Bitter Lemons of Cyprus: Life on a Mediterranean Island (6 page)

He also produced some pickled
beccafico
which I had read about but never before tasted, and together we crunched the small birds to bits as we tasted the wines of Cyprus and sagely assessed them. There is no knowing how long this expressive and rambling conversation would have gone on had we not been interrupted—this time by one of Clito’s daughters who put her lips to the crack in the front door and shouted: “Mother says unless you come at once she will call her mother.”

This threat had an electrifying effect on my friend. He made a swift tour of the spigots, blew out the candles and produced a bunch of keys. “We must go,” he said regretfully. I made some attempt to settle the reckoning but he brushed aside my money with the remark I was to come to know so well: “A stranger does not pay in Cyprus.” I thought I saw a reproachful flicker in the eyes of the two Victorians in the cartoon. “Besides,” said Clito, “none of my friends ever pays, and I consider you a friend after all we have passed through together
tonight.” He seemed on the point of tears. I was afraid that he was thinking about my brother. “Tell me,” I said to divert him, “how would you set about buying a house here?” He thought. “I should go to the biggest rogue in Kyrenia—of course everyone is a rogue in Kyrenia except me—but I should go to Sabri the Turk. He is a
terrestrial
rogue of business and has many houses.” He spread his arms to try to indicate the full extent of Sabri’s roguery. I thought it odd that a Greek should recommend a Turk until I remembered how little he trusts his own compatriots. “Sabri,” said Clito firmly. “He’s the one I would go to. But
beware
!”

His expiring hiss of warning died quietly on the moonlight. I saw his daughter take his unsteady arm and pilot him in the direction of home.

Chapter Four: How to Buy a House

Last of all came the Greeks and inquired of the Lord for their gift.

‘What gift would you like?’ said the Lord.

‘We would like the gift of Power,’ said the Greeks.

The Lord replied: ‘Ah, my poor Greeks, you have come too late. All the gifts have been distributed. There is practically nothing left. The gift of Power has been given to the Turks, the Bulgarians the gift of Labor; the Jews of Calculation, the French of Trickery and the English of Foolishness.’

The Greeks waxed very angry at this and shouted ‘By what intrigue have we been overlooked?’

‘Very well,’ said the Lord. ‘Since you insist, you too shall have a present and not remain empty-handed—may Intrigue be your lot,’ said the Lord.

—Bulgarian Folk Tale

S
ABRI TAHIR’S OFFICE
in the Turkish quarter of Kyrenia bore a sun-blistered legend describing him as a valuer and estate agent, but his activities
had proliferated since the board was painted and he was clearly many things besides. The center of the cobweb was a dark cool godown perched strategically upon a junction of streets, facing the little Turkish shrine of some saint or warrior whose identity had vanished from the record, but whose stone tomb was still an object of veneration and pilgrimage for the faithful. It stood under a dusty and desiccated pepper tree, and one could always find an
ex voto
or two hanging beside it.

Beyond was a featureless empty field of nettles in which stood a couple of shacks full of disembodied pieces of machinery and huge heaps of uncut carob and olive, mingled with old railway sleepers and the carcasses of buses which always turned up here at the end of the trail, as if to some Elephants’ Graveyard, to be turned into fuel. Sabri’s Empire was still in an embryonic stage, though it was quite clear that he was speculating wisely. A circular saw moaned and gnashed all day in one of the shacks under the ministrations of two handsome Turkish youths with green headbands and dilapidated clothes; a machine for making cement blocks performed its slow but punctual evacuations, accompanied by a seductive crunch.

Sabri could watch all these diverse activities from the darkness of his shop where he sat for the greater part of the day before a Turkish coffee, unmoved, unmoving, but watchful. His desk was in the far corner against the wall, and to reach it one traversed a
terrain vague
which resembled the basement of Maples, so crowded
was it with armchairs, desks, prams, cooking-stoves, heaters, and all the impedimenta of gracious living.

The man himself was perhaps forty years of age, sturdily built, and with a fine head on his shoulders. He had the sleepy good looks—a rare smile with perfect teeth, thoughtful brown eyes—which one sees sometimes in Turkish travel posters. But what was truly Turkish about him was the physical repose with which he confronted the world. No Greek can sit still without fidgeting, tapping a foot or a pencil, jerking a knee, or making popping noises with his tongue. The Turk has a monolithic poise, an air of reptilian concentration and silence. It is with just such an air that a chameleon can sit, hour after hour, upon a shrub, staring unwinkingly at the world, living apparently in that state of suspended judgment which is summed up by the Arabic word
kayf
. I have seen Sabri loading logs, shouting at peasants, even running down a street; but never has he conveyed the slightest feeling of energy being expended. His actions and words had the smoothness of inevitability; they flowed from him like honey from a spoon.

On that first morning when I stepped into the shadows of his shop, the headquarters of the empire, he was sitting dreamily at his desk mending a faulty cigarette-lighter. His good-morning was civil, though preoccupied and indifferent; but as I approached he paused for one instant to snap finger and thumb and a chair materialized from the shadows behind him. I sat down.
He abandoned his task and sat silent and unwinking before me. “Mr. Sabri,” I said, “I need your help. I have been making inquiries in Kyrenia and on all sides I am told that you are the most untrustworthy man of business in the place—in fact, the biggest rogue.”

He did not find the idea offensive so much as merely interesting. His shrewd eye sharpened a trifle, however, and he lowered his head to scan me more gravely. I went on. “Now knowing the Levant as I do, I know that a reputation for being a rogue means one thing and one thing only. It means that one is
cleverer
than other people.” I accompanied this with the appropriate gesture—for cleverness in the hand-language is indicated by placing the forefinger of the right hand slowly and portentously upon the temple: tapping slightly, as one might tap a breakfast-egg. (Incidentally, one has to be careful, as if one turns the finger in the manner of turning a bolt in a thread, the significance is quite different: it means to be “soft in the head” or to “have a screw loose.”) I tapped my skull softly.
“Cleverer
than other people,” I repeated. “So clever that the stupid are envious of one.”

He did not assent or dissent from the proposition. He simply sat and considered me as one might a piece of machinery if one were uncertain of its use. But the expression in his eyes shifted slightly in a manner suggesting the faintest, most tenuous admiration. “I am here,” I went on, convinced by this time that his English was good, for he had followed me unerringly so
far, to judge by his face, “I am here as a comparatively poor man to ask you a favor, not to make you a business proposition. There is no money to be made out of me. But I want you to let me use your brains and experience. I’m trying to find a cheap village house in which to settle for a year or two—perhaps forever if I like it enough here. I can see now that I was not wrong; far from being a rogue you are obviously a Turkish gentleman, and I feel I can confide myself entirely to your care—if you will accept such a thing. I have nothing to offer except gratitude and friendship. I ask you as a Turkish gentleman to assist me.”

Sabri s color had changed slowly throughout this harangue and when I ended he was blushing warmly. I could see that I had scored a diplomatic stroke in throwing myself completely upon the iron law of hospitality which underpins all relations in the Levant. More than this, I think the magic word “gentleman” turned the trick in my favor for it accorded him an unaccustomed place in the consideration of strangers which he certainly merited, and which he thenceforward lived up to in his dealings with me. By a single tactful speech I had made a true friend.

He leaned forward at his desk, smiling now, and patted my hand gently, confidingly: “But of course, my dear,” he said, “of course.”

Then he suddenly threw up his chin and barked an order. A barefoot youth materialized from the shadows bearing Coca-Cola on a tray, apparently ordered
by some invisible gesture a while before. “Drink” he said quietly, “and tell me what house you want.”

“A village house, not a modern villa.”

“How far away?”

“Not far. Among these hills.”

“Old houses need doing up.”

“If I can buy one cheaply I shall do it up.”

“How much can you spend?”

“Four hundred pounds.”

He looked grave at this and this was understandable, for the price of land had been soaring since the war, and indeed continued to soar until the time of my departure from the island when building plots in the center of Nicosia cost roughly the same as those in Washington. “My dear,” he said thoughtfully, and stroked his moustache. “My dear.” Outside the darkness of his shop the spring sunshine glistened on trees loaded with cold tangerines; a cold wind touched the fronds of the palm trees, quick with the taste of snow from the Taurus mountains across the water. “My dear,” repeated Sabri thoughtfully. “Of course if you lived very far away it would be quite easy, but do you wish to be within reach of the capital?” I nodded. “If I run out of money then I shall have to work, and there is nothing to be found out of Nicosia.” He nodded. “Somewhere not too far from Kyrenia you want an arty old house.” That summed it up perfectly. Sabri took a thoughtful turn or two among the shadows and stubbed out his cigarette on the box. “Honestly, my dear,” he said, “it will be a matter of luck.
I do hear of things, but it is a matter of luck. And it is very difficult to find one person to deal with. You are at once in a bloody family, my dear.” I did not then know what he meant. I was soon to learn.

“Do not be disappointed if you hear nothing from me for a while. What you ask is not easy, but I think I can do it. I will be working on it even if I am silent. Do you understand, my dear?” His handshake was warm.

I had hardly reached the main street on my way back to Panos’s house when Renos the boot-black came out of a side street and took my arm. He was a tiny little wisp of a man with the sort of eyes one finds sewn on to rag dolls. “My friend,” he said, “you have been to see Sabri.” This is the favorite Mediterranean game, a tireless spying upon the movements of friends and acquaintances, and is common to all communities which do not read, whose whole life is built up by oral tradition and common gossip. “Yes,” I said.

“Phew.” He went through a pantomime in the hand language, burning his fingers on hot coals and blowing upon them. This meant “You will be stung.” I shrugged my shoulders. “What to do?” I said cheerfully. “Aie aie,” said Renos, laying one hand to his cheek and rocking his head commiseratingly as if he had toothache. But he said no more.

By the time I got home Panos himself had been informed of my visit—doubtless by bush telegraph. “You have been to see Sabri,” he said as I crossed the brilliant courtyard of the church and joined him on
his balcony over the bewitching blueness of the spring sea. “About a house?” I nodded. “You have done well,” he said. “Indeed I was going to suggest it.”

“Clito says he is a rogue.”

“Nonsense. His dealings with me have been perfectly honorable. He is a pretty sharp business man, of course, which is not usual among Turks who are always half asleep. But he is no more of a rogue than anyone else. In fact, Clito himself is a rogue, if it comes to that. He overcharged me for this bottle of Commanderia. Incidentally did you tell Sabri how much money you have?”

“No, I told him less than I actually had.”

Panos chuckled admiringly. “I see you understand business in these parts. Everything gets gossiped about, so that whatever price you would be prepared to pay would soon be known to everyone. You did right to put it low.”