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| Ladera Hotel - Circa 1950's Now On The Infamous Green Line |
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"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
*****
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:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
*****
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!
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