LUCKY IN CYPRUS: Life In A Haven For Spies

*****

Where The Spies Hung Their Cloaks
And Check Their Daggers At The Door

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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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