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| St. Andreas Monastary |
In early September, Jim took Lucky on an extended weekend trip to see "the place where the world ends."
Intrigued, Lucky
pressed Jim to explain, but no matter how many times he asked, Jim wouldn't
give him the smallest hint. The refusal fired Lucky's imagination even more and
he began to wonder what the ancients might have called "world's end."
He thought of beautiful Sirens trying to entice the cunning Odysseus to the
rocky shoals, or maybe it was the mountain that Sisyphus was eternally
climbing, pushing the great boulder that was the world before him.
Of course, he
didn't really think Jim would introduce him to any Sirens, much less Sisyphus,
but in Cyprus you were very likely to get a damned good representation of them
- a beautiful woman who said she was descended from the Sirens; or a strong man
who claimed to be a descendant of one of Sisyphus' human sons. One would no
doubt do nothing more than sing and play the lyre, while the other would bend
iron nails between thumb and forefinger, rather than push a big rock. Even so,
the prospects were intriguing.
They traveled
with Jim's friend Kyriakos, who drove his faithful black Plymouth. They took a
bundle of old British Army blankets with them, because, Jim said, at one point
there would be nowhere to sleep but on sandy dunes by the sea. A jug of Cypriot
insect repellent was also stowed away with their gear – apparently the
mosquitoes and sand fleas were notorious in this section.
Their
destination was Cape Andreas, the eastern tip of the island. With many miles of
some roughest roads in Cyprus ahead of them, they took off Friday evening. They
spent the night just outside Larnaca with a stone cutter’s family – a relation
of Jim’s. They were poor people, with little to spare, but they immediately ran
to their cupboards to empty them for their guests. Jim had wisely stopped on
the way to fill a basket from the market in Larnaca, so he replaced much more
than they gave.
Poor as the
people were, the dinner was delicious – grape leaves stuffed with rice and
vegetables; a delicious tomato and green onion salad with fetah sprinkled
liberally on top; a huge bowl of lentils and wild greens picked from the field
adjacent to the stone quarry, with tomatoes chopped up in it; chicken and
dumpling stew with thick gravy; and finally, a big platter of pastries filled
with cheese and olives and spiced yogurt made from goat’s milk.
Lucky was
treated with elaborate courtesy – no one in the family had ever seen an
American before. The children were especially shy, hiding in the only other
room of the adobe cottage and peering at him from around corners with huge
black eyes. But he’d encountered this sort of thing before and had a few tricks
up his sleeve to relieve the tension. He whispered to Jim, who beamed and
clapped his hands and announced in Greek that “Mr. Lucky” was going to perform
a bit of magic. Everyone was intrigued.
Lucky rolled up
his sleeves and bared his hands and arms for all to see. The children crept out
while he kept up a little patter he’d concocted. He’d worked the whole thing
out in Greek, had Jim correct his grammar, and then committed his little act to
memory.
“A long time
ago,” he intoned, “my famous cousin, Hopalong Cassidy, rescued an Indian witch
doctor.”
Everyone
murmured at this. Even in Cyprus, Hopalong Cassidy was known to one and all.
The children’s eyes grew huge when he invoked the legendary name.
“In gratitude,
this old Indian wizard taught Hoppy the secret of controlling water. Like
Moses, he could command water to do his bidding. To rise, or to fall.”
During all this
Jim – ever the willing magician’s assistant – laid out Lucky’s props. A plate.
A candle. Some matches. And a glass of water. Lucky lit the candle, tipped it
down so wax spilled on the center of the plate, then fixed the candle into the
quickly cooling wax so that it would stand upright.
“It was my good
fortune,” Lucky said, “that Hopalong Cassidy is not only my cousin, but my
Godfather. And so, when I came of age, he showed me the witch doctor’s secret.
A secret I will demonstrate to you now.”
Lucky emptied
the water glass into the plate, so that there was a miniature sea around the
blazing candle.
“Watch!” Lucky
barked, making the children jump – and even a few of the adults. He held the
glass out with both hands and intoned: “Hocus-pocus-dominocus!”
And he placed
the glass over the burning candle. Jim had trimmed the bottom for him so that
there was plenty of room between the burning wick and the top of the glass.
Lucky waved his
hands over the makeshift lamp, intoning once again – “Hocus-pocus-dominocus!”
He could see the
little kids mouthing the words as he said them. Their eyes fixed firmly on the
glass. Then everyone gasped as the water in the plate suddenly started
disappearing. Very quickly, the water vanished from the plate – and was
transferred into the glass as if by some mysterious force. The water level in the
glass climbed higher and higher and Lucky kept waving his hands like a great
sorcerer, muttering hocus-pocus all the while. Finally all the water from the
plate was gone and was now inside the glass.
Just before the
oxygen-starved flame went out – Lucky had this trick timed to the split second
– Lucky shouted: “Be done!” The kids nearly jumped out of their skin at his
shout, and then the candle fluttered, as if obeying his command, and blinked
off.
For a long
moment the kids and the adults stared at him as if he were some sort of
fabulous wizard. Then he grinned and the moment broke and the adults laughed
and the kids all started shouting, “How did you do it, how did you do it?” And
now came Lucky’s favorite part – his ultimate ice breaker. He told the kids
that it was not magic at all but a trick of science. A trick they could do
themselves and amaze all their friends.
He told them
that actually the Greeks had discovered the secret in ancient times – way
before the Indian witch doctor. (He didn’t say the Indian had been made up by
him, because it would have spoiled the little drama.) He explained that it was
based on something they had already learned in school. That fire requires
oxygen. And that air has weight. So, if the candle is burning in an enclosed
glass, it will use up all the air – the oxygen – creating a vacuum. And that
the glass will suck up the water surrounding it until the pressure – the weight
– inside the glass equals the pressure outside.
Some of the
adults frowned, but every kid in the house got it. They might have been poor,
but they had good teachers. They all jumped up and down and yelled for him to
do it again. So he did – twice more. Which was just enough for them to memorize
not just how the trick was done, but the all important Hopalong Cassidy, Indian
witch doctor preface. Lucky got a kick out of that as he remembered what Jim
had told him after the first he’d performed the trick.
“The way they’ll
tell the story,” he said, “is that they learned this magical transfiguration from
a mysterious American lad, named Mr. Lucky, who was the cousin of the great
cowboy hero, Hopalong Cassidy. Who saved the life of the medicine man, etc… The
point being, it will be their personal connection to you that will be most
important.
“And so, my
young scholar, in the end you will become a Cypriot myth. A small one, perhaps,
but a myth just the same. And you know how myths are in Cyprus – they last
forever.”
Lucky shrugged.
He’d seen too many worn out statues to trust myths. “I’d rather write my own
book about Cyprus,” he said. “It might not live forever, but it will around as
long as the there is a Library Of Congress.”
Jim smiled a
rather sad smile and put a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “I know you won’t forget
us,” he said. “But a book takes dedication. Forbearance. And complete belief in
yourself and your subject. These are qualities I wanted to impart to you,
Lucky. I hope I have partly succeeded and pray that another teacher will take
up my task in the future. If not, you must learn to believe in yourself, Lucky.
“If you want to
write – to truly write – then you must make that the only goal in your life.
Everything else must be pushed aside.”
He looked at
Lucky, his eyes boring in. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Lucky shook his
head. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I think I’ll figure it out as I go along.”
In the morning
they had roasted eggs and olives and strong, hot coffee, heavily sweetened with
Cypriot honey, with bits of cinnamon bark floating in it. Sufficiently fueled for
the day’s journey, they were off very early, climbing down from the stone
quarry to be greeted by the sun rising over the sea. They were heading east,
after all, the direction where everything begins. So, of course, Lucky had to
ask Jim if they were going to see the place where the world ended, why were
they traveling east, instead of west, where the sun goes to die?
Jim grinned,
saying, “You can decide that question for yourself when you see it.” He laughed
and would say no more.
They drove most
of the day on winding roads that were so pot-holed and rough in some places
that it would have been faster to get out and walk. Despite the wear and tear
on his car Kyriakos pressed on, saying he had just installed new springs and
wanted to break them in, so the bad roads were actually doing him a favor.
Several times they hit bumps so hard that the Plymouth bottomed out and Lucky
winced, remember how his father had scraped the oil pan off their old Dodge
many years ago.
After a time,
the whole coastline became desolate and dreary, seared orange and black by the
hot sun. Kyriakos rolled down the front windows and he and Jim tied strips of
wet cloth in the gaps so the rushing wind would cool them as they drove. Just
when Lucky thought he had left civilization forever, they came upon a small
fishing village, shaded by ancient cypress and fig trees.
The adobe homes
and shops were startling white under the blazing sun, with the backdrop of the
Mediterranean. Except here, the sea wasn’t only blue. There were many colors –
gray and green and even red, before the waters blended into the familiar
crystalline blue. Jim said it was because of the different minerals in the
silted-up harbor – apparently the village had once been a great Roman port, but
had been deserted as the river that flowed into the harbor deposited more silt
than the Romans had money or patience to dredge.
But even as a
small, almost afterthought-of-a- village, Lucky found the place charming and
welcome. At the taverna he drank gallons of iced lemonade while nibbling on a
tray of honeyed fruits – sliced pears, apples, peaches and oranges and lemons.
The whole area, it turned out, was noted for its orchards and the plump fruit
they produced. A river arched down from the mountains through a miniature desert
to reach this point and the fruit trees grew in great profusion. The villagers
also grew peanuts in the sandy soil and these they toasted and salted with
countless varieties of hot spices. While Jim was organizing food for the
night’s campout dinner, Lucky bought several big paper sacks of different
peanuts.
Lucky noticed
that the villagers had a different look than other Cypriots. Their skin and
hair was generally lighter and some even had blue eyes. Jim said there was a
legend that a group of soldiers from the last Crusade were driven ashore during
a storm and settled here, instead of joining their brothers in the bloody
battles in Jerusalem. And these people were their descendents.
Jim said if they
continued along the beach – following what amounted to a goat track, they would
come upon a ruined city – with nothing but broken monuments and shattered
pieces of pottery to mark its presence. He said the Romans had maintained a
ship-building area there, with long stone docks that ran out into the sea. They
weren’t visible now, but at low tide a man could make his way across them and
look like he was walking on water.
“Do you think
that might have been Jesus’ secret, Lucky?” he teased. “When our Savior walked
on the waters of the Sea Of Galilee, was he actually walking on the rocks of a
sunken Roman dock?” Lucky brushed it aside. He wanted to know more about the
mysterious city. “Why don’t we drive along the road a little more and see what we find,” Jim advised.
And so they
drove on, but it wasn’t the short expedition that Jim had hinted at. Instead,
the road meandered inland for awhile and they crossed fertile valleys full of
tobacco and wheat. The fields were empty – it was mid-day, when only mad dogs
and Englishmen would be about. Later the road once again took them to the sea,
but by now it was late and everyone was getting tired.
They pulled off
the road near a grassy knoll where an ancient oak stood guard over an empty
shore. At least it looked empty at first, then Lucky saw a man and his wife –
both Turks, from their dress – wading through the surf with a mother camel and
its foal. They had large push brooms and were scrubbing mother and child down,
to the delight of the camels, who turned this way and that, offering different
parts of their hides to be itched.
Lucky was
feeling so hot and dirty that he stripped off his clothes and ran straight into
the water, where he dipped and dived and rolled and snorkeled like a young
seal. Jim and Kyriakos took off their shoes and rolled up their cuffs and padded
down to the shore, cooling their feet in the water and chatting with the Turks
while Lucky played in the water.
When Lucky
finally came out, thirsty and ravenous, Jim called, “Come and have some camel’s
milk, Lucky. It’s good and cool now.”
Not knowing what
to expect, Lucky waded over to the group. The woman was tossing buckets of cool
sea water on the mother camel’s teats. When she stopped, her husband slipped a
large gourd beneath the animal and squirted milk into it. The baby camel tried
to push in and get some, but the woman laughed and shoved it away, teasing the
animal, but at the same time making soothing noises. Lucky had noticed that
although Greek Cypriots had a poor opinion of Turks, that they were among the kindest people he’d
ever met when it came to dealing with animals. When an oxen grew old, they put
it out on a field to graze and die on its own, instead of killing it and
selling its gristly meat to a butcher. The same with dogs and cats. They were
cared for until they died a natural death.
Lucky drank the
milk, which was very strong and made him cough at the first taste. But after he
got used to the flavor he found that he quite liked it. The milk was
refreshing, with a hint of sea salt in it, and he emptied the gourd and
politely asked for more. When he was done, he stepped aside and the young camel
rushed in to clap its lips on its mother’s teats. While it sucked away – giving
Lucky the milk thief dirty looks – they
chatted with the couple and learned that they were from a family that had been
forced to convert to the Muslim faith long ago, during the Turkish reign. Now,
although the man was content to praise Allah, his wife had started visiting a
local Greek Orthodox Catholic church to learn what she called “the old ways.”
Her husband said
he didn’t mind – he’d never been that religious at any rate. And he was quite
willing to be convinced by his wife, if she decided to convert back again. “I
don’t pray the required five times daily as it is,” he confessed. “So, if I
stay with Allah I’ll be condemned as a sinner. But if I convert, I’ll only have
to attend church once a week to find a place in heaven. This is a much better
bargain in my view.”
Afterward, the
couple led their charges away and Lucky and his companions settled down on the
dunes to watch the seas darken as – behind them - the sun slipped over the
western mountains.
Lucky saw a
stone jetty hundreds of yards out to sea and asked Jim about it.
“This was once a
grand city with a wonderful harbor,” Jim said. “It was noted the world over.”
His hand swept the area. “I suppose thirty or forty thousand people made their
homes and their living here.”
At that moment
Kyriakos called them and they rose to see what he wanted. They climbed the
grassy dune to an old oak tree, where Kyriakos was waiting, squatting over a
shallow hole he’d dug. He was grinning up at Lucky – obviously this was
something he and Jim had planned.
“I was going to
make a fire, here, Lucky,” he said, “but look what I found instead.”
He held up
several shards of pottery, one of which was as big as his broad palm and it had
the faint figure of a naked woman on it – posing a goddess.
“Aphrodite?”
Lucky guessed.
Kyriakos shook
his head. “No, no, not the goddess of love, but a good imitation just the
same.” He laughed, enjoying some joke of his own. “Tell him, Demetrakis, or the
boy will drive us crazy with his questions.”
And so Jim told
him the tale of Pygmalion, the Cypriot king who had founded the city of
Karpasia whose ruins they were resting upon.
“He was not just
a king, but a king with a talent for creating beauty,” Jim said, “and so the
city of Karpasia was known all over the world for its gracious buildings,
landscaped parks and wide boulevards. It’s said that the harbor rivaled
anything the Persian engineers of Xerxes ever created. And he was also a
sculptor of great renown, so the city and parks were decorated with his
creations, which were said to be wondrous. According to legend, King Pygmalion
was obsessed with finding the perfect woman. He searched the world over, but it
was no good, Lucky. Nothing could be as physically perfect as what he saw in
his mind.
“And so he
determined if he couldn’t find a living woman that equaled his standards, he
would make one of his own. He decided to sculpt the most perfectly formed woman
the world had ever seen from a piece of the purest ivory. When he was done, he
was so astounded by the perfection he had accomplished that he fell deeply and
tragically in love with the statue. Of course, the statue was not alive and
could not return his love. So he prayed to Aphrodite, whom he worshipped as the
perfect goddess, and in the end she took pity on him and the next time
Pygmalion kissed the cold ivory she became a warm and living woman – Queen
Galatea. They married and in nine months time they had a son, Prince Paphos.”
He saw Lucky’s
look of recognition and nodded, saying, “Now you know where the village we
visited got its name. Anyway, when Pygmalion and Galatea ruled it was the
golden age of Cyprus and there were many fabulous creations, both in art and
the sciences and in engineering – which included the port of Karpasia, where
the treasure of the world came pouring into the harbor.”
“What happened?”
Lucky asked, looking out over the barren sands, where there was not even a cow
shed to mark the desolate landscape.
“Allah
happened,” Jim said. “The Muslim revolution. You saw the camel man and his wife
– whose families were forced to convert. Well, that was only the last group of
Muslims – from the days of the Turks and the Ottoman Empire a mere four hundred
years ago. The city resisted its besiegers, so they burned it to the ground and
ploughed the remains under the sands, like the Romans did to Carthage.”
He picked up the
large pot shard, with the figure of the woman on it. “Queen Galatea,” he said.
“A woman whose beauty rivaled Helen Of Troy’s. And yet here is all that is left
of King Pygmalion’s dream. A broken piece of pottery buried and forgotten in
the sand.”
They all sat in
silence for a time. Finally, Kyriakos snorted, saying, “We’ll all be dust soon
enough. At least Galatea has a bit of dried clay to rest on.”
He lifted a
burlap sack and said, “Here, let’s drink to Galatea and Pygmalion. I declare
this night their feast day. And long may they stay dead!”
Kyriakos tossed
the sack to Jim. It contained cognac, which Jim swigged with great delight and
passed back to his friend. The trucker took a drink and handed the bottle to
Lucky – “Just a little,” he advised, “to help keep the insects away.”
Then they all
trooped down to the sea, where Kyriakos had stashed a sack of beer and sodas to
cool. He’d also laid out half-a-dozen fish traps. They were simple things – a
bowl with a piece of cloth tied over the top, with a hole piercing the cloth.
Little sardines had sought a hiding place through the holes, then couldn’t find
their way out again. Kyriakos had captured several score or more. Which was a
good thing, because they were very small.
He had Lucky
track down and empty the fish traps while he sat on a rock in the dying
sunlight, waving a decaying chicken head tied to a string over a shallow pool.
Crabs leaped up for the smelly head and Kyriakos scooped them into his net,
which he emptied into an old petrol can.
Then the
mosquitoes and sand fleas made themselves known and the little beach party
wisely retreated to the knoll, which was high enough to discourage the bugs and
besides, the fire was rather smoky. To be sure, they lathered themselves with
the locally produced insect propellant, which they all made jokes about because
it smelled so bad.
Jim stripped
some twigs from a nearby willow and wove them into a grill. The cleaned
sardines – doused with olive oil and some spices from a pouch - were placed on
the grill and Jim set the sardines to sizzle over the fire. Kyriakos,
meanwhile, had got the petrol can of crabs to boil. At first, the sounds of the
poor things scrabbling to get away from the heat upset Lucky, but before long
the sound ceased and the smells that wafted out of that old jerry can made his
stomach groan with anticipation.
The cookout was
something that Lucky would remember forever. The crispy little sardines on
black bread and cheese, the white meat of crabs spilled out onto spinach leaves
that had been marinated in lemon and garlic. And the beer, of course – good,
yeasty Cypriot beer that had been cooled in the Mediterranean Sea. And later,
some cognac and Greek coffee from a recipe Kyriakos claimed had been passed
down from his ancestors.
He told Lucky,
“It’s said in my family, that long, long ago some of us came from old Arabia –
in an area where coffee was first discovered.”
“Discovered?’
Lucky said. “Like gold or diamonds are discovered?”
“Exactly so,”
Kyriakos replied. “And in those days coffee was even more valuable than gold
and diamonds. I’ll tell you what my grandmother told me, because she said that
a cousin of one of our Arab ancestors was the very man who first found coffee.
And it happened like this… He was a goat herder, just a lad, you know. And one
day when he went to collect his goats he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw
them dancing and prancing and playing in the meadow. He investigated and
noticed that they had been eating berries from a strange bush. So he ate some
as well – a few at first, in case they were poison, but then more. Soon he was
dancing and prancing among his goats. He felt so alive, so wonderful, his brain
so big he was thinking thoughts that he had never thought before.
“He went home to
his village, his pockets full of berries. But he told no one about his
discovery. He ate one berry every morning, another a midday and another still
at night. And he found himself overcome with energy and intelligence and the
desire to learn all he could. He read books every night, all night, until the
early hours. And in the tavernas, everybody noticed how smart this goat herder
had suddenly become. They were so impressed they made him the village teacher,
so now he didn’t have to take care of goats anymore, but young students – which
can be just as troublesom, as Jim will tell you.”
Jim laughed
sardonically at this and poured them all some more coffee laced with cognac.
Kyriakos
continued his story: “These students I’m speaking of were so lazy that they slept
while our former goat herder was teaching, learning nothing. The goat herder,
however, had a solution for that and he started feeding his students coffee
berries every morning. And soon they were full of the desire to learn and
gobbled up all he could teach them. In not too long the intelligence and
diligence of his students became known all over the Arabic world and the Sultan
sent his best physician, Dr. Rhazes, to investigate.
“For a long time
the goat herder would not reveal his secret, but finally the famous Dr. Razes
saved the life of the teacher’s mother with his medicine and the teacher revealed
all – taking him to the bushes where the berries grew. And so Dr. Razes
returned to his sultan with not only the secret, but the seeds to grow more
coffee and in not many years his praises were sung all over the world.”
Astounded by
this story, Lucky turned to Jim, wanting to ask if any of it was true. But he
hesitated, not wanting to insult Kyriakos.
Jim caught what
he was after however, and said, “There’s no written record of the dancing
goats. But it is a story that has been handed down over the ages. As far Dr.
Razes is concerned, he was a real man and produced the world’s first account of
coffee and its effects.”
Lucky didn’t
know what to say, so he just nodded and settled back on his blanket, nestling
into the sandy dune that made up his bed. After a time Kyriakos got a homemade
Bouzoukis – a sort of a mandolin – from his pack and started plucking away on
the strings, singing old folk songs in a soft, raspy voice.
Lucky stared up
at the starry night, listening to the songs and the sound of the softly
breaking seas. And soon he fell asleep, dreaming of Pygmalion and statues that
turned into Athena and Donna, who were dancing with goats around a strange kind
of maypole made of green branches loaded down with purple coffee berries.
The next day,
they washed in the sea then breakfasted on boiled eggs, olives, bread and
cheese. With more of Kyriakos’ famous coffee, of course… sans cognac.
They continued
their journey, bumping over rough, winding roads. For a long time the road was
as empty as the countryside. Not even a goat made itself evident, much less a
man. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but sun-blackened rocks –
with an occasional lizard stretching out a tongue to capture an insect meal.
Lucky could tell they were nearing the sea again, because he could smell the
clean salt air.
Then suddenly,
they rounded a bend and came upon a traffic-jammed crossroads. Scores of wagons,
cars, bicycles, and people on foot, were milling around a battered sign that
pointed toward a patch of blue, gleaming between towering palm trees. Lucky had
no idea where all the people came from, but it was a mixed group – all dressed
in their best, whether a rich businessman and his wife, or a brawny carpenter
with his family. Among the group were a great number of people who were
handicapped in some way – lame children riding on donkeys or carried by their
fathers, or brothers. Blind people. Deformed people, some from birth defects,
others from accidents.
“They are
pilgrims to the monastery of St. Andreas,” Jim explained. “It’s said that the
waters there have healing powers.”
Lucky looked
doubtful. “But is it true? Or just a made up story?”
Kyriakos caught
Lucky’s look of skepticism. “Of course the waters are holy,” he exclaimed in
Greek. “Did not my grandfather’s cousin come here to be cured of her blindness?
And didn’t the saint grant her that wish, so that now she is an old woman who
delights in her grandchildren with eyes as good as yours or mine.”
Lucky looked at
Jim who only shrugged. He sat back to study his surroundings as Kyriakos pushed
the Plymouth through the traffic. After a time, the road broke out into the
clear and Lucky saw they were now at the very end of the peninsula. Nothing but
blue skies and blue seas stretched out before them.
On a broad rocky
spit of land there was an old harbor, with piers of broken stone and a jumble
of buildings, some new and some quite ancient. A few fishing boats plied the
waters and a little distance out, Lucky could see what appeared to be a few
small islands. Rising above the harbor was St. Andreas Monastery, constructed
on two levels of hills, with several steps of worn stairs leading from one
level to the next. The buildings on the lower level appeared to be older and
Lucky learned these were the partially reconstructed ruins of the original
church. There were several wells inside that purportedly contained holy water
and lines of people carrying babies were being escorted to the wells.
Jim said this
was the most popular place for baptisms on the island – perhaps even the world.
The waters were said to be especially holy because of St. Andreas.
As they drew
closer Lucky saw many ponds scattered around the monastery. Ducks occupied
some, but in others priests were dipping up water in shells and pouring it over
the heads of the infirm. Lucky could hear the constant murmur of prayers as
people begged the saint to cure their loved ones.
Jim said, “The story
goes that St. Andreas – who, I’m sure you know, was the first apostle called to
the faith by Jesus – came ashore at this point. Wherever the holy man walked,
pools of water sprang up in his footsteps.”
Guessing what
Jim was saying, Kyriakos nodded firmly, muttering, “Ahyos... Ahyos…” Holy man,
holy man.
They toured the
main church, which was by far the richest one Lucky had seen in Cyprus. The
statues glittered, the vestments of the priests were of the finest material and
some of the candles were as large as a full grown man. Jim explained that
people donated the gigantic candles to plead for special blessings for their
families, or themselves. There were brass bowls of sweet oil set up here and
there and the faithful smeared the holy oil on the faces and limbs of crippled
people, hoping to make the prayed-for cure more certain.
Jim introduced
Lucky to a young priest – a cousin, naturally - who at first looked forbidding
in his long black beard and black Greek Orthodox priestly uniform. But when he learned Lucky was an American he
positively beamed and spoke to him in flawless American slang.
“Hey there,
you’re a Yankee doodle dandy like me,” he said. “I love Americans. Nat King
Cole. Frankie Lane. John Wayne, bang, bang!” The last was accompanied by
pistoled fingers that he blew on as if dispersing gunsmoke.
It turned out
the priest had spent his childhood in San Diego – where his father owned a bar
that catered to sailors. He’d returned home to Cyprus after a few years of
college to take up the priesthood like his grandfather, the abbot of St.
Andreas. Even so, he’d remained devoted to all things American – music, movies,
books, and especially American girls. He said when he was promoted to his own
parish he was going to try to find an American tourist girl to marry and settle
down to make babies and put together a large record collection of American
music.
Lucky listened
patiently, then asked the question that had been burning in him from the
beginning. “Did you ever actually see anyone being cured, father?”
The young priest
turned serious, then nodded. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Americans
want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. And yeah, I can tell you straight that
I saw a kid cured just a couple of months ago. I nearly fell over, I tell you.”
He blessed himself. “But God love me, it happened. It actually did. Here, I’ll
tell you the details and you can make up your own mind.
“A family
brought this little boy to us. He couldn’t move his legs. Now, this was a good
kid. A happy kid. He got good grades in school and used to play soccer every day
after school. But then we had the earthquake – the seesmos. The boy’s
grandmother was killed when the house fell in on her and the kid tried to go in
after her, to dig her out. Then the second seesmos came and he got hit – and
wham! The boy was crippled. Okay, so what happened is my grandfather listened
to the whole story – I was there with him. And then he prayed for the boy –
calling on old Andy to help out. And then he called for some blankets and put
the boy in a room next to Andy’s statue.”
He gestured at
the grand statue near the altar. “Then my grandfather got all the priests
together, and the holy water, which we poured all over the boy, and we prayed
and we prayed all night long. Just before sunlight, my grandfather calls us out
of the room and shuts the door. We prayed some more. Well, actually, I’m
ashamed to say that I fell asleep. And then I hear this great shout and I look
up and see the kid come busting out of the room. Shouting and yelling that he
could walk again. And who could deny it, because he was running on two
perfectly good legs.”
He paused, then
looked down at Lucky, his eyes glowing with conviction. “So my answer is, I
really have seen a miracle. I tell you, when it happened I couldn’t speak, or
move, or do anything, I was so surprised. Some of the older priests told me
that they had witnessed similar things over the years.” He shrugged. “I
shouldn’t have been so surprised. Jesus Christ our savior walked on water,
didn’t he? And he raised Lazarus from the dead. In Cyprus we know this for a
fact, because didn’t Lazarus come here to settle and live a second, much longer
life, before he died again? This time for good?”
Lucky didn’t
reply directly –he was taking all this in and churning it around. Instead he
asked the priest if the monastery had always been known for its miracles.
The young priest
said, “Of course you have your St. Andrea story, with the pools of holy water
forming where he walked. But that was pretty much wrecked when the Turks came
along. It was a fighting monastery, then, with canons and monks charging out
dressed up in armor over their robes. But the Turks did us in and destroyed the
place. Then about sixty years ago a rich Greek woman whose baby son was stolen
by Turkish pirates came here to pray. It was winter and cold and there were
only a dozen or so monks – and all of them were starving on lentils and bread.
Anyway, this rich woman – we even know her name… it was Maria Georgiou, from
Cilica. But that doesn’t matter, whether she was rich or poor, or even a Turk –
we get a lot of Turks here who beg the healing blessing of St. Andrea.
“The thing was,
this woman was tormented by the loss of her child, which had been ripped from
her breast by the Turkish captain. She couldn’t rest and mourned for years until
she had a sign to seek out the aid of St. Andreas. So she came here, she stayed
for three days, she prayed and made offerings. Until finally, she promised St.
Andreas and God that if she should ever be rejoined to her son, she would
bestow half her wealth on the monastery. Well, at first nothing happened. She
became discouraged and hired a boat to take her to Limassol, where her family
waited. But when she was on the boat, people were curious why such a wealthy
woman would be embarking from such desolate place as St. Andreas. Well, the
woman wept and she cried. And she poured out her troubles about the pirates and
the stolen baby.
“As it happened,
one of the sailors – a Turkish kid – overheard her and asked if she had some
way of identifying her boy. She said sure, he had birthmarks on his chest and
his shoulder. The young sailor almost collapsed, he was so surprised by her
answer. Then he took off his shirt and threw it on the deck. And showed the
woman the very same birthmarks she was talking about. It was, indeed, her son.
Stolen long ago and sold into bondage in Istanbul, where he was forced to
worship Islam. But now mother and son were reunited. She ordered the ship back
to St. Andreas, where her son was converted, and she made good her promise of
blessing our order and monastery with riches enough to carry on our holy
mission.”
He gestured at
the crowds moving through the chapel, filling its collection boxes with coins.
“Now we give away more money to the poor than even the big churches in Athens,”
he said with undisguised pride.
Instead of
questioning him more closely about the miracles, Lucky asked, “Are you ever
sorry you left America?”
The young priest
was taken aback at first, then gave Lucky a thoughtful look, as if he were
considering how his little patter had gone down. This his grin lit up like the
proverbial Cheshire cat’s – bursting with light through his black beard. “I
miss my father’s bacon and lettuce and tomato sandwiches,” he confessed. “And
also his French fries. They were the best in the world. Also I miss his juke
box. He had everybody on it… All the greats.”
He thought a
minute, then continued. “But when I was in San Diego, I missed Cyprus so much
that sometimes I used to cry at night.” he said. “The only thing that made it
bearable is that San Diego is a little bit like Cyprus. The sand and the sea
and the mountains – quite familiar. And the plant life is exactly the same.
Mediterranean chaparral, it’s called. It exists only in California, the coast
of Spain and in the Middle East.” He shrugged. “Even so, my heart and soul
belong to Cyprus, second only to Jesus Christ our Savior and Lord.”
After making
their polite goodbyes and putting money in a nearby collection box, Lucky and
Jim continued on, exploring the remainder of the peninsula on foot.
They left
Kyriakos behind to take care of some family errands. When everybody learned his
destination, he been given firm instructions from his wife, his mother, and a
horde of other relatives to make special prayers and offerings at the
monastery. He groused about it, but with much good humor, pouring coins into
buckets and snatching up perfumed tapers to light his way from one icon and the
next.
Jim and Lucky
walked to the end of the peninsula,
passing cottages - which were probably for the priests and their
families – then clumps of piled up boulders, surrounded by bushes of flowering
purple sage that filled the air with their scent. They went by a broken down
chapel, whose roof apparently covered a well of healing waters, because there
was a line of people posted before it, and a brawny young monk was hauling up
buckets of holy water to hurl upon the crowd. The monk had his job perfected -
hitting ten or more people at once, then dousing them again to make sure no one
was left out. There was a second bucket next to the well filled with coins
tossed by the crowd in payment for the blessing.
“Wait a minute,”
Lucky said to Jim.
He jumped into a
short line, threw a half-crown’s worth of coins into the bucket and stood
there, eyes closed, waiting for some miracle, until the priest doused him with
a full bucket.
Lucky opened his
eyes, wiped the water from his face, then stuck a finger in his mouth to taste
it. “I don’t feel any different,” he told Jim. “But maybe it takes awhile, like
the lady on the ship who was looking for her son.”
Then they came
to the end of the Peninsula, where two broken marble columns were driven into
the earth. Pieces of marble were lying all around.
Jim said, “The
legend is that the most beautiful, the most holy, temple of Aphrodite stood
here.” He indicated the broken columns, which were about fifteen feet apart.
“The image of the goddess, it is said, stood between these columns.” Jim
gestured overhead. “Apparently there was a curving slab of marble for a roof -
like a sail. But triangular, in the style of ancient vessels.”
Lucky nodded,
he’d seen the drawings of the graceful ships of Grecian yore.
Jim’s hand swept
around, taking in the dunes of sand heaped around the point of the peninsula.
“And here Aphrodite’s acolytes would have made their sacrifices, begging the
lady to protect this island.”
Now he pointed
out to sea, to the islands Lucky had noticed before. “Those are called the
great reefs of Aphrodite,” he said. “They wrecked nearly every sailor who tried
to come this way. Including the ship that carried St. Andrea. Fortunately for
him and for us, he made it to shore and was taken in by the people who lived
here.”
Motioning for
Lucky to follow, Jim scrambled up a mound of boulders that marked the end of
the promontory. The sea was bleak, now, iron gray in color. The sun was a
golden chariot riding off to the northwest behind them; the moon, huge and
full, but pale in the fading light.
Jim had an odd
look on his face as he gazed at the islands – and beyond. He’d been in an odd
mood the whole trip – cheery on the outside, but Lucky had sensed that he was
troubled by something. He’d wondered all along if Jim would tell him what the
trouble was, and now he had a sudden sickening feeling that the moment was
near.
Jim pointed out
to sea – indicating things far beyond. “Look, Lucky,” he said, “It’s such a
clear day. We can see Turkey and Syria and Lebanon.”
Lucky said
dully, “So this is where the world ends?”
Jim turned to
him, forcing a smile. “Well, haven’t I taught you that an island is a world of
its own?” he asked. Lucky nodded. “So for a Cypriot, this is very much the end
of the world.” He waved at the distant lands shimmering on the edge of the
horizon. “But of course, in every ending there is a beginning. You can see so
for yourself.”
He sighed and
sat down on the boulder. Lucky sat next to him, waiting for what was going to
come next.
Jim sat in
silence for a long time, then he turned to Lucky, his eyes moist. “I can’t be
your teacher any longer,” he said.
Lucky felt like
he’d been struck. He struggled to speak, but could get nothing out.
Jim said, “I’ve
already told your mother and father and I’ve helped them find another school
for you, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“But why?” Lucky
finally managed. “What did I do?” He became desperate. “I’ll study harder, I
promise,” he pleaded. “And I won’t argue with you all the time. I’ll do better,
just give me a chance, Jim. Please.”
“Oh, Lucky,” Jim
said, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the best student a teacher could
dream of. It isn’t your fault. If anything, it is my doing.”
“What do you
mean?” the boy asked, fighting hard to hold back tears.
“My work with
the Mayor’s Council has earned me some pretty bad enemies,” he said.
Lucky nodded.
“Sure, the communists,” Lucky said. “But what’s that got to do with me?”
“They say that I
am against Enosis,” Jim said. “And that my teaching you – an American – only
proves that I have sold out to the other side.”
“But I’m all for
Enosis!” Lucky protested. “Everybody knows that. Heck, I have more Cypriot
friends than American or British. Sometimes I go days, and the only time I
speak English is in class with you.”
“That’s not how
they see it,” Jim said. “They claim that you learned our language to mock us.
That you prefer Cypriot company because you feel superior to us.”
Lucky was
astounded. “It’s not true, Jim,” he said. “You know it’s not.”
“Of course, I
do, Lucky,” Jim said.
“Well, tell them
to go to hell,” Lucky said. “Say you’ll teach me anyway. I’ll prove they’re
wrong.”
Jim put an arm
on Lucky’s shoulder. “You don’t understand, Lucky,” he said. “They told me in
no uncertain terms that if I can continue to be your teacher, they will hurt
you. Maybe even kill you. It was you they were threatening, not me.”
“They don’t
scare me,” Lucky said. “Besides, they wouldn’t touch me. I’m an American kid.
They’d never get away with it.”
He was thinking
that if anything happened to him, the CIA had people who would surely revenge
him. But he couldn’t tell Jim that.
“These aren’t
the kind of people who fear retaliation,” Jim said. “These aren’t taverna
Communists. Arguing politics over coffee and cognac. These are terrorists.
Crazy idealists. With no fear of dying.”
“I don’t care,”
Lucky said stubbornly. “I don’t.”
Jim pulled him
close for a minute, giving him a brotherly embrace. Then he released the boy.
“I care, Lucky,”
he said. “And so do your mother and father. I’m afraid the decision has been
made. We had no choice, really, Lucky. No choice at all.”
NEXT: THE BOY
WHOSE FATHER WAS A BRITISH SPY
*****
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!
 |
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.
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