The Sunrise (14 page)

He had plenty of friends who were more involved, however, so he was always a suspect, and at seventeen he had felt a British gun pushed into his back during a search. This was the closest he had ever got to danger.

Many of his classmates believed that the union of Cyprus with Greece was a divine mission and for that reason alone God would protect anyone who fought for it. This had been their understanding of President Makarios’ teaching.

Even before one of his school friends was killed by a British bullet, and a second was hanged in 1959, Markos suspected there was no sweetness in martyrdom. Up close, death had a pungent odour. It was ugly and wasteful and the smell of blood was acrid. He knew then that there was no connection between this stench and the sweet smell of incense that was the aroma of religion, no matter if Makarios appeared to condone violence.

By the time the Republic of Cyprus was declared, his residual faith in the teachings of the Church had been wiped out, something he kept from his mother. His belief that
enosis
was a holy cause had vanished.

‘The point is, Markos, you all gave up. You didn’t reach the finishing line.’

‘Without us, Christos, Cyprus would still be under the British,’ he said quietly. He was aware of his mother’s presence in the apartment below and knew how upsetting she found the sound of raised voices. ‘Without us, there would never have been independence!’

‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it!’

Christos was too young to know how things had changed since then and stubbornly refused to understand why Markos wanted to exploit all the new opportunities that he saw opening up around him. The growth of tourism and the expansion of every kind of trade in Famagusta were part of a bigger economic miracle. Markos remembered the lean years and preferred the present day.

He could see that Christos was inflamed by the cause. Personally he no longer cared about
enosis
, but as the sense of unrest in the country grew, he could imagine the danger his brother might be in.

Although Markos challenged Christos and rather enjoyed provoking him, he did have a little sympathy with him purely because they were brothers. There was no question of him joining the cause himself, but perhaps he could facilitate something that might keep Christos a little safer and hence keep danger away from the family home. He was not prepared to make bombs, construct booby-traps or meet at the dead of night to plan sabotage, but there might be a way he could contribute without personal danger.

‘I won’t fight for Grivas,’ he said to Christos. ‘But I’ll see what else I can do.’

His plan dovetailed with another idea that had been incubating in his mind.

After years of making himself indispensable to Savvas Papacosta, he had begun to enjoy the status as his right-hand man. But now, when he delivered his weekly accounts, with everything minutely accounted for, there was little gratitude from his boss. The success of the Clair de Lune was taken for granted, along with the huge income it brought in, a sum that was immediately assigned to the new development.

There was no mention of a bonus, or even a yearly pay rise for all the extra hours and effort he put in, and Markos’ resentment had begun to fester. If Savvas was not going to recognise his efforts properly, perhaps he would balance things out himself. He felt as if something was owed.

Markos, in fact, had a specific plan. Since he had begun his new project, Savvas’ focus had moved entirely away from The Sunrise. He had put aside all that had previously mattered to him and no longer had his eye on the minutiae of his business. This gave Markos freedom.

Most of the clientele at The Sunrise paid in cash, either in dollars, pounds or Deutschmarks, and a day or two might easily elapse before it could be safely banked. In anticipation, a row of safes had been installed in a vault next to the nightclub. They could accommodate not just the hotel’s day-to-day money supply, but also valuable papers such as deeds and contracts.

The vault in which the safes were housed had two iron doors and triple locking. The basement contained an extensive network of rooms in addition to the nightclub. It was the invisible part of the hotel, where anything unsightly was hidden, including the laundry rooms and boilers.

Earnings from the Clair de Lune were the single largest element of cash income. Markos had naturally become the keeper of the keys and had the daily task of ensuring that cash was taken to the bank or to Savvas’ on-site office on payday. In having total control over the vault, he had discovered the pleasure of power.

‘If you want somewhere to keep something secure, just let me know,’ he said to Christos. ‘I have just the place.’

‘Thanks, Markos,’ the younger brother responded. ‘I’ll remember that.’

Shortly after their conversation, Christos took up his brother’s offer.

Markos was drinking a coffee in his mother’s courtyard before going to work. Even though the end of the year was approaching, the sun still gave enough warmth for them to sit outside. The light was sharp and the sky blue. It was a sweet and pleasant day and Vasilis Georgiou had gone off in the truck to the smallholding to plant carrots.

Markos was admiring some gerania that his mother had asked him to move into the sunshine to catch the warmth.

‘
Leventi
mou
, they look much happier there. Thank you so much.’

Irini, in shawl and woollen skirt, was sitting at the table having a rest when she saw her younger son appear through the gate.

‘Christos, what a nice surprise. You haven’t come to see me in days!’

Markos glanced at him, interested to see what excuse he would offer.

‘I’m sorry, Mother. It’s been busy at the garage … Will you make me a coffee?’

‘Of course,
yioka mou
.’

She bustled inside, only too pleased.

‘Markos,’ Christos began, as soon as their mother was out of earshot. ‘I need your help.’

Irini Georgiou appeared a minute or two later with a plate of
kourabiedes.
The biscuits were freshly baked and a cloud of icing sugar still hovered above them.

Her sons’ conversation was curtailed, but they had exchanged the information they needed to.

‘And why aren’t you at work?’ asked Irini.

‘Just taking the day off,’ Christos replied quickly.

He nibbled on one of the biscuits and then got up to leave.

‘But I haven’t even brought out your coffee!’

‘Sorry, Mother, I have to go. I’ve got things to do.’

‘Oh,’ she said, with obvious disappointment. ‘Never mind …’

He pecked her on the cheek and left.

Irini disappeared into her kitchen to turn off the stove. The coffee was just coming to the boil.

Markos was still sitting there when she returned.

‘That was a hurried visit,’ she said. ‘Is he all right? There’s been a lot of noise upstairs in the last few nights.’

Markos did not answer. Over the past weeks he had been getting home at four or five in the morning, by which time Christos’ friends had finally left.

‘Is he … getting involved?’

‘What do you mean,
Mamma
?’

‘You
know
what I mean, Markos. Your father might be deaf, but I’m not. I can’t hear what they are saying, but I know he and his friends aren’t just playing cards.’

Markos drew on his cigarette, filling in time while he tried to think of an answer.

‘And I know I don’t get out of the house much, but I do hear rumours,’ his mother continued.

She swept the crumbs left by the biscuits into the palm of her hand and absent-mindedly dropped them into the pocket of her apron.

‘I know Grivas is somewhere in the background and I don’t want you two to have anything to do with him. He’s an evil man, Markos.’

‘
Mamma!
’

‘I mean it, my darling. He kills Greeks as well as Turks! There’s not an ounce of goodness in that man.’

Irini had tears in her eyes. Her mood had changed from calmness to hand-wringing vexation. She never read a book, but she could read her sons’ behaviour with ease. She knew it could not be a coincidence that Christos was so secretive and withdrawn. Even though it operated clandestinely, everyone was aware of EOKA B and was affected by its activities, whether they were specifically targeted or merely leaned on, terrorised even, for support. It took courage to resist.

She had a hunch that Christos was getting drawn in. His behaviour was furtive and she knew he skipped going to work because she sometimes checked up on him. He worked as a car mechanic in a garage at the end of their street, and Irini often strolled by on the pretext of going to the store. If she could not see his mop of dark hair, it meant that he was not there.

His irregular hours gave him away too. Up until now, he had always passed by on his way back from the workshop, his hands still black with oil. These days he rarely did, and when she saw him return, it was often much later in the day, and his hands were clean.

‘
Mamma
, you mustn’t worry. Christos knows how to look after himself.’

‘But it’s not just him I’m worried about, Markos. I’m thinking of all of us. I don’t want to go back to those terrible years when we were all living in fear. If you didn’t support Grivas and his people, there was no saying what could happen to you.’

‘You mustn’t get so anxious …’

‘But don’t you remember? He even executed that woman in our village! And we nearly lost your father! I still have nightmares about those days.’

‘It’s not like that now.’

‘I don’t know what makes you so sure. It’s the same man. The same ideas! Grivas hasn’t changed his mind about anything.’

‘But he doesn’t have the same support as he did.’

‘Our president isn’t behind him, I know that. So
he
’d better watch out too.’

‘I think he knows the dangers,
Mamma
,’ said Markos.

Both mother and son were silent for a while, as Irini kept busy clearing and sweeping and watering her plants and Markos quietly sipped his coffee.

‘Have a word with Christos, will you,’ she implored. ‘God might not look after this family twice.’ She crossed herself and looked at her son, her eyes full of tears.

Markos got up to hug her.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said softly, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of her skin. ‘Try not to worry,
Mamma
, try not to worry.’

In the warm embrace of her silken-haired son, all anxieties drifted away. Markos had that effect. She loved him more than anyone else in the world.

Markos drove to work that afternoon knowing that he had not been entirely honest with his mother. He was very conscious of the effect he had on her. He had spent his whole life exercising his charm with Irini Georgiou, and as an adult he had learned how potent it was with other women too. It was like alchemy.

He had understood the effect of a smile even before consciousness and language. As a baby, he was aware that if he moved his mouth into a smile he got a response. It was like a special power.

One reason he had felt such antipathy towards Aphroditi Papacosta was his failure to charm her with his smile when they first met. For him, the bitter cocktail of resentment and rivalry had started there, and grown as they had to compete for Savvas’ praise and attention. Since the opening of The Sunrise, eighteen months before, he had been forced to see the boss’s wife every day. He acknowledged her physical perfection. The ideals of form and proportion that she embodied made her beauty a fact, not a matter of opinion.

Now, when she turned up each night for the drinks reception, almost burdened by her jewellery and expensive clothes, he still smiled even though he knew not to expect a reaction. Aphroditi was not the sort of woman he liked. To him, she was overtly spoiled, the type who was ruined first by her father and then by her husband.

Obliged to take over Savvas’ duties as host at The Sunrise, Markos had continued his almost obsequious courtesy to his boss’s wife, and Aphroditi in turn sustained her cool formality. He had begun to detect that she might be simmering with as much anger against her husband as he was, and he started to wonder if she could be useful to him.

Aphroditi’s silent fury with Savvas had lasted for months. Until the day when he had announced that he was going to spend almost every waking hour at the building site, she had felt equal in their business and entitled to a half-share in both decision-making and profit. Even though ownership was joint on paper, he began to behave proprietorially. He was too caught up in his work even to notice her annoyance with him. By contrast, Markos’ reliable presence and impeccable charm each evening became almost comforting.

One night, she acknowledged to herself that she had become less irritated by Markos Georgiou than before. It was just after New Year, and a Cypriot Night was taking place. Guests stood in a circle to watch the demonstration of basic dance steps.

‘Do you know how?’ asked Markos as they sat finishing dessert.

Aphroditi looked him straight in the eye, for perhaps only the second time. For the first time, she noticed that they were deep green. Like emeralds, she thought.

‘Of course I do!’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I just imagined …’

She knew what was in his mind: that she somehow felt it beneath her to perform the traditional dances.

To prove him wrong, she got up and joined the dancers, showing that she knew the footwork as well as any of them. She took the hands of a couple standing on the edge and patiently repeated the moves for the novices.

Markos watched her, slightly mesmerised. His eyes followed her as she went round in a circle. Yes, he thought, she does know the dances, and as they speeded up, he realised how well.

Frau Bruchmeyer was in the midst of it all, now quite accomplished with many of the steps and able to help the other guests.

Towards the end of the evening, when the movements got faster and the beginners just stood to watch, Markos joined in with the all-male
zeibekiko
. Now it was Aphroditi’s turn to be the spectator. The nightclub manager held everyone’s attention. His lithe and supple body was perfect for this enthralling, masculine dance. Everyone clapped in time with the music as he rotated, arms outstretched, and performed a series of acrobatic leaps.