*****
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| UK Soldiers In Cyprus - circa 1950's |
The army was first. A little before dawn Lucky was
awakened by the rumbling of engines. Bright lights blared through the shutters
and he heard men barking orders in English. Curiosity soon overcame sleepiness
and he crawled out of bed and threw open the doors. As he walked onto the
veranda, he saw large shadows lumbering along the main road. Headlights swept
across the scene, illuminating troop trucks, with canvas tops and sides, moving
into the field across the street. As soon as they pulled up, men poured out of
the trucks.
Then he heard the distinctive rattle and clank of
armored vehicles and a moment later several tanks loomed out of the night,
looking like prehistoric creatures with their turrets and cannons. Their
commanders stood in the hatchways, goggles slung back over their helmets so
when they bent down to bellow orders to the men on the ground, they looked like
they had huge insect eyes.
Lucky heard Charlie crying in his nursery and the
voice of his mother and the hoots of Brosina as they hurried to the bawling
child. How Brosina, who was stone deaf, knew when Charlie was crying always
mystified Lucky. Through sign language she indicated that she could feel the
vibrations of a baby’s cries in the springs of her mattress and since she
always ran to his brother the moment he started squalling he had no reason to
doubt her.
Soon his mother came into the room, cradling Charlie
and rocking him back and forth. He was calmly sucking on a bottle and seemed to
be content. "What’s all the racket, Luck?" his mother asked. "It
sounds like the Barnum and Bailey Circus out there."
"Just the army, mom," he said.
"Setting up camp across the street."
His mother nodded, saying, "Your father
mentioned there were maneuvers going on all over the island. In case there was
trouble over Stalin."
Lucky grimaced. The Russian dictator’s death had
sparked world-wide riots that were still continuing. From what he could gather
from the BBC, anyone and everyone with a lost cause had channeled their grief
into renewed passion for their demands. Although things were relatively quiet
in Cyprus, the British were worried that Enosis would once again rear its
rebellious head.
After breakfast, Lucky wandered out to watch the
soldiers set up camp. Already, tents were pitched, camp fires lit and army
cooks were dishing up breakfast to hungry men lined up before stainless steel
steam tables. Lucky noticed that most of the men returned to their tents to
crouch over little individual fires where they had pots of tea on the boil.
He peered up at the two flags flying over the camp –
hoisted on portable staffs. There was the familiar Union Jack of the British,
but next to it was a much different banner. In its left corner, it displayed
the union jack against a sea blue background. To the right were four stars laid
out like a cross. Lucky frowned – he knew he should know what the emblem meant,
but at the moment it escaped him.
He crossed the street to investigate further. The
soldiers looked up at him, with friendly grins and said things like,
"Takin’ the tiki tour, mate?" Or, "Up with the sparrow farts,
are ye?" Also, "How’s it goin’, bugalugs." And, "Take a
shufti at the Brit kid, mate."
The last, was a soldier pointing out Lucky to his
friend.
Lucky bridled at this. "I’m not British,"
he said, "I’m American."
This got everyone’s interest. Young soldiers were
suddenly twice as friendly as before. "Sorry about that, bugalugs,"
said the offending party. "And you’re welcome to some tea."
The soldier indicated the pot resting next to the
fire. His friend made a space for Lucky and the boy squatted between them.
Other men came over, presumably to see what an American looked and sounded
like.
"Where’s your crib, Yank?" his new friend
asked, as he poured Lucky some tea, then offered him a tin of condensed milk.
Lucky indicated the impressive sandstone villa across
the street. "Over there."
The men all gave him odd looks and Lucky realized his
house made him fit the European stereotype of "the rich American."
Searching for common ground, he said, "All the oranges and lemons and
grapes are ripe, if you guys want some."
There were appreciative murmurs all around. Then his
new friend – Charlie, was his name, just like Lucky’s brother – said,
"What we want is some decent food, mate. And maybe somethin’ to drink,
like. Ain’t there any pie carts about?"
Lucky frowned. "Pie carts?" he asked.
"There’s no bakery, here. The village is too small."
"No, no, mate," Charlie said. "A pie
cart’s just Kiwi for a food sellin’ truck." He showed Lucky the gray glop
in his plate. "All we get is powdered eggs and greasy bangers, you
know."
Lucky knew just what to do. "I can get some guys
down here," he said.
Someone else spoke up. "Ask him if there’s any
boozers can deliver." The man looked over his shoulder for officers or Non
Coms. "But on the quiet like."
Lucky laughed. "That’s easy," he said.
"I’ll get somebody up from the taverna to take your order." Then he
turned serious. "If they ask for some money first, you can trust them,
okay? Nobody will cheat you in Pallouriotissa."
He rose, eager to get things organized, but then he
hesitated. "You don’t talk like the Brits I know," he said. Then he
indicated the unfamiliar banner fluttering next to the Union Jack. "And
that flag… what does that stand for?"
Charlie laughed. "We’re kiwis, mate," he
said. "From the lands down under."
Light dawned for Lucky. "New Zealanders?"
he marveled.
"Yep. And we ain’t any more British than you
are, Yank," he said. "Sorry we insulted you like we did."
Lucky shrugged. "Oh, I know some really nice
guys who are British," he said. Then he laughed. "And they’re even
officers, too."
This drew a chorus of groans and whistles and
good-natured laughter. And as Lucky scrambled away to hunt up food and drink
for Charlie and the others, he thought that this was a pretty nice way to start
his vacation.
Within the hour, the village boys were swarming the
camp, offering fresh eggs and meat and bread, as well as produce. Soon the New
Zealanders were having a good "fry up" going. Cooking the food over
their campfires in pans full of sizzling oil. Even the officers got into the
game, buying up choice bits at premium prices.
A little later, Andreas drove a goat cart into the
camp. It was the delivery cart from the local taverna. At Lucky’s suggestion,
they’d hired Andreas to sell their wares: cases of beer and bottles of wine and
fiery liquor. Once again, even the officers got into the game – charmed by
Andreas’ fine and cultured English. By late afternoon the whole camp was in
grand spirits, to say the least, and the young soldiers were playing a game of
soccer with the village boys – doing their best to let the locals score points
whenever they got too far ahead.
Near day’s end, Charlie came to Lucky and said,
"You’ve done grand by us, Yank. Anytime you get to New Zealand, you just
lookup your old mate Charlie and I’ll show you a grand time as well."
Lucky thanked him and started away. Charlie’s tent
mate stopped him. "Can you do some magic with some girls, too, Yank?"
he asked.
He saw Charlie’s face darken at the insult. But it
had been too good a day for Lucky to take offense. "You’ll have to go to
the city for that, Mr. Kiwi Man," he said, thinking of the red light
district near Jim’s house. "All the girls in this village are good girls
and engaged to be married."
The man started to make a retort but Charlie clapped
him on the back so hard he knocked the man’s breath out of him. "Come on,
Tom," he said. "Let’s get to the beer before it’s gone the way of
your poor manners."
Rather than be insulted, Lucky thought the whole
thing was pretty funny. Charlie’s tent mate was merely trying to act much older
than he was – which was maybe seventeen, a few years more than Lucky. So the
beer had not only gone to his head, but to ego as well. He just wanted to act
like the other guys, the older guys. Not realizing that they had all been souls
of propriety with the locals. The poor kid – and Lucky thought of the soldier
as a kid – would wake up in the morning mortified at his behavior.
As Lucky crossed the road, he heard a tinny horn
squeak from behind him - Beep! Beep!
He was so surprised that instead of getting out of
the way he stood stock still. Beneath the Beep! Beep! he heard what might have
been engine sounds. Kind of a clatter and a lot of squealing of fan belts. The
horn sounded again: Beep! Beep!
Lucky thought, if this was a car horn, the car just
had to be mouse-size. Like one of the little people’s cars they had in the
British Boys Own Beano comics. He turned to look at the source of the Beeps and
to his amazement he saw a vehicle not much bigger than the Beano cars. It was a
brand new 1952 Peugeot. And it was a pitiful thing. The word nerdy had not yet
been invented, but if it had, it could have been well applied to that dinky Peugeot.
True, in the past, the Peugeot had been a racing wonder, with many Gran Prix
victories to the factory’s credit. Unfortunately, the newly designed
after-the-war Peugeot could barely get out of its own way. The car’s only
reliable component was that tinny little horn that went Beep! Beep! Beep!
A pinch-faced little man poked his head out the
window. He stuttered in despicable Greek, "Uh, uh, poosha… uh…
poosha…" He stopped in mid-Greek torture and pulled his head back inside
and Lucky saw an equally pinched-faced woman sitting next to him – a phrase
book in hand. She said something to the man and the guy nodded and stuck his
head back out the window. "Oh, yes," he said, "uh… poosha
mahk…ria… uh… Palurio… uh."
Lucky took pity on him. Obviously, the couple had
mistaken him for a Cypriot kid. He said, "If you’re looking for
Pallouriotissa, mister, you’re already there."
The man looked surprised. He grimaced in what Lucky
supposed was an attempt to smile. "You must be the Cole boy," he
said, the accent flat and very American.
Lucky nodded. "Everybody calls me Lucky,"
he said.
The woman rolled down her window and put her head
out. She was about his mom’s age, he guessed. "We’re the Walters’,"
she said. "Ruth and Jack Walters." In the back seat a small child
squealed with laughter. "And that’s Eric," she said, turning to stuff
a pacifier in the kid’s mouth, shutting off the laugh. "He’s three,"
she said, a little defensively.
Lucky guessed because three was kind of old for a kid
to be sucking on a pacifier. But that was none of his business.
Then Mr. Walters said, "We’re your new
neighbors."
That surprised Lucky. There was a villa nearly as
large as his place right next door and separated by a low wall with a white
wrought iron railing. But it had always been vacant. The house belonged to
Yorgo and it was Lucky’s understanding that it was meant for Athena when she
got old enough to marry. It was part of her dowry. What was surprised him was
that somehow he hadn’t heard about Yorgo renting the place out – he usually
knew everything that went on in the village.
Before he could think of what to say, his mother came
out of the gate. "Ruth, Jack, there you are," she said. "We’ve
been expecting you. Welcome to Pallouriotissa." Then to Lucky she said,
"Show them where to park, hon, while I get the keys to their house."
Feeling a little resentful for being left out of such
an important event, Lucky did as he was told – trying hard not to act sullen.
After all, it wasn’t the couple’s fault. He sighed, realizing it wasn’t his
mother’s fault either. She’d been absent so much lately that they really hadn’t
had much time together.
A second surprise greeted Lucky when the couple
climbed out of the Peugeot. They weren’t exactly dwarves, but even at thirteen
Lucky was taller than Mr. Walters, which made Lucky tower over Mrs. Walters.
Even more amazing was the sight of Eric as he clambered out of the car. He was
a rolly polly child with fat cherub’s cheeks and he was remarkably large for
his age – especially considering the size of his mother and father.
He was also the cheeriest little kid Lucky had ever
met. Eric seemed to find everything hilarious. A snail crawling slowly across
the pavement caused him to break into peals of laughter. And when little
Charlie – who was about the same age – offered to share the biscuit he’d been
munching – Eric became positively convulsed with mirth as his mother scrambled
to intercept the soggy gift.
"Is Eric always this happy?" Helen asked,
smiling at the beaming child.
"Oh, yes," Ruth Walters said, giving a
weary shake of her head. "Always."
Her husband nodded in sour agreement. "He’s
easily amused," he said. "The doctor assures us he’ll grow out of
it."
Lucky’s eyebrows shot up. "But why would- "
he began, but his mother’s sharp look cut off his question. Which was why any
doctor would be alarmed at a happy child. The Walters were too self-absorbed to
notice anything.
Ruth began a long story about the poor service and
"barbaric meals" they’d endured during their long stay at the hotel.
And when Lucky realized they were talking about the same place he’d stayed at
he was so angry it was all he could do to keep from speaking out.
John picked up where Ruth left off when she once
again plugged the pacifier into Eric’s mouth to cut off the kid’s laughter. In
a whiny, nasal voice, John described his frustrating search for a
"civilized car" in this land of "very used car dealers."
Lucky would have loved to tell him exactly what he thought of their 1952
Peugeot, but noticed that his mother’s eyes were dangerously bright, her mouth
frozen in a half-smile. She was obviously just as irritated by these people as
he was.
Just then – thank God – Thea entered with a basket of
food and other comforts for their new neighbors. Gratefully, Helen rose, took
the basket and handed it to Ruth.
"A few things to make your first night
comfortable," she said.
Ruth thanked her in a whiny voice, adding,
"We’ll always be in your debt for finding us a decent home."
"Don’t mention it," Lucky’s mother said and
from the tone in her voice he knew she really meant it. She turned to
Lucky. "Could you ask Thea to show the Walters their place and help them
get settled."
Lucky complied in a burst of Greek that startled the
Walters. John’s eyebrows rose and Ruth put a hand to her mouth. But they said
nothing. Instead, John gingerly lifted up his son and followed Thea out of the
house.
Later, Lucky’s mother told him with grim amusement
that Ruth had asked Helen if she wasn’t "worried about poor Lucky going
native."
"Why’d you do it, mom?" Lucky demanded.
"Why’d you tell them about Pallouriotissa?"
His mother sighed. "I felt sorry for little
Eric," she said. "We met them at a get-acquainted party and Eric just
made me laugh, that’s all. You know, God forgive me, but I can’t stand his
mother and father. And that made me feel guilty. So I helped them find a place
to live."
"But it’s right next door!" Lucky groaned.
"I know, I know," his mother said.
"But look on the bright side. I almost asked Ruth to be your teacher
instead of Jim."
Lucky goggled. "What are you talking
about?" he demanded – horrified at the prospect.
"Well, both Ruth and John were originally
teachers in Arlington. But, with all the recruiting going on, John ended up at
The Pickle Factory…" This was a very private euphemism for the CIA. Lucky
knew the Agency was under pressure to grow fast, but… John Walters! That was
ridiculous. "So… well," his mother continued, "Ruth complained
that she had quit her teaching job to come to Cyprus. And for a little while I
thought it would be better to have her teach you than for you to go back to the
British school."
Lucky was disgusted. "Never," he said.
"She’s horrible. Worse than a nun sucking lemons."
"It’s not nice to speak about people that
way," his mother said. "I’m sure Ruth has many good points." But
Lucky knew from the look on her face that if pressed, she wouldn’t have been
able to name one. Then she laughed and said, "There’s always Eric. He’s
reason enough."
Lucky couldn’t disagree. Later, when Eric earned the
moniker of Kerosene Eric, all his doubts would return.
On Saturday,
April 4, there was an Easter party at the American embassy. A luncheon was
scheduled, with an egg hunt for the little kids on the embassy lawn. This was
followed by games and a movie for the older kids and a cocktail party and
dancing for the parents. Those with very young children were encouraged to
bring their maids and a nursery was set up in the embassy.
Lucky’s mother and the other wives had been busy all
week readying the annual spring fashion show, with the American women modeling
creations from Paris – via Beirut – with proceeds earmarked for a local
orphanage. Expatriates were the same the world over: any excuse for a party
with their own nationality was welcome to the extreme, and the Americans were
no different.
Lucky, however, was not looking forward to the event.
This was just the kind of thing that might set his father off on a binge. The
family had enjoyed a reprieve of sorts since Lucky’s illness. But the pressures
had been building for a long time and he knew his dad was just looking for an
excuse for a break out. He prayed mightily that some Middle-East shaking event
would interfere with his father’s presence at the party. Another major fly in
the ointment was David Sisco, who had declared himself Lucky’s enemy when they
were at the British school together. Larry and Tom reported that the station
chief’s son had been poisoning the other kids’ minds against him and Lucky was
in no mood for that kind of a confrontation.
"I can’t go, mom," he said late Thursday
afternoon when she laid out the clothes she thought he ought to wear to the
weekend party. "I’ve got an essay due for Jim first thing Monday."
When his mother pointed out that he’d had an entire
week of idleness to produce the essay, Lucky shrugged and said, "I forgot
about the Easter party. Thought I’d write it this weekend."
"You can write it tonight," his mother
said. "And if you’re not done, you have all day tomorrow as well."
Lucky was horrified. "I can’t tonight," he
said. "I’m taking Athena to the movies."
His mother sighed. "I’m sorry… getting ready for
the party and all… I forgot to tell you…"
Lucky was suddenly very alarmed. "Tell me
what?"
"Yorgo called while you were playing soccer with
the soldiers."
Lucky heart sunk. "Okay…?" He tried not to
look worried, but he dreaded what was coming. Had Yorgo found out that he’d
unbuttoned Athena’s blouse? With her help, no less?!? Had Yorgo told Lucky’s
mother? He didn’t think so- her manner was too mild.
His mother said, "They’re having a big family
gathering tomorrow and Athena has to help her mother get ready tonight."
"Did he invite me?" Lucky asked, keeping
his voice neutral.
"No, he didn’t," Helen said. Then, catching
a small bit of Lucky’s concern, she hastened to say, "But I told him about
the embassy party. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have."
Sure, Lucky thought dourly. Now he was sure that
Yorgo must have guessed some of what had been going on. We’ll be forbidden to
see each other, he thought. He started to ask his mother if Yorgo had said
anything else, then decided it was best not to arouse her suspicions.
He shrugged, pretending unconcern, saying it probably
wasn’t that good of a movie anyway. But as soon as he could, he looked up
Andreas to see what was up.
"Oh, Lucky, Yorgo’s pretty mad at you I
think," Andreas said. "But, don’t worry. He’ll be okay after
awhile."
Lucky sighed. "What’ll I say to him when he
takes me to school Monday?"
Andreas wagged a finger. "If I were you, I would
find another way to school for a small time. Yorgo will calm down faster that
way."
This was getting worse. Andreas took pity on him.
"It’s not so bad," he said. "Everyone will forgive you pretty
soon. You’re just a man and a man can’t always help himself. Besides, Athena’s
yah-yah likes you a lot. So, maybe you can sneak a visit sometimes when Yorgo
isn’t there. But not for awhile, okay?"
Lucky nodded. It wasn’t okay, but he no choice in
the matter.
NEXT: GEORGE'S GHOST AND NEW LOVE
*****
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
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*****
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.
*****
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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.
*****
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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