Aphrodite's Island (10 page)

I feel my heart bounce and come down with a thump. ‘I’m
surprised
. I thought you would be – married, I mean.’

‘Why? You aren’t – at least, I assume …’ He glances at my left hand.

‘No, but – Well, I suppose I thought that out here attitudes would be … very traditional. You know what I mean?’

‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ he agrees. ‘And you’re right. But perhaps that is exactly why I am not married.’

When the drinks arrive he says, ‘So, what was this odd experience?’

For a moment I am silenced by the contrary impulses of
embarrassment
and the urge to confide in someone. Then I say, ‘Karim,
do you believe in reincarnation?’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Reincarnation? I’m a Muslim, not a Hindu.’

‘No, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that – not as part of your religion.’

‘So why are we discussing theology?’

‘We’re not. It’s just that one or two of the things that have
happened
to me lately …’ I trail off and try again. ‘Ever since I’ve been on the island I’ve had this weird feeling, a sort of déjà vu.’

‘But of course. You have been here before.’

‘But it’s not just that some places look familiar. OK. You’re going to think I’m bonkers but I’ll try to explain. Twice, when I’ve been listening to one of your talks I’ve sort of dozed off …’

‘I’m sorry. Am I that boring?’

‘No! No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. It’s more like going into a sort of trance and then I find I’m making up stories, except that I’m not making it up. It’s more like being told by someone else. Oh, this is hopeless! You’re going to think I’m schizoid, hearing voices …’

He leans over and touches my hand. ‘I don’t think that. These stories, are they connected with what I was talking about at the time?’

‘Oh yes. It’s like the people you were talking about speak …’ I stop myself but he is not shocked. He is nodding thoughtfully.

‘There is a condition known as hypnogogia. It occurs when people are somewhere between sleep and waking, and makes them highly suggestible. Sometimes people have hallucinations or hear voices. It’s the origin of a lot of ghost stories.’ He smiles at me. ‘I don’t think your experiences are evidence of reincarnation. I think they just mean that you have a very vivid imagination and you aren’t sleeping too well.’

I think about this for a minute. It’s reassuring, but … ‘OK. But there have been other things, nothing to do with your talks.’ I tell him about the angel boy and the explosions.

He smiles. ‘What sort of tree were you sitting under?’

‘What? A fig tree, I think. Why?’

‘That was your mistake, you see. There is an old island superstition that if you fall asleep under a fig tree you will always have bad dreams.’ He stops and leans over to touch my arm with his fingertips. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke. I can see it has upset you. Did you say you left the island in 1974?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think this was not a dream but a memory.’

‘You mean I really was out there, while the bombs were dropping?’

‘The Turkish troops landed at Five Mile Beach. It’s a cove about five miles from here along the coast towards Lapta. The Greek Cypriot National Guard met them and almost drove them back. The fighting went on for several days and Turkish planes were bombing the National Guard positions. If you were in Lapta then you would have been quite close.’

I gaze at him. ‘But surely I would never have forgotten an experience like that.’

‘Oh, it’s quite possible,’ he replies. ‘After all, we know that people can suppress the memory of traumatic experiences.’

My fish arrives, red snapper grilled, with chips and a side salad. I realize that I am ravenous. He watches me eat for a minute, then says, ‘Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?’

I don’t hesitate. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you.’

‘Excellent! I’m delighted. About eight? I’ll take you to one of my favourite restaurants.’

‘That would be great.’

‘Good. Are you coming with us tomorrow? We are going to Gazimagusa.’

‘Where?’

‘You would call it Famagusta. You’ll want to see it because of
Othello
.’

‘
Othello?
Of course! I’d forgotten the play is supposed to take place in Cyprus.’

‘I’ll show you Othello’s tower.’

‘His tower? He didn’t really exist, did he?’

His enigmatic smile returns. ‘Well, that’s a matter for
conjecture
. All that is known is that once, during the time when Venice ruled the island, there was a lieutenant-governor called Cristoforo Moro, which I suppose might be interpreted to mean he was a Moor. He mysteriously returned to Venice minus his wife. I suppose there may be some basis in that for the story of Othello, but no one knows for certain.’

‘Minus his wife. Do you think he murdered her, like he does in the play?’

‘Who knows? She might have died in childbirth, or of some infectious disease. Or gone off with another man, perhaps. Will you come – to Famagusta?’

‘Yes, all right.’

‘Good! And then we’ll have dinner. Oh, by the way …’

‘Yes?’

‘Remember to wear a hat.’

‘For dinner?’

‘No, silly! When we go to Famagusta. I don’t want you passing out from the heat.’

I laugh, pleased by his concern. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll remember.’

In bed that evening the reference to
Othello
comes back to me; it is not Shakespeare’s play but Verdi’s opera that drifts into my mind. The strains of Desdemona’s heartbreaking ‘Willow Song’ run through my head as I settle down to sleep.
Oh, salce
…
salce
…
salce
…. This time, the dream, or whatever it is, does not take me by surprise.

The coach journey to Famagusta is a jolly affair. All the people in the group are behaving like old friends and seem happy to include me, and I make an effort to join in. However, the city itself has a sobering effect on all of us, including Karim. Usually he is
brimming
over with enthusiasm and information, infecting everyone with his own fascination with the history of his island, but today he is much less forthcoming, as if there are things about this particular place that he prefers not to recall. I feel in sympathy with him. The ruined walls of the old city, with their potent reminder of defeat and decay, seem to be echoed in the bleak prospect to the south, where the empty shells of luxury hotels in the no man’s land between the two halves of the island look out onto golden beaches that were once alive with colour and movement but now lie deserted and silent.

Back at the hotel I take a long shower, order a spritzer from the bar and lie down for half an hour, listening to Verdi on my headphones. When I get up to dress for dinner, I cannot make up my mind what to wear. The clothes I might have worn for a night out with friends in London seem too flamboyant, exposing too much naked flesh. I do not want to appear too formal but I have an instinct that Karim will expect me to have made an effort. In the end I opt for a new summer dress that I bought specially for the holiday and have not yet found an occasion to wear. The fabric is patterned in shades of blue and green, which I know flatters my colouring, and the cut is good. I have lost weight recently, and my breasts were never big, but the low, scooped neckline gives a hint of cleavage, while the smooth, flowing line emphasizes my
newly slim hips. Then I can’t make up my mind how to do my hair. During the day I wear it wound into a thick plait; now I try putting it up, then take it down again. Finally I take my hot brush and work it into soft waves, so that it frames my face in a halo of pale gold. By the time I have finished my make-up and darkened my eyelashes with navy mascara I feel almost satisfied. But no amount of foundation or powder will obliterate the faint violet shadows under my eyes.

Karim is waiting in the hotel foyer when I come down and I see from his eyes that I have not wasted my time. I sense that he enjoys the appreciative looks from the hotel staff as we go out to the car. The car, to my surprise, is a Mercedes convertible; admittedly not new, but still not the sort of vehicle I associate with a local tour guide. We drive up into the hills above Kyrenia, to a building which looks more like an English manor house than the typical Turkish restaurant I was expecting, and where the menu owes more to provincial France than the Middle East. I had been hoping for something a little more exotic and he senses my disappointment.

‘I’m sorry. Don’t you like this kind of food?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m sure it will be delicious,’ I say hastily. ‘I just thought perhaps you might introduce me to some of the real local cuisine.’

He smiles. ‘Perhaps another evening, if I may. Not everyone is happy to try Turkish food, so I thought I would play safe for tonight. And the food here really is excellent.’

And so it is. We eat crayfish, followed by a deliciously tender and piquant steak
au poivre
and Karim orders a bottle of smooth, full-bodied Turkish wine that surprises me by its quality. As he fills my glass, I notice that his contains only mineral water.

‘You don’t drink?’

‘Alcohol? No.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘Is that a matter of taste, or of principle?’

‘A matter of religion.’

‘Of course.’ I feel myself blush. ‘I should have thought. Muslims don’t drink, do they?’

‘Not officially. Though I know plenty who do.’

‘But not you.’

‘No.’

‘Are you a very devout Muslim?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. I can’t remember the last time I was in the mosque. But I was brought up that way. My parents are believers. What about you? Are you a devout Christian?’

I shake my head. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid. The only times I go into a church are for weddings and –’ For a moment, memory catches at my throat ‘– and funerals.’

‘Well,’ he says, smiling, ‘we have that much in common, anyway.’

For a moment we are both silent. Then he says, ‘What did you think of Famagusta?’

‘It’s fascinating, but it makes me shiver. So many terrible things have happened there.’

‘Yes, indeed. It has seen a great deal of suffering.’

‘You mentioned that siege, when the Turks took the city from the Venetians. I started reading
Bitter Lemons
on the plane out here and Durrell talks about Famagusta in the first chapter. Is it true they promised the Venetian governor safe conduct and then arrested him and tortured him to death in that horrible manner?’

Immediately I could kick myself for my lack of tact. His
expression
has changed and when he speaks there is a harshness in his voice that I have not heard before. ‘Ah, of course! The savage and perfidious Turk! I should have known you would have read that story.’

‘Isn’t it true, then?’

He meets my eyes. ‘Oh yes, it’s true – so far as I know. It was 1571, for heaven’s sake! Things like that happened in those days.’

I struggle to make amends. ‘Karim, I’m not trying to criticize you, or your people. I didn’t mean it that way at all.’

‘No?’ His eyes are smouldering and his mouth is set in a hard, combative line. ‘No, you’re just accepting the general British line that the Turks are backward, untrustworthy savages who still live in the Middle Ages.’

‘Karim!’ I am embarrassed and angry, with myself and with him. ‘I never said that – or implied it!’

‘Have you ever heard how the Crusaders behaved when they conquered Jerusalem?’ he goes on, as if I had not spoken. ‘They killed every man, woman and child in the city. They speared Muslim babies and roasted them to eat!’

‘Oh God, that’s sick!’ I protest. ‘Don’t, Karim!’

He looks at me and takes a gulp of water. ‘I’m sorry. I got carried away.’

There is a pause. Then I say, ‘You really are passionate about all this, aren’t you?’

He gives me a wry grin. ‘I can’t help it. I suppose I’m particularly sensitive about Famagusta because I grew up there.’

‘I didn’t know. Whereabouts?’

‘In the old city. My father had a business there.’

‘And you don’t have happy memories?’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I had a wonderful childhood, and a wonderful family. I’m the only son, so I suppose you could say I was spoiled rotten. But at the same time, other things were happening …’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, political things mainly.’ He puts his fork down. ‘Enough! Tell me about you. How’s life in London? Do you enjoy it?’

‘Yes, very much. After growing up in rural Hampshire it’s great. At least …’

‘At least?’

‘Oh well, I suppose the excitement wears off after a bit. But I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’

‘Do you like being a teacher?’

‘Most of the time. I read English at university and it seemed the obvious career. But I didn’t grow up with a burning desire to
teach. Not like you. I imagine you always knew what you wanted to do.’

‘More or less, yes. Did you ever have a burning desire to do something else?’

I take a sip of wine. ‘Well, yes. What I really wanted – still want – is to be a writer.’

‘Fiction?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Plays? Novels?’

‘Novels, mainly. And short stories.’

‘Have you had anything published?’

‘Just a couple of things, in fairly obscure magazines. But I don’t really have the time, or the energy, to write after a day in school.’

‘What do you do in your leisure time?’

‘Oh, the usual things. Theatres, discos, parties …’

‘No wonder you’re tired!’

‘Not every night! Actually, most evenings I’m too tired to do anything except flop in a chair and watch telly, or listen to music.’

‘Would you like to go dancing?’

‘Tonight?’

‘If you are not too tired. We have some very good discos in some of the hotels.’

I feel my pulse quicken. ‘Yes, all right. I’d like that very much.’

We drive back to the coast, to a large new hotel west of Kyrenia. The disco is in the basement and as we enter the intensity of the sound hits us like a solid wall. The dance floor is already crowded with bodies gyrating under the strobing lights, the white shirts of the men glowing blue as the UV catches them. Karim throws off his jacket and leads me into the melee. I should have guessed he would be a natural dancer. I give myself up to the pleasure of matching my movements to his, feeling the common rhythm that flows through us both. For a while I am able to ignore the growing sense of exhaustion, until I suddenly stumble and he has to catch hold of me to stop me from falling.

‘What is it? Are you feeling ill?’ He has to put his mouth close
to my ear for me to hear him.

My head is spinning but I try to hide the fact. ‘No, it’s nothing. I’m just a bit tired. Can we sit down for a bit?’

‘Of course. Come outside, where it’s quieter.’

He leads me up into the open air and we sit on a low wall with the sea breaking in hushed waves below us. The scent of orange blossom from an orchard across the road hangs in the warm air. Karim takes my hand and feels for my pulse. I force a laugh.

‘You should have been a medical doctor.’

He does not laugh. ‘I’m concerned about you, Cressida. Are you sure you’re not ill?’

I feel the sudden crawl of fear in my stomach. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You’re so pale, for one thing. And the other day by the pool, I thought you were going to faint.’

I try to shrug it off. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. The doctor who looked after my mother said he thought I might be a bit anaemic.’

‘Then when you get back to England you should have a blood test. Will you do that?’

‘Yes, all right. I’ll do that. I promise.’

He lifts my chin and looks into my face and I think,
He will kiss me now
. And I feel the familiar melting sensation of physical desire. I half close my eyes, sensing his closeness, his desire, but the kiss does not come. Instead he drops his hand and sits back.

For a long moment we sit in silence. Finally he says, ‘How are you getting on with your researches into the family history?’

I try to swallow my disappointment and force my mind to focus on the question. ‘Oh, slowly. As a matter of fact, my mother’s journal is quite a revelation. It seems that my father was never really in love with her, because he’d fallen head over heels years before for a girl he met here, in Cyprus. At least, that’s what my mother thought. I don’t know if she was right or not. But it would make sense of my father’s letters.’

He looks puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I told you. In the box with my mother’s journal
were some letters signed by my father but written in Greek. Os Wentworth looked at the first one and said it seemed to be a love letter. I’ve asked him to translate them for me.’

In the faint glow of the lights from the hotel I see him frown.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s all past history. Why distress yourself?’

I turn to him. I’m not sure why, but I want him to understand. ‘I need to know, Karim. It’s strange, but when my mother was alive I never asked her about my father. I suppose I knew that it distressed her to talk about it. But now that she’s gone I suddenly find I desperately want to know about him and I’m kicking myself for not making her tell me. A child should have the right to know about its parents, don’t you think?’

‘Of course.’ He meets my eyes and his own are serious and gentle. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to find out, but you may not like what you find.’

‘I’m already realizing that,’ I say.

After a moment he says, ‘Didn’t your father have relations? You must have grandparents on his side, or uncles, aunts, cousins, perhaps.’

For a moment I stare at a floodlit palm tree rising ghostlike against the background of the dark sea. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea. I certainly never met any. I suppose my mother must have cut off all communication with them, if there were any.’

‘You could try to find out, I suppose. You could go online, to one of those sites that help you to trace your ancestors.’

‘Yes.’ I am surprised that the idea has never occurred to me. ‘I suppose I could.’

Once again we are silent for a while. Then he says, ‘How did your father die, Cressida?’

‘I don’t know that either,’ I confess. ‘All I remember is my mother telling me he had gone away and wouldn’t be back for a long time. Then, one evening, she came into my room to say good night and said, “Daddy won’t be coming back, ever.” I asked her if
he was dead and she said, “Yes”’ I suppose I was too young then to ask how – but actually I think it might have been malaria. Do people die of malaria?’

‘Certainly, if it’s not treated. But in England he would get treatment.’

‘He wasn’t in England. I’m not sure where he was, but he worked as a journalist, a sort of foreign correspondent. I’m pretty sure it was in the Far East somewhere, because he brought me back a clockwork monkey once and I think he said it came from Singapore. And I do remember him being very ill once, when he was at home, and my mother told me then it was malaria. I remember, because I thought it was such a funny name.’

‘Well, if he was working in that area, perhaps Malaysia or Korea or Vietnam, he might have picked up a resistant strain of malaria and if that was left untreated it would have killed him.’

‘Perhaps that was it, then.’ My mind is half on something else. ‘Do you know, I’d completely forgotten that monkey until just now. Isn’t memory an odd thing?’

‘Is it?’

‘You remember what I told you about that sort of dream I had about the air attack, which you said was probably a suppressed memory?’

‘Yes.’

‘I had another, similar experience last time I went to Lapta. I was just wandering around the streets, and I heard a man and a woman quarrelling and a child crying. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and yet it was as if I was listening to my own parents shouting. My father was saying that he refused to stay in the house with a squalling brat, and when he’d gone my mother told me it was all my fault and if he never came back she would blame me. Do you think that could be a genuine memory too?’