The Sunrise (8 page)

A few hours later, Frau Bruchmeyer arrived at her new home. The staff at The Paradise Beach had been sorry to see her go. She was like a lucky mascot. A small team carried her luggage down to a waiting taxi. Four expensive suitcases were loaded into the car, two into the boot and the others on to the front seat. She carried a matching vanity case herself, and with promises that she would return to see them all she had discreetly handed each of the staff who came to wave her off ‘a little something’.

By lunchtime, she was settled into her luxurious abode, a sitting room with bedroom and bathroom en suite. To her eyes, it was a glorious palace, with huge mirrors on the walls, a large oil painting of a French landscape, a pair of crystal chandeliers, furniture that was upholstered, piped and tasselled, a grand bureau and a four-poster bed. Her clothes all fitted comfortably inside the double wardrobe.

Once she had unpacked, ordered a light lunch in her room and rested for a few hours on the chaise longue, Frau Bruchmeyer then showered and began her slow and elaborate preparations for the evening. The nightclub at The Sunrise would be opening for the first time but, before that, she had an invitation to dinner with the hotel proprietors.

She fastened her charm bracelet, the last gift that her husband had given her, and caught the lift down to the foyer.

At around the same time, Aphroditi was carefully selecting her own jewellery for the evening. She unlocked the top left-hand drawer of the dressing table. Almost without glancing down, she picked up a pair of earrings and fastened them to her ears. They were round, like coat buttons, with a huge stone in the centre. Then she slid on a broad bangle (slightly too large for her slender wrist, but she had not yet had time to get it adjusted) with eight of the same aquamarines set in gold, and after that she slipped over her head a thick chain on which hung a pendant, a single stone that dwarfed the others. Finally there was a ring. The design of the whole set was minimal – the cut of the gems was its feature. They needed no embellishment. The translucent blue and pale gold were the hues of the island, perhaps the reason that the jeweller had named the collection
Hromata tis Kiprou
– ‘Colours of Cyprus’. They were the same colours in which every islander was bathed from day to day, but only Aphroditi possessed them in this way.

She had gone with her parents to the airport late morning but had done little else that day. Their farewell was full of unspoken emotion and little outward show of feeling. Anyone observing them might have assumed that the sixty-year-old couple had come home for a family funeral. There was no other reason why a woman would have worn a black dress on such a sunny day as this.

Nicosia airport was very busy at this time of year, with planes coming and going each hour. The arrivals area thronged with expectant package tourists, while the departures lounge was slightly more subdued, with tanned holidaymakers regretful that their time in paradise had ended.

‘I am so glad you were there last night,’ said Aphroditi, addressing both her parents. ‘It meant a lot to us.’

‘The hotel is magnificent,
kardia mou
,’ responded her father. ‘I am sure it will be a big success.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened without your help, Father.’

‘The money was one thing,’ he replied. ‘The hard work was all your husband’s … and yours, of course.’

‘I hope you’ll come again soon, maybe for a bit longer …’

Her words sounded empty and automatic. She knew as well as they did that neither of these things was likely to happen.

She squeezed her mother’s arm affectionately, and Artemis bowed her head as if to shy away from the kiss that her daughter wanted to give her.

Aphroditi swallowed hard.

A moment later she found herself enveloped in her father’s embrace.

‘Goodbye, sweetheart. It was lovely to see you,’ he said. ‘Take care.’

‘You take care of yourselves too,’ she said firmly.

She watched her parents as they went through passport control and out of sight. Only her father glanced over his shoulder and gave a final wave.

Now that the party had taken place and the hotel was officially open, Aphroditi would have much less to do. She felt a strong sense of anticlimax and emptiness as she drove back from the airport, and wondered how she was going to fill her days. She had worked for months towards the grand opening, designing the flower arrangements, tasting the canapés and compiling the guest list. Her job with the soft furnishings was completed too.

How would she maintain her status from now on, if she was expected to do little more than plan the occasional event and appear each day for cocktails and dinner?

This would be a performance that required careful preparation, though, one stage of which was the daily visit to the hairdresser.

‘Kyria Papacosta, what an evening that must have been!’ exclaimed Emine when Aphroditi appeared at the salon entrance. The hairdressers had already seen the account of it in the daily newspaper. ‘
Everyone
who was anyone was there! Everyone important, I mean!’

Emine and Aphroditi shared the easy familiarity of people who had known each other for a long time. To the Turkish Cypriot, Aphroditi played many roles: daughter, client, and now employer. Perhaps the latter should suggest a greater formality, but tacitly they both rejected such an artificial change.

‘And you looked so wonderful!’

‘Thank you, Emine,’ replied Aphroditi. ‘My hair certainly had a lot of compliments!’

‘We’ve had quite a few people in today,’ said Emine. ‘Non-residents wanting the excuse to come in and have a snoop round, I think.’

‘But a few bookings from the new guests too?’ enquired Aphroditi.

‘Plenty!’ replied Savina.

Tonight Aphroditi had chosen a bold green dress to offset the translucent aquamarines. The sleeves finished at the elbow to ensure that the bangle was visible. The skirt was full and gathered, accentuating her small waist.

‘Those colours really suit you,’ murmured Emine, combing through Aphroditi’s waist-length hair. ‘You look so beautiful!’

‘You are very sweet. I feel a bit weary today. It was a long night.’

‘Are your parents staying for a while?’ Savina was polishing the mirror next to where Aphroditi was sitting.

‘No, I’m afraid not …’ said Aphroditi, their eyes meeting in the glass. ‘They’ve gone already. You know what my mother’s like.’

Both the women in the salon understood entirely.

Emine remembered the first time she had seen Artemis Markides after her son’s death. She seemed to have shrunk to half her previous size, and Emine swore to friends that the woman’s hair had gone from mahogany brown to grey overnight.

‘I have always heard it can happen,’ she reported, ‘and I never believed it. But I swear to you I saw it with my own eyes
.
’

‘Oh, it’s a shame they were in such a hurry to leave,’ said Savina. ‘I’ve heard the weather is so bad in England. And your mother used to like sitting in the sunshine.’

‘I’m not sure she likes anything much these days …’ said Aphroditi.

There was a pause.

‘Can you tidy it? Put it up again, without all those wispy bits?’ she asked.

Emine ran her comb once again through Aphroditi’s long, thick tresses and divided them into two, then both hairdressers began to plait, eventually winding them round and round, creating a bun that was positioned higher on her head than it had been the previous evening. The hair was heavy and shiny and needed dozens of pins to hold it in place.

The height of the hair somehow emphasised her long, elegant neck. Swept upwards and away from her face, it also meant that the earrings were more exposed.

Savina held a mirror up behind Aphroditi so that she had a view of the result from behind.

‘
Katapliktika!
’ she said. ‘Fantastic!’

‘Almost better than last night,’ said Emine.

‘Tonight is even more important,’ said Aphroditi, suddenly cheered by the familiar company of the women. With Emine and Savina, she found she could relax. She did not have to act the boss’s wife.

‘It’s the first proper evening. The real beginning.’

‘You sound excited.’

‘I am. I really am. And so is Savvas.’

‘Like your saint’s day when you’re a child. You dream of it but never think it will actually come.’

‘We’ve been planning it all for so long. And now it’s here.’

‘Who’s going to be there?’

‘Oh, everyone who is staying in the hotel. And we’re having something like a banquet.’

Despite the sophistication of her appearance, Aphroditi displayed the excitement of a child. She was on her feet now and twirled round, pirouetting like a doll on a musical box.

Smiling, both the other women stood back to admire her. All three of them were reflected in the mirror and briefly, with Aphroditi in the middle, they held hands.

Aphroditi released her hold.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. And thank you. Thank you for everything.’

When she reached the foyer, Savvas was already greeting the first guests and guiding them towards the terrace.

Markos was outside, directing his staff to serve drinks. Frau Bruchmeyer was close by, glass in hand, chatting to some German guests. As she waved her hands about to emphasise a point, the heavy rings on her slender fingers rattled, and her charm bracelet tinkled. She was full of enthusiasm for her new home, and the other guests were fascinated to hear how it had come about that she lived day after day under the blue Cyprus skies.

Markos enjoyed Frau Bruchmeyer’s company. The elegant septuagenarian had an appetite for life that he admired, and she was often the last person to leave the bar. Sometimes Markos daringly gave her a kiss on both cheeks at the end of an evening.

When Savvas came out on to the terrace, Markos noticed Aphroditi, in green, behind him.

Crème de menthe, he thought. That’s what she reminds me of.

It was a dislikeable drink, one that he never encouraged people to have. Serving something that tasted like mouthwash was counterintuitive to him, even though it was popular among a certain type of guest.

He watched as one of his staff took over a tray of drinks. It seemed to him that Aphroditi did not acknowledge the waiter as she took a glass. At least Savvas had the courtesy to give a little bow before resuming his conversation. If only the boss’s wife had the same manners. She was as cool as mint, as cold as crushed ice.

At eight, everyone was ushered away and seated in a small dining room that would be used for private receptions. Tonight there was a buffet, as this was the best way to show off the talents and ambitions of the chef and his team.

The head chef had trained in Paris. He did not produce meals. He created banquets. Colour and shape were important, and if he could make one thing look like another, he would. A fish, for example, might be transformed into a swan, or perhaps a many-petalled flower. Desserts should aspire to some kind of fantasy: a multi-layered castle or an ancient trireme.

Savvas had adopted the manner of a ship’s captain, and was professional and courteous at all times with both passengers and crew. As far as he was concerned, the hotel was no different from a cruise liner. It was a contained space in which it was possible for everything to be in precise order, and routine was paramount.

Aphroditi spoke mostly to the wives, while Savvas discussed politics and finance with the bankers, businessmen and wealthy retirees who were their first guests. It was a relatively intimate gathering.

By the time the desserts were laid out, the guests had almost run out of superlatives.

Frau Bruchmeyer, who was sitting at the top table as guest of honour next to Savvas, clapped her hands together with delight. Though she maintained her slim frame, she had a sweet tooth and sampled a small portion of each of the dozen or so tarts, gateaux, mousses and charlottes. Even then, her bright pink lipstick remained immaculately in place.

The highlight of the evening for her would be the visit to the nightclub. At the end of dinner, some guests drifted away to smoke cigars and drink brandies on the terrace. Women excused themselves to go to the ladies’ room to powder their noses. The nightclub was about to open its doors.

The first guests arrived on the dot of eleven o’clock. They were offered a complimentary drink, and with most of the whiskies costing more than one pound for a single measure, few of them turned down the invitation.

Markos moved from table to table, holding out his hand to greet everyone personally and making each client feel that this was his or her own private place. Everybody was charmed. Nobody was in a hurry to leave such an environment or to say good night to the host.

He showed Frau Bruchmeyer to a seat close to the stage. She was a little deaf in one ear and he wanted her to be able to appreciate the act. A couple from Athens whom she had met during dinner were her companions that night, and within a few hours they had already developed an easy familiarity that made them seem like old friends. Frau Bruchmeyer ordered a bottle of champagne for the three of them.

‘Hang the expense!’ she said as a toast to them all.

‘To life!’ said the husband, delighted by this unexpected, effervescent company.

Around one in the morning, the piped music faded out and the purple curtains behind the stage parted. A woman emerged. A murmur of surprise rippled around the audience. What they saw was the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe.

She sang the English lyrics impeccably, in a sweet, husky voice that raised the temperature in the room, but when she spoke to the audience between songs, it was with a heavy Greek accent. It made the audience admire the pinpoint accuracy of the impersonation all the more.

Up in the foyer, Savvas stood with Aphroditi.

‘Darling, shall we go and have a drink before we leave? Markos told me there is a great singer there tonight.’

Aphroditi felt herself wince even at the mention of Markos’ name.

‘I really don’t want to, Savvas,’ she said. ‘I am so tired after last night.’

‘But darling, it’s the Clair de … the nightclub’s opening night!’