Daughter of the Winds

DAUGHTER OF THE WINDS

A novel by Jo Bunt

The dead die once. The disappeared die every day

Ernesto
Sabato – Argentinian writer

Prologue

Trap
ped. Enveloped in solid, unrelenting darkness, it was hard to know whether my eyes were open or closed. Deepest, undiluted black surrounded me as the fear gripped me. The chances of anyone finding me here, in the heart of the Ghost Town, were slim. Nobody knew where I was. I had made sure of that.

The air was clotted with brick dust and i
t was becoming more difficult for me to breathe now. Dry air clawed at my throat but I couldn’t muster enough energy to cough the irritant away. Something dense and cold lay heavily across my left arm and the lower half of my body. It pained me to suck in the oxygen I needed to maintain consciousness. I knew that my grip on the physical world around me was becoming more tenuous by the second. My legs weren’t moving but I could just about wriggle the fingers of my trapped hand. I ran my tongue over my swollen lips, metallic and tacky with blood. The taste made me swell with nausea but I breathed slowly through my nose until the sickness passed.

My right arm was unpinned and I lifted it up
fearfully to see how much space I had to move in. Barely twelve inches off the ground, the back of my hand struck something cold and rough. Sliding my arm from side to side, I was able to discern that it had once been part of the building that I had been exploring when the accident had happened. My breath was coming fast and shallow now. Tears pricked at my eyes. I mustn’t panic.

I tried to lift my head off the ground but pain shot through my back and legs.
Turning my arm around, I bent my elbow and dragged my free hand up to my shoulder. So far so good. I reached upwards tentatively but found an impenetrable ceiling. Bracing myself against the cool confines of my tomb, I pushed with pitifully little strength in my one free arm but nothing gave way. I was cold, uncomfortable and in pain. My legs were wet. I hoped it was from the rain that had been pelting down earlier, but I feared it was my blood seeping away, taking with it what little life I had left. It looked like my stubbornness had finally led to my very literal downfall.

It was too late now to ask
“What if?” But even so, I started thinking about what had led me here and how, just a week ago, I had pictured a far different ending. It was ironic that I would die here, in the exact spot where I was born. The exact spot where I should have died all those years ago. It goes to show that you can’t cheat death. He will catch up with you eventually.

Chapter one

The frost-dotted
window gave me my first glimpse of Aphrodite’s Island. From this height it looked uninhabited, the beaches empty and smooth, the sea clear turquoise and unruffled. Everybody else on this airplane was looking forward to a week of two of warm weather and cold beer. I was looking forward to finding out my real name.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be beginning our descent into Larnaca International Airport. The weather on the ground is warm for this time of the year at twenty-eight degrees Celsius. Please remember to take your hand luggage with you. The crew and I would like to thank you for travelling with us today and wish you an enjoyable stay in Cyprus.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing until I felt the jolt of the wheels touching
terra firma
. I unlocked my eyelids to squint through the small airplane window, not sure what to expect.  The usual feeling of overwhelming disappointment settled over me. There is never that explosion of culture and vibrancy that my heart craves. An airport is a functional site, or so my logical brain tells me, but I am always eager to walk out of the airplane slap-bang into the bustling heart of a Moroccan market or to hear the caressing whisper of the Atlantic Ocean.

Waiting for t
he others to disembark, I looked at the Cypriot landscape hovering above the shimmering tarmac. Faded yellow fire engines crouched in the shade poised ready to pounce at the first sight of flames. Sun-baked men gutted the belly of the aircraft causing the contents to spew forth in an undignified cascade of luggage and pushchairs. Dry land, dotted with the dull green stubble of parched vegetation signalled the perimeter of the airport. Above us a solid blue impenetrable ceiling pressed down upon our craft.

I
side stepped out from under the overhead lockers with my shoulders stooped and headed for the impossibly bright light streaming in through the door. The perfectly painted mannequin at the door bade me farewell like an old friend and wished me a good holiday.
‘Unlikely,’
I think, but instead I say. “Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

In the taxi I
peered out of the window, hungrily devouring what I could see of Cypriot life but the narrow streets were empty. Between villages, the arid land stretched into valleys and across tapered outcrops. White goats clung to small pools of shade watching my progression with indifference. As we neared Protaros, shiny white hotels and resorts protruded like badly healed scars on the brown skin of the land. Long before I expected it, flashes of sun on sea dazzled my eyes and I felt my stomach tighten.

I instruct
ed my driver to drop me off near the beach and I stood on the side of the street unsure what to do next. The beach beckoned me and I took a moment to imagine the warm sand pushing up between my toes. I glanced down at my jeans that now felt too tight and oppressive in the afternoon warmth and decided that the shoreline would have to wait.

I drag
ged my case and my aching legs into George’s Taverna.

“
Yasou
,” I offered in guidebook Greek as I approached the open door.

“
Yasou
! You are most welcome. Please sit.” A small brown man gestured to the nearly empty room.

“
Efcharisto.
Thank you.”

I chose a partially shaded table away from two couples basking in sun and lager on the terrace. I could still see the beach from here but I wouldn’t feel the pressing heat as keenly. The sea bounced and swayed with turquoise undulations as speed boats skimmed by.

Ignoring
the proffered menu I asked the friendly Greek man, “Could I just have a jug of water and a Greek salad, please?”

“
Of course. Just one minute.” He deftly swept the unwanted menu under his arm and scribbled on his notepad before nodding and walking away. Surprised by the lack of people in the primely located restaurant I looked at my watch. Taking into account the two hours’ time difference it was a little past four o’clock. Neither lunchtime nor dinnertime here, but at least it gave me time to collect my thoughts in relative peace.

I took out a black
Moleskine notebook from my bag and stroked its smooth warm cover tenderly. The favoured notebook used by such greats as Picasso, Van Gogh and Hemingway was incongruous in such humble surroundings. I placed it carefully and precisely by the side of my cutlery along with my Cross fountain pen with its eighteen carat gold nib; an extravagant first wedding anniversary present from Dom. He always knew how to make me feel special. Well, he used to.

What had happened to that carefree couple
that had been so much in love, oblivious to the rest of the world, caring only for each other’s company? I alternated between thinking I couldn’t live without him and thinking that we’d be better off apart. The shine had come off our relationship lately and I didn’t have the energy to make it gleam once more.

To assuage the discomfort th
at was often present when dining on my own in a restaurant, I picked up my pen and, opening and smoothing the first page of the notebook, wrote ‘George’s Taverna: Traditional Greek Salad’. I may as well keep up the pretence that I was here for work purposes. I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince the waiter or myself but it served a purpose of sorts.

The jug of water came first and as the Greek man poured the water, clinking ice into my glass
, he glanced at the book.

“
English?”

“
Yes.”

“
Holiday,” he stated.

“
Not really.” I hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. “I’m a writer. I write about food for a British magazine.”

“
Aha! Then you don’t want salad.” He placed the water jug on the table and threw his arms up in mock outrage “A salad is
simple
. Anyone can make a salad, I will bring you our mezze.”

“
That’s very kind, but, as lovely as that sounds, I really would much prefer a salad. Perhaps another day,” I said carefully to avoid committing myself to anything.

“
But you will come back for our mezze tomorrow?”

“
Well, let’s see how you manage a ‘simple’ Greek salad first, shall we?” I joked weakly.

T
he small, stocky man roared with laughter and slapped me on my tense shoulders.

“
You will be back tomorrow. My wife, she make the best Greek salad in the whole of Cyprus. You have come to the right place, Writer Lady. I am George.”

“
Oh, is this your Taverna?”

“Yes. My father had this bar first. He also had the name of George.”

I held out my hand to this man who
m I instinctively liked. “Pleased to meet you George, I’m Leni.”

“
It is my pleasure to meet you.” He offered his small, lined hand and shook mine vigorously. I felt mildly embarrassed that my hand, though more slender, was a lot larger than his. His skin felt dry and rough under my palm and, as we pulled our hands apart, they made a rasping sound.

What George lacked in height he made up for in charisma.
He couldn’t have been much more than five feet tall and yet he filled the expansive café with his presence. His face was creased with age like a piece of paper that had been screwed up and then smoothed out again. There wasn’t a single fleck of grey in his brown-black hair. Whether that was the product of good genes or ‘Just for Men’, I couldn’t tell. I guessed that he was about fifty years old but I could have been wrong ten years either way. He half walked, half danced his way to the back of the restaurant as I looked around at my surroundings.

It was a two-
storey taverna with stairs in the corner by the small unmanned bar. Brightly patterned ceramic tiles in blues and greens separated the simple watercolours that adorned the walls. The decor was rudimentary but pleasant. In the centre of each table were small white salt and pepper pots with tomato sauce bottles in the shape of tomatoes. While I was still appraising the room, George was back and displaying the Greek salad before me with pride. It was piled high with glistening green olives, and interspersed with chunks of cucumber, beef tomato and thin green semi-circles of pepper. In pride of place, at the summit, was a thick slab of salty feta cheese encrusted in a green herb.

“
Can I get you anything else? Chips?”

“
No thank you, George. This looks lovely.”

Often, when people f
ound out that I was a food writer they would go to that extra effort, put extra food on my plate, and while that is all very nice, it didn’t always give the true picture of their meals. Quite often, they confused me with a food critic and tried to waive the bill in return for a good review. Sometimes it was better just to go and receive your meal like a regular punter. But even then, it could backfire on you when you start asking about the provenance of the food. If a waiter or kitchen-hand thought you were an awkward customer and you might find more than you bargained for in your Vichyssoise.

It comforted me to be on a work
assignment in Cyprus whilst also undertaking personal research. I was on safe ground with writing. Everything else was a mystery of unchartered waters and I wasn’t quite ready to find my sea legs. I’d been working as a freelance writer for two food magazines in the UK since I graduated from University. Even though I’d fallen into the job by accident I couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living. And, with any luck, I wouldn’t have to.

This pa
rticular series I was working on involved getting to know the ‘true’ food of a country and comparing it with the UK’s version. It was fascinating to explore how we’ve adapted other countries’ traditional dishes for our British taste buds. The curry that we get in England bears very little resemblance to the ones dished up to the family in India.

One of the great things about living in the UK, if you
’re into food, is that we have access to such a wide variety of foods and cultures without having to board an airplane. My editor, Clare, suggested mainland Greece might be better than Cyprus but I’d managed to convince her that Cyprus would be an interesting study. I would be able to sample both Greek and Turkish approaches to similar dishes as the northern half of the Island has been firmly under Turkish control for nearly forty years. She acquiesced and a week later I was on a plane to Cyprus. If she suspected that I had ulterior motives for this trip, she didn’t say so.

Dom
said he would come with me if I’d postpone the trip another couple of weeks, work being crazy at the moment, but I was itching to get going and to do something productive. And, come to think of it, he didn’t put up as much resistance as I’d been expecting. He was probably as sick of me moping around the house as I was. Perhaps a bit of time apart would do us both some good and help put things in perspective. Or maybe we’d realise that we could live without each other after all. The thought was depressing. I blinked away the vision of Dom’s face and returned to the dish in front of me.

Olives, cucumber, white onion, lettuce, tomatoes, feta and
, disappointingly, a
dried
herb of some sort. I lifted up a forkful and sniffed; saliva flooded my mouth. Oregano. The first mouthful was almost painful as my taste buds reacted to the saltiness of the feta and the sweetness of the tomatoes. The richness of the extra virgin olive oil smoothed the passage to my eagerly awaiting stomach. I screwed my mouth up at the thought of tasting the white onion, anticipating an overpowering and unwelcome taste that would linger for the rest of the meal, and well into the afternoon. Trying it anyway I was surprised to find the sweetness cutting through the rich oil, and I nodded appreciatively.

I tried to pace myself,
to savour the flavours, but it was deliciously fresh and I was so very hungry.

“
Good?” enquired George, refilling my water glass as I paused to catch my breath and to appreciate the simple gustatory sensation.

“
Oh, yes. Perfect. Thank you.”

“
You wait till you eat our mezze!”

“
Looking forward to it,” I said as I finished the rest of the salad by chasing the olive oil round the plate with a final tomato.

While the
flavour of the salad was still popping on my taste buds George returned and picked up my plate, which had a few olive stones littering the rim.

“
George? Do you know anyone who has a room that I could rent for a couple of weeks? I don’t want to stay in one of the big hotels. I’d prefer to stay somewhere a bit more, er, I don’t know, genuine? Do you know what I mean? Perhaps with a family?”

“Maria’s sister has rooms.”

“
Maria?”

“
My wife. She’s the big boss here.” He smiled before continuing. “There are some rooms in the house but there is also a room away from the main house which is not bad. It is not so far from here but it is away from the beach, towards the mountain.”