Thursday, June 26, 2014

The Medea And The Diplomat's Daughter

*****
*****
Medea Killing Her Sons

He was a giant of a man, dressed in a heavy cloak over knee-high leather boots. His face was a mask of exaggerated cruelty. He stalked the marble platform, threatening a poor woman, dressed in simple robes and sandals. She wore a frozen look of deep, deep sorrow.

The man was Creon and he was bellowing: "Hark thee, Medea, I bid thee take those sullen looks and angry thoughts against thy husband forth from this land in exile, and with thee take both thy children and that without delay, for I am judge in this sentence, and I will not return unto my house till I banish thee beyond the borders of the land."

The woman turned her sad mask up at Lucky and Donna, wailing, "Ah, me! now is utter destruction come upon me, unhappy that I am! For my enemies are bearing down on me full sail, nor have I any landing-place to come at in my trouble. Yet for all my wretched plight I will ask thee, Creon, wherefore dost thou drive me from the land?"

The audience hissed at Creon for being such a cruel bastard and Donna gripped Lucky’s hand harder, hissing along with them. He couldn’t help smiling, more in relief than humor.

Despite Donna’s casual assurances that Lucky could ask her out, he’d run into a roadblock with Donna’s mother who thought she was too young to start dating. Lucky got around this by ditching the circus idea and saying that he was planning a cultural outing – an educational experience suggested by his teacher for an essay he’d been assigned.

This was untrue, but Lucky was thinking as fast he could under difficult circumstances. While he waited for the dreaded question to fall about the subject of the essay, he pummeled his brains for an answer that would fit the motherhood bill. Then he remembered the outdoor theater Jim had taken him to some weeks before. They staged ancient Greek plays there during the day and showed films on a portable screen at night – sort of like a drive-in, except without cars. Everyone sat on stone benches that circled the arena, which dated back a thousand years or more. Jim had shown Lucky a playbill just the other day. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember exactly-

"What is the essay about, young man?" Donna’s mother asked, letting the other boot thud. "And exactly what is this cultural event you have in mind?"

"Euripides, Mrs. Kelly," Lucky blurted. "I’m supposed to write an essay about Euripides. You know, the old Greek playwright."

"I certainly do know who Euripides is," Mrs. Kelly sniffed.

Lucky blushed. "Sure, of course you do. But anyway, they’re putting on one of his plays – ‘Medea’ – at the old amphitheater just out of town. They wear all the old costumes and masks and everything. It’s very authentic."

Mrs. Kelly frowned, mollified a little, but still suspicious. "That’s certainly a worthy event," she said, "However, I don’t like our Donna out late at night and I’m afraid-"

"Oh, but it’s not at night, Mrs. Kelly," Lucky interjected. The plays are usually staged in the daytime, just like the old days." He grinned. "Of course, in ancient times Donna wouldn’t have been able to attend at any hour, because women weren’t allowed in the audience."

"So I’ve heard," Mrs. Kelly said with a friendly smile. She was warming to Lucky now. She turned to Donna, "Very well, then. But I want you to use the embassy driver so I can sure you’re being looked after."

"Oh, mother!" Donna complained, but not too vehemently.

Although it was only a partial victory, it was a victory just the same and could be used to construct a solid, but every-expanding foundation for future dating rights. However, Lucky wasn’t so certain that idea of seeing actors tottering about in masks speaking what to Donna would be unintelligible Greek would be that thrilling for young lady he was trying to impress. He figured she’d get a headache halfway through the performance.

But once again Jim came to his rescue. The teacher pointed out that on select Sunday afternoons special performances were held for students who were studying English. Meaning, the entire play would be in English, while the students followed the words and action in books written in their own language. In a way it was a bit like Lucky’s experience with reading the "The Tempest" while listening to it.

Lucky raced to the theater after school and bought tickets. Only then did it occur to him that the day he’d chosen might be inconvenient for Donna. He sweated all the way home – disdaining buses or taxis and taking all the short cuts he knew to Pallouriotissa. The moment he entered the house he ran to phone, pausing only to signal a brief hello to Brosina while he dialed and his heart raced as one of the Kelly household maids answered – in English, of course. The Kelly’s were important embassy people. Even so, he asked the woman in Greek if he could speak to "Miss Donna."

He drummed his fingers on the table, glanced up and saw that Brosina was watching him. She had an odd smile on her face. Then he heard Donna’s voice and he automatically smiled his best smile – as if she could see him. And he told her about getting the tickets.

"I feel really stupid," he said. "I should have asked you first if that day was okay, but… well… you know…" His voice trailed off. And now he really felt stupid. "You know?" For crying out loud. What was she supposed to know? How could she know? She wasn’t a bloody mind reader like Mr. Dunninger, the famous TV mentalist.

"Wait a minute, Lucky," Donna said. "Let me ask."

She put the phone down. Lucky could hear distant voices – Donna’s and he thought, her mother’s. But he couldn’t make out what the reply was. He waited, biting his nails, sighing every once in awhile.

Finally, Donna returned. "It’s okay," Donna said. "She said it’s okay."

They talked for a minute more, not really saying anything. Just whispers and giggles. Then Donna had to go and they rang off.

As he put down the phone, his eyes came up to meet Brosina’s. Deaf as she was, she had no doubt about what was going on. She smiled that goofy smile of hers – a grin that curved up in that big horsy face until the whole of her was alight with smiles. She crossed her work-worn hands over her white-uniformed breast.

"Ahg-ah-pee!" she croaked. "Ah-gah-pee!"

Meaning love – true love in Brosina speak. Then she made Lucky sit down and she fetched him an orange squash and some olives and roasted pepper slices and strong cheese, and made him tell her all about Donna. It was an elaborate conversation and quite deep. They used gestures, accompanied by Greek words that were drawn out in Brosina speak so she could read his lips. Sometimes she put three fingers to his throat and made rolling motions with her free hand, urging him to speak faster, sensing what he was saying through sheer touch.

When he was done she hugged him, then sat back in her chair. She looked long and hard at him. Then she took his chin in both hands and made him peer into her eyes.

"Po-na-ee," she said. Which meant hurt. "Po-na-ee, Oh-hee. Po-na-ee, oh-hee." Which meant don’t hurt.

Lucky raised his brows and shrugged. Who would he hurt?

"Athee-na," Brosina said. "Po-na-ee, Athee-na."

Lucky was stunned. She was saying that he had hurt Athena and was warning him about doing the same to Donna.

"No, no," he said. "I didn’t." Then, realizing he’d slipped into English, he started again. That it was Yorgo’s fault they weren’t together. But Brosina put a finger to his lips shushing him. She had that fiercely stubborn look that said she was not to be contradicted.

"Po-na-ee, oh-hee," she said. "Po-na-ee, oh-hee."

Lucky promised, not sure what he was promising – but in the back of his mind there was a definite protest. He’d done nothing wrong. The fault was Yorgo’s, not Lucky’s. Wasn’t it?

Now, as he sat with Donna in the amphitheater, he thought of Athena and was guilt stricken. As if he were somehow cheating on Athena by being here with Donna – even though Yorgo had forbidden Athena to see him any more. He struggled with this for awhile, but was gradually won over by the play and Donna’s sheer delight at the proceedings.

She whispered, "If they switched masks, nobody would know when they were lying. Then it’d be just like all the people at the embassy."

Lucky laughed. He knew what she meant. The embassy was notorious for its back-fighters and bald-faced liars. Of course, as an old OSS hand, her father probably had little trouble dealing with them.

Lucky turned his attention back to the play. As he watched deeper understanding dawned. Jim always said that there were moments of sudden clarity when a light bulb bloomed into life like the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling wire in Jim’s apartment.

And that was the light that was snapped on as the "Medea’s" tragic tale of betrayal and murder unfolded. It seemed to him that his whole young life had been plagued by a series of betrayals. He thought of the reoccurring nightmare that he’d suffered for years of someone trying to drown him. And now he knew – that someone was his father.

His heart started beating faster as strange memories swam up: looking up through water closing over his face; he couldn’t breath… knowing if he did he’d suck in water; his father being jerked away; his grandmother snatching him out of the water… pounding his back, shrieking something… and suddenly he was vomiting up water… and then - after what seemed a literal, agonizing, eternity - he could breathe again.

Lucky gasped at the memory. Grabbing the breath that his grandmother had driven into him when she beat upon his back.

Donna misunderstood, squeezing his hand in romantic empathy. Thinking he was reacting to the scene they were viewing.

Overcome, Lucky squeezed back, leaning over to nuzzle her neck, trying to wipe out his unpleasant reverie. She giggled and leaned closer and her sweet scent soothed him and he settled back, tingling all over, forgetting everything. Rejoining the play.

From the response of the audience, the play was a resounding success. As the actors emoted many of the audience members consulted books – ten-penny knockoffs on sale at the entrance. Lucky learned later that only one or two of the actors were fluent English speakers. But they had learned their lines phonetically, so they could shout, or weep, or lecture profoundly in an alien language. Of course, they were all ardent students of the plays they staged and the characters they portrayed, so the language barrier was pierced by common understanding and artistic passion.

The play was made even more alive because of the enthusiastic way the audience responded. Donna included

She and the audience cheered, hissed and booed and wept as if the "Medea" was a modern radio soap opera. And perhaps it was in a way. Hadn’t Jim told him that all stories, be they tragedies, comedies or dramas – were based on the plays of men like Euripides? Men who lived twenty five hundred years ago. As famous and skilled a playwright as Eugene O’Neil had patterned the landmark "Desire Under The Elms" after the tragedy of ‘Medea.’

‘Medea,’ Jim had explained, was basically a sequel to the story of Jason and the Argonauts. Medea was the princess who helped him retrieve the golden fleece, risking her life and honor and even killing her own brother in the process. The first story had a somewhat happy ending – Jason got the fleece, completing his task. He married Medea, then assumed the throne upon his return home.

But the play showed that in truth there was never a "happily ever after" ending to such a tale. Hated by the Greeks because she is a foreigner, Medea, languishes away and is eventually betrayed by Jason, who is under intense pressure from his subjects to rid himself of the foreign witch woman. In the end, Medea even kills her own children, believing in her madness that she is saving them from a far more bitter end.

When the play was over everyone applauded with great gusto and they all filed out chattering about what they had seen – moving past stone benches worn from countless audiences who had been enthralled by plays like this for hundreds upon hundreds of years.

It was late afternoon and there still time for a snack before Donna had to be home. Lucky directed the limo driver to Metaxa Square – a vast park in the center of Nicosia. He took Donna to an outdoor café he favored that overlooked the park. There, you could sit high above the street and enjoy a plate of delicious appetizers in the shade of colorful umbrellas. Before they climbed the steps to the café, Lucky leaned in for a quiet word with the driver. He passed him a few shillings and was rewarded with a wide grin and a wink. Then, as Lucky and Donna made their way to a corner table, the driver started up the car and drove away.

Donna looked puzzled. "Where did he go?"

Lucky smiled, saying, "There’s a little taverna around the corner that’s a favorite of a lot of the cabbies. I said it was okay with us if he wanted to visit his friends for an hour or so."

Donna laughed. "If mother finds out she’ll be furious," she said. "He was supposed to be my protection."

Lucky snorted. "From what?" he said scornfully. "Nobody would dream of bothering an American girl in Cyprus. One shout and every guy on the street would come running to string the son of gun up."

Donna gave him a sly look. "Maybe she meant him to protect me from you. I mean, I’m pretty sure I saw you give him some money."

Lucky blushed scarlet and started to stutter a defense. But Donna took pity and put a hand on his, silencing him. "I’m only teasing," she said.

Food and drink soon arrived and they began eating, watching the strolling families in the park. Small groups of musicians moved along the pathways, playing for tips. Young couples held hands as they walked through the bright gardens, occasionally ducking out of sight into one of the wooded glens that dotted the park.

Donna and Lucky talked about plays and films and books and the whole time Lucky drank in the presence that was Donna Kelly. She was bright and witty and he loved the way she tossed her shiny dark hair away from her blue, blue eyes. And her complexion was so creamy that he thought she must have been concocted from a fabulously shaped mold of vanilla pudding.

He was so distracted by her Irish beauty that it became increasingly difficult to pay attention to what was actually being discussed.

Perhaps Donna sensed this, because she suddenly said something that gave him jolt: "There are some people who warned me to watch out for you," she said, an amused glint in her eye.

Lucky gave her a look – was she teasing again? "Who? Who?" Then, thinking he sounded like an owl, he said, "Who said that?"

"You know," Donna said. "David Sisco and his friends."

Lucky wasn’t surprised. "What do they say about me?"

"That you’ve gone wild," Donna said. "That you run all over the island without any supervision. And that all your friends are Cypriots."

She lowered her eyes. "They said you have a Cypriot girl," she almost whispered.

"Well, sure, I did," Lucky said. "But not anymore."

"What happened?" Donna pressed.

Lucky shrugged, shortcutting the explanation to something he hoped was acceptable: "Her family thought she was too young to be dating."

"I know that tune," Donna said ruefully. Then, "Was it serious? I mean between the two of you."

Lucky didn’t know how to answer that question without digging himself a pit from which he could never emerge. So he said, "Whenever we went out – to the cinema or someplace like that – her grandmother went with us as a chaperone. Boy, was she strict. We were never alone except for maybe a few minutes. And that wasn’t so wonderful."

Thinking he might have taken this too far, Lucky hastily added, "But her grandmother was really nice. After I got used to the idea, I didn’t mind her being there."

He attempted a joke. "It was sort of like dating two girls at once, except one of them had loose dentures that clattered when she talked too fast."

It worked. Weak as the joke was, Donna broke into peals of laughter. Lucky brightened. This day was improving by mountain goat leaps.

Then Donna said, "Okay, so you don’t the deny the girlfriend – or former girlfriend, am I right?" Lucky nodded, thinking that there was nothing to truly deny because at that very moment Athena had become very former. "But what about the running wild part. It’s a serious charge, isn’t it?"

Lucky said, "I have a lot of freedom, that’s true. But I get good grades and I don’t get into any trouble. I’m not saying I’m an angel, but I don’t bring trouble home. I settle it on the spot. Also, my parents trust me and they want me to learn as much as I can from the experience of living abroad."

His parents had never said anything like that, but as the words came to his lips, Lucky instinctively knew it was true. "That’s why they found Jim Demetrakis for me," he said. "They wanted me to have a first class education – the kind they could never afford to give me in the States."

"What about all of those Cypriot friends, David was talking about?" Donna asked.

Getting defensive, Lucky bristled. "Sure I have a lot of Cypriot pals. What’s wrong with that?"

Then he realized that Donna was only asking, not condemning.

More quietly, he said, "They’re good people, the Cypriots. Loyal as they can be. And really generous, even though most of them are pretty poor. I’m proud that they call me friend, which in Greek is feelos, by the way."

Donna nodded, repeating, "Feelos."

"That’s for a boy," Lucky went on. "A friend who is a girl, is a feelee."

Once again, Donna repeated the word – feelee – committing it to memory. Then she asked, "What about your teacher? What’s his story?"

"It’s pretty impressive," Lucky said. "Jim was a poor kid – an orphan. But he was so smart the whole village raised enough money to send him away to the university in Athens. Now, he’s also a successful businessman. A friend of the mayor’s. And a negotiator between the young Cypriot businessmen and British officials."

Donna gave him a closer look. "What did you say his name was?"

Lucky said, "Jim Demetrakis." Then, feeling a little alarmed, he asked, "Why, have you heard of him?"

Donna shook her head. "No, but I’ll keep my ears open," she said.

They decided to join the couples in the park. It was getting a little late – in a half-an-hour the daylight date would be overcome by dark – so Lucky left Donna at the table, while he strode around the corner to find the limo driver. In the taverna, Lucky explained that he was concerned about a mechanical problem in the embassy limo. A sputtering in the engine, he said, and he suggested a diagnosis of fouled plugs. A malady that would take about an hour, perhaps a bit more, to remedy.

A pound note – about four dollars American – convinced the driver that Lucky’s diagnosis was quite correct. This was, indeed, a problem. A minor one that would be easily solved. And yes, for an additional pack of Camel cigarettes he would be pleased to call the house, and explain the problem to the butler. The man rubbed finger across thumb and Lucky slipped him another pound note. The driver said the butler would be pleased with Lucky’s generosity and consider him a gentleman. He – the butler - would surely inform Mrs. Kelly that her daughter would be ever so slightly delayed through no fault of Lucky’s. A minor inconvenience, and yes, the girl would be perfectly safe and sure to be back before Mr. Kelly arrived home for his evening martini.

And so Lucky and Donna joined the other young couples strolling through the park. It was dusk and lamplighters were climbing their ladders to fire up the gas-light poles that illuminated the park. Donna thought it was archaic – gas lights in the second half of the Twentieth Century. But, Lucky pointed out that in Philadelphia there were still neighborhoods that had so recently converted from gas to electricity that they still kept the old lamplighters on the job. The men carried their ladders down the street every night so they could wash and polish the glass covers and replace burned out bulbs.

"I guess we’re all still stuck between the centuries," Lucky said. "My dad says that America and the rest of the West is still stuck between the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries. The ideas we call modern, he says, are all from the past. Now, here we are in Cyprus, where things from thousands of years ago exist side by side with the modern world."

Donna nodded. "Like the camels and ox carts in the streets and the play we just saw. All old stuff. And the cars and the radios and the news about hydrogen bombs exploding, all new stuff." She turned to Lucky. "But how new is it? In a way, the first person who forged an iron sword was making an atom bomb, wasn’t he?"

They paused by one those ubiquitous groves of trees so favored by the strolling lovers they’d seen. Lucky stared into Donna’s eyes, overcome with emotion, but afraid to say anything that would break the spell.

Donna gave him a coy smile. Looked this way and that in an exaggerated fashion. "As far as I know," she said, "my grandmother is still back in Boston."

Benumbed, Lucky didn’t get it at first. "Boston?" he asked stupidly. "You’re from Boston?"

Donna sighed. "What does a girl have to do to get kissed around here?"

Lucky finally got it and drew her into the convenient grove where they kissed to their hearts’ content. On the way home, the driver rolled up the window separating the driver’s compartment from the back of the car and contentedly puffed on his Camel cigarettes. Lucky was now one his closest friends and – within reason – he’d make things easy for the couple. He took a long, curving route, that gave them time to kiss and cuddle.

Just before they reached Donna’s house, she suddenly pushed his hands away and sat up straight. Lucky, thinking he’d gone too far, sat up as well, mumbling an automatic, "Sorry."

But Donna wasn’t concerned about his roaming hands. Straightening her clothing, she made that very plain when she spoke. "You have to do something about David Sisco," she said. "He’s spreading vicious lies and if he keeps it up my parents will hear it and we won’t be able to see each other."

Lucky sighed. He said, "I can’t just beat him up. It would only make things worse."

Donna nodded agreement. She gestured, as if making headlines with her hands: "Wild boy attacks peace loving son of embassy official."

Lucky smiled, then thought about David Sisco and the smile turned into a frown. "I’ll think of something," he said.

"I hope so," Donna said. "I really do."

NEXT:  OF HEROES, NEW QUEENS & SWEET REVENGE
*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



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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
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF

THE HATE PARALLAX

THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)

*****


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.



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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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
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. 



Thursday, June 19, 2014

The Saga Of Kerosene Eric

NOTE FROM ALLAN: As you have no doubt noted, Faithful Readers, Lucky In Cyprus has not appeared for some weeks. I've been ill and only recently have returned home from the hospital. "Lucky" resumes today with a new episode. Thank you for your kind words of encouragement and sympathy during these past weeks.
*****
*****

“I tell you Helen, I’ve had it up to here with that girl. There isn’t a thing she can do right. Heaven knows I’m not a fussy woman. Certainly not like my mother, who was so picky she drove my father and us crazy. But I do like a clean house. I insist on it. And if I didn’t, Jack certainly would. Why, Just the other day he ordered Tina out of her room – she was taking a nap in the middle of the day, can you imagine? And he put on his white gloves from his Navy days and went over the house checking for dirt. And oh, dear, did he find a lot of it. But Tina didn’t seem to get the point. She shrugged and said that word they always use… ‘thempe’ something or other.”

“Themperaze,” Lucky broke in. “It’s one of those words that has a lot of meanings. Mainly it means ‘never mind,’ but in this case she was probably trying to say, ‘never mind, don’t worry, I’ll fix it.’”

His interruption earned him an amused look from his mother. Amused though she might be, she brushed her lips, as if chasing a fly, warning him to be careful about what he said..

The person Lucky was interrupting was their new neighbor, Ruth Walters, who spent every moment of her free time – which she had a great deal of, thanks to two maids and a gardener – stalking Lucky’s mother so she could air her latest complaint about “the help.”

This was a favorite topic among the American embassy and CIA personnel. There was constant complaining about the laziness and incompetence of their servants. Added to this topic were sub-topics, which included the difficulty of hiring “help,” the bother it all was to clean up after them – and do the job right, and how the servants failed to understand the simplest of instructions.

The complaints – and the attitudes connected - seemed to rise up in the American contingent through some sort of odd cultural osmosis. With rare exception, the Americans were all middle class people who had never had servants in their lives. At the most, back in the States a few might have hired someone to come in and help with the weekly ironing, or with the washing.

But when they traveled abroad on fat foreign service per diems, they entered a world where servants were the norm. Suddenly, they found themselves living in homes that were veritable mansions. Food, drink, spirits and every luxury could be purchased at cut rate prices through an elaborate system of commissary privileges. This not only included foreign luxuries, like caviar and fine wines and cognac, but free shipping of goodies from home, including tax free cigarettes and liquor.

They also entered a life of constant parties - parties they were expected to attend and to host in return. Servants were not only cheap, but the U.S. government, recognizing the social obligations, subsidized the pay of maids and gardeners - And for the higher ranking personnel, even chauffeurs and butlers.

The initial reaction of most Americans first entering the foreign service was that their servants were being grossly underpaid. In Lucky’s household, for example, the head maid – Brosina – got $25 a month, plus room and board. Her assistant (who lived out) got $15 a month and the gardener the same. But since the U.S. government reimbursed Lucky’s parents for half their wages, his parents simply added that to their salaries. So Brosina was making $37.50 a month, and the assistant maid and gardener were getting $22.50.

Other Americans made similar arrangements – to the chagrin of their British friends who said they were “spoiling the help.”

That initial generosity, however, soon faded into the expectations and pretensions of the newly rich. Or, as Lucky’s mother termed it, “plantation rich.” An apt description. Because suddenly, ordinary Americans from good middle class families, started acting like plantation owners of old. Imperiously ordering their servants about, firing them at the drop of a hat and treating them like they were not quite human.

Ruth and Jack Walters were an excellent case in point. They were such stingy people – with constant complaints on their lips – that they’d earned the enmity of the entire village.

“Why, just the other day,” Ruth was saying – continuing on her favorite path, which was the dissection of the Cypriot working class, “I was driving to the officer’s club to pick up Jack when this whole crowd of sheep just simply poured out on the street in front of me. I beeped my horn, but it was to no avail. The sheep only started milling around more and some of the… you know the bigger ones with horns… and those ugly… well… boy things… hanging down… it was disgusting!”

“You mean the rams?” Lucky’s mothered offered, nearly bursting into laughter.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Ruth Walters said. “They must have been. And I don’t understand how the law allows them to run around like that in polite circles. It was shocking. Simply shocking.”

Lucky frowned, confused. Did Mrs. Walters want the sheep herders to put pants on the rams? He started to ask, but got a warning looking from his mom. She made the “don’t speak or I will kill you,” gesture. So Lucky kept his lips zipped.

He smiled to himself, however, thinking what a laugh he’d get from his mother when he told her the nicknames that had been bestowed on the Walters. The villagers called them “Gundaree,” and “Gundara,” after the vicious little elves that legend said haunted the forests of Cyprus.

Not only that, but whenever the locals heard the “beep, beep” of that ratty little Peugeot the Walters drove, they’d deliberately wander into their path to delay them more.

“The village children are lovely, of course,” Ruth said. “Wherever we go they run after us shouting greetings.”

Lucky nearly strangled.. It wasn’t happy greetings the village kids were shouting, but “there goes Gundaree and Gundara! They eat shit for bread” Which was sort of true, since the Walters – ever the bargain seekers – met the women coming home from market to buy their left over bread on the cheap. They especially liked the “speckled bread.” The speckles weren’t nice toasted spices as they supposed, but fly shit from a day under the hot sun and thousands of insects. These were leftovers the villagers normally fed to their livestock and could be had for nothing, except for the fact that the Walters were such mean little skinflints.

Ruth turned to Lucky, giving him a sweet smile. “I almost forgot, Lucky,” she said. “I need your translating skills, if it’s no bother. Our maid hasn’t been starching Jack’s collars properly and I just can’t seem to get through to her.”

The last thing Lucky wanted to do was play go-between for this witch. He started to make an excuse, but his mother broke in.

“He’d be happy to,” she said. Then turned a firm gaze on her son. “Wouldn’t you, Lucky?”

“Sure,” Lucky mumbled. What choice did he have? He rose and started out of the kitchen. “Just let me know when and I’ll be right over.”

But it was no use. “How about right now?” Ruth said. “No sense putting it off.”

Lucky started to dig in his heels, then shot his mother a look and saw the narrowed eyes. “Now, would be just fine, Mrs. Walters,” he said, and followed her out.

There was a gate through the connecting wall from Lucky’s house to the Walters’ and when they went through, the first thing he saw was chubby little Eric crawling in the dirt outside of his playpen. The child had perfected the art of escape and no matter where his parents put him, he always managed to figure a way out.

“Oh, Eric,” his mother moaned, “you’re getting all dirty.” Then to Lucky, “Be a dear, Lucky, and put him back in the playpen.”

Lucky nodded and went to the boy, holding out his arms. “Hey, buddy,” he said, bending low to scoop the child up. “It’s back to jail, time. Do not pass go. Do not collect-”

He broke off, staring down at the child whose eyes were unnaturally large and glazed over. Eric was gazing up at Lucky with a bemused expression, his eyes all swimmy.

“What’s wrong, Eric?” Lucky asked.

Then Eric belched. It was a huge belch, straight from the toes. And Lucky was almost overwhelmed by the smell – which was like a gas station.

He stepped back, looking over his shoulder for Ruth. “Uh… Mrs. Walters?” he said.

Eric clapped his hands and gurgled in glee. The gurgle became another gas station belch.

Ruth came running. “Eric!” she cried. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Lucky looked around then saw a red kerosene can laying on its side next to the playpen. His heart raced as he made the connection between the can and the belch.

“I think he drank some kerosene, Mrs. Walters,” Lucky said. He went to the can, lifted it up. The cap was off. He shook it. It was nearly empty.

Ruth was shouting, now. Screaming. “Oh, my God! Eric! Eric! He’s been poisoned!”

The child wasn’t upset at all. After the loud belches, he’d returned to a state of absolute bliss. “k’seene, Mommy,” he said. “k’seene.’”

Lucky got it. “He wants more kerosene,” he told Ruth, feeling like he was suddenly stuck in an alternate state, like the Indian swamis talked about.

But Ruth wasn’t listening. She clutched Eric to her, wailing “My baby, my baby!”

Lucky came unstuck and bolted for his house, vaulting the wall. He met his mother coming out the back door. “It’s Eric,” he shouted. “He drank kerosene.”

Helen went white, then instantly recovered. “Go call a cab,” she told Lucky. “Tell them it’s an emergency. We have to get Eric to the hospital. Promise them anything. They just have to get here right away!”

She raced off to help Ruth, while Lucky rushed inside and called his taxi buddy, Nikos, explaining what the problem was. Nikos was there as fast as any ambulance – an emergency service that did not exist in Cypriot villages in those days. In minutes Ruth and Eric, accompanied by Lucky’s mother, tore down the street and headed for the hospital.

There, Lucky learned later, Eric had his stomach pumped and in a few hours appeared to be no worse for wear. The doctors warned Ruth, however, that kerosene was a notoriously addictive poison and that children and animals were particularly vulnerable to it. Apparently the taste was sweet and kerosene was as intoxicating as the strongest liquor, or narcotic.

Ruth thought this was a lot of nonsense and told them so. She left the hospital in a huff, with Helen accompanying her home. Two days later, Ruth and Eric were back in the hospital and Eric was once again getting his stomach pumped. Within a span of a month, it happened twice more. Oddly, Eric seemed untouched by his kerosene adventures. He remained the same happy child and although he’d grown pale and had lost some of his chubbiness, he appeared to be in good health.

Ruth and Jack went to every extreme to keep the kerosene away from the boy. The trouble was, an expatriate home in Cyprus depended on kerosene for most domestic functions. Water for a bath was heated in a kerosene-fired boiler. The same was true for water for dish washing. Cooking was done on kerosene fueled stoves and kitchen ranges. There was no such thing as a central heating system and so everyone bought expensive space heaters. They were about three feet high, black and held enough kerosene to last most of the night. Besides being dangerous because of fumes, these heaters were also perilous to children and many a foreign service child would up in the hospital with sometimes permanently scarring burns.

Lucky, himself, fell face forward on one during his first winter in Cyprus. He caught himself just in time with his hands – which immediately turned into huge blisters. He spent weeks with his hands wrapped in Vaseline and rags.

What this meant in practical sense was that every expatriate’s garage had a large kerosene drum which men came around weekly to replenish. One liter and five liter gas cans were kept in the garage for people to fill so they could distribute the kerosene about the house, using funnels to pour into it the water heater, the space heater, or the kitchen range. In other words, kerosene was scattered across the household, either in cans stored under the sink, or in a bathroom closet, or in the reservoirs of the appliances themselves.

Eric, literally and eagerly,  sniffed out every hiding place. His parents put locks on the kitchen cupboard and the bathroom closet, so Eric figured out how to drain the tanks of the appliances. They’d find him sitting next to a space heater, a huge grin on his face, his eyes glazed over, and ready to deliver big belches of kerosene fumes. Frantic, they eliminated space heaters from their home – preferring to shiver in the winter’s cold, while hovering around the living room fireplace.

They hired appliance mechanics to install locked plugs in the water heater and kitchen range. These had to be basically invented – since no one had ever requested such a device before. Plus, they were scratch built in machine shops. This was all at enormous expense.

But Eric was only momentarily thwarted. First he found a crawl hole into the garage, so he could drink from the main tank. This nearly killed him because he was so eager and been denied so long, that he drank kerosene until his belly bulged. They blocked up the garage, nailing boards over the windows, installing locks on the main door and bricking over the crawl hole.

 One day Eric spotted a rat getting into the garage and over several days, dug out the animal’s hole so it was wide enough for him to fit through. Once again, Nikos was called and Eric and Ruth were rushed off to the hospital for the boy’s stomach to be pumped.

At first everyone was shocked and worried about poor little Eric. But after awhile, it started to become humorous, in a sick sort of way. It was especially amusing because this bright happy child, in the view of most people, was merely doing his best to escape the mean-spirited malaise that seemed to always hang over his mother and father. Everybody agreed that it couldn’t be easy to be the son of Gundaree and Gundara.

It was then that the little boy earned the nickname of “Kerosene Eric.”

People would say, “How’s Kerosene Eric?” Or, “Has Kerosene Eric been up to his old tricks, again?”

It wasn’t that they didn’t sympathize with Eric, or worry about him. It was just that, well – it was funny, damn it!

Then the day came when Gundaree – that is Mr. Jack Walters – accompanied his wife, Gundara, and Kerosene Eric to the hospital for what had by now become an almost weekly stomach pumping. The doctors were amazed the child had any lining left in his belly, but so far Eric had remained a miracle of medical science – not only his stomach, but everything in between remained perfectly healthy. CIA medics joked about maybe taking tissue cultures to see if there was some sort of enzyme Eric secreted that could be duplicated to protect agents from being poisoned by the Russians.

This was the first time Jack had ever been at home for an Eric emergency. While he was at work it was impossible to respond because like every other agent there, he was under CIA base lockdown. Nobody left until the shift ended – and the shift was determined by what was happening in the world. The minimum shift was 72 hours. But, with the Cold War raging and the Korean War just winding down, the men usually spent two weeks more at the base. Then they’d get two days off – 48 hours – and be back again.

So for a change, here was Jack at the hospital to worry like hell about his son in person. He’d been taken ill when he saw the stomach-pumping process, so he adjourned to the hallway, leaving Ruth to watch over Eric.

He paced up and down, chain-smoking cigarettes, the stress building by the minute. Witnesses later said that everyone who approached Jack to offer help were treated to a fat helping of his nasty little guy’s attitude. Within a short time there were few people who had any sympathy for Mr. Jack “Gundaree” Walters.

Then, perhaps moved by stress, Jack’s bowels deserted him. He raced to the men’s room. Found a stall and squatted. He continued smoking, ignoring the no-smoking signs posted all over the men’s room walls.

The signs were in English, as well as Greek, French and Turkish. Skull heads were posted along with the signs. Danger! Danger! Danger! It was very plain to all but Gundaree.

Finally, he finished his business and before rising, tossed his cigarette between his legs into the toilet bowl.

The reason for the no smoking sign in a time when smoking was not considered a threat to one’s health, became immediately apparent. It seems that just prior to Jack’s visit to the toilet, a surgical orderly had dumped a pan of ether into the bowl and had forgotten to flush.

When the burning cigarette hit the ether there was a fiery explosion. Jack screamed and shot to his feet as if the toilet bowl were a cannon.

Jack burst out of the stall, hobbled by his trousers around his ankles.

He quick-shuffled down the hallway, past scores of nurses just changing shift, his bare ass bright red as a new brick, screaming, “I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”

And thus the legend of Gundaree and Gundara and Kerosene Eric was complete.

Not long afterward, the Walters took compassionate leave and departed the island.

The last Lucky heard, Jack Walters had left the service and he and his wife were back teaching in the Alexandria, Virginia, school system.

As for Kerosene Eric, Lucky always wondered what happened to him. Surely he would have shined in the Sixties.


NEXT: THE MEDEA AND THE DIPLOMAT’S DAUGHTER


*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



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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
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF

THE HATE PARALLAX

THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)

*****


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.



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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U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
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: 

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