*****
They drove to Famagusta in an old black Plymouth that belonged to Jim’s friend Kyriakos, who joined them on trip. Kyriakos owned a small fleet of trucks and had customers he wanted to visit in the old city.
"They’re Turks," he advised Lucky,
"and like all Turks they squeeze every shilling to death. But I do a good
business with them so I must suffer their ways." He shrugged. "Of
course, everybody in Famagusta is a Turk – even the Greeks have become Turks
for living so long among them."
On the way they skirted the edges of the British
Dhekelia military base and just before they came into view of the city they
were stopped by soldiers manning a roadblock.
A young corporal peered at Jim and Kyriakos
suspiciously. "Papers," he said brusquely and when they were handed
over he examined them back to front. "Where are you going?"
Jim explained they were on an outing to Famagusta.
The soldier looked at Lucky through narrowed eyes. "You’re English, aren’t
you?"
Lucky shook his head. "American," he said.
He pointed at Jim. "He’s my teacher and he’s going to show me Othello’s
tower."
The soldier was surprised at this reply. "A
teacher?" he said, incredulous. "Say, do your mum and dad know what
you’re up to?"
Lucky assured him that they did. "You can call
my father at the embassy and see," the boy said, bluffing.
Neither his father or mother were reachable at any
place except the CIA base and there was no way Lucky was going to give the
soldier that number. To strengthen his bluff he presented his ID card – which
had a picture of him, plus query numbers at the embassy. It had a very imposing
seal on it and identified him as a diplomatic dependent.
He pointed at the numbers. "Go ahead and
call," he urged.
"You can pass," the soldier barked and
stepped back, waving for the other soldiers to lift the barricade.
"You sure you don’t want to call?" Lucky
prodded.
"I said you could pass," the soldier said
and marched stiffly away, the back of his neck beet red.
Kyriakos put the car into gear and they drove away. There
was a long silence. Then Lucky said, "Doesn’t that make you mad… I mean
this is your country. How come they can tell you where and when you can go
someplace?"
Jim sighed. "It’s been that way for hundreds of
years," he said. "Before the English it was the Turks. Before the
Turks the Italians. Before the Italians the Crusaders. And so on all the way
back as long as our history has been written."
"It’s not right," Lucky said.
Kyriakos asked Jim what Lucky was saying. Jim
translated.
Kyriakos patted Lucky on the knee. "Good
boy," he said in English. "Good American boy."
Lucky was surprised to see that Kyriakos’ eyes were
moist with emotion.
They continued on and finally they reached the sea,
which was shimmering and sparkling in the sun. The gray, imposing walls of
Famagusta were a few miles ahead. But instead of going directly there, Kyriakos
turned down a rutted road that wound through fragrant cedar until they came to
a small adobe cottage with blue painted shutters and doors. Two immense trees
towered over it, spreading the cooling shade nearly to the pebbled beach where
a fishing boat was tipped over on its side.
Jim said, "We have been asked to lunch with Kyriakos’
sister, Pavlina," he said. He indicated the boat. "Her husband is a
fisherman." Then he grinned, saying, "Actually, the invitation was
for ‘mese,’ which is rather more than lunch, as you will see."
Kyriakos tooted his horn and a merry crowd ran out of
the house – five children of various ages, along with a cheery woman Lucky
assumed was Pavlina and a small, wiry man with a weathered face and a broad
smile. The fisherman husband, no doubt.
Lucky was introduced all around – the fisherman’s
name was Christos, but he soon forgot the names of the children. Everyone made
a fuss over him, but they were especially attentive to Jim, who was an old
friend of the family. They gave Jim the place of honor at a broad table made of
rough boards that was set up under the trees. Lucky was put on one side,
Kyriakos the other.
A flow of dishes and pottery poured across the table.
Some came from inside the house, some from the big roasting grill set near the
stone well, and the rest were from the large clay oven behind the house. Like
most Cypriot ovens it was large enough for an average-sized man to stand up in,
and half-again his length if he dared lay down on one of the wooden roasting
racks.
So this was a mese,
Lucky thought as he surveyed the table. It was exquisite – painted pottery of
every kind and variety was strewn across the slate-gray boards. And the plates
and bowls were heaped with an incredible variety of food of all colors, all
textures and – as Lucky would soon learn - of every flavor sensation.
There were mounds of vegetables, both roasted and raw
straight from the kitchen garden, all red and green and yellow. There were dark
brown and pale brown mounds of baked goodies – not just bread, but little
pancakes with surprises inside, such as a dollop of garlic olive oil, or a bit
of melted goat cheese and green onions that oozed out into your mouth when you
bit in. There were spinach pies and tasties of meat and raisins and rice rolled
into grape leaves. There were meats – goat kabobs, slices of mutton, pork and
something somebody said was camel, but Lucky didn’t want to think about it.
There was fowl: tiny roasted birds you could chew up bones and all, as well as
chicken and little black beads Lucky was told were the male parts of a rooster
spread on garlic toast; and sea food of all kinds- squid, octopus, sea perch,
tiny sardines roasted whole and a big red grouper spread out on a plate of
pilaf. Of course there were olives, tomatoes, onions, eggs, some pickled some
plain.
But as Lucky surveyed the table, he wondered if this
wasn’t out of the ordinary. How could such an obviously poor fisher family
afford such a spread on so common a day as a visit by their cousin.
Then he heard sharp whistles – the kind herders
shrill when calling their flock or their dogs – and loud shouts and he saw
people coming through the trees. Some were on foot, others on bicycles, and all
of them were carrying baskets of food and jugs of drink.
Someone shouted, "Viva! Mesa! Gramaphona! Which
Lucky later learned meant, "Life, feast and music."
Others took up the shout and to Lucky’s surprise,
someone went to Kyriakos’ car and got out Jim’s wind up Victrola from the trunk. They
stacked up some fish traps for a music stand and within a few minutes wild
Greek music was playing and everybody was dancing around the table, clapping
their hands and singing to a blushing Jim.
Lucky was astounded, thinking he must have missed
something. "Is this your birthday, or something?" he asked, hoping it
wasn’t, because he didn’t have a present.
"It’s sort of a birthday," Jim replied,
still laughing and sipping at a glass of ouzo. "When I went away to school
to Athens I didn’t have enough money for the boat passage." He indicated
Kyriakos, "So my friend and his sister conspired with Christos the fisherman
to sneak me out of the country."
Kyriakos was already drunk and he slapped Jim on the
shoulder and roared in Greek - "Tell him! Tell the good American boy how
we slipped past the British ships in the dead of night!"
And so Jim told him how they rowed half the night –
there was no wind and the seas were befogged – until they found the friendly
freighter that was waiting for him. Jim laid out palm to present all the
frolicking people. "It is to people like them, that I owe my education, my
brain, my life," he said.
Lucky didn’t know what to say, so he said something
stupid, something he had heard adults say when they were being polite.
"Your mother and father must be very proud."
To Lucky’s dismay his teacher’s face became sad, but
then a pretty girl danced over, offering Jim the other end of a kerchief. Jim
grabbed it and leaped up and whirled away in a dance to end all dances.
Swooping and swirling about the girl, drinking ouzo and then doing the Cossack
dance - which Jim later claimed originated with the Greeks - dropping to his
haunches and kicking out of his feet at a furious pace.
Lucky felt embarrassed at first – obviously he’d said
something wrong. Then a few girls came over and coaxed him to his feet. He was
a fairly good dancer anyway, thanks to childhood lessons from his Aunt Rita.
Also, Athena had taught him some of the Greek dances, so he bounded out with
confidence. And soon he was dancing along with the best of them, the Victrola
playing its crazy music, which would start out perfectly fine, then get slower
and slower as the spring wound down, until somebody jumped in to wind the crank
again.
Dusk came, then darkness and candles and torches and
oil lamps were hung from the trees and the dancing and feasting went on.
During a quiet moment, Jim slipped up to Lucky, who
was drinking thirstily from a dipper of cool well water. "I don’t think
we’re going to see Othello’s Tower just yet, Lucky," he said. "I hope
you’re not disappointed."
Lucky said, "I think this is a better story,
Jim."
*****
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
*****
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.
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
 |
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.
*****
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!
No comments:
Post a Comment