LUCKY IN CYPRUS

Friday, February 14, 2014

*****

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The Tempest

That Saturday Lucky set out to meet Jim at his apartment – a place he’d never been before. Jim’s rooms were in a neighborhood of extremely narrow streets so crowded with traffic that Lucky’s cab ended up being stalled between an water cart and a towering freight wagon drawn by a team of panicked oxen who were jerking this way and that – while their equally hysterical owner lashed them with a whip.

Giving up, Nikos pointed the way – "Just down there, Mr. Lucky," he said, "and to the right. Two, maybe three places past the corner."

Lucky nodded, paid him and climbed out. Nikos leaned through the window. "Don’t mind the girls," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If they shout to you, just walk fast and pay them no attention."

The boy puzzled. "What girls?" he asked.

Nikos grinned and smoothed his mustache. "Only the best girls in the world, Mr. Lucky," he said. "The ones who tried to get Odysseus to abandon his ship."

With that, he pulled hard on his wheel, bumped over a mound of rubble, and shouting and beeping his horn for people to get out of the way, he reversed course.

With some trepidation, and a great deal of curiosity, Lucky walked down the cobble-stone street. There were no sidewalks – just houses whose doors let out directly into the traffic. He edged past carts and wagons, stepping over piles of steaming animal dung, turning sideways at times to push through the crowd. The buildings on either side were old and drab, except for the doors and window frames, which were painted in bright primary colors – red and blue and green. The buildings seemed to be about three stories high – possibly four in some places, but when Lucky looked up to check he felt a disoriented, because instead of being straight, the buildings all leaned into the street.

It was his impression that most of the buildings contained apartments for families, because he could see washing stretched on lines across the street and he could hear children shouting and mothers admonishing them. Mixed in, however, were shops – a tiny bakery, a green grocer, a cobbler, a carpenter and even a miniscule garage where a truck was crammed into an impossibly small area and men were underneath working on it, while the ailing engine coughed up foul black smoke.

As Lucky walked along he could see down even narrower alleyways that ran between the buildings. Networks of electrical lines crawled up the sides to provide power - but not water - to the buildings. The lines were bolted into the brickwork, making it plain, in Lucky’s view, that the building outdated the accommodations by many, many years. The distinctive odor of outhouses made it doubly clear plumbing was minimal. He saw women with jerry cans of water balanced on their hips, entering the buildings to carry their burdens up the stairs.

Some the of the alleys offered a view of vertical gardens – flowering vines and greenery that climbed the cables. Higher up, where the sun could reach, he saw tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables growing. At one point, he saw a boy perched on a ledge, peeling a cucumber and from the peek Lucky got of greenery beyond, he realized that the boy was enjoying the bounty of a rooftop garden. Then the street widened slightly, offering a cobbled walkway on one side. He stepped onto it with some relief. He was wearing his good clothes and shoes and at the far end of the block water was pouring out of a main, carrying a river of filth down the street.

At that moment, a small boy popped up. He was wearing an overlarge dirty white shirt, ragged khaki shorts and his legs and feet were bare. He held up a beseeching hand to Lucky, who thought he was a beggar.

"Mister, Mister," the boy cried. "Boutos! Boutos vas tah!"

Lucky jumped back. What the heck was the boy saying? Why was he cursing at him? Boutos was the very rude word for female privates. And the vas tah – well, like the peanut carts on the street, the boy was saying they were "salty and hot."

The boy crowded closer, pointing upward. Lucky’s eyes followed and he found himself looking at a Greek girl leaning over a balcony, large breasts barely contained in a black brassiere, hanging down like ripe melons ready to be picked. And the boy shouted, "Mister, Mister. Boutos! Boutos vas tah!" Lucky thought the boy and the young woman were making fun of him and angrily pushed on.

Suddenly, windows were opening and other scantily-clad women were leaning out and calling to him. Some of the voices were sweet, others harsh: "Velos, suckee, suckee, English boy." And, "Zestoh buthos, English. Just for you!" Also, "Boutos – Boutos vastah!"

Now Lucky understood what Nikos had been talking about. Odysseus might have been on a ship when the Sirens called, but surely he was presented with a vision like this. A vision few men could resist. Why, even in Lucky’s hottest teenage fantasies, he had never been presented with so many half-naked women all begging him to do the most outrageous things, and promising to do outrageous things in return.

A girl stepped out in front of him. She was young, she was sweet, and she was wearing a very short nylon robe, open to reveal a black bra and black panties. Lucky was stunned when he realized she was only about Athena’s age and like Athena she had a lush young body – one which Lucky had been lately permitted to explore.

"Hello, English boy," the girl said.

"I’m not English," Lucky said lamely, "I’m American."

The moment he said it he kicked himself – how stupid! But the girl lit up at his announcement. "American!" she said. "American boy!" She turned her head up and shouted to the others: "American boy!"

All the women responded in kind, all crying out, "American boy! American boy!"

Suddenly Lucky was surrounded by half-dressed women trying to mother him. They were all talking in combination Greek and English and even Turkish…

"Oh, American boy… Are you lost, American boy? Did someone hurt you? Who hurt you? Where are you going, American boy? Stay with me, American boy, I will take you home to your mother so you won’t get sick."

And so on and so forth. Gasping and totally befuddled, Lucky pawed out the slip of paper with Jim’s address. Immediately, there was a babble of women saying they knew just where this place was.

A moment later, Lucky found himself being escorted down the street by a gaggle of shady ladies who looked like they were straight out of a set of French postcards. Except, this was better – because they were real and they were enamored with Lucky for no reason that he could fathom - and they all told him to come back anytime so they would teach their American boy about – ooh-la-la…. For not so much money, you know… And he would never get sick – they promised.

With their help, Lucky finally found Jim’s place. His apartment was in an ancient three-story building set among other buildings of similar age and design on a street barely wide enough for a cart or an automobile to pass. Shops were scattered among the apartments, mostly tailors, bootmakers, a bakery or two, a grocer and several tobacco stands. It was a better neighborhood than the one Lucky had just left, to say the least. Although there were no sidewalks – the cobbled street was in good repair and a cleaning crew was following a water wagon, hosing down the cobbles and sweeping the dirt into the shallow trough that ran down the center.

Most of the second and third story apartments had small balconies, with wrought iron rails. Flowers and vegetables sat on most of the balconies and wash dried on lines that ran across the street in endless loops to apartments on the other side. More importantly, there were water pipes, mixed with the electrical lines, climbing up the sides of the buildings. These apartments boasted both power and water.

Lucky was greeted by two old women dressed in widows’ black. Jim had informed him that one of the women owned the building – her late husband had been a man of importance – and the other was her former servant. He used the word former, because they had been together so long that such differences were forgotten and they both did the work equally, doting on one another like aged sisters.

The ladies welcomed him with great formality, introducing themselves as Aethra and Zephyr – Lucky recalled Jim saying Aethra was his landlady. They escorted into the courtyard, where Jim was sitting under an enormous fig tree eating a late breakfast and working on what appeared to be a business letter.

"Lucky!" he cried. "Come have a little coffee and a sweet, it’s almost time to go." He indicated the letter. "I must finish this. It will only be a moment."

The boy took a seat, let himself be fussed over by Aethra and Zephyr, then leaned back to drink coffee and nibble on a honey cake. He looked around, taking in the courtyard. It was quite large, although so overgrown that it was hard to tell its size. An aged fountain with broken filigree commanded the center. Lucky could see a few fish swimming in the algae-green waters. Although very old, it was a working fountain and that same green water spurted out of a broken statue that consisted only of human legs – Lucky thought they might be a woman’s because they were so shapely, but they could have been the legs of a boy. Nevertheless, the falling water provided a peaceful, musical sound that gave the garden a magical feeling.

The fig tree, Lucky learned, was quite ancient. Aethra said her late husband had told her that the fig was old in his grandmother’s time, so no one could say when it had first grown out of its stone. Besides the fig, dwarf lemon, lime and orange trees were crowded in one corner – a thick grape vine, heavy with clusters of fruit ran along a wall and there scores of little dug-up plots filled with a wide variety of vegetables. Chickens scratched around the yard, guarded by a watchful rooster, and several rabbits nibbled on broken heads of lettuce the women had put out. It was a refreshingly cool garden and the sound of the traffic that ran along the narrow street just past the walls seemed so distant that Lucky felt as if he had entered another world. He could smell oranges and rose blossoms and he lazily shooed away a wasp that was trying to get at his honeycake.

Jim finished his letter, stuffed it into an envelope and rose. "Are you good at keeping secrets, Lucky?" he asked.

The question startled the boy so much that he nearly blurted a foolish – and overly revealing – reply. Instead, he said rather lamely, "I don’t tell on people, if that’s what you mean."

Jim smiled. "How foolish of me to ask," he said. "Of course, you can keep a secret. You are a diplomat’s son, after all."

He put the letter in his pocket, patted the place it occupied. "This is a letter to the mayor."

Lucky’s eyebrows rose. "Of Nicosia?"

"Yes, Nicosia," Jim said. Then: "I’m telling you this – in confidence, you understand – because I think it is a good lesson in civics… You know all the trouble we’ve had since the death of Joseph Stalin?"

Lucky nodded. There hadn’t been rioting on any great scale, but a few remote police stations had been stoned and market days disrupted by agitators. But tension had been increasing, judging from what Sandros and Andreas had told him.

"As part of his efforts to pour oil on troubled waters," Jim said, "the mayor wants me to form a committee of young businessmen."

Lucky was impressed. This was quite an honor. "What would you do?" he asked,

"Oh, just talk to people," Jim said. "To our customers. To other businessmen and various clubs and organizations. The idea is to urge patience. The belief being that if we are patient, the British will eventually give us our independence."

Lucky studied Jim. "Do really think they will?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "Logic – and by that I mean business logic – says they will, or at least that they should. Under colonial rule there are many things we can’t manufacture, or services that we can’t perform. If we had our independence – and our hands were untied – we could attract many investors. And, of course, the first beneficiaries would be the British, because of our long, happy history with them."

Lucky thought he heard some sarcasm in the last sentence, but Jim did not reveal his true feelings with look, or body language.

"I don’t know," Lucky said. "I learned in school – in America, I mean – that the English did the same things to us. We couldn’t make anything of our own. We could grow cotton, but couldn’t make shirts, much less other clothing. We had to sell the raw material to the English factories so they could make the shirts, then we had to buy the shirts back from them for a great deal of money. And it wasn’t only cotton. That’s just a small example… Tea, for instance, which is the most famous thing."

He eyed Jim. "Isn’t that what they’re doing in Cyprus?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear what Jim had to say.

Jim grimaced, fingering his own poor white shirt, tucked into gray, businessman’s slacks. The slacks were well-tailored, fitting Jim’s muscular form. But the shirt was a little yellow from too much washing and the cuffs and collars were a bit worn. "I can’t get a decent shirt to wear for my business," he said. "Suits I can get made – there are some very good tailors who are friends of mine. But the making of shirts is forbidden. I must buy from English import clubs and unless you are a rich man, they are of very poor quality as you can see." He tugged at the stiff collar. "It’s as you say, Lucky. Come the Revolution, the cause will be traced to shirts!"

"But what about this committee the mayor wants you for," Lucky said. "Do you really think the British will listen? I don’t mean to sound insulting, but it seems to me that a lot of English people don’t think Cypriots are smart enough to take care of themselves."

Jim was suddenly somber. He studied Lucky a moment, as if surprised at his grasp of the situation. "All you say is true, Lucky," he finally admitted. "Many do have a low opinion of us. It’s always been so – since they first took over from the Turks."

Lucky said, "Do you hate them for it? I mean, I could understand if you did, because I used to hate the English myself. My whole family is Irish. Ireland is where my great grandparents and everybody came from and they hate the English something awful for things that were done to them."

Jim nodded, understanding what Lucky was getting at. "I know some Irish soldiers," he said, "And that certainly sums up their feelings."

This startled Lucky, because an Irish soldier could only mean members of the IRA. Unless Jim was making a linguistic mistake.

Jim saw his puzzlement and grimaced. "Another secret between us, Lucky," he said.

Lucky grinned. Sure it was. And his guess was also right on – Jim had met some IRA types. But what were they doing in Cyprus? He’d heard his father’s friends talk about a possible IRA linkup with Cypriot dissidents, but that had all been speculation.

"You were telling me about your feelings concerning the English," Jim prodded, anxious to get Lucky back on the original subject.

Lucky nodded. "I used to hate the English. And when I went to the British academy – well, some of them were just… just… bullies! Not only the kids, but the teachers, too. At the end I was the only American kid there and they all ganged up on me. Even my best friend turned on me."

Jim looked sad. "I guessed something like that had happened," he said. "I suppose it’s like those ants you love to study. Even a black ant or red ant from an identical species of ants will be killed if it wanders into a strange nest. Isn’t that what you told me?"

"I understand that now," Lucky said. "But I didn’t then. Although, understanding things wouldn’t have helped any. Just because you understand somebody, doesn’t mean they are going to stop hurting you… and… you know… hurting other people."

He was thinking of his father, although he figured he probably understood the British kids going after him a whole lot better than his father’s rages.

"Anyway, I don’t think that way about the English anymore," he said. "At least not all of them. I met some guys in the hospital – wounded officers. And they were… well…" He looked up defiantly at Jim. "My friends. Yeah, my friends! The best friends I’ve ever had. They showed me… well… everything!" He swept a hand out, as if to encompass the entire world.

"It’s good, Lucky," Jim said, "that you should make friends with men who are so fine and brave." He smiled, "Therefore you will understand why I count some Englishmen among my good friends as well." Once again he tapped the place where the letter resided. "Friends that I can trust to listen to the mayor’s views – and the views of other young businessmen like myself."

"First thing you should do," Lucky joked, "is ask them to get you some decent shirts."

Jim laughed at that, then said, "Come up to my room while I change and then we will be off on our small adventure."

His apartment was approached by outside stairs leading up from the courtyard. As they ascended, Aethra said she’d be there soon with some things for "washing up," and then Jim flung open the door and invited Lucky in. From first glance, the place seemed to be a sparsely furnished, two room apartment - a main room and a small kitchen with a breakfast table. The lavatory, Lucky learned later, was outside in the courtyard. The walls of the room were freshly white-washed and the floors were of old red tile – polished to a sheen. The main room served as both bedroom and living area. In one corner was a small iron-framed bed neatly made up with a white-knit bedspread. An old, polished bedstand sat next to it – with several stacks of books resting next to an unlit oil lamp. Against one wall was a tall armoire made of hand-rubbed cedar with a plain, understated design. Lucky assumed it served as a closet for Jim’s clothes.

Resting against another wall was an old oak cabinet – about three-and-a-half feet high. A windup Victrola, with a highly polished brass sounding bell, sat atop the cabinet. The cabinet doors were open and Lucky could see records in their covers placed neatly inside. Next to the cabinet Jim had made a bookcase of varnished boards that rested on thick blocks of varnished wood - from Yorgo’s lumber yard, as it turned out. The case was filled with books of every variety – tattered hardbacks, rough paper-bound classics, and small, pocket-size volumes – as well as a stack of magazines in several languages.

The white-washed walls were decorated only with a few magazine cutouts of old masters, set in plain frames. They were clearly copies of paintings that were important to Jim – mostly impressionists, with one or two more modern artists like Picasso and Dali.

The balcony’s shutter doors were flung open, letting the sunlight splay across the pictures so they looked like originals, instead of photos cut from periodicals. Jim flipped a switch and the ceiling light glowed into life. It was a single bulb that hung from the ceiling from a bare wire. Lucky’s eyes traveled up the wire and saw that it came from a thick cable – also white washed – that was stapled to the ceiling. It ran across the room and exited through a neatly caulked hole.

When Lucky lowered his eyes, he noticed that Jim seemed a little embarrassed, going about the room and straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. It occurred to him Jim might think that Lucky – who lived in a big house that was practically a mansion – might look poorly on Jim’s place. To the contrary, he thought it was wonderful.

"When I get to be a famous writer," he told Jim, "I want a room just like this. My Aunt Rita has a famous musician friend in New York who has a place kind of like this. It’s called a loft. All his friends are jealous."

Jim flushed with pleasure at the praise. Then Aethra and Zephyr entered with trays containing bowls of hot water and fresh washcloths and towels. They fussed over Jim like loving mothers, or aunts, making sure his razor was sharp and he had plenty of good soap for his beard that wouldn’t irritate his skin. While they chattered, they kept looking at Lucky and he soon realized that they were proud of Jim because he had an American student. Sure, he was a successful young businessman, but teaching Lucky – the son of an American diplomat - confirmed in their minds that Jim was a scholar. More importantly, he was a respected Cypriot scholar – a very rare thing in these times.

Eventually, Jim politely shooed them out. Then he turned back to Lucky. All signs of his previous discomfort had vanished. "While I get dressed," he said, "I want you to listen to something."

He went to the Victrola, fetched a record from the cupboard beneath and very carefully – fingers just touching the record’s edges – withdrew it from its sleeve. He placed it on the record platform, then gently and carefully wound up the Victrola’s spring with a crank slotted into the side of the machine. He drew the large stylus over, poised it above the record, then paused and put it back.

He smiled to himself as if he’d just had an idea and reached into a cupboard for a slender volume with a rough, pink paper cover. Lucky knew it to be one of the many cheaply published college texts that Jim used to supplement Lucky’s reading at school.

"I think this will be helpful," he said, handing the book to Lucky. It was a copy of Shakespeare’s "The Tempest."

Jim said, "People in Cyprus believe that the magical island in ‘The Tempest’ was Cyprus. Others say it was somewhere else – in the Atlantic, perhaps." He shrugged. "Who can say for certain? The master set ‘Othello’ here, so why not ‘The Tempest?’"

Lucky opened the book, but Jim raised a finger. "Wait until I start the recording," he said. "I want you to read along with the actors."

He returned to the Victrola, moved the stylus out until it was hovering over the first groove. Then he nodded to Lucky, who open the little book and began to read. At the same time - after a crackle and a hum - there was a crash of lightning and roll of thunder as the play began. Lucky was soon swept up by the story as the Master cried: "…Fall to it, yarely, or we run ourselves aground!"

As he listened and read Lucky was acutely aware of the sounds of the ancient city all around him – creaking wagon wheels, complaining animals, the wailing cry of a muzzein calling the faithful to prayer, while at the same time church bells sounded from afar. Out in the garden the chickens were quietly clucking in the morning heat and a faint breeze brought the scent of citrus trees in blossom.

And like that day when he’d discovered "The Rubaiyat,’ all the centuries between the creation of the work and the present vanished and he drifted away on the magical tide of the Bard’s fabulous words and images.

NEXT: VIVA! MESA! GRAMAPHONA!

*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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*****

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*****

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A Loaf Of Bread, A Jug Of Wine, And Thou...

Lucky traveled on camelback every day for a week and after that at least once a week – as the season advanced, the Turk got more consignments that paid better. Later, he and the Turk became friends and the man gave him camel riding lessons, so that instead of being led by the Turk, Lucky could guide the camel himself. He even galloped across fields several times, thrilling at the tremendous speeds the animal could reach without apparent effort.

Finally, he bought the camel saddle from the Turk – set on the ground on its four wood legs, the saddle made an admirable red-leather footstool. It smelled so badly, however, that at first his mother wouldn’t let him bring it in the house. But Brosina solved that with a cleaning mixture she said was especially concocted centuries before to eliminate camel odors. His mother joked that it was like Grandma’s Household Hints for Bedouins.

But back to that first momentous day:

At the outset Lucky felt sorry for the camel, but then after it tried to sneakily bite him a few times, with him jerking back his leg and the Turk swatting it with his stick, his sympathy soon subsided. Looking at a few other camels on the same road, all whom were heavily burdened with market goods, Lucky couldn’t figure out what the animal’s problem was. This was an easy job – although Lucky wasn’t small for his age, neither was he a behemoth. Still recovering from many weeks of illness, he had not yet regained his proper weight.

But just to make sure the animal knew he meant it no harm, when they reached the city gates and he climbed off, Lucky bought some fruit and fed it to the animal – holding the pieces flat on his hand, like feeding a horse. The Turk watched with careful approval – keeping his stick ready in case his charge decided to bite. After that, Lucky always had something for the camel when they met and although they never became friendly, it mostly quit trying to bite and only tried to spit on him two or three times.

At the city gate, Lucky realized he had plenty of time before school and could finally explore the blackmarket stalls. For the first time, he entered on foot. Just past the entrance a band of Gypsy kids burst past him and Lucky laughed, knowing their tricks, and pressed against the stone wall fending off their swift-moving attempts to pick his pockets. They went through like a chill wind, people shouting as they veered this way and that, brushing against people and vehicles, carrying away whatever they could get their skillful fingers on.

Lucky moved on and was soon enveloped by the strange twilight atmosphere of the tunnel. At first, he was partly blind – like walking from the sunlight into a theater after the movie started. His eyes soon became accustomed to the dim light – which mostly came from the grated areas high overhead where the city’s defenders had poured boiling oil, or hurled down spears and heavy rocks on the enemy. Most of the stalls had small oil lamps hung from poles and when Lucky looked down the length of the tunnel he could see all the flickering lights swaying in the breeze of the passing traffic – with a tiny pinpoint of light in the distance, marking the entrance into Nicosia.

At first, Lucky felt a little claustrophobic. On foot – without Yorgo beeping his horn and racing his engine – the press of human bodies pouring through the tunnel was intimidating. Adding to that pressure were all the ox carts, horse-drawn wagons, burdened animals – ranging from donkeys to camel – and the wheeled traffic, such as the numerous bicycles, motorbikes, buses and even a few cars, trucks and polyglot vehicles of no obvious ancestry. The odors filling this confined space were nearly overpowering. The noxious gasoline fumes of engines, mixed with the strong barnyard odors of the market crowd laid a thick base of olfactory pigment. Mixed with this were the smells of the bazaar – burning incense and food cooking over charcoal and dried dung braziers.

About twenty feet inside the entrance was a flower stall and Lucky rushed to it, breathing deeply of roses, violets and gardenias. Soon, the sights, scents and sounds of the Famagusta Gate bazaar settled into something more manageable, something more realizable. He bought a gardenia from the old widow woman who ran the stall, stuck it in his lapel and marched bravely onward, soaking up the atmosphere of his first blackmarket.

The stalls consisted mainly of covered carts with thick shutters that could be locked tightly and wheeled away when the business day ended and the cops came around to clear the gate for the night. They were packed with goods of every variety from every place in the world. Some were dedicated to specific items. There were stalls selling medicinal herbs from China. Some were devoted to diseases and common ailments. Others were aimed at more specific afflictions, such as lagging virility. These carts were marked with wax and wooden replicas of rhino horns and the hands of gorillas. "Make you strong," a toothless old Greek woman promised Lucky, thrusting her fist up and grinning.

Other stalls offered a bewildering variety of merchandise. French condoms were mixed in with different caliber bullets – some loose, some still in their boxes. Trays of junk jewelry were filled with scarabs from Egypt, beetles from South America and fake pearls from Sardinia. There were stalls devoted to pictures mounted on white cardboard. The pictures ranged from children’s books, to mythology, to landscapes, to blatant pornography.

There was food of every kind – kabobs, roasted eggs, potatoes and corn, nuts of all kinds, trays of baked goods – some sweet, some stuffed with cheeses and meats, plus big rounds of bread and hunks of cheese, with olives soaked in dozens of different brines. There were candies of every variety from all over the Middle East, as well ice cream and sherbets, and pudding cakes floating in sugared rose water.

Some stalls were devoted to religious artifacts, such as icons and incense and holy books. But those same stalls might also have a tray filled with pornography from Algiers, or deadly butterfly knives from the Philippines.

Lucky passed by several book stalls, pausing to see that they were filled mostly with junk – battered romance novels and black and white comics from Africa and Spain. But then he stopped at one stall that contained some old college texts, including an English translation of Don Quixote. He bought it for the equivalent of five cents, then, encouraged, dug through moldy, worm-eaten books, searching for another prize. Starting to run short of browsing time, Lucky confined himself to titles in English.

Then he came across a small, battered book entitled "The Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam." He’d never heard of it before, but it sounded exotic, intriguing. Primed for a literary adventure, he opened the book, gently turning its brittle pages. He soon realized that it was a volume of poetry, but it was poetry unlike any he’d ever encountered. Lucky flipped back to the first poem and read:

"Awake! For the morning in the bowl of night

Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight.

And lo! The hunter of the east has caught

The sultan’s turret in a noose of light."

He stood gaping, the dense traffic pouring past, stunned by the imagery. Lucky had often sat by the marble cistern deep into the night, hiding in the garden while his father raged about the house. He remembered staring at the reflection of the stars swimming in the cistern’s watery mirror, drawing comfort from sparkling lights, wondering if there were planets whirling about those distant suns and if so, on one those planets, was there perhaps a boy like him whose father was raging in the night and the boy was staring into a cistern of his own, contemplating a companion in misery like Lucky.

You could draw a finger through that watery mirror and feel a little bit like a god as you stirred up the stars burning there. Once, overcome by frustration at the chaos that reigned in his home, Lucky’d hurled a stone into the cistern – and the stars had indeed fled the disturbance.

Pulse quickening, Lucky flipped the pages, stopping when his eyes picked up a similar theme.

"And that inverted Bowl we call the Sky,

Whereunder crawling coop’t we live and die,

Lift not thy hands to it for help – for It

Rolls impotently on as Thou or I."

Lucky felt a little giddy. The words reached out to Lucky and touched him like he’d rarely been touched before. He wanted to read more. But he was afraid the next poem would disappoint him, or that the magic of the moment would suddenly vanish and the words would be revealed as ordinary and maybe even a little trite.

He bought the book and hurried on to Jim’s shop. He’d read the book later. But first, he wanted to find out about this man, this poet – Omar Khayyam.

Lucky was just in time for school. He helped Jim open up - sweeping the front with a broom dipped in a bucket of stale water. Water was scarce in Cyprus and one had to be careful not to waste it. He did the job thoroughly, full of energy from his discovery, and also because he was anxious to please Jim who he knew worked very hard managing his shop, plus teaching Lucky at the same time. They went through the usual morning lesson plan – and it went easily since it involved Lucky’s favorite subjects – language, history and what in modern times would be called the "natural sciences."

"Bugs and beasts," Jim jokingly called it, although his approach to the subject was not joking at all. Jim was a firm believer in observation – Lucky suggested it was the scientific method, Jim said, no, it was the Aristotle Method and although Jim admitted Aristotle had made many erroneous observations he swore by him.

"Observation is the legacy of Aristotle," Jim said. "He taught us how to see and how to analyze." Jim laughed. "Of course, he taught that women have fewer teeth than men, which isn’t true, so he must have been making some faulty observations that day."

It was then that Lucky showed Jim the book. His teacher beamed with pleasure, saying "Ah, you’ve discovered the Persian – a great observer in his own right. I was going to introduce you to him – but later. After Shakespeare. However, since you have found him on your own, let us see what we can learn about ‘old Khayyam,’ as he called himself."

And with that, he hung a closed sign on the shop and rolled down the grates and locked them. With mounting interest, Lucky hurried to keep up with Jim’s long strides. Were they going to meet a relative of Mr. Khayyam’s, perhaps? A few minutes later, Lucky was escorted into an old musty shop that was crammed with odd machines, stacks of paper, rolls of leather, and shelf after shelf of books. It was a bookbinder’s shop, commanded by Mr. Loizos, a Greek Cypriot who claimed more than a bit of Persian blood. When Jim explained their mission, Mr. Loizos was quite enthusiastic and with great ceremony showed them an alcove where he kept what Jim called the finest collection of books related to Omar Khayyam in all of Cyprus. To Lucky’s surprise, few of the books were in Persian or even Arabic – but Mr. Khayyam was represented in every other language, French, German, Spanish and certainly English, where the number of books made it seem he was most popular of all.

"The poems you have," Jim said, "were translated by Edward Fitzgerald in the middle of the last century and some people think his is still the best English translation because Mr. Fitzgerald was also a poet and understood the artistic heart of Mr. Khayyam." He paused, then said, "That is also my opinion."

"But who was he?" Lucky said. "Omar Khayyam, I mean."

In his mind, he had the image of a tragic figure, very much like Edgar Allen Poe, but in a burnoose. As it turned out, Lucky’s image wasn’t that far from the truth – albeit a truth obscured by the dust of many centuries. Perusing the books in the alcove, and taking copious notes, Lucky learned that Khayyam lived in Persia during A.D. 1044 – 1123. To put that in perspective, Jim pointed out that this was about the time of the Norman invasion of England. The son of a tentmaker, Khayyam rose to become chief astrologer of the sultan, his boyhood friend. A brilliant astronomer and mathematician, Khayyam predated Galileo in many of his planetary discoveries and was also a pioneer in algebra and geometry. But it was his poetry – the fabulous quatrains collected in The Rubaiyat – that the world remembered him for in modern times.

"What happened to him?" Lucky asked.

Jim sighed. "Unfortunately, truly great men are rarely rewarded in this life," he said. "After his friend, the Sultan, died, the Mullahs confiscated his property and drove him into exile for speaking heresy."

Lucky was astounded. "What heresy?"

"Among other things," Jim said, "In those days people believed that the earth was the center of the universe and that sun and planets and stars revolved around it. Khayyam proved that this was false. That it was we who revolved around the sun, and so on and so forth."

"But… he was right," Lucky said, aghast. "Why would they exile for speaking the truth?"

Jim raised a finger. "Remember Socrates?" he said. "Was he not killed for speaking the truth."

"That was a thousand of years before," Lucky protested. "They should have learned by then."

Jim shrugged. "Well, considering that Galileo was threatened with death by the Pope five hundred years after Khayyam – and for the very same reason – I suppose we can say that human beings take a long time to learn a thing."

He chuckled, adding, "Also, when you read his poetry, you’ll see that Khayyam has other habits considered sinful by the mullahs. He liked his wine, which is forbidden in Islam. And he also had his doubts about religion – or even the existence of God."

Jim frowned. "Do you think your parents will have trouble with that?" he asked. "I don’t want you to read something that would upset them."

"Oh, no," Lucky said. "They won’t mind." This was one of the few areas where Lucky’s parents shone above others. "I can read anything I want, as long as I let them read it too. They’ve never once forbidden a book. It’s a rule in our house."

Jim nodded, saying, "Of course, Lucky, I remember they told me that in our first meeting. But I wanted to make certain."

As they walked back to the shop, Jim asked, "Would you like to take a trip with me this weekend, Lucky?"

Lucky was delighted. "Sure. Where to?"

"I was thinking that this would be a good time to show you Othello’s Tower," Jim said.

At lunch, Lucky returned to the Famagusta Gate and slipped out to other side, which overlooked the great central plain. He bought some black bread and fetah cheese, along with a newspaper cone of olives and a Coke out of a cold cart. The traffic was lighter now and consisted mostly of animal drawn carts and people on foot, driving animals before them. The white camel Lucky had ridden earlier, along with the little Turk who owned it, were sprawled on the ground, snoozing in the midday sun – their animosity apparently forgotten, with the Turk’s head nestled against the camel’s neck, and the camel’s head resting across the driver’s lap.

The air was brisk and dark storm clouds were creeping over the plains from the Troodos Mountains. The gray city walls loomed over the scene, climbing high to the towers that marked the gate’s entrance. All along the age-pocked stone, enormous lizards crept about, hunting insects and small rodents. A young goat herder stopped near Lucky, putting his charges into a patch of greenery, then while his goats ate he strode back and forth, making challenging – forefinger over pointing finger - motions to Lucky. A game of marbles? Lucky took the challenge and won the boy’s shooter in a few minutes. He traded it back for a handful of pistachios, then settled down against the ancient city walls to eat his lunch.

And at long last – he had been dragging out the moment to make it better – he drew out the little book of poetry. He closed his eyes, flipped the book open, and stabbed a finger, picking a poem at random. He opened his eyes, heart beating with anticipation, and read:

"With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd --

‘I came like Water and like Wind I go.’"

To Lucky, this four-line poem – this quatrain, this… this… Rubaiyat… - summed up everything Jim and the books had revealed about Khayyam. Omar offered the world knowledge in many forms, both scientific and artistic. But in his day, he – and his work – were spurned. Any satisfaction Khayyam might have felt were the brief rewards he must have realized when he made his discoveries about the universe. Or wrote the perfect, four line poem.

As he said in the poem, "I came like water and like wind I go." But here was Lucky, a thousand years later, reading this poem and struggling to get a glimpse of the world through Omar Khayyam’s eyes. Apparently, despite Khayyam’s pessimism, the perfume of his poetry had lingered well past his death. He read on…

"Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai

Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp

Abode his Destined Hour and went his way."

Lucky was almost knocked to the ground by those four lines. They were the perfect description of reality as seen by the CIA – and CIA brats, like himself. All the world’s most important people, posing for their pictures, their moments of victory. President of this. Prime Minister of that. Dictator here, President For Life, there. Generals and admirals and senators and yes, even kings and queens. There were a few left, especially, England’s Elizabeth II who would be crowned soon.

But Khayyam’s point was the same – men and women, big and small, have a time on this earth that is not measured by their importance. And, if you were targeted by a CIA or KGB assassin, that time might be even shorter than the biblical "full span."

He continued reading:

"Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise

To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;

One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;

The Flower that once has blown forever dies."

And then:

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate

I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,

And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;

But not the Master-Knot of Human Fate.

Lucky looked around, once again taking in the Famagusta Gate. But this time he looked at it differently, especially when an immense ox-drawn wagon exited. There were six oxen in a line and the wagon itself was double-tiered – so high that the top came close to scraping the iron spikes spearing down from the gates. The wagon was loaded with a bizarre variety of things – household furniture, tavern fixtures, farm implements and even scrap metal and glass sticking out from the barred sides. As the ox cart emerged, two camels followed, carrying goods bound for the villages.

The ox cart stopped abruptly and one of the camels barked its shins. It bawled at the obstruction, sidling around to get at the driver or one of the oxen so it could bite them. Heavy sticks, kicks and curses drove it back. A fistfight between the ox cart owner and the camel driver was narrowly averted by a priest clad in black with a long white beard and a tall hat.

Lucky laid the book in his lap and looked out across the plains stretching out from Nicosia. Far away a rainstorm moved across his view and the breeze brought the smell of damp earth, spices and citrus and animals and cooking fires. An old Turk hobbled by in his baggy-pants costume, followed by his woman – who was draped head-to-toe in black. A beggar by the gate offered an old cracked begging bowl to passersby, crying that eternal plea of the Middle East - "Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"

Suddenly Lucky felt like he was surrounded by the ancients who had once dwelt here, and who lived here still. He was transported back a thousand years or more. He imagined a young Omar Khayyam, sitting before gates exactly like these, and thinking his thoughts and writing his poetry. Poetry that Lucky was now reading. A camel bawled in protest. An ox cart driver lashed his whip. Angry mothers chastised their children, someone shouted warnings as gypsy kids ran past, scattering like sand driven by the wind. And far off he heard a muzzein call the faithful to prayer.

At that moment, it seemed to Lucky that he could reach out and touch the smiling face of Omar Khayyam. It was a young Khayyam, a boy about his age – thirteen, or fourteen who presented himself in his imagination. In Lucky’s mind’s eye the youthful Khayyam spilled out a bag of marbles, inviting him to play. In his fantasy, Lucky spread out his own – setting up a target for them to both aim at, to see who would go first. Omar grinned and leaned over, pointing finger tucked under the middle finger for his snap shot. At that moment, Lucky knew he would win with his superior American thumb shot. On a very good day he could not only hit, but sometimes shatter his opponent’s marble using the thumb clutched into the fist, exploding out and sending the marble forward like a bullet.

Well, Lucky thought, he wouldn’t be a poor sport about it and take all of Omar’s prize marbles. He’d trade him for something else, so as not to embarrass him. Some pistachios, maybe. Or, better yet, a moment of his time.

Tell me, he’d ask, how you were able to write such wonderful words – poetry that would last through the ages. And maybe, just maybe, the young Khayyam would reveal his secrets.

A bicycle bell rang and Lucky blinked back to a modicum of reality. He leaned down to read one more poem:

When You and I behind the Veil are past,

Oh but the long long while the World shall last,

Which of our Coming and Departure heeds

As much as the Ocean of a pebble-cast.

As if on cue, it began to rain.

NEXT: A VISIT WITH THE BARD OF AVON

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!

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"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

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