At the centre of the vast space was a trio of gilded dolphins in a pool. Life-sized, they appeared to spring out of the water, their glassy eyes meeting those of the observer. Two men adjusted the flow that gushed from their snouts.
‘A little more pressure, I think,’ instructed Savvas.
Half a dozen artists were meticulously applying gold leaf to the neoclassical details on the ceiling. They were working as if they had all the time in the world. As if to remind them that they did not, five clocks were being lined up and fixed to the wall behind a mahogany reception desk that stretched for thirty yards down the side of the foyer. Within the next hour, plaques with the names of the world’s major financial centres would identify them, and their hands would be accurately adjusted.
Decorative pillars, spaced to echo the layout of the ancient agora at nearby Salamis, were being delicately painted with veins to simulate marble. Clinging to scaffolding, a team of three worked on a
trompe l’oeil
mural that depicted various classical scenes. Aphroditi, the goddess of the island, was a central figure. In this image, she was rising from the sea.
In the floors and corridors above, working ceaselessly like bees in a hive, pairs of chambermaids stretched cool new linen across king-sized beds and coaxed fat feather pillows into their cases.
‘I could fit my whole family into this room,’ observed one.
‘Even the bathroom is bigger than my house,’ responded her partner, with a note of disapproval.
They laughed together, bemused rather than jealous. The people who came to stay in such a hotel must be from another planet. In their view, anyone who demanded a marble bath and a bed wide enough for five must be rather peculiar. It did not occur to them that they were to be envied.
The plumbers putting the finishing touches to the bathrooms and the electricians scurrying to fit the final light bulbs had the same thoughts. Many of them lived cheek by jowl in homes with three or more generations. They could almost feel each other’s breath when they slept; they waited patiently to use an outdoor toilet, and when the evening light faded and the low-wattage lighting began to flicker, they went to bed. Instinct told them that extravagance did not equate with happiness.
One floor below, close to where an indoor swimming pool was still being carefully tiled (there would be no use for it until November), two women, both dressed in white nylon housecoats, bustled about in a dazzlingly lit mirrored room. One of them was humming.
They were preparing the hotel’s hairdressing salon for the big opening, and the inventory of everything that had been delivered over the last few days was now completed. The latest design of hooded hairdryer, rollers in every conceivable size, hair tints and processing chemicals for permanent waves: all was in order. Pins and grips, scissors and clippers, brushes and combs were put away in drawers or laid out on trolleys. The equipment needed for hairdressing was relatively uncomplicated. It was all down to the skill of the stylist, as Emine Özkan and Savina Skouros both knew.
Now that they were satisfied that everything was in working order, gleaming and pristine, they gave the counter a final polish, wiped around each of the six sinks and shone the mirrors and taps for the fifth time that day. One of them straightened the shampoos and cans of lacquer so that the brand name, of which they were proud, was repeated in a perfect line:
WellaWellaWellaWellaWella
.
A great deal of business was expected from the female guests, who would be wanting their hair tamed after a day exposed to sun and sand. Within the next few months they confidently expected that every chair in the salon would be full.
‘Can you believe this?’
‘Not really …’
‘We’re so lucky …’
Emine Özkan had been cutting Aphroditi Papacosta’s hair since she was a teenager. Until very recently, she and Savina had both worked in a small salon in the commercial part of Famagusta. Emine had come in on the bus every day from Maratha, a village ten miles away. When the modern resort had begun to expand and thrive, and her husband found work there too, they had uprooted their family and come to live on the edge of the new town, preferring it to the old walled city, which was predominantly inhabited by Turkish Cypriots.
It was the third time that Emine’s family had moved in the space of a few years. Nearly a decade before, they had fled their village when it was attacked by Greek Cypriots and their house had been burned down. After that they lived for a time in an enclave where they had the protection of United Nations troops, before settling in Maratha.
Likewise, Famagusta was not Savina’s birthplace. She had grown up in Nicosia, but the spate of violence between the two communities nine years before had left her with deep scars too. Such fear and suspicion had developed between Greek and Turkish Cypriots that United Nations troops were brought in to maintain the peace, and a boundary known as the Green Line was drawn across the city to divide the two communities. It had tainted her family’s life.
‘We hated being cut off like that,’ she explained to Emine when they were sharing memories. ‘There were good friends we just couldn’t see any more. You can’t imagine. It was terrible. But Greeks and Turks had been killing each other – so I suppose they had to do it.’
‘Maratha wasn’t like that. We all got on quite well there, us and the Greeks,’ said Emine. ‘Even so, we’re all much happier here. And I’m
not
moving again!’
‘Things are better for us too,’ agreed Savina, ‘but I miss my family a lot …’
The majority of Greek Cypriots were at ease with the Turkish Cypriots these days and no longer worried about paramilitary groups. Ironically, there was now rivalry and violence among the Greek Cypriots themselves. A minority of them wanted
enosis
, unification of Cyprus with Greece, and aimed to achieve it through violent means and intimidation. This was hidden from the tourists, and even most local people in Famagusta tried to forget that the threat was there.
Both women were standing in front of the mirror. They were identical in height, with a similar stocky shape, and wore the same fashionable short hairstyle and salon housecoats. They caught each other’s eye and smiled. Emine was more than ten years older than Savina, but the similarity between them was striking.
That day, on the eve of the hotel opening, their conversation was flowing as usual like a river in springtime. They spent six days a week in each other’s company, but their chatter was unceasing.
‘My youngest sister’s oldest is coming next week to stay for a few days,’ said Emine. ‘She just walks up and down, up and down, gazing into shop windows. I’ve seen her. Then she just stands and stares and stares and stares.’
Emine did an impression of her niece (one of a total of fifteen produced so far by her four sisters) transfixed by an invisible window display.
‘The one who’s getting married?’
‘Yes. Mualla. She’s actually got something to buy now.’
‘Well, there’s plenty for her to look at here.’
Famagusta had a plethora of bridalwear emporia whose windows were filled with frothy confections of satin and lace. Emine’s niece would need several days to visit them all.
‘She wants to get everything here. Shoes, dress, stockings. Everything.’
‘I can tell her where I got my dress!’ said Savina.
The two women continued tidying and polishing while they talked. Neither of them liked to be idle, even for a moment.
‘And she wants things for the home, too. The young ones want more than we did in our day.’ Emine Özkan did not entirely approve of her niece’s ambitions.
‘A few lace tablecloths. Embroidered pillowcases … It’s not really enough now, Emine. Modern conveniences, that’s what they want.’
Living in this fast-growing town, where light industry thrived along with tourism, Savina herself had developed a taste for plastic gadgets, which sat side-by-side with more traditional utensils in her kitchen.
‘So how will Mrs Papacosta want her hair for the opening tomorrow? Like she had it for her wedding?’
Aphroditi would be the new salon’s first customer.
‘What time is she due?’
‘She’s coming at four.’
There were a few seconds of silence.
‘She’s been so good to us, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Savina, ‘she’s given us a big opportunity.’
‘It won’t be quite the same here, though …’ said Emine.
Both women knew that they would miss the atmosphere of Euripides Street. Their old workplace had been a social meeting point as well as a haven for women to come and share intimate secrets, a female equivalent of the
kafenion
. Women in rollers lingered there for hours knowing that their confidences would stay within the confines of the salon. For many it was their only real outing of the week.
‘We won’t get our old regulars. But I have always longed for my own place.’
‘And these ladies will be different. Maybe they’ll be more …’
‘… like those?’ said Emine, indicating the framed black and white photographs that had been hung earlier that day. They showed a series of glamorous models with bridal hairdos.
‘I expect we’ll get quite a few weddings, anyway.’
The women had done all they could for now. The next day they would begin to take appointments. Savina squeezed her colleague’s arm and smiled.
‘Let’s go now,’ she said. ‘Important day for us all tomorrow.’
They hung up their white coats and left the hotel by a back door.
Tourism provided an income for thousands in restaurants, bars and shops as well as in the hotels. Many families had been drawn to the city by the commercial opportunities it gave them, but also by its languid beauty, which they appreciated as much as the foreigners did.
Locals, boys especially, shared the sea and sand with hotel guests. Indeed, the mingling of the two frequently ended with promises of undying love and airport tears.
On this typical summer’s afternoon, a small boy, maybe three years old, played on the beach just down from The Sunrise. He was alone, oblivious to anything around him, trickling sand from one hand to the other, digging down deeper and deeper to find the spot where the sand grew cool.
Again and again he passed the sand through his small fingers. He sieved and filtered until only the finest grains remained and ran like water as he lifted his hands and poured them back on to the beach. It was an action of which he never tired.
For an hour that afternoon he had been watching the group of long-limbed older boys playing polo in the water, and he yearned for the day when he would be big enough to join them. For now he had to sit and wait for his brother, who was one of the players.
Hüseyin had a casual summer job putting out loungers and collecting them again, but when he finished, he immediately waded out into the water to join a game. Since a coach had told him he showed great promise as an athlete, he was torn between two dreams: to be a professional volleyball or water polo player. Perhaps he could combine both.
‘We need to get your feet back on the ground!’ teased his mother.
‘Why?’ demanded his father. ‘Look at him! With those strong legs he has as much chance as anyone.’
Mehmet stood up and waved when he spotted Hüseyin striding up the beach. Two or three times, with his head in the clouds, Hüseyin had forgotten that he was in charge of the little boy and set off home without him. Mehmet would not have been in any danger, apart from the fact that he had a three year old’s inability to orient himself and would probably have wandered the wrong way. In the village where his parents had been born many years before, a small child alone would never get lost. Famagusta was a world away from such a place.
Mehmet was often told by his mother that he was a little miracle, but Hüseyin’s pet name for him, ‘little nuisance’, seemed to have a truer ring. It was how the boy sometimes felt when his two big brothers were around.
‘Come on, Mehmet, time to go home,’ said the older boy, cuffing his brother round the ear.
With a ball in one hand and his little brother’s hand in the other, Hüseyin made his way to the road. Once they were on the tarmacked surface, he repeatedly bounced the ball. They were both hypnotised by the repetition. Sometimes he could get all the way home, a fifteen-minute walk, without once breaking the rhythm.
They were so absorbed that they did not hear their names being called.
‘Hüseyin! Mehmet! Hüseyin!’
Their mother, a hundred yards from the staff entrance to The Sunrise, was hurrying to catch up with them.
‘Hello, my darlings,’ she said, scooping Mehmet into her arms. He hated being picked up in the street and wriggled furiously. He was not a baby.
She kissed him on the cheek before putting him down.
‘Mummy …?’
A few yards away there was an advertising hoarding: an illustration of a smiling boy, his grin wide and cheeky, holding a glass that overflowed with effervescent lemonade. Mehmet gazed at this image every day and never gave up hope.
Emine Özkan knew what he was going to ask.
‘Why do you want a drink that’s been put in a bottle when you can have a fresh one? There is no sense in it.’
As soon as they reached home, Mehmet would be handed a glass of still, pale liquid, sweetened with plenty of sugar but nevertheless sharp enough to make him draw his cheeks in. It was as flat as milk. One day, after a game of water polo in which he had triumphed, he would go to a kiosk and buy a bottle for himself. It would make a loud
tsok
when the top came off, and bubbles would flow.
One day, thought Mehmet. One day.
Both Mehmet and Hüseyin cherished their dreams.
A
T PRECISELY
6.15
p.m., in spite of everything going on around him, Savvas Papacosta instinctively looked at his watch.
It was time to leave for his other hotel. He and Aphroditi were holding a cocktail party for the guests at The Paradise Beach.
Before they left, Aphroditi freshened up in the cloakroom of the now almost-finished hotel. She glanced around at the marbled walls and the sculpted stone shells that held the soap, and noticed with pride that the monogrammed towels were already in place. She applied a fresh coat of coral lipstick that matched the jewellery she had chosen for that day, and put a brush through her long, thick hair. She knew Savvas would be waiting in the car at the entrance.