts of agents were usually romantic figures. Like the spy in the movie, "Five Fingers," who worked for both the Germans and the Allies. Playing one against the other in a very elaborate and dangerous game. But the Colonel was far from a romantic figure. And he certainly wasn’t very clever. Just someone to feel sorry for.

"What about the banana?" Lucky asked Peter. "Is that some sort of secret message?"

Peter only smiled and tapped his temple. "The Colonel is crazy, that’s all," he said. "There’s no mystery, Mister Lucky. Only an old fool doing foolish things because he’s lived too long, drinks too much and his mind is weak."

"I don’t know…" Lucky said hesitantly. This was a most unsatisfactory answer. But to say so would be an insult to Peter. So he shrugged, saying, "You’re probably right. He’s just an old crazy man."

Soon, the repair on the bicycle was finished. Peter gave the bike a few extra licks, oiling the chain and replacing some spokes. Then he held the gate open for Lucky as the boy wheeled the bike out into the street. The two gypsy kids were squatting next to a sign post about twenty yards away and the minute they spotted Lucky and Peter they scooped up more stones. But when they saw the bike, its tire pumped up and ready to go, they hesitated.

Lucky motioned for Peter to stay back and wheeled the bike forward. The boys watched him, faces expressionless, their arms raised, hands full of stones ready to throw. Lucky snapped out the kick stand and leaned the bike on its support and stepped away.

"There’s your bike," he said. "Good as new."

"Yes," the older boy said, suddenly breaking into a smile.

He leaped onto the bike, pulled his little brother up so that sat astride the handlebars and pedaled down the street. Both boys laughed and shouted gleeful things in Greek. Then they turned back, riding up to Lucky. They both climbed off. The oldest boy indicated the bike to Lucky.

"Yes?" he asked.

Lucky’s eyes widened with delight. "I can ride it?" he asked.

Both boys nodded. "Yes," they chorused.

Immediately Lucky jumped on the bicycle and pedaled furiously down the street. He squeezed the handle bar brakes, leaning over so that he could skid around in a dramatic turn, then raced back to his friends.

He jumped off the bike before it came to a halt. "Wow!" he shouted. "Peter fixed that real good, didn’t he?"

"Yes," the older boy said, bobbing his head.

It was then that Lucky was suddenly struck with the oddest of notions. "You speak English, right?" he asked the oldest boy.

"Yes," the boy said.

"Then, what’s your name?" he asked.

"Yes," the boy replied.

"And your little brother’s name?" Lucky prodded.

"Yes," the oldest boy replied.

Lucky was mortified. "Neither of you really do speak English, do you?"

"Yes," the older boy said.

"And the only word you know is yes?" Lucky said.

The boy nodded. "Yes."

And then his brother shouted, "Yes, yes. Amerikhanos, yes!"

Both boys started jumping up and down, crying, "Yes, yes, yes! Amerikhanos! Yes, yes, yes!"

Then they both jumped onto the bike and pedaled away, laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs.

Peter looked up from his work as Lucky opened the big gate and walked into the garden. "I was so stupid," Lucky said. "I thought they spoke English. But all the could say was, ‘yes, yes, yes!’"

Peter laughed. "Themperaze, Mister Lucky," he said. "Themperaze. You’ve made new friends, even if they are gypsy boys."

Lucky was intrigued. "What’s that word?" he wanted to know. "Thempe - something or other."

Peter grinned a huge grin. "Themperaze," he said again. "It’s a good Cypriot word. It means, ‘never mind.’ But not exactly, ‘never mind.’ It’s impossible to translate for it is a word too full much meaning.

"Say it like this - " and Peter’s face became imperious and he made a tsking sound before saying, "Themperaze!" ...

"That way means never mind, you stupid person. I am too important and you are too small to bother me with such nonsense.

"Another way to say it is like this - " Peter made an elaborate shrug, saying, lazily, "Them-pe-razi.

"That way, you are saying that the incident is minor and life is so important and cruel and we must take pleasure where we can find it. So never mind - them-pe-razi - the thing that troubles you and gets in the way of real life.

"You can also forgive a friend who made a big mistake. You can throw your arms around him and kiss his cheeks and say, ‘Themperaze.’ It is not important, my good friend. Not so important as you."

Lucky nodded understanding. Themperaze was a word like stokahlo, with many shades of meaning.

"And so I say to you, Mister Lucky," Peter continued, "that you met some gypsy boys - against my advice. And they made you feel foolish, because you thought they could speak English only because they knew the English word, ‘yes.’ Well, those boys are blushing even more than you. They felt stupid because they didn’t know English. And they wanted to impress a big shot American kid. So they said the only word they knew ‘yes,’ ‘yes,’ ‘yes.’ No matter what you said, they said ‘yes.’ And in the end they were bigger fools. Because you have a good heart and they didn’t know that and were angry with you until you returned their bicycle and then they knew. So I say ‘Themperaze,’ my young friend. Life is sweet when you make friends. Even if they are only gypsy boys. Never mind if you feel foolish. Never mind you spent a whole shilling in your foolishness. I swear to you when my work is done today I will go to the taverna and spend that shilling like an offering to the gods.

"I will buy my friends some ouzo and good Greek coffee. And maybe I will spend more than just that shilling and hire a pipe to smoke all around. And we will toast, ‘Themperaze!’ New words and new friends made, even though they are gypsies. I confess to you, Mister Lucky, that I secretly have a friend who is an old Turk. Cypriots hate Turks. And Turks hate Cypriots. But what can a man do when the Turk is such pleasant guy that you must make him your friend? What can a man say?"

Getting it, Lucky grinned. And he replied: "Themperaze! That’s what you say."

Delighted, Peter clapped him on the back. "I will make you into a Cypriot yet, Mister Lucky," he said. "You just wait and see."

NEXT: THE SPY WITH THE FEATHERED BANANA UNMASKED

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Friday, July 19, 2013

The Spy With The Banana With A Feather In It


***
"Dad," Lucky whispered urgently. "Look at that man!"

His father looked, swiveling slightly on his bar stool. Walking out of the bright sunlight into the dim coolness of the Empire Room was a portly, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair, ruddy cheeks and the drooping mustache of a British colonel "just out of Indja, you know." The Colonel – and he really was a retired colonel as it turned out - was dressed in a starched white suit, a red bow tie, and in one hand he held a straw boater. In the other was an ivory-tipped walking stick made of a heavy, black wood.

"What about him?" his father asked, turning back to the beer he was enjoying while he waited for a fellow agent to join him for lunch.

When the agent arrived Lucky would have to make himself scarce, but just now he was drinking a lemon squash while his father taught him the queen’s pawn opening on a battered chess set the bartender had put out for them.

"Look what he’s got in his coat pocket," Lucky said. His father frowned. Lucky was exasperated. "Can’t you see it?" he demanded.

Lucky’s father looked again and as he did the old gentleman advanced to the bar and ordered up a double gin, saying loudly, "Don’t spare the bitters, my boy. A touch of malaria, don’t you know."

Now Lucky’s father could plainly see the object poking rudely from the Colonel’s breast pocket: it was a very large, very yellow banana. And speared into that banana was a long bright green feather. The boy’s father snickered, but turned quickly away when the Colonel’s bushy brows shot up and his pale washed-out eyes glanced about to see if anyone was laughing. There were other groups of men scattered about the room, but they all turned away as well, burying humor.

"It’s a banana with a feather in it," Lucky’s father whispered.

Lucky snorted. He knew that. It was the why, he wanted the answer to, not the what. He could see the banana for himself. Had seen it every day for a week, along with the feather speared through the skin.

"What’s it for?" Lucky whispered.

His father shrugged. "I don’t know," he said. "I guess it’s just that kind of place."

He was speaking of the Ladera Palace Hotel - their home the first few months they spent in Cyprus. The hotel was a sprawling jumble of casual luxury with wide verandahs looking out on overgrown gardens fed by buckets that gardeners carried from three stone wells. It was a famous Mediterranean hotel that had for decades been the gathering place for spies, smugglers, rich refugees, remittance men, and other quick-witted hustlers who fed in these waters.

The hotel had been built, rebuilt, decorated and redecorated by many owners from many lands over the years and had come to resemble a freebooter’s hideaway, with forgotten treasures scattered about its rooms and corridors. Spread over the thick carpets were wondrous rugs woven years ago by nomadic women who plied their craft while perched on camels traversing mountains and deserts. The white-washed walls were hung with tapestries from Burma and Thailand, and yes, even from Ormaybesiam. There were vases from the Orient, small statues of exotic gods looted from pagan temples, leather sofas and chairs from Argentina, colorful Rajah couches from India, and the shields and spears of African warriors who’d fallen long ago. There was a hunt room deep in the bowels of the place, where the walls were decorated with the heads and skins of animals from all over the world. Lucky had never seen anyone in there – the bottles behind the small bar were covered with dust – and it was too spooky to investigate very long with all those dead animal eyes looking at you.

A cranky elevator serviced the several floors and on the landing outside each elevator door was an enormous elephant’s foot filled with sand so it could serve as an ashtray. At first Lucky thought they were fakes, but when he examined them closely he could tell they were indeed real. It depressed him to think that a noble creature like an elephant had been turned into receptacles for Gauloises, Players and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Even so, the hotel was a wondrous place – a whole secret world within a world – full of surprises and eccentric people.

Lucky’s favorite spot was the Empire Room, where no one questioned his presence - even when his father wasn’t there. It was located near the entrance of the hotel and had verandahs on two sides and a long, curving rattan bar on the other. Mostly men frequented the Empire Room, except at four o’clock when tables were set up on the verandah and women in summer dresses and jaunty hats and white gloves would venture in for tea.

The hotel was noted for its high tea - especially its Sunday cream tea - when people would come from all over the island to nibble on sandwiches with the crusts cut off; racks of buttered toast and pots of French pate and thick jams; thin-sliced meat, thick-cut bread right out of the oven and three-tiered trolleys ladened with every sort of desert imaginable. Most of the takers of high tea were Europeans or rich Egyptians, Armenians, Lebanese and Turks. They came with their wives and mistresses, laughing a little louder than necessary and all the while their eyes darted into the dark corners of the Empire Room, looking to see who was really about. The regulars, however, usually vanished at tea time, then returned to resume their places when the last snoopers with their perfumed women had vanished. And it was time again to exchange secrets or make quiet deals involving everything from smuggled guns to black market penicillin.

The Empire Room was a mysterious place, with wide-bladed fly fans that slowly swiveled in the ceilings, wafting the rich odors of tobacco, spirits and musty ice bins. It was an immense room, divided into many nooks of privacy by folding screens with Indian designs and large colorful pots holding palms with wide branches that hid all sorts of goings-on. Instead of chairs, there were rattan couches and love seats with soft, colorful pillows and the tables were glass-topped and were perched on hourglass-shaped supports made of woven strips of bamboo. The stools surrounding the long, curved bar were high and fan-backed and if you were a boy who knew the wisdom of silence and were very still, you could peer through the cane to see and hear all that went on without being noticed.

The corner stool, tucked near the big brass espresso machine, was Lucky’s favorite watching place. From there he could peer into nearly every nook, as well keep an eye on the comings and goings of the strange men who frequented the place. If he needed his lemon or orange squash refreshed he merely had to lift the glass when the bartender was operating the coffee machine and the man would amble over to splash in more syrup and refill the glass with soda water from a siphon bottle that was nestled in a basket made of silver wire. It was from this vantage point that he’d first spotted the Colonel.

Now, he watched in growing amazement as the old fellow finished his drink, ordered another, and then wandered about the room, stopping here and there to address the many men he knew by first name. He had a loud, parade ground voice and had an air of importance about him that somehow stood in stark contrast to someone who wore such an eccentric accessory. The Colonel spoke of the state of the currency: "The pound sterling’s as sound as ever, sir. Sound as ever. But gold’s the ticket for those with a nervous view." Of taxes: "Confiscatory, old man. They’re making expatriates of us all." And the state of the world: "Parlous times, chaps. We must mind our backs, what with that fellow Stalin and his red minions."

As Lucky listened, noting words he’d need to look up later, he kept thinking about that banana with its stupid feather. The fruit and feather had been placed with such care he didn’t think it could have been accidental, such as absently tucking your breakfast banana away, instead of cutting it up into your cereal and milk. Even if this was somehow true, and the banana had been a forgotten breakfast item, where did the feather come from? Even in Cyprus they didn’t serve green feathers with breakfast. He waited for someone to remark on it, but the men the Colonel addressed become crazy-eyed in his presence, staring madly and fixedly at his face - never lowering their gaze to take in the offending fruit and feather. Finally, the Colonel hoisted out a watch from his vest pocket, deplored the lateness of the hour and departed, once again leaving the mystery unsolved.

At that moment his father’s luncheon companion arrived and Lucky had to make himself scarce. But as he left he heard men laughing and whispering to one another.

And he heard his father say to his friend: "I just saw the oddest thing. There was a guy in here with a banana in his coat pocket."

"What the hell for?" his friend asked.

"Beats me," his father said. "It was pretty damned strange. Especially with that feather sticking out of it."

"Out of what?" the man goggled.

"Out of the banana," his father answered. "A big green feather stuck right in the banana. Looked like a parrot’s feather to me."

"Jesus, Allan," his father’s companion said. "It’s a little early to be hitting the sauce, don’t you think?"

NEXT: LIFE IN A HAVEN FOR SPIES
*****
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS


BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!


Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com

*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES


Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India


*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!




Friday, July 12, 2013

.................THE ENCHANTED ISLE

*****
Aphrodite's Birthplace




***
The plane rattled like a wagon full of scrap metal and broken glass. A great weight bore down on Lucky and his throat constricted as the plane strained to get off the ground. The rattling grew louder and Lucky felt wind against his cheeks. He swore he could see daylight gleaming through empty rivet sockets in the plane’s sides.

Lucky looked out the window and saw that they were rushing toward the end of the runway - rocky ground and stunted trees lay just beyond. Unconsciously, he braced his feet on the floor and strained up against his seat belt, as if he were lifting the plane himself. Suddenly he was flung back as the nose tilted crazily, there was a sharp bump and the crowd cheered as the plane rumbled up and up and then they were in the air and the passengers burst into even louder cheers and applauded the pilot as if he had just performed a miracle.

Wedged next to Lucky, so close his knees nearly touched the boy’s pull-down seat, was a big, broad shouldered man with a thick shock of black hair, heavy brows over dark eyes, a grand Greek nose and a white-toothed smile.

"The pilot is the cousin of my wife," the man said proudly. "The best in all of Cyprus!"

Lucky opened his mouth to compliment the pilot, but then passengers began to sing, clapping their hands to mark time. The man clapped with them, nodding to Lucky to join in. So he did, listening intently to the strange words for something he could pronounce. Then he caught a phrase - as each verse ended, the people would sing the refrain, "O, stok-ah-lo. O, stok-ah-lo." He sang that part with them, mumbling over the rest as if it were a Latin prayer at Mass that he didn’t remember. The man laughed in delight and clapped louder, shouting "O, stok-ah-lo" with Lucky. When the song was done, there was more applause and then the passengers returned to their gossiping.

"What does that word mean?" Lucky asked the man. "You know – stok-ah-lo?" The word rolled off his tongue as if he’d always known how to pronounce it. His companion was impressed. He leaned closer, most serious. He introduced himself, saying his name was Paul - Paulo, in Cypriot.

"Stokahlo is a most wondrous word," Paul said. "But there is no good translation that fits all of its meanings. It means hello and good-bye at the same time. As for the song, it’s one the villagers sing to the fisherman when they sail away to who knows what God intends. Maybe their nets will be filled quickly and everyone in the village can rejoice. Or, perhaps a storm will kill them and then church bells will ring and women will cry and tear their hair because there is nothing and no one to bury in the graves. In Cyprus, it is bad luck to say goodbye. So we say stokahlo, for one of its meanings is we’ll see you again, God willing." Paul tapped his head with a thick forefinger. "You will soon learn, my young friend, that there are many such mysteries awaiting you in Cyprus." He hesitated, then added, "Although we pronounce the name of our country as, ‘Kyp-ray-ya!"

Lucky whispered the word to himself – "Kyp-ray-ya." Making it his own. This was a word, he sensed, that might open many secret doors, like Aladdin winning his way into the bandit’s cave when he cried, "Open Sesame!" As for the story behind "stokahlo," he thought he’d never heard such a wonderful tale.

Paul studied the boy as he digested all these new things. Then, he asked: "You are American, yes?"

Lucky said he was. Paul beamed, gold teeth sparkling. "In Cyprus," he said, "we love all Amerikhanos. You must tell everyone who you are when you meet them so they will be your friend." Lucky said he’d be sure to do that. "You don’t want them to think you are English," Paul advised. "If they do, they might not be so friendly."

The boy’s interest deepened. He’d read that Cyprus was a British colony. That term - colony - roused his inbred mistrust of the British, and all his young patriotism boiled up. "We threw the British out," he told his new friend. "During the Revolution. Maybe you should do the same."

Paul grew quiet, gravely looking this way and that to see if anyone was listening. Then he said: "We should talk of other things." He shrugged a sad and dramatic shrug. "It’s not that I don’t trust you, my young friend," he said. "But you might relate our conversation to your father, or someone else. And they, perhaps, might accidentally pass my words on to unfriendly people."

Lucky shook his head, very firm. "I won’t tell," he said. Although his new friend couldn’t know it, from a CIA brat like Lucky that was a promise as good as the purest gold. He asked, "Why are you so worried? Do the Brits punish people for saying things they don’t like?"

"Sometimes," the man admitted - very somber. Another dramatic shrug. "Men have been imprisoned, even shot, for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person."

"I won’t tell," Lucky promised again. Then he shrugged, unconsciously aping the man’s gesture. "In America," Lucky said, "you can say anything you like. Against anyone you like." As he said this, he knew it wasn’t entirely true and for a moment we worried that Paul might call him on it.

But, to the boy’s relief, a broad smile returned to his companion’s face. "That’s why we love Americans," he said. "They are the greatest people in the whole world. Look at your president, Abraham Lincoln. He set men free."

Lucky tried to look wise. "The slaves," he said fervently. "Lincoln freed the slaves."

"Perhaps, someday when you return to your country," Paul said, "you will tell someone important about Cyprus. We are only a small place, but we have a great history. And we wish to be free - like America."

Lucky solemnly promised he’d do so, wondering if maybe the CIA could help. Fighting for freedom, after all, was the Agency’s purpose. At least that’s what his father and all his CIA pals said. As did his CIA family counselor, Mr. Blaines.

Then Paul yawned, eased back in his seat, and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep. Lucky stared out the window, wondering how long it would be before they reached Cyprus. His mother came up to see if he was okay. He said he was, except he was hungry and asked when would they get to eat.

"How can you think about food?" his mother said, clutching her stomach. "This plane’s so old and creaky it feels like it’s going to fall out of the sky. I hope I don’t get sick!"

She had a right to worry. Not only did the plane rattle and creak, but the engines smoked worse than the old pre-war Dodge that had once been the family car. Also, there was that constant current of cold air he’d noticed before and the light beaming through cracks in the metal. But then it came to the boy that it was foolish to worry. He just could not envision himself dying in a plane. From that flicker grew a conviction that would last as long as Lucky lived, no matter how many miles he traveled, or how many continents he visited. Airplanes would not be the death of him.

"You’ll be okay, Mom," he said. "As long as you’re with me."

His mother almost laughed at his sober tones, but when he told her why, she hugged him instead. In her Irish heart-of-hearts she was certain he spoke true. She took comfort in his words and returned to her seat. She must have told his father what he’d said, because Allan Senior suddenly turned those wintry blue eyes on the boy. He wondered if somehow he’d gotten himself in trouble, but then his father shrugged and turned away.

The boy peered out the window again. Below was the Mediterranean and it was the bluest, clearest water he’d ever seen. Bluer than the Gulf Of Mexico. Clearer even than Crystal Springs, Florida, where they had glass-bottomed boats that let you see the fish and the turtles and the alligators swimming below. The blue of the sea filled his eyes and mind and he felt a great peace wash over him. He began to hum, "Far Away Places," the song that had been so popular before he left the states.

The song went:

"Far away places with strange sounding names,
Far away over the sea.
Those far away places with the strange sounding names
Are calling, calling me.
Goin’ to China or maybe Siam,
I want to see for myself
Those far away places I’ve been readin’ about
In a book that I took from a shelf."

The song had captured Lucky’s whole imagination the moment he first heard it. It was as if it had been written especially for a boy such as he. A dreamer, who would soon be flying to far away places. It even anticipated Lucky’s search for knowledge about those far places and finding them in "… a book that I took from a shelf." When he first heard the song he thought "Or Maybe Siam" was one word - "Ormebesiam" - and until he learned better, he sang it that way, figuring it was a country he’d never heard of before. He wasn’t embarrassed when he was finally corrected. The person who told him - a nun - was never likely to see such things herself.

Already he’d sworn to himself that before his life was done he’d visit all the countries in the world - except, maybe the places where the Communists wouldn’t let you in. But, certainly, he’d set foot in all the continents. Well, perhaps not all. Antarctica was a continent, but so cold that not even Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his mighty dog, King, would dare to venture to such a place. (Many years later Lucky actually did visit there.)

A gentle tap on his arm interrupted his reverie. A cheery stewardess was handing him a tray. Lucky’s stomach grumbled with pleasure. On the tray was a plate containing a tomato, red and ripe, cut in quarters; there were cucumber slices as well and a boiled egg with a hunk of buttered black bread thick and heavy as rich cake. The whole thing was sprinkled with green bits of rosemary and olive oil and a tangy vinegar whose like he’d never tasted before. In a cup was pile of black olives. Greek olives, his seating companion – who’d awakened at the sound of the rattling tray - told him.

Lucky popped one in his mouth, savoring it.

"Try the fetah," Paul said, suddenly awake and alert again. Lucky frowned, wondering what he meant. "The cheese," Paul said, pointing at the thick white slices under the tomatoes. "Fetah is goat’s cheese," he explained.

Although Lucky had never tasted goat’s cheese, he’d read about it several years before in a book called Heidi. It sounded delicious then and now that he was looking at the delicate white color of the cheese and smelled the sharp scent rising up, he was sure he wouldn’t be disappointed. Following Paul’s lead, he broke off a piece and put it on a hunk of bread and wolfed it down. It was glorious: light and sharp at the same time, and the taste lingered at the back of the tongue.

"Now the tomato and cucumber," Paul instructed him.

Lucky did as he was told, and the mixture of tastes made him think of hot suns and clear skies. Next, he ate some egg, then more olives, and back to the cheese again.

"If you eat like this every day," Paul said, "you will never get sick. Especially the olives. It is a fact. The only time I have ever been ill was when I was forced to do without olives because of unfortunate necessity."

Paul suddenly sat straight and pointed out the window. "Cyprus," he cried, voice full of emotion.

The boy peered through the porthole. First he saw a thick blue shimmering line; which became craggy peaked mountains, studded with green forests. And then the plane was sweeping over those mountains and coming down and down. He saw brown plains stretching in every direction.

"It’s summer, now," Paul apologized. "The drought, you know, makes the great Nicosia plain quite brown. But soon it will rain and everything will be green. I tell you, my young friend, there is no place in this world so beautiful as Cyprus when it rains."

Lucky didn’t mind the brown at all. As they descended, he saw villages with adobe homes with gleaming, white washed walls. He saw sprawling farms and people plowing with horse drawn machines. He saw a man driving a herd of goats across a field and nearby, on a dusty road, was another man riding a camel.

And wasn’t it all a wonder. And wasn’t it all that a Far Away Place should be?

As the plane approached the runway it slowed, then it began to rattle more furiously than before. Lucky was thrown about so much that if he’d been without a seat belt he would have been hurled to the floor. They slammed down on the runway with a mighty crash, bouncing high and crashing down once, twice, three more times. The engines howled like banshees and the brakes squealed in protest as the pilot fought to bring the plane to a halt. Finally, with one last loud backfire, the plane stopped.

The passengers cheered and applauded, but when Lucky looked at his new friend he saw that the man’s face was pale and his clapping was definitely subdued.

After several long minutes the doors creaked open and light streamed in, along with the sharp smell of aviation fuel. A Cypriot woman in a khaki uniform boarded, flanked by two big uniformed men. The woman stood at the head of the aisle. She raised something in her hand. It looked like a big insect sprayer.

"Welcome to Cyprus," the woman intoned quite solemnly.

Then she advanced down the aisle and to Lucky’s supreme amazement, she was spraying everyone with DDT.

Lucky closed his eyes just before he got a blast full in the face. He heard his mother cry out in horror and he got his eyes open in time to see her cover his baby brother’s head with a blanket to keep the DDT from settling on him. No one seemed to be bothered by this. The passengers were all laughing and climbing out of their seats to gather up their packages and bundles.

Paul clapped Lucky on the back and wished him good fortune, then exited the plane. The boy held back to wait for his parents. A few moments later they stumbled down the steps. Just ahead, waiting on the tarmac, was a long black Lincoln with a small American flag fluttering on the antennae. Standing next to the car was a man in a suit holding up a sign that bore his father’s name.

A balmy wind blew out of the mountains, stirring up dust, and bringing with it the magical smells of high places, as well as the scent of the sea, all mingled with spices and citrus and roses.

For as long as Lucky lived he would remember that scent.

It was the perfume of Cyprus. The very essence of enchantment.

NEXT: The Spy With The Feathered Banana In His Pocket

*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS


BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
*****

Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com

*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES


Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India


*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!