The Mother - from 'The Cypriot' - a novel

34
The mother
I mamma

Irini sat alone on her bed in her small home which had once been her
elder son's workshop. As bombs thundered in the distance and people
much nearer screamed in terror, she thought of him. She had done so
every day since he'd been taken by the Englezi.

Her thoughts were happy ones. She was recalling a moment long, long ago
when a young Andonis had dived into the sea to retrieve the cross which
the village priest had thrown in. How her heart had quickened as her
son disappeared beneath the waves. How relieved and then how proud she
had been when, finally, her son's fist was to break the surface of the
water, clutching its silver prize.

Now she clenched her own crucifix on a chain round her neck and
prayed.

"My God, help all the world," she whispered. "And then us."

Irini's small transistor radio was on. It kept her company. A man's
voice declared, in an irritating mainland accent, that the brave Greek
Cypriot home guard was standing its ground and, against overwhelming
odds, was hitting back at Attila's advancing troops. Irini raised her
head and eyebrows. Meanwhile the bomb blasts felt as though they were
drawing ever nearer. The room shook, the door shifted on its hinges,
photographs on the old sewing machine next to the bed rattled. Irini
trembled.

She gazed longingly at the photographs and at one in particular, an old
black and white one, which shifted closer towards her with each new
explosion. It was of her and her late beloved Mihalis, on the day of
their wedding.

Irini's mind returned there. How dashing the young Mihalis looked, in
his fine new breeches, his silk white shirt, his black velvet waistcoat
embroidered with gold decorations, his red satin waistband. Now she
looked down and could see his shiny new boots as his feet stepped
expertly forward and then back, back and then forward. Now she looked
upwards, past his dark brown moustache and into his hazel-green eyes.
And there he was, holding her in his big strong arms. And they danced
round and round. And the whole village had encircled them and people
whistled and clapped. And the violins played. And the old wedding song
rang in Irini's ears.

And these two that are dancing, they will be joining soon.
The one he is the sun, the other she's the moon.

And Irini's eyes became like glass marbles. And the right one
overflowed and a single tear trickled down through the grooves of her
leathery cheeks, soaking the delicate grey hairs of her chin before
falling onto the bed. And she recalled the love in her young husband's
eyes as they turned and turned and turned.

And new bride how it suits you, a watch that's for all time.
You've chosen well your love, one from a blood so fine.

And somewhere not too distant was the cracking of artillery. Women of
the village were shrieking.

"The Turks are coming! The Turks are coming!"

But Irini could hear only cheers and laughter from her wedding guests
and the firecrackers which they were setting off.

But new bride, your new husband, take care not to alarm him.
Always with your sweetest words, make certain that you calm him.

Irini closed her eyes tightly, forcing back the tears. She wiped her
face with a handkerchief before lifting her bones off the bed. She
carefully placed the wedding photograph face down to prevent it from
falling off the edge. Then she moved towards the open door of her small
home.

Outside she could see neighbours loading their cars with whatever
possessions they could carry. Clothes and televisions. Tables and
kettles. Plates and ironing boards. And children with dolls and balls
and teddy bears. And fathers shouting at everyone to hurry up. And
mothers herding their children. And grandmothers in black crossing
themselves. And everywhere dread. But no time for reflection or
sadness. Nor even anger.

Irini shook her head before noticing her frame reflected in the long
mirror by the door. She looked old dressed in black. She pulled at the
fasteners that held her hair in a tight bun and let her long grey locks
fall down to her waist. She picked up a brush and, observing herself in
the mirror, ran it through her hair.

Suddenly, Yannis appeared at the door. His face twitched and he was
dripping with sweat.

"Come on, godmother. Martha, the children and my mother are ready to
go," he urged breathlessly. His eyes darted round the room in search of
anything of value. He saw nothing. He put his arm round Irini in an
attempt to steer her outside.

Godmother gave godson a curious look. She moved out from under his arm
and back towards her bed. She reached down and took out an unopened
envelope from beneath the pillow.

"Yanni, I have a letter. Please read it for me."

"What letter, godmother?" asked Yannis with distraction. "There's no
time now, please. We must go."

Irini passed the envelope to Yannis. Godson had been taught to read,
godmother hadn't. No village woman of Irini's generation had.

"It came recently. From England. From Andonis," she announced.

"Andonis?" cried Yannis in disbelief. His interest was aroused. He
stared at the handwritten envelope with stamps displaying the head of a
foreign queen. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Irini shrugged. "I was afraid, Yanni. And so I've been saving it.
Waiting for the right time. And now that time has come."

Yannis shook his head. "But not now, godmother. We'll go through it
once we're safely away from here."

"No, Yanni," said Irini forcefully. "You will read it now."

Yannis sighed. He knew his godmother well enough to realise there was
no point in arguing with her any more than with his late godfather. He
wasted no time in tearing open the envelope. Irini sat down on her bed
as Yannis read out the letter.

My dear mamma

I pray that this letter finds you and finds you well. I must first
thank the person you have tasked with reflecting the contents of my
heart. I ask for patience and understanding.

But don't think I'll hold back, mamma. Your son must speak to you
without inhibition. There are too many unexpressed feelings inside me.
Passions that once defined me have been locked away for too long. My
thoughts must be freed and allowed to find their way back home.

Too many years and miles now lie between us, but I feel a closeness
through a deeper understanding that comes with experience. It's a
closeness that was rarely possible when we were together. I left as a
young man who thought there was nothing more that you or anyone else in
the village could teach me. Now, as I grow older, I realise how wrong I
was. Age brings with it one certainty. That all others are an
illusion.

Forgive me, mamma. Your son took a man's life, an innocent and good
man, and this exile is my penance. Worse than any prison, it is a
solitary confinement created by my own mind.

England is a land of endless opportunities. An ordinary man with drive
and energy can achieve extraordinary things here. There is cold. There
is darkness and rain. But there is a society of people who have
overcome such natural obstacles to create a world of comforts. But your
son shies away from opportunities. They are not for me.

It is every man's duty to work and I have worked. But I've had no
reason to strive. I merely exist from day to day. Yes, mamma. This
strange land has transformed your son. He is a man you'd barely
recognise. A foreigner. I hope the money I've been sending to the
village has been of more use to you than it would have been to
me.

I live alone, in a small room in a big house high up on a hill. I have
one or two friends, including a woman I met recently who reminds me of
you, but I've not married. The circumstances that led to my leaving the
village made me realise that such a goal was not for me. I'd had too
much love. Too much hate. I regret not having been able to give you the
grandchildren you deserved. I am sure our Marios has made you proud.
Who knows? Perhaps he is a bishop now. But you expected more earthly
rewards from me and I have failed you.

Yes. I still love her, mamma. I won't ever stop. Her face is all but
faded from my mind. I can barely remember her voice or her smile. All I
feel is a presence. A reminder of better, happier times, when the world
was there to be challenged, when a young man could still dream
impossible dreams.

Don't condemn me, mamma. Don't shake your head and sigh that deep sigh
of yours. My dream must live on. For without it, I too may as well be
dead. You have your cross and your icons, mamma. All I have is the
memory of a beautiful love. I would rather have that memory endure than
allow hate to consume me as it did our village.

I think of you often. I imagine you baking bread in the clay oven.
Throwing grain out for our hens. Washing bed-sheets in the tub. I so
wish we could be together once more. That I could taste your fasolia.
That you might chastise me for not showing enough respect to Mrs Xenu
or for misbehaving with Nigos, God rest his soul. Sometimes I dream I
have woken up back in my bed next to Marios in our house. I'd be so
overjoyed. I'd even accompany you both to church on Sunday.

I learnt what happened to babas, God rest his soul. His absence from
the world leaves a void which can never be filled. I'm so sorry I
wasn't able to be there to hold you and to comfort you. Perhaps not as
Marios would have comforted you, with his fine words about heaven and
the mysterious ways of God, but as a son who knows what real pain can
mean, who could have shared your grief for a man who was a rock to us
all.

Please don't wait for me any longer, mamma, for I will not come. I
couldn't bear to see your face repainted to reflect babas' absence, to
be in a village that couldn't accept his wisdom and his love. I prefer
the village I knew as a child. When we were happy. When we still dreamt
we could be free.

As I write these words now, I wonder whether you'll ever get to hear
them. Whether you'd want to after all these years of silence. I can
only hope that a mother's eternal bond with her son will allow some
glimpse of me to be received.

Sometimes the role of a parent is just to be there. A source of comfort
for an unsure child. And so I kiss you, mamma, and let you know that,
while my brother may always have God in his heart, I will always have
you.

And her too.

Till we meet again in another paradise.

Your loving son

Andonis

???

Yannis replaced the letter into the envelope. Tears were trickling down
his cheeks. He turned to the woman.

"We have to go now, godmother. We don't have much time. The Turkish
soldiers will be here any moment," he implored.

"Go, Yanni?" enquired Irini. There was a faraway look of serenity in
her eyes. "Go where?"

A burst of gun-fire could be heard not too far away. There was now a
look of panic in Yannis' eyes.

"We'll head south, for the bases. The Turks won't dare attack us there.
We'll be safe with the Englezi."

"The Englezi?" enquired Irini. She smiled and shook her head. "I'm not
going anywhere, Yanni."

"Godmother, please. The soldiers are ruthless. They'll kill anyone they
find. I can't let you stay here," insisted Yannis.

Irini rose from her bed.

"Yanni, listen to me. This is my home. I married your godfather in the
church, gave birth to his children in the house. I baked him bread in
the oven outside, fetched him water from the village well. When they
took his life, I buried him in the churchyard and, since then, I've lit
a candle at his grave every day. So please don't ask me to leave. Take
your mother and your wife and your children and go. Make a new life for
yourselves. But my life is here. My life will always be here."

Irini embraced her godson, kissing him on both cheeks. Then she
clenched him tightly and Yannis was awed by the woman's strength.

"Go, Yanni," she urged, refusing to release her grip. "But first I must
ask you one thing."

Yannis nodded helplessly. "What is it, godmother?"

"Keep the memory of this place alive in your heart and in your
children's hearts. Until one day, when all this pain and misery and
madness are over, you will return."

Yannis was now sobbing like a baby and tried to pull himself
away.

"Never forget," boomed the old lady. The force in her voice hit Yannis
like a bolt of lightning. It was as though the late Mihalis had
returned from the grave to issue this final command. Yannis nodded and,
as he did so, Irini released him.

He grabbed his godmother's hand, kissed it and stared deep into her
eyes.

"I will never forget," he vowed and was gone.