The Sunrise (28 page)

‘Aren’t we going to take the Frangos family?’

‘We don’t have enough room for them in the car.’

‘But we could fit the children.’

Anna Frangos overheard the conversation.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t want to be separated.’

Aphroditi looked at her: four small children, two beneath each arm, like ducklings beneath her wings.

‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ she said.

The five of them made a picture that was both beautiful and full of pathos. At this moment, Aphroditi would happily have swapped places with Kyria Frangos, who had neither home nor possessions and yet at this moment looked like the richest woman in the world. The Frangos family had lived in a small apartment on the outskirts of Famagusta and had left home taking nothing apart from their children. Neither a photo, nor a book, nor any piece of the past was in their hands to remind them of how life had been. They queued daily for food rations or small items such as spare socks for the children. There was little else available. Quite often if a dress or a pair of trousers needed washing, the children had to sit wrapped in a blanket while they dried.

They had no relatives in the south of the island with space to put them up but there was talk that the government was going to build special camps to give the refugees better accommodation.

‘If you can get to Nicosia,’ added Aphroditi, ‘come and stay with us.’

She bent down to give each of the three small girls and their brother a hug. It was the first time she had spent so many hours in the company of children, and they had been happy and rewarding times. Two of them were almost reading now. She had spent days and days working on their letters and making up stories. She was sad to be saying goodbye.

‘We’ll try and let you know where we end up,’ promised Costas as they said their final farewells.

With her handbag over her shoulder, Aphroditi walked away. As usual, her husband was waiting for her and growing impatient.

They drove in silence from the camp and towards Nicosia. The motion of the car brought on a return of the nausea that had so plagued Aphroditi in the past few weeks, and twice they had to stop for her to retch at the side of the road.

Their route was littered with debris and abandoned cars. From time to time they came across a crater in the road and had to drive on to rough ground to get round it. The landscape was dotted with bombed-out buildings. It was unrecognisable. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Their beautiful island had been ravaged.

Eventually they reached the outskirts of Nicosia. All around, there was evidence of the days of fierce fighting that had taken place. They passed the damaged Hilton and several apartment blocks that had been completely destroyed.

The apartment that had been owned by Aphroditi’s parents was close to the centre of the old town. Many of the older buildings had crumbled easily in the bombardment and it seemed that most of the windows in the city had been shattered.

The car struggled. It was not just the unevenness of the roads and the obstacles of rubble and abandoned sandbags that made the going slow. Savvas pulled in to the side of the street and got out.

‘Damn it! Damn it!’ he cursed, kicking the car. ‘We’ll have to walk.’

Two of the tyres were almost flat.

From where they had to leave the car, it was not far to the apartment. At least they had little to carry. Savvas had his briefcase with various papers and deeds that he had rescued from his study before they left, and Aphroditi merely had her handbag, containing keys to a home that now seemed a world away, some earrings, a purse and a pearl.

By some miracle, their apartment block still stood. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded up as a precaution but the owners had not returned. They both looked upwards. Their apartment was on the third floor, and from what they could see from the street, it looked relatively undamaged.

An elderly woman was pegging out laundry on the balcony above them. Her husband was watering some plants. A caged bird tweeted cheerfully. It was a Saturday morning.

The couple stopped their activities for a moment.

‘Good morning, Kyrie and Kyria Papacosta,’ called down the man. ‘
Ti kanete?
How are you?’

The greeting seemed so ordinary, so banal. It was the standard question of everyday life but one that was impossible to answer. The city all around them was in a state of dereliction, everyone was grieving lost relatives and homes, and yet flowers still needed tending and birds feeding.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Kyrios Markides,’ said his wife.

Aphroditi felt her mouth dry up. It was more than two years since they had been to stay in Nicosia. After the opening of The Sunrise, they had been too busy.

Kyria Loizou knew how to interpret her brave dismissive smile.

‘Has anyone been here to find me?’ Savvas asked.

Aphroditi held her breath, waiting for the answer.

‘Not as far as I know,’ the neighbour shouted down.

Aphroditi pushed open the main door and flicked the switch that illuminated the hallway. At least there was still electricity in the building. Markos had not come. They climbed the three flights and Savvas let them in to the apartment with his key. It was exactly as her parents had left it when they last visited.

Aphroditi wandered about opening the windows and shutters. There was a strong, musty smell that almost choked her. She was desperate to let in both light and air.

Savvas went out almost immediately.

‘I want to know what’s happened here,’ he said. ‘And I’ll see if I can find any shops open. It looked as if a few areas were returning to normal.’

Aphroditi was more than happy to be left alone.

In spite of the odour, the apartment was tidy and ordered. After the chaos in which they had been living during the past weeks, it seemed a haven. Everything looked so permanent and solid. It was unlike their own apartment in Famagusta, which was almost minimally furnished in 1970s style. Her parents had favoured heavy reproduction antiques. With most of the upholstery in shades of maroon or burgundy, it made the place gloomy.

For Aphroditi, this place was burdened by memory and emotion. It was the backdrop to her earliest years, when everything, including time, had seemed big and spacious. Standing in the room brought the past flooding back: visits from her grandparents, early birthdays, saints’ days, games with her brother. She even imagined that in the corner cupboard some wooden toys might still be stored.

Her parents’ belongings were dusty but undamaged. Most prominent in the room was a dark wood table. Protecting its surface was a white lace tablecloth, on top of which was a collection of photographs. There were wedding photos (Artemis and Trifonas Markides in black and white, Aphroditi and Savvas in colour), pictures of two godchildren and several of Aphroditi as a little girl with waist-length plaits. In another, Trifonas Markides was being presented with an award. The photo had been taken five years earlier. He was holding a plaque on which was etched an image of a ship. The actual plaque now hung on the wall: ‘Presented to Trifonas Markides for Achievement in the Development of Export by the Cyprus Chamber of Commerce’. In the photograph, he was shaking hands with a politician.

Larger than all of them, and most prominently displayed, was a graduation photograph of her brother Dimitris. He looked proud and handsome in ermine and mortar board at the ceremony in London. It was in an ornate silver frame, with the image on the left and engraved on the right his name and the dates of his birth and death.

A copy of the photograph sat on a grand tombstone not far away, with the same words: ‘
Yia panta tha se thimamai. Den tha se ksehaso poté.
’

Forever remembered. Never forgotten.

The tragedy of a short life stolen away in the prime of youth had been repeated many thousands of times in the past few months. Whatever anyone was saying, this conflict was not a new one. It had been taking lives and destroying happiness on this island for years.

Over in England, Artemis Markides looked at this same poignant image every single day.

Aphroditi felt as if someone had grabbed her heart and wrung it violently. She sat down for a moment. The pain of the past weeks, months and years flooded over her. Everything seemed to have disappeared. Her brother, her father, the man she loved. Nothing that she treasured remained.

Nicosia was where she had expected to see Markos again, but the catastrophe on the island had deepened in a way that none of them had ever imagined. Sooner or later he would bring the keys for The Sunrise. She held on to that thread of hope.

Perched on the edge of a chaise longue, she felt nauseous again and fled to the bathroom. Once she had vomited, she stood up. The small mirror on the front of the cabinet gave her a shock. It was the first time in many weeks that she had seen herself.

She saw a thin face, almost gaunt, with hollow eyes. Her hair was lank and straggly, the skin on her neck sagging and her complexion as white as the shirt that her neighbour had been hanging up. She washed her face and dried it on a towel that had gone crisp with time. It was surprising that Kyria Loizou had even known who she was.

For the first time, she realised how filthy her dress was. She took it off and put it in the bin. After a cold shower, she opened the wardrobe and found something fresh to wear. Her parents had left plenty of clothes in the cupboards and drawers, knowing that they would not be suitable for England. They had always planned to come back on a regular basis.

She chose a blouse and a skirt that she belted around her waist. Both garments almost drowned her. Although her mother was much plumper, the two women had almost the same size feet, so Aphroditi pulled out some flat sandals from the bottom of the wardrobe and buckled them up.

With her wet hair brushed back into a ponytail, she felt a little better. Her stylish bob had long since grown out. Before showering, she had left her showy earrings and pendant on her mother’s dressing table; she decided not to put these back on. It seemed inappropriate to wear such things now, and she opened the drawer to put them inside. There was an envelope there with her brother’s name on the outside. It was not the moment to cause herself any more pain, so she left it there. In any case, she respected her mother’s privacy and did not want to invade it.

Feeling revived, she decided to go out. Like Savvas, she was curious about what had taken place in Nicosia. She shut the door, left the key under the doormat, knowing that her husband would expect to find it there, and crept out of the main door. In due course, she would feel strong enough to make conversation with her kindly neighbours, but not yet, not now.

Aphroditi walked the city’s streets like a woman in disguise. When she caught sight of her reflection in the occasional shop window that was neither broken nor boarded up, it was as if she saw someone else.

Taking a route that twisted and turned through the old streets of Nicosia, she occasionally glimpsed the barrier that divided the city in two, old metal drums, makeshift fencing and barbed wire. It had been there for years but in many places was now reinforced. Evidence of the recent violence across the barricades was clear to see. Buildings were pockmarked with bullets, and the interiors of some were exposed to daylight where a hole had been crudely gouged by artillery fire.

A few of the smaller shops were functioning again, mostly grocers or general stores. She had no money with her so she could not buy anything; she hoped that Savvas would return with something for them to eat. Hunger was beginning to nag at her.

When Aphroditi returned to the apartment, Savvas was there.

There was a bag on the table and she could see that he had also spent some money on a new suit.

Even if he had been as tall and slim as his late father-in-law, the row of jackets and trousers hanging in the apartment would have been of no use to him. Savvas would not have worn second-hand clothes. Fortunately, a tailor near the Green Line had recently reopened.

‘It was as though he was sitting waiting for me,’ said Savvas, smiling for the first time in weeks. ‘He had three suits waiting for someone who was exactly my size!’

‘And that’s one of them?’

Savvas nodded. Aphroditi also noticed that he had been to the barber.

She looked inside the bag on the table. It contained some bread and milk.

‘There’s not much out there,’ he said glumly. ‘But the shopkeepers are expecting more supplies any day now.’

Aphroditi cut two slices of bread and ate both of them hungrily.

‘The city looks terrible, doesn’t it?’ she said, between mouthfuls.

‘Yes, it’s a mess. They say that a huge number of people left not so long ago because they were worried there was going to be more fighting. But the general view is that it’s all over.’

‘What do you mean, all over?’

‘That this is it. That the line is drawn. And there is nothing we can do about it.’

‘But what about Famagusta?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Savvas. ‘We’ll get Famagusta back all right. But not Kyrenia. I don’t think we’ll be going there for a while.’

‘Can we go home?’ asked Aphroditi, grasping at the prospect of normal life.

‘Not yet,’ said Savvas. ‘But let’s hope it won’t be long.’

Aphroditi began to make coffee.

‘I’m really annoyed with Markos Georgiou for not getting the keys to me,’ Savvas added. ‘I suppose he’ll turn up with them eventually. And all the jewellery’s there too …’

Aphroditi found some sugar in the cupboard. She usually drank her coffee
sketo
, without sugar, but the sweetness gave her much-needed energy.

‘Perhaps we’ll be able to start all over again with The New Paradise Beach,’ said Savvas. ‘I’ve been checking the insurance policies. We might be covered.’

‘And what about The Sunrise? Do you think it’s been damaged?’

‘Let’s hope not,’ responded Savvas. ‘We’ll know as soon as we can go back.’

For the first time in weeks, Aphroditi pictured a return to the old life. Perhaps all the daydreams of lying in Markos’ arms, his lips touching hers, would become a reality once again.