*****
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| Where The Spies Hung Their Cloaks And Check Their Daggers At The Door |
As exotic as
his surroundings were, Lucky was experienced in the ways of hotels, so he
fit in with little trouble. His parents were nomadic people at heart and he’d
moved with them about the country since he was six months old. Lucky knew to leave
his shoes outside the door every night so they’d be taken away for cleaning and
polishing to be returned early the next morning. He knew that a boy who smiled
and said "yes, sir," and "no, ma’m," to the staff would be
rewarded with small favors, extra treats, and easily bent rules in return for
his politeness. He was also generous with tips, spreading his allowance around
as far as it would go. He took care to learn all the polite Greek words he
could, such as "efharistoh," for thank you, and "parakalo,"
which meant both you’re welcome and please.
Even more important was Lucky’s confirmed commitment
to the CIA kid’s central creed: "Never tell." It was a creed that
served him well in the "below the stairs" world of hotel employees. It
was a world not just of tips, but of many small favors that could quickly add
up to a big favor. It was a world where a quick eye and a closed mouth could
gain the kind of respect that would be bestowed on few adults in the "up
the stairs" world. Even then, the downstairs guys would always trust a kid
like Lucky more than an adult.
With no other children to play with, and nothing to
do all day, he wandered the hotel, poking into everybody’s business. By now he
was a master of the art of getting anything he wanted by hotel phone. He’d
dined with all the splendors of white linen and china and silver, complete with
lit candles and a "leetle wine, monsieur" disguised on the bill as
soft drinks or milk by knowing waiters who shook their heads at the barbarity of
Americans who would not allow their children such necessary drink. He’d ordered
up big console radios so he could spin the dial, searching for entertainment.
He’d had cards and games delivered, a record player with a stack of platters to
play on it. And once he’d even ordered up a baby sitter to watch his brother
while he slipped out to tour the city by taxi.
Lucky had seen liquor delivered to rooms, as well as
poker chips and had spotted mysterious packages delivered by the white-gloved
concierge himself, so it must have been something very special, sir.
He’d even seen women delivered - "party girls," the head bellman had
called them with a leer and knowing laugh, so the boy was pretty sure what kind
of parties he meant.
You never made the mistake of mentioning such things
to your mother, who learned the dangers of room service in Paris when she was
taking a nice hot bath in a most luxurious suite. She’d thought the velvet rope
dangling on the wall next to the tub was an ingenious device to help people step
out of the water. And wasn’t she surprised when she pulled on the rope and a
French waiter rushed in to see what madam wanted and there she was, standing in
her altogether screaming in alarm for her wounded modesty. While the waiter
wrung his hands wondering what was troubling madam, was there perhaps a bug in
the bath she’d like him to fetch out?
The staff gave him complete freedom of the hotel and
protected him during emergencies. When he fell off the verandah wall while
tightrope walking and ripped his best trousers, he avoided a scolding by
getting them mended on the sly. A shilling to the bellman won him a false
identity when the fellow was called before a British boy’s mother who wanted to
know who it was who’d stripped her son of all his marbles in an illicit match,
where the stakes were for "keepers." The British family was just
passing through, so Lucky only had to duck his head low for a day or two.
Sometimes he helped the maids on their rounds, so he
could investigate rooms where particularly interesting things seemed to be
going on. These were always very adult, and therefor sinful, such as packets of
rubbers, or small black and white cards with naked women and men on them "doing
it," and cast off lingerie much more revealing than anything his mother
would ever dream of wearing. Once he saw a pistol left on a night stand and was
amazed that the maid seemed untroubled and merely dusted around it. She reacted
with much disapproval, however, to the charred contents of an ashtray in
another suite, tsking and wrinkling her nose at the odor, which was powerful
and certainly not tobacco. Lucky asked what it was, but she either didn’t have
the English to explain - or thought it best he not know. Later he learned it
was hashish, as plentiful in the Middle East as corn in Iowa.
The hotel was as thick with different languages as it
was intrigue. Groups of men of every nationality would gather in small knots
for whispered exchanges that leaped from one tongue to another with bewildering
speed. Harsh Arabic would mingle with nasal French, musical Italian, staccato
German, and heavily-accented English. Meanwhile, their women would engage each
other in nervous small talk, with much casting of quick looks at their men as
if they were expecting a signal.
These women invariably deferred to the men, which
disgusted Lucky’s mother who said no American woman worth her salt would put up
with such behavior. Lucky heard her discussing it with an Egyptian she’d
befriended. The woman was dark and petite and wore a slender gold chain on one
ankle. Her husband was a Lebanese architect who said he was building a luxury
hotel in Beirut. He carried the plans under his arm and upon introduction to
anyone he thought had money, would immediately roll them out for display.
"I’ve even seen wives walking three paces behind
their husbands," his mother said in tones of heavy disapproval.
"Don’t they know this is the Twentieth Century?"
She thought her new friend would agree with the
criticism – the woman had lived in New York for several years, after all. And
she was openly critical of her husband when he behaved foolishly in public.
Her answer, however, surprised Helen. "But this
is how it should be, my dear," the Egyptian said in her excellent Empire
English. "Of course, walking behind a man is ridiculous. I have a
modern marriage and my husband values my opinion. However, it is my own view
that American men are too weak. I like a man with a firm hand. It’s much more
exciting, don’t you think? Sometimes I test my husband… telling him that I plan
to do some ridiculous thing or another. We fight about it, and then I give in
and tell him what a big strong man he is, and oo-la-la, we have such a time
afterwards, Helen. Such a time." The woman winked at Lucky. "When you
marry, you should always tell your wife what to do," she advised. "If
you don’t, my sweet, she won’t know how much you care for her."
Lucky’s mother was shocked and quickly changed the
subject. Later she said he was to pay no attention to her friend’s opinion and
that if most women in the world knew how American women expected to be treated
they’d soon be demanding the same. The boy promised to do as she said, but
found himself fantasizing about the Egyptian woman’s comments about having
"such a time" with her husband. Whenever he saw her, it was all he
could do to keep himself from staring at those knowing cat’s eyes and the gold
chain about her tiny ankle which disturbed him powerfully, although he couldn’t
say why.
Sometimes Lucky grew lonely - he rarely had other
children to play with. Even so, he treasured those long weeks he spent at the
hotel. He sat in the Empire Room, day after day, eavesdropping on conversations
he didn’t quite understand, but teasing his imagination with more possibilities
than a radio drama.
However the biggest, most intriguing question during
this period was the daily appearance of the red faced Colonel. Each day there
was a fresh banana poking out of his coat pocket, with a big green feather
stabbed into it - standing up like some kind of flag, or call to arms.
It was an eccentric mystery to contemplate during the
lazy summer in the Empire Room of that fine hotel that sat near the ancient
gates of Nicosia.
* * *
Several weeks
after Lucky arrived in Cyprus he ventured out of the hotel to investigates
the mysteries of the streets. At first he was disappointed. The hotel was
situated on the edge of a wealthy old neighborhood of mansions and elegant
gardens. It was hot and the streets were usually deserted by mid-afternoon. The
people who lived there were mostly Europeans - predominantly British - with a
few rich Middle-Easterners. Like the hotel, the only Cypriots he saw were
servants and gardeners and never any other children, since the inhabitants
seemed to be past child-rearing age.
Then one day he came upon two Cypriot boys trying to
fix a flat rear tire on their battered bicycle. The tallest boy was about his
age. The other, much smaller, was about five or six. Lucky watched them wrestle
with the wheel for awhile. It was stubborn thing with many rusted parts and
refused to separate from the axle.
"Want some help?" Lucky asked. Without
thinking, he’d spoken in English. Although he’d later learn to speak and act
like a Cypriot native, he only knew how to say "please" and
"thank you" at this point.
Smiling, the oldest looked up at him and said,
"Yes."
Lucky was pleased. "Do you speak English?"
he asked.
The boy nodded. "Yes," he replied.
Finally! Two kids to talk to about important things,
like flat bicycle tires and wheels that wouldn’t come off. Lucky crouched down
with them and slowly spun the offending wheel, casting an experienced eye over
it. The tire had almost no tread, which is how things usually were with his own
bike back home. He saw a little flaw in the black rubber and a tiny glint of
metal.
"A nail," he announced to his two new
friends. "That’s your trouble. You picked up a nail."
"Yes," the oldest boy replied.
Then he started messing with the rusted axle nut
again, trying to break it loose with his fingers. Lucky stopped him.
"Wait a minute," he said. "We need
some tools."
Now the little brother spoke up. "Yes," he
said.
Lucky jumped to his feet. He knew just what to do.
"Stay here, okay?" he said. "I’ll be right back!"
"Yes," both boys chorused.
Lucky rushed off to find his friend, Peter, the head
hotel maintenance man, who spoke excellent English. He was also such a nice guy
that he used to let Lucky help him trim the hedges and mow the grass - Peter
lounging under a tree, smoking cigarettes and regaling Lucky with his boyhood
adventures in the mountains, while Lucky happily toiled in the garden. But when
Lucky found Peter and explained the problem, his friend was reluctant to lend
him the necessary tools.
"They are gypsy boys, Mister Lucky," he
said. "Thieves."
Lucky was outraged in behalf of his new friends.
"They’re not gypsies," he scoffed. Although, other than Hollywood
movie images, he had no idea what a real gypsy looked like. "They’re just
ordinary kids."
Still, Peter refused. Lucky was at a momentary loss.
Then his face brightened as he got an idea. He dug into his pocket and pulled
out a silver shilling.
"Maybe you could fix it for us, Peter," he
said, holding up the coin. "You’re good at that stuff, right? You told me
how you used to be an engineer at Cyprus Mines."
Cyprus was known throughout the world for the quality
of its copper mine – in fact, Lucky learned, Cyprus meant copper.
"Of course, I was an engineer," Peter said,
squaring his shoulders. "The best mining engineer in all of Cyprus. But
the boss, he didn’t like me, you know? On account of his ugly daughter, who I
wouldn’t marry."
"You told me about that," Lucky said.
"And I don’t blame you. Who wants to marry an ugly girl, even if her
father is rich?"
Peter eyed the shilling, considering the bargain.
"It’s not very much to fix a tire, Mister Lucky," he said.
"There is not only my work - but patches and glue cost money." He
rubbed two fingers together. "Common things cost too much these days. It’s
because of the English, you know. So many taxes, so many rules." He spit
in the dust. "Those damned English!"
Lucky was sympathetic - but only to a point. As a
much traveled young man he knew the value of things. He’d been cheated before
and knew how to stand up for himself.
"I know what you mean," he said. He spit
into the spot Peter had marked. "Stupid English." He held up the
shilling. "But this is more than twenty five cents in American
money," he said. "For twenty five cents I could buy two comic books
and a Coke in the States. But this is closer to thirty five cents and for
thirty five cents I could buy three comic books and a Coke. Or, two comic books
and some peanuts to put into my Coke."
Peter laughed, shaking his head in admiration.
"You are almost a Cypriot, Mister Lucky," he said. "You have a
Greek’s warm heart and a Turk’s tight fist to make a bargain."
Lucky didn’t have the faintest idea what Peter was
talking about, but he took it as a compliment. "So, you’ll fix the
tire?" he asked. "For a shilling?" Then he became a little
embarrassed. Peter was a poor man and Lucky had been raised to sympathize with
the poor. "That’s all I’ve got, honest," he said. Lucky had a sudden
thought and fished into his pocket and pulled out an oversize marble.
"Except this cat’s eye," he said, very reluctant. It was one of his
most prized possessions. "I could let you have that if you needed it for
anything."
Although Peter’s oldest son would have been overjoyed
to have such a prize, after a moment’s hesitation, the man waved it away.
"No, no, Mister Lucky," he said. "We can fix the tire for a
shilling. I just remembered that I have a whole tin of patches my good friend
Demitrios gave me. For nothing."
Peter titled his head back and made a tsking sound.
"For nothing!" he repeated. "A whole tin of tire patches - fifty
or more. And the glue as well. He did this just to show his friendship. He’s
that kind of a man, my Demitrios. He found a broken crate of tire patches in
the English army supply house. They were of no use to anyone - since the crate
was broken how could they easily transport it without much work and expense to
repair the crate? So Demitrios kindly took the crate off their hands and saved
them the trouble. And although he sold a few tins to some Turks - which is no
sin because they are Turks and may they eat the Devil’s shit in Hell - he gave
the rest away to good friends like me. The man who stood at the baptism of his
oldest son."
Peter patted Lucky on the back, white teeth gleaming in his dark face. Friendly eyes shining. "And so it is only right that I now help my new friend - Mister Lucky. Who generously wants to help some gypsy boys with their problem."
Peter patted Lucky on the back, white teeth gleaming in his dark face. Friendly eyes shining. "And so it is only right that I now help my new friend - Mister Lucky. Who generously wants to help some gypsy boys with their problem."
"They’re not gypsies," Lucky insisted.
Peter shrugged. "We shall see," he replied.
Then he lifted a warning finger. "But just in case, do not show them the
marble in your pocket, Mister Lucky. Gypsy boys like to gamble - even for
marbles. And they will cheat you of everything you have."
Lucky was intrigued. "I don’t think they’re
gypsies," he said. "But if they are, I’m pretty good at playing
keepers."
The back garden gate of the hotel was rather large
and made of heavy wrought iron bars, painted white. When it came open the
hinges made a loud shriek and the two Cypriot boys jolted up in surprise. They
saw Lucky, but then they saw Peter towering over him and took fright. The
oldest boy grabbed his brother by the collar and they ran down the street,
leaving the injured bicycle behind.
Lucky cried after them: "Wait! Wait!"
About fifty yards off, the two boys stopped beneath a
large rose tree, whose pink and white blossoms littered the cobblestone street.
The oldest boy shouted something in Greek and made defiant, obscene gestures.
His little brother shrilled defiance as well - hoisting a middle finger at
Lucky and Peter.
Lucky shouted back: "Yo, there’s nothing wrong!
Peter’s just going fix the bike, okay?"
"They’re gypsies, that’s for certain,"
Peter said glumly. "Never mind their bicycle. Keep your shilling."
"No, please, Peter" Lucky said, realizing
that there’d been a misunderstanding. "Fix it anyway, okay?" And he
shoved the silver coin into Peter’s hand.
Now that he noticed it, the two kids were dressed in
rags. But that hadn’t meant anything to him before. He’d recently lived outside
Clearwater, Florida - just down the highway from a two-story clapboard house
crammed with poor folks. "Florida crackers," his parents had called
them. And they’d told him not to play with the many kids who scrambled all
around the house - all bare-footed and dressed in rags. Some of the kids had
big, running sores on their heads and extremities, which his mother identified
as "Florida sores" and said they were infectious.
"They’ve probably got cooties, too," she’d
warned him.
Lucky, who was experienced in finding fun on the road
wherever it presented itself - ignored his parents warnings and soon his mother
had taken pity on the kids and had dragged them into the house to feed them and
scrub them down with strong soap and bleach. And so it was that Lucky looked
past the smelly rags the gypsy boys wore and saw two playmates. A valuable thing
to have when you are all alone in a big hotel. Once more he pointed to the
bike. "Fix it, Peter," he urged. "Please!"
Grumbling, Peter crouched down to examine the tire.
Turning the creaky wheel and muttering many Greek deprecations. Finally, he
said, "Let’s take it into the garden."
He came to his feet, picking the bike up, and walked
back toward the hotel’s garden gate. Immediately, the two gypsy kids started
howling. Lucky saw them run forward, stooping down to pick up large stones from
the street.
He lifted both hands, trying to reassure them.
"Don’t worry," he cried. "We’re just fixing’ the bike."
Lucky had to duck fast the biggest boy hurled a stone
straight for his head. He didn’t bother arguing, but beat a hasty retreat with
Peter, slamming the gate behind him. Big pieces of broken cobblestone sailed
over the stone fence after them.
Peter laughed. "They’re angry with you," he
said. "The gypsy boys think you stole their bicycle, which is a great
insult for little thieves like that."
"Never mind," Lucky said. "They won’t
be mad once get their bike back."
Still laughing, Peter got to work. Squirting oil here
and there, quickly freeing the main axle nut and doing all the other things
that were necessary to remove the wheel. First he extracted the nail, then he
peeled the tire from the rim and extracted the red rubber tube. Quickly, he
pumped it up with a little foot pump and then he carried it to a large marble
cistern that gathered the overflow from the main hotel well. The cistern sat
beneath a rose trellis and Peter had to scoop pink blossoms off the water
before he immersed the inner tube. The cistern had been hollowed out by hand to
make a perfectly rectangular receptacle. The workmanship for such a lowly
object didn’t impress Lucky – he was too young to realize the amount of labor
and care that went into such a thing. Instead, he admired the many little oily
rainbows bubbling around the streaked marble sides as Peter spun the inner
tube, looking for the leak.
Peter knew all the hotel gossip and so while they
were working Lucky asked him, "Did you ever see the Colonel with the
banana in his pocket, with the feather in it? You must have. He comes in every
day."
The gardener laughed. "Of course I have seen it,
Mister Lucky. Everyone has. The Colonel is quite the joke, you know."
Peter shook his head. "Damned English. Just to make our lives miserable,
they send all their crazy ones to Cyprus when they are too old and weak in the
head to live on their own island."
Lucky asked, "But who is he?"
Peter snorted. "Only an old spy," he said.
"Of no use to anybody."
The gardener waved his hand, indicating the back end
of the hotel, dripping in bougainvillea, citrus and rose blossoms.
"They’re all spies, here," he said of the hotel residents.
"Cyprus has much experience with spies, you know. They have afflicted us
since Aphrodite was a girl of no importance. In our history, we’ve suffered
spies from the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, Romans, Syrians, Turkish
- and now the damned English!" Peter lifted his hand from the cistern and
dramatically smote his forehead. "The spies in Cyprus are worse than
locusts, Mister Lucky," he cried. "Or even gypsies. Give me a gypsy
thief before you give us all these damned spies!"
Lucky was getting worried about all this talk of the
hotel being infested with spies. It was true, of course. A quiet boy with big
ears could hear and see many things from his post at the Empire Room coffee
machine. And he’d already picked out several men he was certain were involved
in "the great game" as Mr. Kipling described the spying business in
"Kim" - a novel that was a new favorite of his. He’d read it before,
of course, but the book had revealed many new levels now that Lucky’s father
was part of "the great game" as well.
To draw any possible suspicion away from his father,
Lucky openly - and a little rudely - mocked Peter. "Come on, the Colonel
can’t be a spy! That’s… that’s… well, as stupid as saying my mother or my
little brother were spies. Besides, who ever heard of a spy with a banana in his
coat pocket with a dumb feather stuck in it?"
Peter took no offense. "Listen, Mister
Lucky," he said. "I have a nose for such things." He tapped a
long forefinger against his classically Greek nose. "I can smell a spy a
mile away. You’re too young and innocent to know of such things. You come from
too good a family. A gracious family. Your father is a diplomat. I know this.
Everyone does. He’s a good man. A man who sees and wants only the best of
things for this world. So how could a son of his know about such a dirty
business as spying? But I have seen many things in my life, Mister Lucky. And I
know a spy when I see one. Like I said, I can smell them.
"Although it does not take a good nose to suspect the Colonel. Why, it’s well known to everyone in Cyprus that he’s a spy. He’s crazy, of course. And a little foolish. He was an English spy in India for many years. And then he retired - on a very small pension. Too small to return to his home in England again. So now he lives in Cyprus, where things are very cheap for Europeans, but quite dear for us. Even so, his pension is too small to pay for all the gin and tonics he likes to drink. And so the Colonel has returned to his old business, selling little secrets that he picks up at bars and tavernas."
"Although it does not take a good nose to suspect the Colonel. Why, it’s well known to everyone in Cyprus that he’s a spy. He’s crazy, of course. And a little foolish. He was an English spy in India for many years. And then he retired - on a very small pension. Too small to return to his home in England again. So now he lives in Cyprus, where things are very cheap for Europeans, but quite dear for us. Even so, his pension is too small to pay for all the gin and tonics he likes to drink. And so the Colonel has returned to his old business, selling little secrets that he picks up at bars and tavernas."
"Who does he sell them to?" Lucky asked.
Peter shrugged. "To anyone who feels sorry for
him," he said. "His secrets are of little use to real spies. But they
buy him drinks and give him a few pounds for unimportant errands."
Lucky immediately understood. The Colonel was not
just a double, but a triple and maybe even quadruple agent. Working for
everyone and anyone. But in spying history those sorts of agents were usually
romantic figures. Like the spy in the movie, "Five Fingers," who
worked for both the Germans and the Allies. Playing one against the other in a
very elaborate and dangerous game. But the Colonel was far from a romantic
figure. And he certainly wasn’t very clever. Just someone to feel sorry for.
"What about the banana?" Lucky asked Peter.
"Is that some sort of secret message?"
Peter only smiled and tapped his temple. "The
Colonel is crazy, that’s all," he said. "There’s no mystery, Mister
Lucky. Only an old fool doing foolish things because he’s lived too long,
drinks too much and his mind is weak."
"I don’t know…" Lucky said hesitantly. This
was a most unsatisfactory answer. But to say so would be an insult to Peter. So
he shrugged, saying, "You’re probably right. He’s just an old crazy
man."
Soon, the repair on the bicycle was finished. Peter
gave the bike a few extra licks, oiling the chain and replacing some spokes.
Then he held the gate open for Lucky as the boy wheeled the bike out into the
street. The two gypsy kids were squatting next to a sign post about twenty
yards away and the minute they spotted Lucky and Peter they scooped up more
stones. But when they saw the bike, its tire pumped up and ready to go, they
hesitated.
Lucky motioned for Peter to stay back and wheeled the
bike forward. The boys watched him, faces expressionless, their arms raised,
hands full of stones ready to throw. Lucky snapped out the kick stand and
leaned the bike on its support and stepped away.
"There’s your bike," he said. "Good as
new."
"Yes," the older boy said, suddenly
breaking into a smile.
He leaped onto the bike, pulled his little brother up
so that sat astride the handlebars and pedaled down the street. Both boys
laughed and shouted gleeful things in Greek. Then they turned back, riding up
to Lucky. They both climbed off. The oldest boy indicated the bike to Lucky.
"Yes?" he asked.
Lucky’s eyes widened with delight. "I can ride
it?" he asked.
Both boys nodded. "Yes," they chorused.
Immediately Lucky jumped on the bicycle and pedaled
furiously down the street. He squeezed the handle bar brakes, leaning over so
that he could skid around in a dramatic turn, then raced back to his friends.
He jumped off the bike before it came to a halt.
"Wow!" he shouted. "Peter fixed that real good, didn’t he?"
"Yes," the older boy said, bobbing his
head.
It was then that Lucky was suddenly struck with the
oddest of notions. "You speak English, right?" he asked the oldest
boy.
"Yes," the boy said.
"Then, what’s your name?" he asked.
"Yes," the boy replied.
"And your little brother’s name?" Lucky
prodded.
"Yes," the oldest boy replied.
Lucky was mortified. "Neither of you really do
speak English, do you?"
"Yes," the older boy said.
"And the only word you know is yes?" Lucky
said.
The boy nodded. "Yes."
And then his brother shouted, "Yes, yes.
Amerikhanos, yes!"
Both boys started jumping up and down, crying,
"Yes, yes, yes! Amerikhanos! Yes, yes, yes!"
Then they both jumped onto the bike and pedaled away,
laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs.
Peter looked up from his work as Lucky opened the big
gate and walked into the garden. "I was so stupid," Lucky said.
"I thought they spoke English. But all the could say was, ‘yes, yes,
yes!’"
Peter laughed. "Themperaze, Mister Lucky,"
he said. "Themperaze. You’ve made new friends, even if they are gypsy
boys."
Lucky was intrigued. "What’s that word?" he
wanted to know. "Thempe - something or other."
Peter grinned a huge grin. "Themperaze," he
said again. "It’s a good Cypriot word. It means, ‘never mind.’ But not
exactly, ‘never mind.’ It’s impossible to translate for it is a word too full
much meaning.
"Say it like this - " and Peter’s face
became imperious and he made a tsking sound before saying, "Themperaze!" ...
"That way means never mind, you stupid person. I am too important and you are too small to bother me with such nonsense.
"That way means never mind, you stupid person. I am too important and you are too small to bother me with such nonsense.
"Another way to say it is like this - "
Peter made an elaborate shrug, saying, lazily, "Them-pe-razi.
"That way, you are saying that the incident is
minor and life is so important and cruel and we must take pleasure where we can
find it. So never mind - them-pe-razi - the thing that troubles you and gets in
the way of real life.
"You can also forgive a friend who made a big
mistake. You can throw your arms around him and kiss his cheeks and say,
‘Themperaze.’ It is not important, my good friend. Not so important as
you."
Lucky nodded understanding. Themperaze was a word
like stokahlo, with many shades of meaning.
"And so I say to you, Mister Lucky," Peter
continued, "that you met some gypsy boys - against my advice. And they
made you feel foolish, because you thought they could speak English only
because they knew the English word, ‘yes.’ Well, those boys are blushing even
more than you. They felt stupid because they didn’t know English. And they
wanted to impress a big shot American kid. So they said the only word they knew
‘yes,’ ‘yes,’ ‘yes.’ No matter what you said, they said ‘yes.’ And in the end
they were bigger fools. Because you have a good heart and they didn’t know that
and were angry with you until you returned their bicycle and then they knew. So
I say ‘Themperaze,’ my young friend. Life is sweet when you make friends. Even
if they are only gypsy boys. Never mind if you feel foolish. Never mind you
spent a whole shilling in your foolishness. I swear to you when my work is done
today I will go to the taverna and spend that shilling like an offering to the
gods.
"I will buy my friends some ouzo and good Greek
coffee. And maybe I will spend more than just that shilling and hire a pipe to
smoke all around. And we will toast, ‘Themperaze!’ New words and new friends
made, even though they are gypsies. I confess to you, Mister Lucky, that I
secretly have a friend who is an old Turk. Cypriots hate Turks. And Turks hate
Cypriots. But what can a man do when the Turk is such pleasant guy that you
must make him your friend? What can a man say?"
Getting it, Lucky grinned. And he replied:
"Themperaze! That’s what you say."
Delighted, Peter clapped him on the back. "I
will make you into a Cypriot yet, Mister Lucky," he said. "You just
wait and see."
NEXT: THE SPY WITH THE FEATHERED BANANA UNMASKED
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
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.
*****
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
*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES
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
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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. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
*****
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!
