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.
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*****
“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
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
*****
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
*****
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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United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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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.
*****
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!
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