1 The Assassins' Village (13 page)

Chapter 16.  Monday

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office which the false man does easy.
             

Macbeth. Act 2 Scene 3.

Kristiakis slammed the door shut after him. He gave it such an almighty shove the old flaky paint fell off in clumps. He felt utterly pissed off; he didn’t stop to think who might take note of his noisy departure from Yanoulla’s that morning. For almost eighteen months they’d been enjoying a relationship that was at first beneficially and mutually rewarding. That his lover, Yanoulla was at least ten years his senior hadn’t bothered him in the beginning. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a purely sexual relationship with no thought of any ties. Previous girlfriends had been younger women, usually with their own property as was the traditional Cypriot custom. More often than not they were the daughters of his late mother’s friends, and they were all looking for one thing. A husband.

A husband gave the women stability, a standing in the community, children and a man to work hard for you. Once the babies came along, the women often had a legitimate excuse to give up working in the tedious family business, usually run by a dominating patriarchal head. They could command the tune in their own home or, if they wished to continue to work, they simply handed the babies over to Yia Yia or Grandmamma to care for them. Their new standing often made them extremely bossy and Kristiakis wanted none of that. Of course, some day he would wish for sons, but like a lot of arrogant Eastern men he thought that he would live forever and
his
seed was special – after all elderly men could still perform and produce babies.

If he had been surprised when Yanoulla made the first advances to him, he hadn’t let it be known. Instead, he was happy to have gone along with her pretence of his performing some remedial work on her house, when really all she wanted was for a younger and handsome buck to perform on her. Once the routine had been established, she made patient attempts to ease away some of his more parochial and egotistical attitudes. At first he’d been extremely suspicious of her. Yanoulla had lived abroad in England when she had been married, and her subsequent widowhood soon set the local matriarchs tongues wagging. They quickly dubbed Yanoulla, the ‘Englisher’, despite being born in the village, and never accepted her back into their narrow fold.

In spite of all this, Yanoulla told him that she stoically accepted their snubs. She’d tried to ignore their more hurtful ignorances and channelled her energy to rediscovering Kristiakis’ chequered past. Gradually he admitted and recounted some of his exploits during his EOKA activities; how he had lost two fingers in an explosion, helped with the bombings and the gathering together of funds and weapons for his comrades in arms. Yanoulla made no criticisms or judgements she only listened.

Up until now their lives had jogged along nicely. Yanoulla was a more emancipated woman than many he had been with, and Kristiakis enjoyed some of the novelty of this. Her sexual freedom and directness stimulated his wants and needs; surprisingly they got on very well together.

But, there is often another side to a relationship and Kristiakis’ old aunts put their own scheme in place. Both these garrulous old women of the mountains distrusted, disliked and looked down upon the widowed
foreigner
, Yanoulla. Single women, especially foreigners, were often tolerated but treated with some disdain.

At home the old women got together and created tensions for Kristiakis. Together they put up a case.
Kristiakis, you’re not getting any younger. You need at least one son and soon. Yanoulla is long past childbearing age.

Now, it shortly transpired there was yet another presentable daughter of an old school friend. This daughter was of course both beautiful and the right age for marriage. Marina was young and healthy, not too educated (it wouldn’t do to have a woman far more educated than her husband), only a bit more modern than most and this, Kristiakis would be able to handle with a modicum of care.

Most importantly, she was a woman of considerable property. Marina owned a house in Nicosia, and another more local with plenty of olive trees. On the coast near Pissouri she also had a parcel of land that was just ripe for development. Cypriots adored property and perhaps even more, money. Kristiakis was informed she had only recently returned from working in Athens for five years and was looking forward to settling down.

Both the girl’s mama and the aunts got to work on Kristiakis. He never stood a chance. Besides, as soon as he met the elegant and quietly confident Marina with her gorgeous, long lustrous dark hair and slim lissom body he was completely lost. Perhaps, it was because she’d looked at him with cool, frank eyes in appraisal as he stood before her, and had the temerity to ignore or laugh at his bemusement. Whatever it was, Kristiakis decided he was going to make Marina his.

Inevitably, Yanoulla got to hear about this new beauty on the scene - from a gossiping old busybody of course. Kristiakis was annoyed. At first Yanoulla seemed to ignore the little pieces of tittle-tattle, until it was apparent there was some truth in the whispers. Kristiakis had already made some excuse last week during the casting meeting about
having
to meet Marina in Limassol.  She confronted the two-timing Kristiakis.

As bad luck would have it, her timing was all wrong. Kristiakis still hadn’t managed to entice Marina into bed, and despite his night with Yanoulla he desperately wanted to slake his lust on the gorgeous girl. Yanoulla made the cardinal mistake of questioning him. ‘Why do you want to return home this morning? Is there any truth in what I’ve been told about Marina? That you’ve been seeing her?’

Her lip curled with scorn and distaste as she’d said her rival’s name.

The proud Kristiakis disliked and resented having his private life probed; it was just a casual relationship put together between families and hotly declared it so.

‘What is your problem? I have never promised to make you my wife. You are far too old for that!’ he declared spitefully.

A row flared up between them and with great theatricals he flounced out; the door shaking behind him and plaster falling in clumps upon the ground.

Yanoulla raised a hand to stop her lip quivering when she was alone. Their argument and his subsequent going had visibly shaken her. She cared for him more than he knew. She always had. If
only
she had kept silent about the whole Marina affair. But deep down she knew she hadn’t learnt her lesson. Even after all the heartbreak her previous husband caused her. She spat on his black memory. Thank God, at least
he’d
never be able to cause her any more grief. She repressed a shudder remembering the last time she’d seen him.

She quelled her shaking hands by putting last night’s glasses in the sink for washing up. God rot interfering mothers and aunts! It was their meddling that had upset their relationship. On the other hand Kristiakis had never needed any
encouragement as far as women were concerned. She needed to think about what she should do.

She had very few friends and probably none of them in whom she could trust. She got on fairly well with Alicia, but was she dependable? Almost certainly not. She’d flashed her own eyes at Kristiakis when she thought Yanoulla wasn’t looking. The woman was sex mad.

No, this was her problem. She would have to sort it out one way or another. And fast. Yanoulla had let Kristiakis slip through her fingers a long time ago. This time he was hers and if she couldn’t have him, nobody would.

~~~

Still smarting, Kristiakis rounded the corner from Yanoulla’s house. ‘Damn!’ he cursed quietly under his breath as he caught sight of Bernard and Jenny approaching him. The last thing he wanted to do, was to pass the time of day and discuss yesterday’s happenings when he had other things on his mind. His English was far from perfect, but he was aware from the other villagers these two adored a good old gossip.

After a minute, Kristiakis managed his escape in what he considered good time. He didn’t want to be a hypocrite as far as that old bastard Leslie was concerned. He’d never forget or forgive what he’d done during the bad old days. Just seeing Leslie around the village now always made his blood seethe with anger. The very least had been his bullying of the villagers and then, he had had the audacity to return and live here! How could the man have the affront, the nerve, to think the old ones wouldn’t recognise or remember him? How insulting! 

Still in a foul mood he stalked up the ill-kempt path, scattering a pair of kittens and their mother out of his way. He didn’t want to return to his home where he lodged with his old aunts. Kristiakis knew the old women and a crony or two, would be sitting awaiting his return with silent black disapproving stares. They were only too aware of where he would have spent the night. Kristiakis wasn’t ready for all that, especially after his flaming row with Yanoulla. Perhaps that had been a good thing. With her out of the way he could pursue Marina without any hassle. It would be good to have just the one goal…and when he had her. Aaah!

Kristiakis glanced at his watch. Neither did he care to go to the Kafeneo and sit drinking coffee, talk politics or play
tavli
with the old men. He decided to go around the outskirts of the village and look in on his sister Antigone. Kristiakis trudged off down the lane keeping to the shaded side as the heat was already rising on the new day.

Kristiakis had a strange, awkward relationship with his sister. Antigone was younger than him by seven years. Now in her forties she led a strange and lonely life.  She owned a tiny, mean house with a scrap of adjoining land, and lived alone apart from her menagerie of chickens, goats and two donkeys for company. Kristiakis had no idea of whether Antigone was happy, neither did he much care.

For the majority of the few times when Kristiakis visited her, Antigone would ignore him. She would carry on about her business, only registering that she was aware of his presence by reluctantly offering him a bowl of warm goat’s milk to drink. Antigone never gave any impression about anything during his infrequent visits. Kristiakis was too thick-skinned to worry about it. So long as he paid her an occasional visit and she was in good health that was all that mattered.

Antigone roamed her land and the village as quiet as a mouse visiting the village store to buy her few essential items. Antigone never spoke to the men folk if she could help it, and when strangers appeared, she’d prefer to return into her house
shutting the door on the outside world. But in spite of her wariness with people, Antigone spent more time in wandering around the village vicinity than anyone else. And because of this, nothing passed her by. She was the holder of all the village secrets.

Kristiakis didn’t know
why
she disliked strangers and especially men. But as she caused no one any problems – especially him, he wasn’t going to go out of his way looking for reasons and answers.

Approaching her gate from the rutted and weedy lane, he called out a greeting in advance to warn and not cause alarm by his appearance. Antigone was at the outside stone sink, spooning her latest batch of soft homemade goats’ cheese into small terracotta dishes. The surrounding air smelled acrid with the strong, sour rankness of the white cheese in the vat. Once she had been beautiful, with long straight raven-coloured hair surrounding a fine delicate bone structure of her face. Her figure had been tall and willowy with slim wrists and ankles. Her eyes, a clear and the same deep blue of her brother. Now, they were dull and expressionless as she went about her work.

‘Antigone. Yeia sou, ti kaneis?’ he greeted her. For once, she looked up and registered her brother as he entered her scruffy yard. Bits of wood and broken pottery lay side by side with old plastic buckets and tin cans. She pursed her lips and briefly nodded but continued with her cheese pots.

Kristiakis looked around him. ‘Ah, cheese making. Always cheese making. It is good that we all like and admire your 
Halloumi
. They are the best you know.’

Picking up a cheese wire that was lying on the worktable, he helped himself by cutting a sliver from a maturing wedge of cheese. He threw a thin smile in her direction. She surprised him further by acknowledging his small compliment with a curt nod as she filled the last of the dishes. She swilled clean water round the tub to rinse out the final vestiges of cheese.

Studying her face carefully as he spoke, Kristiakis asked. ‘Antigone, have you heard about the Englishman? The one they call Mr Leslie? Do you understand? Do you remember him?’

He was somewhat taken aback when she actually paused in what she was doing, the wooden vat held still in her hands. She kept her eyes down and stood very still when he added. ‘He was found dead yesterday. Murdered they say.’

Antigone placed her utensils back down into the sink and turned to look at Kristiakis fully. Her face looked different. For the first time in years he saw something there. A flicker of something in her eyes, recognition perhaps. It was nothing as drastic as excitement, but he could tell by her look she was listening and understood what he had said. There was a pause.

‘I know,’ she replied at last in a soft, husky voice that was unused to speaking.

Kristiakis was taken aback in amazement. It wasn’t that she already knew; it was the fact she had volunteered to reply.