LUCKY IN CYPRUS: .................THE ENCHANTED ISLE

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Aphrodite's Birthplace

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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

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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.

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LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

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