LUCKY IN CYPRUS: A VISIT WITH THE BARD OF AVON

*****

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The Tempest

That Saturday Lucky set out to meet Jim at his apartment – a place he’d never been before. Jim’s rooms were in a neighborhood of extremely narrow streets so crowded with traffic that Lucky’s cab ended up being stalled between an water cart and a towering freight wagon drawn by a team of panicked oxen who were jerking this way and that – while their equally hysterical owner lashed them with a whip.

Giving up, Nikos pointed the way – "Just down there, Mr. Lucky," he said, "and to the right. Two, maybe three places past the corner."

Lucky nodded, paid him and climbed out. Nikos leaned through the window. "Don’t mind the girls," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If they shout to you, just walk fast and pay them no attention."

The boy puzzled. "What girls?" he asked.

Nikos grinned and smoothed his mustache. "Only the best girls in the world, Mr. Lucky," he said. "The ones who tried to get Odysseus to abandon his ship."

With that, he pulled hard on his wheel, bumped over a mound of rubble, and shouting and beeping his horn for people to get out of the way, he reversed course.

With some trepidation, and a great deal of curiosity, Lucky walked down the cobble-stone street. There were no sidewalks – just houses whose doors let out directly into the traffic. He edged past carts and wagons, stepping over piles of steaming animal dung, turning sideways at times to push through the crowd. The buildings on either side were old and drab, except for the doors and window frames, which were painted in bright primary colors – red and blue and green. The buildings seemed to be about three stories high – possibly four in some places, but when Lucky looked up to check he felt a disoriented, because instead of being straight, the buildings all leaned into the street.

It was his impression that most of the buildings contained apartments for families, because he could see washing stretched on lines across the street and he could hear children shouting and mothers admonishing them. Mixed in, however, were shops – a tiny bakery, a green grocer, a cobbler, a carpenter and even a miniscule garage where a truck was crammed into an impossibly small area and men were underneath working on it, while the ailing engine coughed up foul black smoke.

As Lucky walked along he could see down even narrower alleyways that ran between the buildings. Networks of electrical lines crawled up the sides to provide power - but not water - to the buildings. The lines were bolted into the brickwork, making it plain, in Lucky’s view, that the building outdated the accommodations by many, many years. The distinctive odor of outhouses made it doubly clear plumbing was minimal. He saw women with jerry cans of water balanced on their hips, entering the buildings to carry their burdens up the stairs.

Some the of the alleys offered a view of vertical gardens – flowering vines and greenery that climbed the cables. Higher up, where the sun could reach, he saw tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables growing. At one point, he saw a boy perched on a ledge, peeling a cucumber and from the peek Lucky got of greenery beyond, he realized that the boy was enjoying the bounty of a rooftop garden. Then the street widened slightly, offering a cobbled walkway on one side. He stepped onto it with some relief. He was wearing his good clothes and shoes and at the far end of the block water was pouring out of a main, carrying a river of filth down the street.

At that moment, a small boy popped up. He was wearing an overlarge dirty white shirt, ragged khaki shorts and his legs and feet were bare. He held up a beseeching hand to Lucky, who thought he was a beggar.

"Mister, Mister," the boy cried. "Boutos! Boutos vas tah!"

Lucky jumped back. What the heck was the boy saying? Why was he cursing at him? Boutos was the very rude word for female privates. And the vas tah – well, like the peanut carts on the street, the boy was saying they were "salty and hot."

The boy crowded closer, pointing upward. Lucky’s eyes followed and he found himself looking at a Greek girl leaning over a balcony, large breasts barely contained in a black brassiere, hanging down like ripe melons ready to be picked. And the boy shouted, "Mister, Mister. Boutos! Boutos vas tah!" Lucky thought the boy and the young woman were making fun of him and angrily pushed on.

Suddenly, windows were opening and other scantily-clad women were leaning out and calling to him. Some of the voices were sweet, others harsh: "Velos, suckee, suckee, English boy." And, "Zestoh buthos, English. Just for you!" Also, "Boutos – Boutos vastah!"

Now Lucky understood what Nikos had been talking about. Odysseus might have been on a ship when the Sirens called, but surely he was presented with a vision like this. A vision few men could resist. Why, even in Lucky’s hottest teenage fantasies, he had never been presented with so many half-naked women all begging him to do the most outrageous things, and promising to do outrageous things in return.

A girl stepped out in front of him. She was young, she was sweet, and she was wearing a very short nylon robe, open to reveal a black bra and black panties. Lucky was stunned when he realized she was only about Athena’s age and like Athena she had a lush young body – one which Lucky had been lately permitted to explore.

"Hello, English boy," the girl said.

"I’m not English," Lucky said lamely, "I’m American."

The moment he said it he kicked himself – how stupid! But the girl lit up at his announcement. "American!" she said. "American boy!" She turned her head up and shouted to the others: "American boy!"

All the women responded in kind, all crying out, "American boy! American boy!"

Suddenly Lucky was surrounded by half-dressed women trying to mother him. They were all talking in combination Greek and English and even Turkish…

"Oh, American boy… Are you lost, American boy? Did someone hurt you? Who hurt you? Where are you going, American boy? Stay with me, American boy, I will take you home to your mother so you won’t get sick."

And so on and so forth. Gasping and totally befuddled, Lucky pawed out the slip of paper with Jim’s address. Immediately, there was a babble of women saying they knew just where this place was.

A moment later, Lucky found himself being escorted down the street by a gaggle of shady ladies who looked like they were straight out of a set of French postcards. Except, this was better – because they were real and they were enamored with Lucky for no reason that he could fathom - and they all told him to come back anytime so they would teach their American boy about – ooh-la-la…. For not so much money, you know… And he would never get sick – they promised.

With their help, Lucky finally found Jim’s place. His apartment was in an ancient three-story building set among other buildings of similar age and design on a street barely wide enough for a cart or an automobile to pass. Shops were scattered among the apartments, mostly tailors, bootmakers, a bakery or two, a grocer and several tobacco stands. It was a better neighborhood than the one Lucky had just left, to say the least. Although there were no sidewalks – the cobbled street was in good repair and a cleaning crew was following a water wagon, hosing down the cobbles and sweeping the dirt into the shallow trough that ran down the center.

Most of the second and third story apartments had small balconies, with wrought iron rails. Flowers and vegetables sat on most of the balconies and wash dried on lines that ran across the street in endless loops to apartments on the other side. More importantly, there were water pipes, mixed with the electrical lines, climbing up the sides of the buildings. These apartments boasted both power and water.

Lucky was greeted by two old women dressed in widows’ black. Jim had informed him that one of the women owned the building – her late husband had been a man of importance – and the other was her former servant. He used the word former, because they had been together so long that such differences were forgotten and they both did the work equally, doting on one another like aged sisters.

The ladies welcomed him with great formality, introducing themselves as Aethra and Zephyr – Lucky recalled Jim saying Aethra was his landlady. They escorted into the courtyard, where Jim was sitting under an enormous fig tree eating a late breakfast and working on what appeared to be a business letter.

"Lucky!" he cried. "Come have a little coffee and a sweet, it’s almost time to go." He indicated the letter. "I must finish this. It will only be a moment."

The boy took a seat, let himself be fussed over by Aethra and Zephyr, then leaned back to drink coffee and nibble on a honey cake. He looked around, taking in the courtyard. It was quite large, although so overgrown that it was hard to tell its size. An aged fountain with broken filigree commanded the center. Lucky could see a few fish swimming in the algae-green waters. Although very old, it was a working fountain and that same green water spurted out of a broken statue that consisted only of human legs – Lucky thought they might be a woman’s because they were so shapely, but they could have been the legs of a boy. Nevertheless, the falling water provided a peaceful, musical sound that gave the garden a magical feeling.

The fig tree, Lucky learned, was quite ancient. Aethra said her late husband had told her that the fig was old in his grandmother’s time, so no one could say when it had first grown out of its stone. Besides the fig, dwarf lemon, lime and orange trees were crowded in one corner – a thick grape vine, heavy with clusters of fruit ran along a wall and there scores of little dug-up plots filled with a wide variety of vegetables. Chickens scratched around the yard, guarded by a watchful rooster, and several rabbits nibbled on broken heads of lettuce the women had put out. It was a refreshingly cool garden and the sound of the traffic that ran along the narrow street just past the walls seemed so distant that Lucky felt as if he had entered another world. He could smell oranges and rose blossoms and he lazily shooed away a wasp that was trying to get at his honeycake.

Jim finished his letter, stuffed it into an envelope and rose. "Are you good at keeping secrets, Lucky?" he asked.

The question startled the boy so much that he nearly blurted a foolish – and overly revealing – reply. Instead, he said rather lamely, "I don’t tell on people, if that’s what you mean."

Jim smiled. "How foolish of me to ask," he said. "Of course, you can keep a secret. You are a diplomat’s son, after all."

He put the letter in his pocket, patted the place it occupied. "This is a letter to the mayor."

Lucky’s eyebrows rose. "Of Nicosia?"

"Yes, Nicosia," Jim said. Then: "I’m telling you this – in confidence, you understand – because I think it is a good lesson in civics… You know all the trouble we’ve had since the death of Joseph Stalin?"

Lucky nodded. There hadn’t been rioting on any great scale, but a few remote police stations had been stoned and market days disrupted by agitators. But tension had been increasing, judging from what Sandros and Andreas had told him.

"As part of his efforts to pour oil on troubled waters," Jim said, "the mayor wants me to form a committee of young businessmen."

Lucky was impressed. This was quite an honor. "What would you do?" he asked,

"Oh, just talk to people," Jim said. "To our customers. To other businessmen and various clubs and organizations. The idea is to urge patience. The belief being that if we are patient, the British will eventually give us our independence."

Lucky studied Jim. "Do really think they will?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "Logic – and by that I mean business logic – says they will, or at least that they should. Under colonial rule there are many things we can’t manufacture, or services that we can’t perform. If we had our independence – and our hands were untied – we could attract many investors. And, of course, the first beneficiaries would be the British, because of our long, happy history with them."

Lucky thought he heard some sarcasm in the last sentence, but Jim did not reveal his true feelings with look, or body language.

"I don’t know," Lucky said. "I learned in school – in America, I mean – that the English did the same things to us. We couldn’t make anything of our own. We could grow cotton, but couldn’t make shirts, much less other clothing. We had to sell the raw material to the English factories so they could make the shirts, then we had to buy the shirts back from them for a great deal of money. And it wasn’t only cotton. That’s just a small example… Tea, for instance, which is the most famous thing."

He eyed Jim. "Isn’t that what they’re doing in Cyprus?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear what Jim had to say.

Jim grimaced, fingering his own poor white shirt, tucked into gray, businessman’s slacks. The slacks were well-tailored, fitting Jim’s muscular form. But the shirt was a little yellow from too much washing and the cuffs and collars were a bit worn. "I can’t get a decent shirt to wear for my business," he said. "Suits I can get made – there are some very good tailors who are friends of mine. But the making of shirts is forbidden. I must buy from English import clubs and unless you are a rich man, they are of very poor quality as you can see." He tugged at the stiff collar. "It’s as you say, Lucky. Come the Revolution, the cause will be traced to shirts!"

"But what about this committee the mayor wants you for," Lucky said. "Do you really think the British will listen? I don’t mean to sound insulting, but it seems to me that a lot of English people don’t think Cypriots are smart enough to take care of themselves."

Jim was suddenly somber. He studied Lucky a moment, as if surprised at his grasp of the situation. "All you say is true, Lucky," he finally admitted. "Many do have a low opinion of us. It’s always been so – since they first took over from the Turks."

Lucky said, "Do you hate them for it? I mean, I could understand if you did, because I used to hate the English myself. My whole family is Irish. Ireland is where my great grandparents and everybody came from and they hate the English something awful for things that were done to them."

Jim nodded, understanding what Lucky was getting at. "I know some Irish soldiers," he said, "And that certainly sums up their feelings."

This startled Lucky, because an Irish soldier could only mean members of the IRA. Unless Jim was making a linguistic mistake.

Jim saw his puzzlement and grimaced. "Another secret between us, Lucky," he said.

Lucky grinned. Sure it was. And his guess was also right on – Jim had met some IRA types. But what were they doing in Cyprus? He’d heard his father’s friends talk about a possible IRA linkup with Cypriot dissidents, but that had all been speculation.

"You were telling me about your feelings concerning the English," Jim prodded, anxious to get Lucky back on the original subject.

Lucky nodded. "I used to hate the English. And when I went to the British academy – well, some of them were just… just… bullies! Not only the kids, but the teachers, too. At the end I was the only American kid there and they all ganged up on me. Even my best friend turned on me."

Jim looked sad. "I guessed something like that had happened," he said. "I suppose it’s like those ants you love to study. Even a black ant or red ant from an identical species of ants will be killed if it wanders into a strange nest. Isn’t that what you told me?"

"I understand that now," Lucky said. "But I didn’t then. Although, understanding things wouldn’t have helped any. Just because you understand somebody, doesn’t mean they are going to stop hurting you… and… you know… hurting other people."

He was thinking of his father, although he figured he probably understood the British kids going after him a whole lot better than his father’s rages.

"Anyway, I don’t think that way about the English anymore," he said. "At least not all of them. I met some guys in the hospital – wounded officers. And they were… well…" He looked up defiantly at Jim. "My friends. Yeah, my friends! The best friends I’ve ever had. They showed me… well… everything!" He swept a hand out, as if to encompass the entire world.

"It’s good, Lucky," Jim said, "that you should make friends with men who are so fine and brave." He smiled, "Therefore you will understand why I count some Englishmen among my good friends as well." Once again he tapped the place where the letter resided. "Friends that I can trust to listen to the mayor’s views – and the views of other young businessmen like myself."

"First thing you should do," Lucky joked, "is ask them to get you some decent shirts."

Jim laughed at that, then said, "Come up to my room while I change and then we will be off on our small adventure."

His apartment was approached by outside stairs leading up from the courtyard. As they ascended, Aethra said she’d be there soon with some things for "washing up," and then Jim flung open the door and invited Lucky in. From first glance, the place seemed to be a sparsely furnished, two room apartment - a main room and a small kitchen with a breakfast table. The lavatory, Lucky learned later, was outside in the courtyard. The walls of the room were freshly white-washed and the floors were of old red tile – polished to a sheen. The main room served as both bedroom and living area. In one corner was a small iron-framed bed neatly made up with a white-knit bedspread. An old, polished bedstand sat next to it – with several stacks of books resting next to an unlit oil lamp. Against one wall was a tall armoire made of hand-rubbed cedar with a plain, understated design. Lucky assumed it served as a closet for Jim’s clothes.

Resting against another wall was an old oak cabinet – about three-and-a-half feet high. A windup Victrola, with a highly polished brass sounding bell, sat atop the cabinet. The cabinet doors were open and Lucky could see records in their covers placed neatly inside. Next to the cabinet Jim had made a bookcase of varnished boards that rested on thick blocks of varnished wood - from Yorgo’s lumber yard, as it turned out. The case was filled with books of every variety – tattered hardbacks, rough paper-bound classics, and small, pocket-size volumes – as well as a stack of magazines in several languages.

The white-washed walls were decorated only with a few magazine cutouts of old masters, set in plain frames. They were clearly copies of paintings that were important to Jim – mostly impressionists, with one or two more modern artists like Picasso and Dali.

The balcony’s shutter doors were flung open, letting the sunlight splay across the pictures so they looked like originals, instead of photos cut from periodicals. Jim flipped a switch and the ceiling light glowed into life. It was a single bulb that hung from the ceiling from a bare wire. Lucky’s eyes traveled up the wire and saw that it came from a thick cable – also white washed – that was stapled to the ceiling. It ran across the room and exited through a neatly caulked hole.

When Lucky lowered his eyes, he noticed that Jim seemed a little embarrassed, going about the room and straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. It occurred to him Jim might think that Lucky – who lived in a big house that was practically a mansion – might look poorly on Jim’s place. To the contrary, he thought it was wonderful.

"When I get to be a famous writer," he told Jim, "I want a room just like this. My Aunt Rita has a famous musician friend in New York who has a place kind of like this. It’s called a loft. All his friends are jealous."

Jim flushed with pleasure at the praise. Then Aethra and Zephyr entered with trays containing bowls of hot water and fresh washcloths and towels. They fussed over Jim like loving mothers, or aunts, making sure his razor was sharp and he had plenty of good soap for his beard that wouldn’t irritate his skin. While they chattered, they kept looking at Lucky and he soon realized that they were proud of Jim because he had an American student. Sure, he was a successful young businessman, but teaching Lucky – the son of an American diplomat - confirmed in their minds that Jim was a scholar. More importantly, he was a respected Cypriot scholar – a very rare thing in these times.

Eventually, Jim politely shooed them out. Then he turned back to Lucky. All signs of his previous discomfort had vanished. "While I get dressed," he said, "I want you to listen to something."

He went to the Victrola, fetched a record from the cupboard beneath and very carefully – fingers just touching the record’s edges – withdrew it from its sleeve. He placed it on the record platform, then gently and carefully wound up the Victrola’s spring with a crank slotted into the side of the machine. He drew the large stylus over, poised it above the record, then paused and put it back.

He smiled to himself as if he’d just had an idea and reached into a cupboard for a slender volume with a rough, pink paper cover. Lucky knew it to be one of the many cheaply published college texts that Jim used to supplement Lucky’s reading at school.

"I think this will be helpful," he said, handing the book to Lucky. It was a copy of Shakespeare’s "The Tempest."

Jim said, "People in Cyprus believe that the magical island in ‘The Tempest’ was Cyprus. Others say it was somewhere else – in the Atlantic, perhaps." He shrugged. "Who can say for certain? The master set ‘Othello’ here, so why not ‘The Tempest?’"

Lucky opened the book, but Jim raised a finger. "Wait until I start the recording," he said. "I want you to read along with the actors."

He returned to the Victrola, moved the stylus out until it was hovering over the first groove. Then he nodded to Lucky, who open the little book and began to read. At the same time - after a crackle and a hum - there was a crash of lightning and roll of thunder as the play began. Lucky was soon swept up by the story as the Master cried: "…Fall to it, yarely, or we run ourselves aground!"

As he listened and read Lucky was acutely aware of the sounds of the ancient city all around him – creaking wagon wheels, complaining animals, the wailing cry of a muzzein calling the faithful to prayer, while at the same time church bells sounded from afar. Out in the garden the chickens were quietly clucking in the morning heat and a faint breeze brought the scent of citrus trees in blossom.

And like that day when he’d discovered "The Rubaiyat,’ all the centuries between the creation of the work and the present vanished and he drifted away on the magical tide of the Bard’s fabulous words and images.

NEXT: VIVA! MESA! GRAMAPHONA!

*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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"Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
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*****

THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:

A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan

After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.

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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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MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES

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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
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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.

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