LUCKY IN CYPRUS: Jim's Boyhood - Lucky Encounters A Leper

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Christ cleansing a leper by Jean-Marie Melchior Doze, 1864.

Previously: It's Palm Sunday and with Easter a week away Lucky is troubled by the memory of George, the soldier who died next to him in the British Army hospital. He attends Mass - a rare occurrence for Lucky, then spots Andreas aboard a bus headed for home in Pallouriotissa. Lucky joins him on the crowded bus, he learns more about Jim's past, then the two boys being to gossip. The number one topic is their super radical young Communist friend, Sandros, who has apparently fled the village.

"What did he do, try to blow up the police station " Lucky asked, only half in jest.

Andreas shrugged. "Nothing so terrible," he said. "But he did paint Enosis on the police chief’s car."

The car – a 1930’s era Lincoln – was the chief’s pride and joy. Every day he had one of his men wash it, after which he would hold inspection, going over the vehicle far more carefully than he did the condition of his men’s uniforms. Lucky laughed as he imagined the man – a big, heavyset Turk with an enormous moustache – being confronted with Sandros’ artwork.

Then he frowned, remembering the incident at the hospital. "There was a man at the hospital," he told Andreas, "who was shot in the leg for painting Enosis on a barracks wall."

"Oh, Lucky," Andreas mourned, "the situation is getting darker by the day. But don’t worry about Sandros. The cops in Pallouriotissa don’t have guns. And if they did, they wouldn’t shoot Sandros. He’s just a boy like us."

"Where is he hiding?" Lucky asked. "Or can’t you say?"

"Oh, everybody knows where Sandros is," Andreas said. "Even the police. He’s with his uncle in Limassol. Soon as things calm down he’ll come back. Maybe he’ll even wash the police chief’s car to make up for what he’s done. It is a nice car, isn’t it? And the chief gives all the kids rides in it sometimes. Takes grannies to the market. For a Turk, he’s not so bad."

Lucky said this was probably so. Unspoken was the fact that the chief had rushed Andreas to the hospital many times in that car when some minor injury – deadly to someone with hemophilia – had occurred.

Andreas said, "You know, Lucky, everyone is saying you are practically a Cypriot now. And they say you will soon be a genius, because you are being taught by the second most intelligent man in all of Cyprus."

Lucky first instinct was to ask who the most intelligent man in Cyprus was, but instead he said, "I didn’t know Demetrakis was so famous."

"Oh, sure, Lucky, he’s famous alright," Andreas said. "Maybe you didn’t know… he is an orphan."

Lucky’s eyebrows shot up. He had no idea… In fact, he realized, he knew very little about Jim.

Andreas caught his surprise and nodded. "It’s a very sad story," he said. "There was the influenza all over Cyprus. My grandfather told me it was like the plague from the old days. Everyone was dying. And this plague, the influenza, came to Demetrakis’ village – up in the Troodos Mountains – and it killed his mother and father and all his brothers and sisters. So he was all alone."

Andreas sighed. "Of course he had cousins – everyone in Cyprus has cousins. And he had uncles and aunts, of course. But everyone was very poor at that time – children were starving. So they didn’t know what to do about our Demetrakis."

"What happened?" Lucky asked. "I mean, Jim has an important business now. He’s not rich… but… but… sometimes he has lunch with the mayor and other important people. Just last week this big builder, a Lebanese guy, bought a thousand pounds worth of tires."

As Lucky talked, Andreas’ brows popped up and down like a shooting gallery target as he reacted to each element. Lunch with the mayor, eyebrows up. Lebanese, another eyebrow pop, plus a rubbing of two fingers together to underscore the well-known wealth of the men from Beirut. The thousand pounds remark almost sent his eyebrows scurrying into his hair like fleeing caterpillars. This was an enormous amount of money – equaling nearly five thousand dollars American. A year’s wages in the U.S., fifteen to twenty years pay, in Cyprus. People like Brosina or Thea, the Cole family maids, could live well for the rest of their lives on that kind of money.

Seeing Andreas’ reaction, Lucky hastened to explain. "That’s how much the contract is for," he said. "Not how much Jim gets to put in his pocket. Most of it goes to Raleigh Tires and the bank."

"Oh, sure," Andreas said, "but even so, it must be a pretty penny. He’s saving to get married you know."

Lucky shook his head. "No, I didn’t. Who’s he marrying?"

"Oh, a girl from Paphos. Very beautiful. I saw her once or twice. They’ve been engaged ever since Jim went to Athens to study at the university."

"So why didn’t they get married after he came back?" Lucky asked.

"Politics," Andreas said with a knowing wink. "Her father is a red and Demetrakis is in the middle. He thinks Enosis is a good idea, but he thinks we should do it with… what’s the word… talking… no, that’s not it…"

"Negotiation?" Lucky suggested. "With the British?" He was remembering Jim’s mayoral mission to form a committee of young businessmen to speak to the British.

"Yes, yes, negotiation," Andreas said, pleased at learning such an important word. "Like the English did in India and the other colonies."

But Lucky was more interested in Demetrakis than politics. He asked, "You said Jim was an orphan and poor, so how did he get to go to the university in Athens?"

"Oh, that’s an interesting story, Lucky," Andreas said. "Sure, he was poor. Really poor. My grandmother, who knew his mother and father, said that when Demetrakis was a baby, his belly was big and his hair was red from not eating. But this old widow woman, who was pretty poor herself, took him into her home. She was a cousin, I think. Or, maybe an aunt… I’m not sure. My grandmother said she was a witch. I don’t know if she was, but she was the only woman in Demetrakis’ village who could read, so that was making people frown and worry.

"Well, what happened is this widow woman – who may have been a witch - taught Demetrakis how to read and write and do his sums, so when he went to school, pretty quick everybody realized he was smarter than all the other kids. He was so smart that the village sent somebody to talk to the monks in the Troodos monastery about teaching Demetrakis at their school, which is pretty famous.

"They sent a priest, a very wise man, to see Demetrakis and give him some tests. Well, he passed them all with flags up high, yes? However, money was required for his education, because the monastery is poor, you know. So the village got together and everybody put some money in, or promised chickens, or eggs or goats and pretty soon they had enough to pay for the school."

"But after the monastery, didn’t Jim go to the university in Athens?" Lucky asked. Andreas nodded. "So, how did he get the money for that?" he wanted to know.

Andreas leaned forward, real pleasure and pride in a fellow islander glowing in his eyes. "He got the award money," he said. "He took a test – and got the highest score any Cypriot boy has ever received – and won an award for four years of study in Athens."

"A scholarship?" Lucky asked. "Is that what you mean? Jim won a scholarship?"

Andreas frowned, unfamiliar with the word. "I suppose so," he said. "It didn’t pay for his travel to Greece, but it was enough for a place to live and food to eat and all his books for four years." He held up four fingers for emphasis. "Four!" The boy grinned shyly. "That’s what I want to do," he said. "Make a… scholarship… and go study in Athens like Demetrakis."

Lucky leaned back against the bench. He thought about all the things Jim must have suffered and all he had accomplished – overcoming unimaginable difficulties. It made his own worries, his own problems seem small.

The bus jolted to a stop, brakes squealing, exhaust curling up under the vehicle and coming through the floorboards. Lucky could also smell the acrid smoke of over-stressed brake and clutch lining and wondered how often buses like this simply ran off the road because they couldn’t stop. Several people disembarked and several more got on. As they were paying and finding seats, Lucky heard jangling bells – like cowbells – and heard the driver suddenly start cursing a blue streak. Lucky looked up and saw the driver was on his feet, shaking a fist at someone on the bottom step.

The foul words that issued from the driver’s mouth went far beyond the obscenities that Andreas and the other boys had taught Lucky in giggling language classes out of earshot of adults.

Interspersed with the curses – which ranged from the scatological impossible to the sexually ridiculous – were shouted cries of "Ekso! Ekso!" – meaning, get out! get out! And Lucky realized the driver was forbidding the person to enter the bus. Some passengers saw what was happening and jumped to their feet, crowding down the aisle and shouting, "Ekso! Ekso!"

Lucky couldn’t tell if the person they were shouting out was a man or woman. The invader was clothed from head to toe in filthy rags of every variety. They could have come from dresses, or discarded suits, or old blankets or even funeral shrouds. A faded, multi-colored hood was pulled over the head, hiding the face.

The unwanted one had a bell in one hand, which he or she rang with a steady beat. A harsh voice cried out the beggar’s plea of "Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"

Then the creature lifted its head and pulled back the hood to reveal the most ghastly thing Lucky had ever seen. The flesh of that face was all torn and full of odd growths. Two black holes, surrounded by raw flesh, suggested nostrils where a nose had once resided. The mouth was lipless, broken yellow teeth grinning a mirthless grin.

"Ekso, Ekso!" cried the passengers. "Baksheesh, Baksheesh," was the beggar’s reply. And in a ghastly way it was like the church bells warring with the wail of the Shahada from the reconstructed minarets.

Repelled as he was, Lucky reached into his pocket and clawed out bills and change. He started forward to the door, but he was afraid to come too close and grateful when Andreas held him back.

"He’s a leper," he hissed. "A leper!"

Lucky threw the money at the leper. Paper money and coins scattered on the ground. The leper looked up at Lucky and that awful mouth came open and he croaked:

"Efharistoh!" The word was slurred, but Lucky knew the meaning – Thank you. Again he croaked, "Efharistoh!" Then he reached down to gather up the money and the driver jerked the lever that slammed the doors and crammed his foot onto the accelerator. And with wild grinding gears and flatulent exhaust, they lurched away from that nightmare on the road.

For a time, the whole bus was abuzz with indignation. People came up and congratulated the driver for being so steadfast. But no one spoke to Lucky, or mentioned his cast-away offering. They all looked at him, however, from the sides of their eyes. Lucky felt ashamed.

"I didn’t mean to throw the money at him," he finally whispered to Andreas. "I was just trying to… you, know… help. Baksheesh, that’s all."

Andreas sighed. "No one is blaming you, Lucky," he said. "They are just… oh, you know… they were cruel and you were kind… so they don’t want to look at you, because they must look at their own sin in the mirror, you understand?" Lucky shook his head. He didn’t. "Well, it doesn’t matter," Andreas said. "You did a good thing, but maybe not so good as you would like. We did bad things, but maybe not so bad as we like. I mean, the man – I think he was a man – was a leper. One who is cursed."

Lucky said, "I saw a man attacked on a bus once. They hanged him." He knuckled his eyes, keeping back tears. "But he was no leper. Or even sick. He was, you know colored."

Andreas frowned. "I don’t understand ‘colored.’ What’s that?"

"Negro," Lucky said. "He was a Negro."

Understanding dawned in Andreas’ eyes. "Oh, an African man. Well, everybody knows that Americans hate African people. Except Abraham Lincoln, of course, who set them free from slavery."

"I don’t hate them," Lucky said, his back up. "And I’m an American. I was just telling you about something awful that happened… you know… down where…"

His voice trailed off. How could he explain the differences between the South, where the incident had taken place, and the North where… Then he became confused and quite upset. Because he thought about people he knew in the North and their terrible comments about colored people. They not only said worse than colored – but sometimes they made ape faces when they talked about it. Rolling their lips over and speaking in an exaggerated Amos and Andy Negro accent.

He sighed. "You’re right, Andreas," he finally said. "There is no difference. The way they talked to the leper was the same as the guys back in Florida acted to the Negro. Except, I don’t think anybody on this bus was brave enough to hang a leper."

Andreas gave a firm shake of his head. "They wouldn’t touch him," he said. "They think they could get the curse, right? The disease? So that’s all that makes him safe." He bowed his head. "Maybe someday they will shoot him," he said. "Do you suppose it would make him happy? He’s so… you know… leepimenos… What’s the word?… " With two fingers he made streaking gestures down his cheeks – indicating tears.

Lucky suggested, "Sad? Miserable?"

"Yes, miserable, like the French word for crying," Andreas said. "A sad and miserable place for a man to be. A village of lepers. Girls who are lepers. Women who are lepers. Men and boys who are lepers. And all they can do is cry, ‘baksheesh, baksheesh.’"

Andreas grew quiet, thinking private thoughts. Then he said, "Sometimes I think I have a bad life, you know? But then I see a leper…" he shrugged… "Always somebody who has a greater curse, yes? Much worse than your own life. And just think – the leper probably knows somebody who is worse off them him. Sure, he has no nose. But other guys, might not have fingers. Or feet."

Lucky could see his point. "I read this book, once," he said, "about World War One – The first war with the Germans. This guy is hit by an artillery shell. But he still lives. Except he has no arms or legs. No face. No eyes. No tongue. He can hear and feel, that’s all. So that is his life in the hospital – a man who is trapped in his mind. Eventually, he learns to talk by tapping his head on the pillow. Tap, tap. Like a telegraph, you know?"

"Sure, Lucky, that’s really bad," Andreas said. "Worse, even, than the leper." He lapsed into silence, thinking. Then he said, "This disease I have… the curse of the blood. Some people think I am like the leper. That if they touch me, they could get the disease."

Lucky snorted. "That’s stupid," he said.

"Sure, it’s stupid, Lucky," Andreas said. "But you can’t quarrel with stupid, you know. Stupid has stupid eyes and stupid ears and stupid mouths and it thinks stupid things. You know what I mean?"

Once again, Lucky thought about the man in Florida they’d hauled off the bus. And the look in the faces of the men who accosted him. Stupid. Yeah, that was the word for those people.

"There’s no stopping stupid," Lucky said. "It’s like the hydrogen bomb."

Andreas’ face lit up with that analogy.

"Yeah, Lucky," he said. "They’ll kill us all with the hydrogen bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it up, breathing out great wreaths of smoke. Then he coughed – a violent cough that he had trouble getting back under control. Lucky knew Andreas was forbidden to do such things. If he coughed hard enough, he could start bleeding from the lungs.

He put an arm on Andreas’ back, feeling the wracking cough resonate through his palm. "Don’t," he pleaded. "Throw the cigarette away."

Andreas groaned. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." And then he was gripped by another paroxysm of coughing

NEXT: GUNDAREE & GUNDARA AND THE KIWI INVASION

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LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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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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