One Summer in Crete - Nadia Marks Page 0,106
to visit her father he had just made himself a Turkish coffee and was about to carry it out to the garden. She let herself in and announced her arrival from the hall, hoping he could hear her – he was getting quite deaf these days, but since his hearing was apparently the only faculty that was failing him so far, no one was too worried. ‘I hear what I need to hear,’ he would tell them.
‘Yiasou, Papa!’ she called out cheerfully. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, much louder than usual.
‘In here . . . in the kitchen,’ his reply came immediately. ‘And no need to shout, the whole street knows you’re here now,’ he added with a chuckle.
The French windows leading into the garden were wide open, flooding the room with light, and Stella could see the newspaper spread out on the garden table outside where Lambros had been sitting.
‘Come, I’ll make you some coffee too,’ he said, putting down his cup and picking up the bricky to make another. ‘You like it sketo don’t you?’ he asked and pulled a face. ‘How can you drink it without any sugar at all? Far too bitter for me . . . but then you ladies are always watching your figures . . .’ he chatted on, glad to see her.
Once again Stella joined her dad in his fragrant summer garden with a plate of sesame biscuits she had bought from the Cypriot patisserie. Sitting down, she allowed him to transport her back in time to a world of people she could only imagine, yet which over the years had become as real as the world she lived in now.
Cyprus, 1946
The light summer breeze carried the call for evening prayer over the rooftops along the narrow streets of Nicosia to the two young men’s ears. Lambros and Orhan had been taking a stroll inside the walled city after studying all day when the muezzin’s voice announced that the sun had started to set, so it was time for the faithful to remember Allah once more and make their way to the mosque for prayer.
‘Is that the time already?’ Orhan turned to his friend, incredulous at how late it was. ‘I thought it was much earlier,’ he added, as they turned left into a side street towards the mosque.
‘It must be something to do with my stimulating conversation,’ Lambros said jokingly, ‘or maybe because it’s high summer.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I thought it was much earlier too.’
No matter where he was, or with whom, the Turkish boy, Orhan, always observed the prayer five times a day. More often than not, the two friends were taking their customary stroll together when evening prayer was called. The Greek boy, Lambros, was always glad to accompany his friend to the mosque and wait outside, guarding his shoes while the other prayed. Although one was Christian and the other Muslim, the two young men shared a deep friendship based on mutual respect and love for one another despite their different faiths.
‘Don’t you ever get mixed up with all of these shoes here?’ Lambros pointed at the sea of footwear outside the mosque when Orhan re-emerged. ‘I often wonder if anyone ever makes a mistake and walks off with someone else’s . . .’ He added, ‘There are so many of them and they’re all so alike.’
‘You, my friend, might get mixed up but I do not,’ Orhan retorted while doing up his laces. ‘I’m well acquainted with my shoes – maybe you have too many to remember them all?’
‘I think you know well enough that’s not true . . .’ Lambros replied, pretending to be offended, but aware that his friend’s remark bore an element of truth. His family’s apparent wealth bothered him only if it meant that it might set the two of them apart. Lambros’s family was indeed quite well off; his father and uncle were the owners of the local bakery and general store which supplied the neighbourhood and beyond with bread and groceries, while Orhan’s family lived less comfortably. But the disparity between the households hadn’t always been there.
The two boys, born in the spring of 1928 in a remote village in the Troodos Mountains to the west of the island, had begun life quite differently. Orhan’s father, Hassan Terzi, was a master tailor with a thriving business while Lambros’s father, Andreas Constandinou, owned a small and meagre general store in the village.
Hassan was the only decent tailor for miles, continuing in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. His reputation had travelled as far as Paphos, the third largest town on the island, supplying the entire male population of his own and most of the surrounding villages with his handmade suits, shirts and overcoats. Andreas Constandinou, on the other hand, had to compete for his living with the municipal market and local farmers.
‘The only way to make a proper living is to leave this village,’ Andreas would often complain to his wife Maroula. ‘If we want to prosper and provide for our children we need to go to Nicosia.’ His grandfather owned a plot of land outside the city walls of the capital and Savvas, Andreas’s older brother, who had been living and working away from the village for years and was now running a successful business in Nicosia, was always asking them to join him there.
‘Savvas’s business is thriving and I could be part of it,’ Andreas would try to convince his wife. ‘He has already started to build a house and we can all live together, we can give our children a better future there.’ But Maroula was reluctant. She was happy in the village. She had no complaints or ambition for wealth. Her boy Lambros and her daughter Anastasia were growing up nicely out here in the country. The big city alarmed her. The children were still young, though it didn’t stop her worrying about their future, especially the girl’s. A daughter had to be provided with a dowry if they were to find her a good husband and Maroula was more than happy to help to supplement the family’s income.
‘God will provide, Andreas, there’s no rush. We’re managing, aren’t we?’ she would argue. ‘We have enough to eat and I’m not frightened of work.’ Maroula was a good seamstress and was able to take in sewing work which Hassan made sure came her way regularly.
‘God bless him and all his family,’ she would tell her husband when another garment came into the house for alterations. ‘We couldn’t wish for better friends, Andreas. If we lived in the city would we have such good neighbours?’
‘There are good and bad people everywhere, Maroula,’ was his reply.
‘There is much danger in the city, Andreas. How could we marry our girl off to a good man when we don’t know anyone there? A patched-up shoe from your own village is better than a brand-new one from another.’ She would quote the old and much-used adage alluding to finding a good match from your familiars, close to home. ‘I’m happy here with the people I know,’ Maroula continued. ‘Where would I find a friend as good as Hatiche in the city?’
The two families lived side by side. Lambros and Orhan were the oldest siblings in their families and they were inseparable, like their mothers.
One Summer in Crete
Nadia Marks (née Kitromilides, which in Greek means ‘bitter lemons’) was born in Cyprus, but grew up in London. An ex-creative director and associate editor on a number of leading British women’s magazines, she is now a novelist and works as a freelance writer for several national and international publications. She has two sons and lives in North London with her partner Mike.
By Nadia Marks
Among the Lemon Trees
Secrets Under the Sun
Between the Orange Groves
One Summer in Crete
First published 2020 by Pan Books
This electronic edition first published 2020 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
The Smithson, 6 Briset Street, London EC1M 5NR
Associated companies throughout the world
ISBN 978-1-5098-8975-4
Copyright © Nadia Marks 2020
Cover images: woman © Marco Bottigelli/Getty Images, background © Shutterstock
The right of Nadia Marks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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