Friday, August 30, 2013

Short Pants And Other Indignities


To begin with, he felt like a sissy in the uniform he was required to wear: a dinky gray English school boy’s cap with a little green ribbon sticking up on one side; a gray jacket with narrow lapels over a white shirt with a thin, striped gray and green tie; gray short pants and knee-high gray stockings humiliatingly held up by garters that had dumb green tabs hanging down. The shoes were okay – ordinary black with sturdy soles and thick laces that ought not to break for a week or two. Other than the black shoes, there was nothing about the uniform he didn’t detest. If any of his friends back in the states saw the garters it would be the end of his reputation for all eternity. And the short pants were an abomination that made him hate the British all over again.

While waiting for the school year to begin, he had thought about the nice people he had met during his stay in England and had half-way decided that he was being unfair to condemn an entire nation of people who had never done him any personal harm. Surely, there would be decent English boys at school who would befriend him and helpful teachers who would ease his passage into the strange new world that was the British school system.

But when his mother had brought the uniform home and announced that he’d have to wear it, he suddenly had something real to hang his dislike upon. He argued, he cajoled, he whined and pouted, he dug in his stubborn heels and said he’d rather be dead than wear such a thing. He even threatened to run away from home. His mother laughed and wondered where he’d he run to - Cyprus was an island after all.

"Besides, I think you look absolutely darling in that uniform, Lucky," she said.

The word "darling" boomed in his mind like a kettle drum of warning. This was not good. He could not be perceived in any way as looking "darling." What would Athena think?

He said, "But these are short pants, Mom. No American boy wears short pants."

His mother pealed laughter. She was beyond reason. Beyond common sense. She was… Beyond justice! But, she was wrong, dammit! Every American boy in 1952 knew how hard and how long other boys had fought to rid themselves of sissy short pants. Their fathers, their uncles, their grandfathers told them so. Told them how fortunate they were to be modern boys free of such sartorial chains of youthful enslavement.

Despite his protests, in the end he had no choice but to give in. On the fateful day he wearily dragged on the sissy uniform and called a taxi to take him to school. To leave the house, however, he had to run a gauntlet of women – composed of his mother and the two maids telling him how "darling" he looked - to get out the door and head for the waiting taxi. The gardener had been bribed with a few copper piastras so he had checked to see that the coast was clear and had the gate open for Lucky to make a run for it.

He leaped head-first into the back seat of the cab just as a group of village women trooped around the corner. For all he knew Athena was with them – it would be just his misfortune. He pleaded with the driver to take off and which he did it with alacrity, shooting gravel from his wheels and peeling down the hill in a boil of dust and women shouting for him to slow down before the devil saw he was in such a hurry to go to hell.

The cabbie was his old buddy Nikos, so Lucky was able to relax and try out his Greek. He’d nearly put the whole thing behind him – trying to be philosophical about the uniform - when suddenly the cab was pulling up in front of the school, which was just a mile outside of Nicosia. It was called the Thomas Arnold Academy For Boys, after a famous educator who had reformed the British school system years before. Lucky recognized the good Dr. Arnold’s name from the movie, "Tom Brown’s School Days," based on the novel by Thomas Hughes which Lucky read a few weeks after he became a student of the Academy.

The campus Lucky saw that day first presented imposing walls and iron gates. Through the gates could be seen a mottled lawn and desultory landscaping with several two-and-three-story red-brick Victorian-era buildings huddled together in the center. Two of the buildings were dorms for the boys who lived at the school – by far the majority of the student body. One was an administration building, which also included a large chapel, the dining area, plus school rooms for the boys in the upper grades. Another housed the classrooms for the rest of the students.

The scene through the cab window was the usual chaos one sees when any school approach is made at this time of day – a confusion of kids squeezing out every last second of freedom before the bell called them to order. Lucky viewed a frantic sea of gray uniforms and bare white legs, churning and boiling and flowing madly this way and that. There were smaller boys running around, squealing in high-pitched voices, trying to tag one another, or whip off someone’s cap.

A few of those boys were already crying, their knees bloody from falling down, and the day had yet to begin. There were also in-between-aged boys playing "grab-ass" and "pinch your roger." In the middle of this madness were the older lads, gathered in small groups - trying to look cool and unconcerned, while they snuck stealthy drags from cigarettes that were passed around hidden in the cups of their palms.

While talking to Nikos Lucky had felt like an adult. But the moment he paid the man off and stepped out of the taxi he felt himself shrinking as if he’d downed one of Alice’s pills. He felt small and insignificant - just a kid again. No different than any of these kids, or the kids he’d felt superior to when he’d left school in Maryland the previous May to set off on his grand adventure.

As he walked along the gravel road to the school Lucky saw several male teachers strolling through the chaos, swinging long blackboard pointers as if they were officers’ swagger sticks. His stomach knotted and he felt like he was going to lose his breakfast right then and there - humiliating himself before all these strange people. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to heavy-handed discipline. His most recent school had been ruled by fierce nuns who could turn an errant boy black and blue in a matter of seconds with their pointers and yard-sticks.

Despite those dangers, at this point in his life he’d somehow managed to avoid even having his open palms stung by an angry nun. When someone was twelve years old and had attended as many schools as Lucky had, they have a different perspective than other children. They learn how to comport themselves in such a way that physical discipline - to put it plainly: beatings - is dismissed from the teacher’s mind. One carried a shield of dignity beyond one’s years.

But he wasn’t so sure of himself as watched the muscular teachers wading through the youthful chaos, swinging away at will. He not only felt small, but weary as well. And when the bell tolled, calling them to assembly, Lucky dragged himself after the other kids, who were streaming toward the building that housed the chapel. Outside the big double doors leading into the main building were half-a-dozen forbidding-looking male teachers forming a horizontal line across the entrance. All of them were armed with pointers. They blew whistles and the crowd of shrieking boys suddenly grew silent. The boys split up and made orderly lines before each of the teachers.

Lucky guessed the division was by age and grade. Generally speaking, the heights of the boys in each line were fairly uniform: little kids in the line at the far left, with each succeeding line composed of progressively taller boys.

As he approached, he looked around, trying to figure out where he belonged. Then someone bellowed: "Yanks over here!"

Lucky turned toward the bellow. He saw a large, pimply-faced boy in his mid-teens standing apart from the others. There were three smaller boys gathered before him.

Another bellow: "Where’s the other Yank? I’m supposed to have four!"

Figuring this meant him, Lucky walked toward the little group. He was somewhat relieved when he recognized two of three boys in the teenager’s charge. They were the Johnson brothers, Larry and Tom - two CIA kids he’d met while he was getting shots at the Pentagon half a year ago. Larry was Lucky’s age, while Tom was a year-and-a-half younger. They’d lived down the street from each other at Langley Park while their fathers got their final instructions at the "Pickle Factory."

Lucky didn’t know the third boy – who seemed to be about his age. He soon learned he was David Sisco Jr., son of the CIA chief-of-station in Cyprus. A few years later, David Sr. would become chief of operations for the entire Middle East. In the succeeding decades he would become a chief negotiator for peace in the Middle East, which Lucky would always find amusing – since he was a spook through and through, just as the Arabs suspected.

Despite his father’s importance, David looked scared as hell. But not quite as frightened as Larry and Tom. Lucky knew why the brothers were so edgy - their mother was a frantic, overprotective woman who wouldn’t even allow her sons to play marbles, or read comic books, fearing that they’d fall under "evil influences." When Larry and Tom saw Lucky they immediately broke into wide grins. He’d gotten them out of some scrapes in Langley Park and they figured, no doubt, that if anyone could deal with a teenage British bully, it was him.

"Lucky!" Larry shouted in greeting. Then, unnecessarily, "Over here!"

Lucky winced. After changing schools so many times, he knew a bully when he saw one. And now Larry, ever the bumbler, had just handed the tall, overly skinny British teenager extra ammunition for his cruelty gun.

The teenager sneered at Lucky. "Are you Cole?" he asked.

Lucky nodded. "Present," he said.

"You’ll address me as ‘Sir,’ or ‘Mister’," the teenager growled. "Don’t you know an upper classman when you see one, you ignorant Yank?"

Lucky shrugged. "Present, sir," he said.

"Damned bloody Yanks are always late," the teenager continued. "Late to the war, late to class. If it wasn’t for us, you’d all be shouting bloody ‘Heil, Hitler’ to Adolph and his pals." The boy lifted an official-looking clipboard, pencil poised. "One demerit, Cole. For being late." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "And on your first day, as well."

Lucky indicated the bell tower, where the hands on a large clock announced that it was five minutes before eight. The teenager’s eyes followed his pointing finger.

"I’m not late… sir," Lucky said. "I’m five minutes early."

The teenager glowered. "Bloody’ Yank, you’re late if I say you are!"

Lucky turned to Larry and Tom, looking for witnesses. Immediately they shrank away. Damn! No help there. He looked at David Sisco for help. To Lucky’s astonishment, David stuck his chin out in defiance.

"If Mr. Simms says you’re late," David Sisco said, "then I guess you are."

Immediately, Lucky broke away from the group. Ignoring the surprised shout of protest from the Brit teenager, he hurried over to the nearest teacher, who was busy reading the roll for his line of students.

The teacher broke off when he saw Lucky. "Pardon me, sir," Lucky said, "but I’m new here. And I don’t know where to go."

The teacher frowned. "From you accent, young man," he said, "I’d take you for one of the American lads who are joining us this year."

"Yes, sir," Lucky replied, smiling as boyishly charming as he could. "I’m Allan Cole. And I’m really worried that I’m going to be marked late for school if I don’t find out where I’m supposed to be."

The teacher looked up the at the clock, then back at Lucky. "No trouble there, young Cole," he said. "You’re here with five minutes to spare."

He turned to his charges and bellowed orders for them to "remain in order" while he was gone. Then he led Lucky back to the bully and the three Americans.

The teenager stiffened when he saw the teacher coming. He practically snapped his heels together.

"Mr. Simms," the teacher said to the youth. "I’ve got a lost Yank for you. His name is Allan Cole, so you can check him off on your list." Again the teacher looked up at the clock. "Mark Mr. Cole on time, Simms," he ordered. Then he turned away and went back to his roll calling.

Larry and Tom beamed at Lucky. This was the sort of thing they expected of him. David, on the other hand, turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. But from the look on his face, Lucky realized he’d just made an enemy – although it was through no fault of his own.

That didn’t worry him too much, because he’d also just made a deadlier enemy - Simms. The boy was not only much older and stronger than Lucky, but was clearly a favorite of the teachers. No different than the toady hall monitors back in the States, with which he’d had some experience.

"You’re a clever fellow," Simms growled. "We don’t like clever fellows here, Cole. Especially clever bloody Yanks."

Lucky did his best to defuse the situation. Putting on a look of great innocence, he said, "I’m really sorry if I caused you any trouble, Mr. Simms. But if I was late to school - especially on the first day - my mom and dad would give me you know what." He sighed, and in that sigh he tried to call on the mutual comradeship all kids shared when it came to parents. "They’d cut off all my privileges for a month," he said. "And my allowance, too!"

But the face of Simms remained unforgiving. "You can bloody well bugger off with your privileges and allowance, Cole," he replied.

He was about to say more, but broke off. A thin, threatening sneer spread across his face. Lucky couldn’t help but notice that two yellowish pimples, ready to burst, marked each corner of Simms’ lips. "What do you have in your pockets, Yank?" Simms demanded.

Lucky knew what he was getting at. But he pretended ignorance. Looking puzzled, he patted his empty wallet pocket. "Not a thing," he said.

"What about your other pockets?" Simms snarled.

Lucky stuck both hands into opposite pockets, palming the penknife that resided in the left and the pound note that lived in the right. Then he drew his hands out, pulling the pockets with them, showing that he had nothing to offer. Another shrug. "Like I said - nothing… uh, sir."

Simms’ smile vanished. Lips lifting to display a crooked-toothed snarl. "Where’s your dinner money, then?" he demanded.

Again, Lucky pretended puzzlement. "Dinner money, sir?" he said. Then his face brightened. "Oh, you mean lunch!" More puzzled shakes of his head. "But I thought lunch was paid for with the tuition." Acting helpless, he asked Larry and Tom. "Do we need lunch money?"

Both boys gave grim nods. It was apparent to Lucky that Simms had already confiscated whatever money they’d carried.

"You’re a bloody liar, Yank!" Simms said. "I know you’ve got money. And if you don’t hand it over I’ll bloody well knock you on your ass!"

He stormed forward. Skinny arms coming up. Clenching big bony fists that his arms would someday grow into. There wasn’t anything Lucky could do as the much bigger boy loomed over him, raising a fist for a devastating punch.

Lucky’s instincts cut in. His boxer grandfather had drilled him on just this sort situation. Automatically, Lucky’s left hand shot out and grabbed Simms by the right elbow. He tugged forward, catching Simms off balance and spinning him toward him. At the same time, Lucky’s right fist powered upward. Using the force of Simms’ much larger body being pulled at him and all the strength he could put into the punch, Lucky struck Simms square on the jaw.

Bam!

Simms went down like a felled tree. Smacking his head against the steps.

At first Lucky felt like he imagined Rocky Marciano must have felt a week or so before when he’d knocked out Jersey Joe Walcott in the 13th round. But then blood suddenly poured from Simms head, scaring the hell out of Lucky. In what seemed like a split-second the teacher Lucky had talked to was suddenly standing over Simms.

"What happened, here?" he demanded.

Larry and Tom gulped and went silent.

Sisco, however, started to speak: "Cole, here…" he began…

But Simms, despite his pain and the blood, had the presence of mind to break in and save himself from being humiliated. After all, he’d been knocked down by a much smaller boy.

"I slipped on the steps, sir," he croaked. "Cole tried to stop the fall… but it wasn’t any use."

The teacher knelt beside Simms, examining the injury. "Heads wounds always look worse than they really are," he said flatly. "No worry here. But get yourself off to the infirmary, Simms. Have the nurse confirm my opinion." The teacher rose, laughing. "I’ve seen more blood on the rugby field," he said. "It’ll give you character, Simms." Then he strolled away.

Simms crawled to his feet, one hand trying to cover wound, blood pouring freely through his finger.

"I’m sorry," Lucky blurted.

This was no exaggeration or special pleading. He didn’t mean to cause such injury.

"You don’t know how bloody sorry you’re going be, Yank," Simms snarled. Then he limped off to the infirmary.

Larry said, "What do we do now?"

Lucky looked around and saw the lines of boys being led through the doors of the chapel.

"Follow them," he said.

Then he turned to David. "Thanks for the help," he said - as sarcastically as he could.

David gave him a look of great disdain. "Don’t you know who I am?" he asked.

Lucky was bewildered. He’d never heard the child of a CIA agent ask such a question. He could only shrug.

"I’m David Sisco," the boy said. Then he waited, as if expecting Lucky to be impressed.

"So?" Lucky asked, still bewildered.

"My father is your father’s boss," David sneered.

Lucky was shocked by this answer. Not because of David’s claim of superiority. But because of the implied secrets that were being revealed. He looked at Larry and Tom, who were just as stunned.

Larry, suddenly emboldened said, "You better shut up about that, David. Mr. Blaines would kick your butt."

Realizing what he’d done, David paled. He bit his lip. Then, gathering his wits together, he turned to Lucky. "I’m going to tell what you did," he said. "You’re going to be in big trouble."

But now Lucky was back on familiar ground. "Tell all you want," he said. "But just don’t tell it to the wrong people, okay?"

As white as David was, he turned paler still. Then he whirled and rushed off into the chapel.

"Now what?" Larry asked.

Lucky said, "We do what we’re supposed to do. Shut up, right?"

Larry nodded. "Boy, what if… you know… finds out?"

"I’m not talking," Lucky said. "If David does… never mind. We’re really being stupid here, right? We could get our dads… you know…" What he wanted to say was, "killed," but he left that off because it was unnecessary to explain these things to one of Mr. Blains’ boys.

"Yeah," Larry said. "We know."

That was the last word they ever said or heard on the subject. Wisely, David chose to keep his lip buttoned. As the years went by it was also the one and only time Lucky ever heard a member of the extended CIA family come close to breaking the seal of silence required of them all.

David Sisco never forgave Lucky for witnessing his error.

*****

NEXT: THE GOD SAVE THE KING FIASCO

*****

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!
Audiobook Version Coming Soon


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
Audiobook version coming soon!


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

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
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*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!

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, August 23, 2013

The Village That Was 'Just A Little Bit Red'


***
The move to Pallouriotissa went without a hitch. After all, they had only their luggage and Helen’s two magical trunks to transport. Their household goods were still on a ship somewhere and wouldn’t arrive for some months. Lucky was eager to see Athena again, but was so stricken with shyness that he couldn’t muster the nerve to ask Yorgo about her. Nor did the landlord mention his daughter again the few times he stopped by the house.

The boy spent the first few days acclimatizing himself to his immediate surroundings. During that time he didn’t venture beyond the walls of the villa. Instead, he explored the big main house and the fragrant orchards and gardens. Outside, he quickly adopted a favorite place to think and view the world beyond the villa’s walls.

There was a back gate with two large stone pillars that rose eight feet or more. The pillars were just wide enough for a young man to sit comfortably upon and contemplate the meaning of things. Across the gravel road was a broad field of hard-packed earth. Beyond the field were rolling hills where goats grazed on sun-baked grasses. From that point on there were no other features to interrupt Lucky’s view. And it was a fabulous view - jumping from those rolling hills to a striking range of distant mountain peaks, all cool green and inviting in the summer’s intense heat.

There were five peaks in all, grouped close together. Athena told him later the villagers had two traditional names that dated back to antiquity: one for summer, the other for winter. In the summer dry season the peaks were called the "Five Fingers," because that’s what they most resembled - an up thrust hand beseeching the heavens. Athena shyly confessed that the people of Pallouriotissa were actually referring to the five fingers of Zeus, the ancient Greek king of the gods who had fathered Aphrodite.

"She was born in Cyprus," Athena said of the goddess. Blushing, she went on to say, "Someday I would like to show you the place by the sea in Paphos where she came out of the head of Zeus. He was in much pain, you know." She tapped her head to indicate where the pain was located.

"You mean Zeus had a headache?" Lucky said. He laughed at the idea of a God suffering from so human an ailment.

Athena didn’t think it was funny. "Oh, it was a great suffering, you know," she said. "He could hardly bear it. And then – pop! Out jumped Aphrodite, his daughter, and the pain was gone."

She said in the winter when snow covered the peaks the range was called "The Bride And Her Four Maids." This was because the snow made them seem like a wedding procession all dressed in white with flowing veils that trailed all the way into the plains. The bride, Athena said, was the tallest of the peaks and in the old days people believed she was Persephone, herself. And the other peaks trailing behind in a snowy line were Persephone’s court of four heavenly princesses - getting the bride ready for her marriage to Hades, the god of the underworld.

"But we no longer believe such things," Athena said. "They are only stories."

"Myths," Lucky said.

Athena nodded. "Yes. Of course," she said. "Myths. Only myths." Then she laughed. "Maybe we believe just a little bit," she said, holding up two fingers with a small gap between them to show just how small the belief was.

Lucky’s second favorite lookout point was the garage roof, which was so covered with grape vines that it provided a leafy bower suitable for spying. A boy who loved the colors and fragrance of dawn, Lucky liked nothing better than to slip out of the house in the pearly hours and watch the sun rise from that east-facing vantage point.

From the garage roof he saw people setting out to the fields. The goat and sheep herders were already up and tending their flocks in the field, whistling at the pretty girls heading for school. Lucky kept hoping he’d spot Athena among the girls, but he never did.

If it was a market day, villagers would load their goods on ox and donkey carts, tucking sacks of produce in among the hand-woven cages of live birds - usually chickens or sparrows. The chickens were raised in the back yards, while the sparrows were caught by spreading lime on the branches of trees. When the birds landed, they were stuck there until a boy climbed up with a sack to pull them off and stuff them inside. Lucky thought it was cruel, but then someone explained to him that the sparrows were stealing the farmers’ crops, so they shouldn’t mind giving up a few of their number to feed the farmers’ families. When the wagons set off, boys and bare-legged girls trailed behind the caravan, driving geese and ducks with long switches. There were usually a few camels on the road, complaining bitterly to their masters about the huge burdens swaying on their backs. No sooner had the caravan left then the women and older girls would stream out, carrying pails, kerosene tins and large clay jars to gather water at the central village fountain. Later they’d return home with those same pails and jars balanced on their heads - hips swaying in the manner of an ancient feminine procession that beguiled Lucky like distant music.

From Lucky’s perch, the village appeared like an illustration from one of his history books, with only a rare old car or battered truck to remind him that this was indeed the Twentieth Century. He was living in a place where two worlds existed side-by-side – one still part of antiquity, the other struggling to enter the modern age.

And that world was heavy with the strong scent of animals. It was one of the first thing Lucky noticed, after drinking in the exotic perfume of the land. In many ways Cyprus was as much a world of animals as it was people. Animals, accompanied by hard-working humans, did all the labor that machines accomplished in the modern world. Everywhere you looked you saw scores of animals, sometimes outnumbering humans. Animals carrying and hauling things; animals grinding grain or turning power wheels; animals providing milk, cheese, butter, eggs, clothing, bedding; animals bound for market where they would be turned into food, oil or lard, sinew, or leather goods.

One weekend morning while he was perched on the gate post, gazing across the field hoping for some sight of Athena, he saw a dozen or more boys trot out onto the vacant lot. They seemed to have some serious purpose as they began marking the ground off with rocks and other debris - pacing the distance between each marking place, obviously setting up some sort of playing field. Lucky perked up immediately. It was a football field, he realized, as he saw them set up goal lines on either side of lot.

Then he saw another boy strolling down the road toward the vacant lot. He was a little taller and more formally dressed than the others. They wore any raggedy old thing and many were barefooted. This boy had on polished shoes, heavy trousers and a cable-knit sweater worn over a white shirt with stiff collars. The boy was tossing a large round ball into the air. A soccer ball!

Now, Lucky understood what was going on. Although he’d never played soccer - and knew nothing of the rules – he’d seen the game in British movies.

The tall boy spotted Lucky sitting on the gate post and strolled over to him.

He smiled up at Lucky, quite friendly. "Are you the American lad?" he asked in quite decent English.

Lucky grinned back. "Yes, I am," he said. "We just moved in a few days ago."

"My name is Andreas," the boy said. He was a handsome youth of about thirteen, but quite pale, as if he were sickly.

Lucky hopped off the wall and held out his hand. "I’m Lucky," he said.

Andreas puzzled at him, but he took his hand and shook just the same. "Are you saying you’re lucky to meet me?" he asked. "Is that an American expression?"

Lucky laughed. "No, no," he said. "That’s my name - Lucky." He shrugged. "It’s a nickname. My real name is Allan Cole, like my father. But everybody calls me by the nickname, Lucky."

Andreas grinned. "‘Nickname,’" he repeated. "That’s a good word. I must inform my English teacher."

"Does everybody take English lessons in Cyprus?" Lucky asked.

"Yes, of course," Andreas said. "But they don’t always learn it so well in ordinary schools. I go to a special school. Most of students there have rich fathers. I don’t. But I have a good brain and so they let me attend. If I study hard, they will send me to Athens someday. And I will become a doctor."

"I want to be a writer," Lucky said. "I’m going to write books."

"Will you write a book about Cyprus, Lucky?" Andreas asked.

Lucky wasn’t sure. "I don’t know," he said. "Maybe someday."

"You don’t want to be a diplomat like your father?" Andreas inquired.

"How did you know that about my father?" Lucky asked, a little surprised – and just a bit concerned.

Another elaborate shrug. "Everyone in Pallouriotissa knows," Andreas said. "There are no secrets in a Cypriot village. Besides, I was told this by Athena Glafkos, the daughter of the man who owns your house. She goes to the same school as I do. Of course, her father is a rich builder of houses, so he can pay."

Lucky was stunned. "You know Athena?" he asked.

Andreas grinned. "Of course! And I also know she likes you. She didn’t tell me this herself, but all of the girls in the school know."

"Do you know where she lives?" Lucky asked.

"Yes, of course," Andreas said, laughing. "The girls say Athena has wondered why the American boy hasn’t come to see her. If you like, I’ll take you there myself someday."

Heart thumping, Lucky said he’d like that very much.

Andreas indicated the ball. "Would like to play with us?" he asked.

"Sure, I would," Lucky said. Then he hesitated. "Except… I’ve never played soccer before."

"We don’t call it soccer, Lucky," Andreas said. "We call it football. And I’d be glad to teach you how play myself." He pointed to the other boys, who were staring at Lucky with open curiosity, talking quietly among themselves. "Come," Andreas said. "I’ll introduce you to my friends. They’ll like you." He patted Lucky on the shoulder. "Everybody likes Americans in Pallouriotissa, you know. If you were English, it would different."

He spit on the ground. "Damned English!"

Lucky also spit. "Damned English," he agreed.

Andreas howled laughter. "Oh, Lucky!" he shouted. "You are magnificent!"

Then he clapped Lucky on the back and led him over to meet the other boys. At first they were shy, but soon Andreas had them all laughing as he told them in Greek what Lucky had done. Demonstrating by spitting on the ground and saying, "Damned English!" Soon all the boys were giggling and following suit. Spitting on the ground and crying, "Damned English, damned English, damned English!"

When there was a lull, Lucky made bold to ask Andreas, "Aren’t there any English people you like? I mean, what about Winston Churchill?"

"No, no, no," Andreas said. "If you were a Cypriot you would not like that man. He’s a colonialist and a capitalist!"

The last made Lucky feel a little ill at ease.

"We have only two great foreign men that we love and call our heroes," Andreas said. "The first is Abraham Lincoln. Your American president who set the slaves free."

Lucky nodded, feeling a little better. The man on the plane had said the same thing. "Who’s the second?" he asked.

"Why, Joseph Stalin, of course," Andreas said. "He also set his people free. And he’s promised to set the people of Cyprus free as well."

Lucky was shocked, but did his best to hide his feelings. "Uh, but Stalin’s a communist," he said.

Andreas threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture. "But, of course he is," Andreas said. Then he waved his right hand, taking in all the boys and the village beyond. "We’re all a little bit red in Pallouriotissa," he said. "Just like the rest of Cyprus."

At first this frightened Lucky. A part of him wondered if Andrea and his mates were going to sprout horns and barbed tails. But as far as he could tell, other than the language, they were just like the kids he knew back in the States. And when he got a chance to think on it later, the language difference also wasn’t that strange. He’d lived in the South, where it had taken him a long time to understand a simple sentence. The same was true with his family in South Philadelphia, whose bizarre pronunciation of the English language sometimes confounded him. Still, Andreas had said they were all "a little bit red." And admirers of Stalin - after Hitler, the most evil man in the world. The sworn enemy of the United States.

But Lucky soon put that out of his mind as he got his first soccer lesson. Andreas tossed the ball to the other boys and they demonstrated the rules, while Andreas translated. Only the head and feet could touch the ball, he said. Never the hands, unless you were the goalie, and so on. Soon Lucky was playing, clumsily at first. Making everybody - including himself - laugh when he made a mistake, such as instinctively snatching a ball from the air with his hands. Finally, they let him play goalie and he had a great old time of it, soaking up the rules and the language as the day went by.

Andreas never actually played the game. Instead, he was the referee and everybody listened with great respect as he settled the many boyish disputes. But Lucky noticed that he looked just a bit sad as he stood on the sidelines, observing. Once a wild ball struck him on the head with great force and the whole field froze. Then the boys rushed to his side to see if he was okay. Pale features turning pink in embarrassment, Andreas assured them that he was. But just the same, as the game progressed, some of the kids kept glancing over at him with worried looks.

Lucky wondered what Andreas’ trouble was. One thing for certain, it was not an amusing mystery like the banana with the feather in it. The Stalin/Communist thing also gnawed at him. His counselor, Mr. Blaines, had warned him that when he was overseas he had to assume he was surrounded by enemies of the United States Of America. Might this include Andreas and his soccer chums? All professing admiration for Joseph Stalin?

The whole thing was so strange that he was almost afraid to ask his parents what was going on. The CIA police might come to their house and take his father away to question him, because of his son’s dubious loyalties to God and Country. Back in the States, people were being put in prison for being "a little bit red." Until this moment, Lucky had thought their imprisonment was well deserved. On the other hand, should all the kids he played soccer with be put away as enemies of America? And what about Andreas? Or Athena? Was she too, a "little bit red?" It was all very disturbing and confusing.

In the end, Lucky resorted to the tactics that Mr. Blaines had drummed into him - he kept his lips tightly zipped. Figuring time would eventually reveal all.

Two weeks later he found himself in a British boys’ school. And the radicalization of Lucky Cole began in earnest.

NEXT: SHORT PANTS AND OTHER INDIGNITIES
*****
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
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*****
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, August 16, 2013

Unmasking The Spy With The Banana With A Feather In It

*****
Cypriot Village Girls Circa 1950's
***
As the days advanced, Lucky feared he would never solve the mystery of the feathered banana. The matter was becoming critical - his family had a found a new home in the village of Pallouriotissa, a few miles outside of Nicosia. Once they moved from the hotel he might never learn the answer to the Colonel’s strange behavior.

His father teased him. When in his cups he’d sing, "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today."

Lucky’s mother was worse. She’d do a little Carmen Miranda dance, bumping her hips as she sang… "I’m Chiquita Banana and I’ve come to say… Bananas have to ripen in a certain way… You can put them in a salad – you can put them in a pie-aye – anyway you want to eat them – It’s impossible to beat them…" and so on.

Lucky didn’t find his parents jokes amusing. He’d snort in disgust and go off to sit in some quiet corner of the garden to brood over the mystery of the banana with the green feather in it. He was almost grateful to put all speculation on hold when they day came to inspect their new house. His mother had made quite a few demands on the landlord and was determined that all would be done before she moved her family in.

They traveled by taxi to the village and when they exited Nicosia and headed out into the countryside Lucky, who was sitting next to the driver, craned his head to see all the exotic sights. It was the first time that he’d been out of the city.

Pallouriotissa was about three miles from Nicosia. It sat at ancient Roman crossroads and was named for Greek heroes of old. The approach to the village was via a fairly well kept two-lane blacktop highway - once a dusty, rutted cart track that had been vastly improved by the British. On either side of the road were broad fields, brown and dry under the intense summer sun. Aqueducts, lined with slate gray stone, carried precious water to those fields and other farms beyond. The aqueducts, Lucky later learned, had been constructed by the Romans more than two thousand years ago. They were seven or eight feet deep and had slanted sides leading up from the floor of the main channels. During the dry season the water was rarely more than a trickle, but when the monsoons came the rains filled them to the overflowing. The aqueduct system had been improved and extended by the British, who were great believers in carrying on such Roman practices as building roads and aqueducts in their colonies - the possession of which was another ancient Roman tradition they continued. After all, hadn’t the British Isles been a Roman colony for several hundred years?

Besides the farms and fields, the aqueducts irrigated the citrus, olives, figs and cactus fruit orchards that lined the channels. In the summer these orchards provided the only green to relieve the parched landscape of the broad Nicosia plain. Flocks of goats and sheep grazed along the edges of the highway, tended by old men or young boys, who sprawled beneath dusty olive trees with their dogs, whistling or waving switches to keep the flocks in order. There were oxen, camels, donkeys and a few horses crouched here and there in whatever shade they could find.

On that first day he traveled to Pallouriotissa Lucky saw both humans and animals stretched out at the bottom of the channels, letting the cooling water flow around them. The camels’ necks were so long that when they heard Lucky’s taxi rumble up, they lifted their heads so high that their heads extended above the stone rim of the aqueduct. It was a very strange sight, indeed. All those disembodied heads hovering at ground level - with long, sniffing noses, chewing cuds, pricked ears and flat, knowing eyes following their progress.

Just before the taxi reached the village proper - marked by the steeple of a small Geek Orthodox church - Lucky saw a large field that had been carefully leveled and stripped of all vegetation. Big wooden forms were laid out, with paths running between them. At one end of the field was a large pit of red clay. Next to the pit was an immense pile of straw. The cabbie, whose name was Nikos, told Lucky that this was the village’s adobe farm. Twice a year the men and women would all gather in the field in a communal effort to produce adobe bricks for new homes, or repair or add to their current homes. They’d mix water and straw - laced with manure - into the clay dug from the pit, which would then be shoveled into the rectangular forms to dry under the sun. Nikos said the clay of Pallouriotissa was famous all over Cyprus for its excellent qualities. But that the village was so prosperous and constantly expanding that it refused to sell the clay to other villages. This was a great controversy, he said, that had gone on for many years. Some people said the villagers of Pallouriotissa were mean-spirited and not willing to help others.

This, however, was not the opinion of Nikos. He said some of the best festivals in all of Cyprus were sponsored by Pallouriotissa, with many good things given freely to the poor. Nikos confessed that he was a native of Pallouriotissa - and proud of it. The truth was, he said, they barely had enough clay for themselves. And so they had come up with other means – such as the festivals - to make up for their miserly image.

A well-tended gravel road led up from the highway to the village. On one corner was a large open air taverna. A trellised grape arbor served as a sort of leafy roof and Lucky could see men sitting comfortably in the shade, sipping coffee and nibbling on nuts and sweets. One table had a houkah – a tall water pipe – with three men passing the long, slender tube back and forth.

A huge wagon - with wheels as tall as a man - was making its way up the gravel road. Pulled by a team of slow-moving oxen, the wagon bore an immense rusty water tank. The tank was so old and battered that water spurted from its seams in several places. As the water fell, the summer heat quickly sucked it up so that the wet spots on the gravel disappeared in the blink of an eye. An old man wearing black baggy pants plodded beside the wagon, lazily flicking a cow-tail whip at the oxen.

Suddenly a swarm of village boys appeared. In sharp contrast to the slow moving wagon and the old Turk, they were full of energy, racing around the water wagon and shouting insults at the driver. Lucky noticed they were all brandishing tin cans, glass jars and clay jugs. The old man cried out at them as they darted close to the wagon, catching streams of water in their containers. Cursing, he slashed at the boys with his whip. Although he missed, the force of his blows were such that they would have cut the boys’ skin like razor blades.

Lucky was shocked at the violence. "What’s he doing that for?" he asked. "The water’s spilling all over the ground anyway!"

Nikos muttered something about "damn Turks.".

Then, to Lucky’s delight, two of the older boys started teasing the driver, darting in to pinch him, or snatch at his beard. He shouted and lashed at them, missing every time. Meanwhile, the other boys were getting all the water they wanted. Including two small kids who dashed in with a large bucket that they filled to the brim. Then, laughing, they staggered away with their loot. The whole group raced off, shouting and laughing, while the old man cursed and spat in the dust. He became so angry that he gave the oxen an especially vicious lash, the whip cracking loudly on their backs. The poor creatures were apparently used to such treatment, because they ignored him and kept clomping steadily along, chewing their cud.

Finally, the Turk calmed down. He halted the oxen, set the wagon’s brake, then pulled on a rope tied to a large bell that was perched above the wagon on crossed poles. The sound of the ringing bell rolled across the dusty fields and soon dozens of women and young girls came running across the fields carrying clay pots and buckets.

Beeping his horn, the taxi driver edged around the crowd of women - all in bright dresses and colorful scarves - quarreling loudly with the old man as they bargained for water. Coins exchanged hands and the Turk started filling the various vessels, arguing with the women, all of whom were apparently insisting that he was cheating them.

Lucky was astonished at this scene. "Don’t they have water in their houses?" he asked the taxi driver.

Nikos, shook his head, frowning. "Only the rich have water in their homes," he said. "Water is very precious in Cyprus, because we suffer from the drought. A few men - like that water driver, who all know is a thief and a Turk of the worst sort - own wells. And every village has a well and a fountain, but there’s not enough for everyone. So we are forced to buy from Turks!"

Nikos sighed heavily. "Damned English," he said, spitting out the window.

Lucky nodded wisely. "Damned English," he said and then he too spit out the window.

Nikos chuckled. "They are going to like you in Pallouriotissa," he said.

The village consisted of a hundred or more small adobe homes with white-washed walls, red tile roofs and wooden doors and windows that were painted in bright blue, or red or green. Large, beehive ovens made of fired adobe sat behind each house. This was where bread, pastries and delicious slow-cooked meats and vegetables were baked over hot coals. All the homes had kitchen gardens and a variety of clay pots and vases of every shape and size sitting along ledges.

Later, Lucky learned the fields surrounding the village were tended communally, as were the herds. There was a complicated system of ownership of what was produced that he never really did figure it out. Women mostly tended the fields, while the men worked in construction or in the trades in Nicosia.

Lucky’s first view of his new home took his breath away. Set on the edge of the village, it was a sprawling Mediterranean villa, contained in large yellow stone walls with white iron rails set into the stone. The main entrance was through a white iron gate with green trim. A leafy arbor with fat gourds hanging down led from the gate to the front entrance – two wide doors with speckled yellow glass. Roofed in red tile, the house was made of the same hand-hewn yellow sandstone blocks as the walls enclosing the villa and all the doors and shutters were painted dark green. A deep verandah with a sloping roof ran completely around the main house, with shuttered entrances leading into four of the five bedrooms, as well as into the main living room. The floor of the verandah was paved with pale yellow marble.

The grounds in front of the villa were landscaped with roses and carefully trimmed spice gardens. To the left was a fragrant citrus orchard, with oranges, lemons and limes. To the right was a garage, which Lucky later learned hid a woodshed and a chicken coop that contained several active, egg-laying chickens, a turkey and a fat goose. Running along the back edge of the large property was an ancient grape arbor with vines as thick as a man’s forearm and heavy purple grapes drooping down just at the right height for picking.

The air with filled with the scent of blossoming flowers and ripe fruits and exotic spices and Lucky thought he’d never seen such a lovely place and he certainly hadn’t breathed in such perfumed air. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Adam and Eve had stepped from behind the rose bushes to greet them.

Inside, the house was filled with light from scores of big windows, all shielded at the flick of a wrist by heavy green shutters. And with the thick stone walls and high ceilings the interior was cool against the summer’s heat. Besides the five bedrooms, there were two living rooms: a smaller one with white marble floors and an immense second living room with gleaming hardwood floors and a huge fire place large enough to take half a tree.

Off the main living room was a spacious dining area with windows on three sides that let in the light and gave the diners a view of the rose garden. Running down the length of it was a dining table big enough to seat ten people. The kitchen was larger than the whole apartment Lucky and his family had occupied in Langley Park, Maryland. There was also a maid’s suite, two bathrooms and an immense cellar with a second kitchen and pantry. The bathrooms had large claw-footed tubs, toilets served by chain pull tanks that sat high off the ground. And the hot water for the tubs was provided by big kerosene heaters that had to be fired up a half an hour or more before taking a bath.

Lucky toured the villa as if in a dream. His mother said she’d hired a gardener and two maids – a live-in servant and a part time woman to help her. Even more astounding - the entire place was furnished - all five bedrooms, two living rooms and the maid’s suite – with heavy, expensive chairs, tables, couches and beds.

He couldn’t understand how his father and mother could afford all these things. His family had been forced to pinch pennies all his young life. First, when his father was completing college in Florida under the GI Bill. Then, just after his dad had landed his first real civilian job since the end of WWII with a decent starting salary, the Korean War had broken out and his father was called back into the submarine service. Recruited by the CIA just before his sub sailed to the Korean theater, Lucky’s father had very little time in grade when they’d left for Cyprus. The Agency itself was brand new when his father joined, meaning it didn’t have much favor with its Congressional pay masters. It was less than a year and a half old when Lucky’s dad was recruited and no one was sure of its future. Despite this insecurity, the overseas pay was generous. The entire Middle East was considered a dangerous assignment, which meant bonuses galore. Still, how could that possibly be enough for a house like the veritable mansion Lucky was touring?

As it turned out his family could well afford its new life – despite the insecurities. Compared to the States, things were extremely cheap in Cyprus. The full-time time maid would earn about $25 a month, while the gardener and maid’s helper would make about $15 each. Moreover, his father received a generous per diem to offset the cost of living abroad. The rent for the villa was $150 a month - but the government paid for all but $25 of that. They also had a handsome food and clothing allowance, as well as bargain prices on liquor, cigarettes and canned goods shipped from U.S. government PX’s to employees living abroad. It was like being rich, Lucky thought. Heck, he was rich! What else do you call two maids, a gardener and a Mediterranean villa? His mother reminded him that it would all end the moment they returned to the States - but Lucky wasn’t worried about that. His father’s tour of duty was four years: a veritable lifetime for a boy of twelve.

As he passed from the living room into the marble entrance area he heard the roar of an unmuffled engine pull up front. Lucky looked through the main window and saw a heavyset Greek coasting up to the gate on a motorbike. Sitting sidesaddle behind him was a girl in a Cypriot school uniform. Lucky’s mother hurried to let them in. She said they were the landlord and his daughter.

The landlord’s name was Yorgo Glafkos and he was a big man with thick curly hair, a barrel chest, dark features and large, liquid eyes set beneath arced brows that curved to meet his classically Greek nose. His face seemed to be one immense shining smile - gold teeth glinting from beneath a handsome mustache. Yorgo was full to the bursting with good humor and energy.

When he was introduced to Lucky as Mr. Glafkos, the big man immediately took his hand - his immense paw engulfing Lucky’s - and he boomed, "Call me Yorgo, my American friend! And I shall call you Lucky. Otherwise I must call you Mr. Cole and you must call me Mr. Glafkos and with so many misters between us how can we ever become proper friends, yes?"

Lucky gulped and bobbed his head. "That’s fine, Mr. - I mean - Yorgo," he said "Thanks."

But he wasn’t gulping because of his introduction to the dramatic Yorgo. It was the girl hiding shyly behind the great bulk of her Greek papa who was making Lucky’s heart race. Yorgo saw where Lucky was looking and laughed. He said something to the girl in Cypriot, then gently coaxed her into full view.

"This is Athena," he said. "My most beautiful daughter. And the wisest of all my children as well." He tapped his forehead. "Like the goddess she is wise," he said. "I think she may be a famous professor someday – if she does not let some undeserving man steal her heart first."

Lucky noticed that Athena was blushing furiously. Apparently she understood English.

She made a slight curtsy. "How do you do, Lucky," she said. Then, very formally, she stretched out her hand.

Lucky was thunderstruck. Standing there in her school uniform - white blouse, patterned blue skirt, knee-high white stockings, polished black Mary-Janes - he thought he’d never seen a girl so beautiful in his whole life. He gulped as he drank in the view: black hair tumbling in waves to her shoulders, partially hiding one side of her heart-shaped face; olive complexion, smooth and translucent as rare polished wood; Almond eyes right out of some temple fresco - dark and glittering with mystery, framed by thick, upswept lashes; graceful limbs and the slender willowy body of someone born to the dance.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Athena," Lucky said in return, feeling like the worst kind of rube. He took her hand, which seemed as fragile and trembling as a nestling bird.

As their hands touched a shock ran between them and Athena lifted her head to look directly at Lucky. Her eyes were wide and seemed to be full of deep meaning. Lucky suddenly found it hard to breathe and he heard the girl gasp slightly as if she felt the same the way. Then she withdrew her hand, ducked her head and sidled closer to her papa.

Yorgo and Lucky’s parents were discussing the repairs and additions the landlord had made since they’d last seen the house and no one was paying attention to the two young people. Lucky half heard them talking about the new screens Yorgo had installed over the windows. During rental negotiations this had been a subject of controversy. In the Fifties, the Middle East was as infested with flies as the time of the Pharaohs. Any item of food left out was immediately covered by a moving black carpet of flies. In the summer they hung over every bit of moisture, crawling over people’s faces if they let them. Everyone carried some sort of object to brush them away – fans, horse and donkey tails, anything.

Lucky’s mother came from a family that considered dirt a thing of the devil and flies and roaches creatures who did the devil’s handiwork. At her parents’ home on Tasker Street in Philadelphia, everyone cleaned their house from top to bottom, then scoured the front porch, the steps, and then the pavement and street in front of their brownstone. Saturdays on Tasker was a day when the gutters ran with strong suds and Satan was washed out to sea, via the Schuylkill River. So when Helen had first toured the villa she was charmed, until she walked into the main house and saw flies buzzing everywhere, flitting in and out the open – screenless – windows.

"I must have screens," she told Yorgo. "I don’t want flies walking all over our food making us sick."

At first, Yorgo was stunned by the request and a little insulted. "Scweens," he said, in his confusion turning the "r" into a "w." "This is not a butcher’s market, Mrs. Cole, but a home. A lovely home. You do not need scweens."

His puzzling response was later cleared up when Lucky learned that the only places normally screened in Cyprus were butcher shops – and that was by British law. Naturally, everyone thought the British were being contrary for no good reason. So although they had to comply with the law – and put up screens – all the doors were left open and the flies went in and out as before.

But Yorgo soon realized this was different. This was an American woman telling him that flies were dirty disease carriers. And Americans were known the world over for being up to the mark on anything dealing with science, medicine and technology. So, although he argued, he listened. It was an unusual experience for a Middle Eastern man to listen to a woman and take actual note of what he increasingly realized were logical demands. Even so, he had other objections. He pointed out that all the windows had heavy shutters that must be secured from the inside each night – and especially during the monsoon when the winds could wreck havoc on his expensive floors and furniture.

Helen wasn’t so easily thwarted. "But you’re so clever, Yorgo," she said, playing to his vanity. "I saw your factory. You do all sorts of marvelous things there. Can’t you get around something so simple as shutters and screens?"

Yorgo had taken Lucky’s parents on a tour of his lumber yard and adjoining workshops. He was unique among the contractors of Cyprus – when he built a home, he supplied the materials from his own yards and shops. He also supplied many of the other contractors, so he always held an advantage over them in a bidding situation. As it turned out, Yorgo was one of those legendary Cypriot eccentrics. A supreme Capitalist, who controlled his labor and market with an iron fist, Yorgo was also a fervent Communist who yearned for the day when the Revolution would set things right.

"I am a man with a scientific mind," he told Lucky’s mother and father. He indicated Athena, still blushing and exchanging moon-begotten looks with Lucky. "And my daughter, Athena, is more like me than all my children. I told her about the flies and the scweens. And do you know what she said to me?"

He leaned close, underscoring the drama of the moment.

"No," Helen said. "What did she say?"

"She said put in a little window," Yorgo roared. And he slapped his thigh for emphasis. "A little window to close the shutters."

And now he demonstrated, escorting them to one of the windows. A sturdy screen, framed in wood that was painted green like the shutters, was set into the window. Scores of anxious flies were settled on the outside, buzzing their frustration that they couldn’t get in.

"You must look," Yorgo said. "See how it works."

He indicated a small screen door set within the screen. It had a latch and if you opened that lash you could push the little door open, close and lock the sturdy shutters, then refasten the little door. All without letting the flies in.

Yorgo demonstrated. A single fly slipped past his hand but Lucky quickly swatted it down so as not to spoil Yorgo’s big moment.

"You see, no flies!" the big man exclaimed. He caressed the wooden frame of the little door.

"Yes," Helen murmured. "No flies. You’re marvelous, Yorgo. A genius."

Yorgo blushed with pleasure, then began to demonstrate the other refinements he’d made. Lucky paid no attention. He was fixed on Athena. She wouldn’t look at him directly, but only from the side of her eyes. She kept turning her face toward her father, then peeking out at him again. And it wasn’t a game. She was trembling all over, making Lucky ache to be alone with her so he could comfort her and tell her there was nothing to fear.

Finally, it was time to go and Yorgo and Athena exited the house. Yorgo straddled the bike and Athena climbed on behind him. She tugged at her father’s sleeve and whispered something into his ear. Yorgo chuckled and turned to Lucky.

"She asks if you like the cinema," he said.

Lucky frowned a moment. Then he remembered that "cinema" was the word Europeans used for movies.

"Yes, the cinema," he said. "I love the cinema."

Then Athena made so bold to address Lucky herself. "Casablanca?" she asked.

Lucky immediately remembered the wonderful movie with Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. He nodded vigorously. "It’s my favorite!" he said with as much emphasis as he could put into those three words.

Athena rewarded him with a fabulous smile, then her father kick-started the motorbike and thundered down the hill. The girl turned, gazing at Lucky with those huge eyes. She wriggled her fingers in a shy goodbye, then buried her face in her father’s back.

* * *

2

A few days later, as Lucky helped his mother pack for the move, his father entered the hotel room, flushed with pleasure and drink.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said with great ceremony. "The mystery has been solved."

Helen puzzled at him. "What mystery?" she asked.

But Lucky knew very well what he was talking about and jumped to his feet. "The banana with the feather in it!" he cried.

Helen brightened. "Finally," she said. "After all this time."

"What happened?" Lucky urged his father. "Tell us."

"It was like this," Allan began. "I was getting a nightcap in the bar when the Colonel came in."

"He never comes in at this time," Lucky protested. "It’s always in the afternoon!"

Allan shrugged. "I think he was a little short of money and was looking for a way to make the price of a few drinks," he said.

"Did he have the banana and the green feather?" Lucky demanded. He wanted details, man, details.

"Yep," his father replied.

"Go on," Helen prodded.

"Patience, patience," Lucky’s father said with a smile. "All will soon be revealed." He got himself a beer from the ice chest, opened it and settled into a chair. The he said, "The Colonel sat next to me at the bar, reached into his pocket and started counting his change. After awhile he called the bartender over and ordered a single gin and tonic."

"He always gets a double," Lucky said.

His father nodded. "That’s why I guessed he was a little hard up tonight. So I introduced myself, saying I’d seen him come into the Empire Room nearly every day and wanted to make his acquaintance."

"You bought him a double!" Lucky crowed

His father chuckled. "It seemed like the best way to smooth the way," he said. "After our formal introduction, that is. The Colonel is a very proper man. We both drank our original drinks then I told him - ‘my shout’ - and he ordered his usual double."

Lucky chortled. "And he always says, ‘heavy on the bitters, old man. A touch of malaria, you know.’"

His father grinned. "He ordered the same thing tonight," he said. "And then, after we talked for awhile, I pretended to suddenly notice the banana with the feather in his breast pocket. I begged his pardon for prying and asked him why he had a banana with a feather in it stuck in his breast pocket."

"What did he say?" Lucky asked impatiently.

Enjoying the moment immensely, Allan took a long pull off his beer, nearly draining the bottle. Then he put it down firmly on the end table.

"I’ll tell you exactly what he said," he replied. "The Colonel was very amused that I’d asked. He said: ‘That’s a very good question, old man. Although it’s easily answered, you know. You see, at first, I only put the banana in my pocket. It seemed to me that this would work well enough. But then I studied the situation further and it came to me that with only a banana in my pocket, no one would ever ask me what it means. It was for this reason that I determined to put a feather into the banana. Surely, I thought, with a feather in the banana someone was bound to ask its purpose. But no one ever did. I was beginning to despair, until this very evening when I met you.’

"Then he offered me his hand. We shook. And he said, ‘Congratulations, old man. You were the only one with the courage to ask. Most satisfying, my dear chap. Most satisfying.’ He finished his drink, got up and left the bar."

Lucky gaped at his father. What in the world? Was this some sort of reverse joke being pulled on him by his father? At that moment, his father reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bright yellow banana with a green feather in it.

He handed it to Lucky. "Here," he said. "The Colonel said this was for the boy who has been staring at him the whole summer."

*****
NEXT: 'JUST A LITTLE BIT RED'
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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!