Raymond Nickford
Author of Literary & Psychological Suspense
EXCERPT :
ARISTO’S obsessive need to trace and belong to his family - even though he was told they were all burnt and left unidentifiable during the Turkish invasion of Cyprus — has estranged his English wife, and is gradually distancing his only child, while in turn, Pavlos has an increasing need to belong to a father who will make time for him. As the practices at Papas’ late-night museum ‘staff meetings’ unfold themselves to Pavlos, the boy is led deeper into a sinister confrontation with what Papas calls his ‘family’.
A strong blend of eeriness, suspense and the poignancy of lives which could be yours when driven to extremity.
" The first few chapters are atmospheric; intriguing. They made me want to keep reading. The beautifully observed characters and exotic setting have all the makings of a first class novel " -
Barbara Erskine, best-selling author of River of Destiny
" An atmospheric, vibrant, almost spooky page-turner that might easily become something of a cult " -
Reay Tannahill, historian and author of The Seventh Son
" The promise of the early chapters is more than well-maintained. This novel is a real page-turner, worthy of comparison with the early John Fowles The Magus - and yet the book is distinctively Raymond Nickford.” -
Allen J Millington Synge
CHAPTER ONE
'The doorbell, Papas! Papas? Bell's ringing!' Pavlos began to wonder whether his voice would reach beyond the basement and all the way up to Papas' study. Soon his father would remember to come down and that his son was still where he'd locked him to keep him away from his “drunken fish of a mother”. Soon he'd unlock the door. Soon even if it was only to give him the “Greek lesson”.
Papas had only to bother to glance at camera No.1 which monitored anyone standing close to the iron entrance doors of his museum home.
'Papas! Bell!'
That sounded like a key scratching in the basement door. The dim of the narrow steps was suddenly replaced by a dazzle, and right at the top his father stood, a dark outline silhouetted against the light, dust particles cascading around him, a total eclipse.
'Quick! Mister Spiropoulos! He’s here! We’re for inspection! Have some textbooks ready! Say nothing of what we do in the Greek lesson.'
So the visitor was just Spiropoulos from the Education Authority in Nicosia, come to check Papas' home tuition was satisfactory. Spiropoulos, as readable as Genesis when he came, as welcome as Exodus when he went, but at least his ringing of the bell had brought Papas down from his study, the basement door was at last open, and Spiropoulos' visit might delay for a day that sick feeling, the overwhelming drowsiness which came with the instruction.
'Quickly! Some books! And remember our little secret, eh Pavlos? You say nothing about what we do in the lessons. Soon they will bring
you closer to your Papas. Closer to your family, eh?’
‘You don't have family, Papas Mum might have drunk too much but all she ever tried to tell you was that we’re your family! You know it was three Turkish soldiers who took them, leaving a village burning. People burning!’
‘Just say nothing - remember?’
Papas had reminded him to keep silent so many times it had been impossible to let the inspector know anything about Papas' actual teaching method ever since ten years ago when Spiropoulos had seemed so easily persuaded to stamp the green form...
SCHOOL PHOBIC: Home tuition.
Approved: C. Spiropoulos
'Pavlos! What you dreaming of now? Quick!'
Pavlos transferred the pile of texts which were always left for show on a wine cask should Spiropoulos visit from his office in Nicosia.
'Say nothing Pavlos!'
Nothing... two... three...
Pavlos heard the fingers click, felt the jolt in his head. It was like the day Papas had the workmen put in the goods lift, and afterwards he and Papas had stood inside to test it. The cage had dropped so suddenly he felt nothing beneath his feet, and his stomach was falling out. Now it was the same, except there was no lift, and he was still falling, drifting down with Papas' words.
Papas hadn't needed to click his fingers nor to instruct, for however unusual his home teaching technique, he'd be sure to get heaps of praise off the man from the Education Authority - at least, by the time he had offered mister Spiropoulos what the inspector was always waiting for; another glass of Papas’ best Metaxa in his precious English cut crystal.
'Are we ready, Pavlos?'
'Yes, Papas,' he answered wearily.
'You hidden the headphones?'
'Yes!'
'The mike? Where is the mike? Pavlos, where - ’
'In the empty wine cask, Papas! We're ready!'
Papas had snapped up one of the books and was eagerly scanning a page.
'Good! Yes, I tell him some “story” about this one, eh Pavlos?'
It was routine with Papas now to greet mister Spiropolous armed with an impressive-looking text and to make sure he quoted something - anything which would make it look as though his son had been enjoying to the full one of the twenty “contact” hours “per week” of tuition which the authorities said a school phobic should have until he could go to school with others of his age.
Pavlos waited for the sound of the main entrance doors and voices.
'I tell you, Stavrovouni, he’s better with all this around him.' The education inspector's voice was a bit closer, and “this” must have been the sixteenth century ceremonial dinner gong mister Spiropoulos had tapped for the third quarter this year.
'That's kind of you to say, Spiropoulos. As you see, I try to give my boy history only first hand.'
'From the soil, eh Aristo? This all from good Cypriot soil not like the syllabuses they preach from the offices up on the Mesaoria. This one, who is he?'
'Fragment of skull of one in Zeno of Citium's company three twenty before Christ. We still working on reconstruction of full head with help of computer graphics from conservation department near you!'
Pavlos heard another of Spiropoulos' usual raps on the skull, this time producing his quirky little drum roll for added gratification.
'Zeno? He good boy in his time, eh Stavrovouni? Like your Pavlos is going to be. We see him now just for the record, eh?'
The inspector's confident voice seemed a lot nearer to the basement. Next it would be buckets of praise for Papas' “teaching facilities” and his “resources”. At least, maybe Spiropoulos would take up so much of Papas' relic “dusting off ” time this morning that there would really be no Greek lesson to go through today.
'Ah! Pavlos! Pavlos, my boy!’ Spiropolous appeared beside Papas. ‘I see you much further with your history than those at the gymnasium!'
The inspector's smile had widened. He looked much like a contented imbecile; as though the world was made of honey and almond blossom.
'You see, Pavlos, I embrace your father and why? Because your family, it has proud reputation young man. Very proud your Papas, his little museum, it will certainly help you keep family tradition alive, eh?' Keep alive…lessons bring you closer… family…
'If Aristotle Stavrovouni's son is going to be the one for keeping the museum alive, then sure as the proud cedars on ancient Troodos the curator Aristotle Stavrovouni, he’s the best education for you! The best!' Spiropoulos repeated, jerking Papas' shoulders to him again as if he was in a wedding dance.
'Hey, Pavlos! You ever bigger, taller aubergine, and absolutely stuffed with knowledge!' The inspector pronounced, inflating like a balloon.
Pavlos forced a smile. He did remember something much nearer the truth about Papas' family than Spiropolous' easy manner was prepared to reveal... something Mum had once said. She'd drunk all morning before facing Papas about the crazy things he'd excavated and filled her home with ever since she'd come to live in Cyprus... yes, she'd sworn, sometimes slurred but there had been that quiet moment when words no longer belonged between them. Mum had spoken, just as if Papas was her boy and she was holding out sweets to a kid who'd lost his dream...
Come to terms with it, Aristo she’d begged him… August I974... Turkish soldiers... drunk... torched everyone in the houses you've revisited. Do you want Pavlos to grow up seeing what you bring home in those polythene bags? Even an archaeologist can't dig up bits of his family if there's no record.
‘…hear me Pavlos, my boy?'
'Sorry mister Spiropoulos. I I was just thinking.'
'I said, your Papas, his lessons help you. He is the best person to keep your family tradition alive, eh?'
Pavlos managed another smile, hoping it wouldn't show the anger that burnt inside as the inspector turned to Papas for freer conversation.
'A very useful little museum, eh Aristo? Yassou!' Spiropoulos was raising his glass high. 'Inspection complete! We forgive you if your teaching method seems '
a little eccentric...
‘- a little eccentric - ’
shall we say...
‘ - shall we say.'
That was the wink, and now Spiropoulos jerking Papas' shoulders into him so hard that some Metaxa had spilt on to the inspector's suit, and he was now so close to Papas he was in danger either of kissing or anaesthetising him with his breath.
'Kopiaste?' Papas turned from the man’s breath with a pained smile.
Spiropoulos was tearing a pink sheet from his pad, leaving himself the green sheet to waggle in the air.
'Another two of these and a trip to Kakopetria to go, Aristo, my good friend! You keep up the lessons and you save me the next glass for another time!'
The inspector was muttering something to Papas somewhere up in the foyer. There was a lull, a bit more muttering, and now the screech of the great studded entrance doors opening, the surge of traffic noise drowning out all Papas' soft soaping politeness, and the door hinges themselves beginning to screech closed, leaving only the bolts being shot... that was top, middle, bottom... one, two, three... and fingers click ... he was alone again with Papas.
‘It’s too late for lesson now, Pavlos Pavlos?'
Papas' sandalled feet were slapping their way towards him across the tiled floor, and now he’d propped himself against the door frame.
'Old Spiropoulos he take all my time! Pavlos, I can't settle to my work. I drive up to Troodos now and stay over the night with my family.'
'Over night? You said now Mum's gone you wouldn't leave me on my own any more not here.'
‘Pavlos, I know I said, and you know the seat is always very empty beside me in the Land Rover, but the family, they say '
Keep him happy, Pavlos, pretend he's got a family, keep pretending or else you'll get the lesson right now...
'What, Papas? What do they say?'
'Ah Pavlos! You make it difficult for me. I can only tell you the truth. They not ready to "accept” the son of Stavrovouni until they sure his drunken wife is no longer "influence" on you.'
'Is that good enough for you? You're going to listen to that? You're happy to leave me here because of that?'
'How you mean "here"?'
'Papas ' but he couldn't tell his father what seemed to happen around him when left alone at nights, how there always came the moment when he panicked because he couldn't tell the difference between himself and the wall mounted ancestor masks which seemed to look down at him from every angle of his home, no matter which turn or corner he took to get away from them.
'Papas, don't go not tonight.'
'Why - why not "tonight"? Listen, Pavlos, I take you up with me, I promise, but the family they not ready yet.'
Papas was sitting on the ground floor, the history text he had taken back from Spiropoulos still in his right hand, his legs stretching down the basement steps, his feet resting on the third tread... as if he was afraid to stand and take the first move towards his son, afraid to look him in the eyes, face to face and promise.
'Listen, in the morning I bring something from the family eh?'
You don't have a family!
'We keep the museum closed another day and we sit together, have a little drink? Maybe a nice big drink, eh? Menas has brought us some good Meze from his delicatessen. I tell you all about the family, and then we have time for nice long Greek lesson. After I give you something nice from my brothers, eh?'
'Papas! I don't want ' he felt the jolt, couldn't say what he needed; that he didn't want any more of the craziness which made Papas leave him for a night to drive up to a rendezvous... a rendezvous where still there was nobody to meet, nothing but the occasional grip of the cold night air, drifting clouds, swirling, rolling silently as they had for ages between the darkened ravines, spreading upwards to the barren razor thin scarps where only the moon came to touch the high Troodos.
No, he didn't want to be alone again. Nor did he want the promised “something nice” to come from Papas' so-called “brothers”. The “gift” would be only another relic in a polythene bag to accompany Papas straight up to his study when he got back in the morning. But most of all, he didn't want the morning to bring that drowsiness which bordered on nausea, and then all that would come with that pit of complete obedience into which he'd fall as surely as the next Greek lesson.
CHAPTER TWO
Outside, the cicadas shrilled into the night. Inside, the museum seemed quieter and cooler than it had been during the long afternoon down in the basement, not just quiet... there was a sort of hush...
Since the “injunction”, Papas had been going out more and more in the early hours to “give some time” to his family, and now to “spend the night”. Pavlos looked at his wristwatch. By now, his father would be somewhere well up on the mountain roads. They must have twisted and narrowed between the cedars whose branches would be spreading high over his old slate blue estate as it kept on cornering towards the scarps, but Papas had never carried his fantasy so far as to say where his journey ended... where his family lived…
With every minute that passed, he would be further from home. Already it seemed that the building's walls had started their gradual movement inwards; as if they wanted to squeeze him in until crushed. There was something ancient at every corner; crude Stone Age cutting tools, the flaking metal on the curve of an early iron scythe which, the more he stared at its hook like blade, threatened again to open him up from head to foot. Then there was the copper penis squashed between the breasts of Aphrodite as an early fertility charm and the same grumpy stares from the Cypriot ancestor masks which, for lack of wall space, had to be hung on either side of the doors to his and Papas' bedrooms. The masks even stared out of the tiny damp cell that had been Mum's kitchen. It wasn't home - whatever Papas had said or done - not now that Mum couldn't come back to break the hush.
Papas' bedroom door seemed to be confronting, holding behind it the cause of the disturbance which had made Pavlos leave his bedroom and walk up the extra six steps to the top landing.
The doorknob had given only a half turn. He tried turning one way then the other, pushing and turning, turning without pushing. Whichever way, it was useless trying. He held his breath, straining to listen. Sounds were always clearer up on the landing after the sturdy entrance doors had closed and all the visitors' voices had been drained out of the building. He was sure that he'd heard something... someone…
'Papas? You in there?'
It was no use expecting an answer. His head flopped on to the door panel. As rapidly, he straightened it. It was easier to face the truth it wasn't that he'd heard anything behind that door, not even that the ancestor masks lining the walls of the landing had seemed to beckon him further up the extra half flight of steps; simply that he had to believe there was some sound somewhere in the museum. He ran his fingers over the faces which seemed to form in the wood grain of Papas' door, then jerked them away exactly as if he'd scolded the tips on the downstairs kitchen hob. He had to look at the two ancestor masks, right into the dark hollows where slits had been made for mouths... Learn more Greek and you closer to your family... Papas ... family... Papas ...
He felt dizzy, as if he was going to fall into the door, but the spell had passed and the door was cool and hard beneath the palm he'd put out to support himself. He tried to avoid the mouth slits until he could think straight again.
Family - if there was any truth in it at all, his father had never let him glimpse even a faded sepia photograph of any relatives... no parents, no uncles, nor aunts, nor cousins, not a single grandparent, not even great grandparents... what if there were no records at all?
None Pavlos, none the mouth slits of the masks seemed to insist. The dark hollows behind the eyes stared until he could have sworn he had been looking at tissue glistening in the half light of the moon.
He glanced again at the doorknob, regarded with revulsion the room upon which it might open. But nor could he stand back, smash his foot through the panel, prove to Papas his “family” was myth, that “closer” didn't have to mean the “lessons” any more. It only had to mean a walk... tomorrow, out of the basement... out of the museum... into the morning and the baking sun of August... down to the little bar kiosk where there was cool shade, and his father could buy him a beer, treat him like a son, a friend - a man even!
But all that was left was to wait until morning, to stare stupidly into the half human shapes which seemed to lie in the wood grain, to wonder about that family for which Papas' honey soft Cypriot voice had always said the Greek lessons were preparing him.
Still, at least Papas would be clockwork when it came to the starting time for the Greek lessons, and that meant his being home by morning. By the time he'd torn into any post, run the video back on the security cameras, made some telephone calls, Papas would call him and they'd have to go together down to the conservation room at the back of the basement... sure as the sun would rise outside the museum tomorrow.
Then Papas and he would step over the cordon rope which separated the door with the PRIVATE sign from the basement exhibits where visitors were allowed to walk freely. Once on the other side of that door, Papas would double lock it from the inside, pull out and position the lesson chair away from any bits of limbs and tools waiting for cleaning and repair, rest the microphone, strap, and headphones on the old olive press which served as his basement desk, and complete the whole ceremony by swivelling the lesson chair so that the only shaft of light which shone into the room through the little reinforced glass window at pavement level shone down straight into his student's eyes... then would come Papas' fidget with the headphones to make absolutely sure they were cupped fully around his pupil's ears and then the final fuss to strap the microphone round the throat.
Papas had always said it was best if the mike was round his pupil's throat; that way, with the headphones covering his ears, the pupil could hear, amplified, the regular sound of his own breathing until the rhythm made him drowsy, and being drowsy made Papas' “star” pupil “more receptive” to his lesson even the ancients high up on the Troodos had known about the rhythm, his father had always said.
Yes, Papas would be with him soon even if it meant the lesson. Soon the dark would lift, dawn would come, the big iron entrance doors would open to let sunshine flood the foyer... moments after 08:30 he'd find himself in the basement and all he'd know would be the sluggishness which wasn't quite sleep, while all his eyes would be aware of would be the single ray of light through the little basement window, Papas' lips moving and The Voice, as certain as day following night... and then he'd feel the first of his jolts, his heart missing a beat every time he heard The Voice call “Pavlos?”
He knew he shouldn't have come up to Papas’ door, allowed himself to think of the lessons. Even thinking of them made him sway and brought the drowsiness. If he tried to fight it, he might lose. His legs were buckling. He gripped tight the doorknob to his father’s bedroom but the last thing he saw was the ceiling.
The rocking must have been loud to wake him, Pavlos reasoned. It didn't matter that he'd found himself lying on the small platform of the raised landing with two black ancestor masks staring down at him from the wall on either side of Papas' bedroom door. All that mattered was that now there was no mistaking the noise, and it had been coming from Papas' bedroom. But Papas was up in the Troodos, and his bed wouldn't rock like that if there was...
No, there was no family and even if there had been, then Papas wouldn’t have needed to lock the bedroom door.
Pavlos decided he had to raise himself off the floor, stay awake. The drowsiness could be overcome and he wouldn't let his legs buckle again even if they threatened to take over. If he could make just one big effort to shake away the sleepiness, forget the riot of his pulse, just gather up the strength, he might even tear that door off its hinges, hurl it over the giggly woman in Papas' bedroom, silence her... just as the silky Voice had silenced him all his life.
'Papas? Papas! All that about wanting to take me with you and bringing me a nice gift from your brothers how could you lie to me!’
Silence.
'Stuff your family! D’you hear me? They can go to hell - hell!'
There was more giggling... now a woman's throaty laughter and the murmur of his father’s voice urging her to be quiet, while the bed rocked harder.
He beat his fists on the door until the panel shook in its frame and boomed back at him like the skin of one of Papas' ancient Greek drums.
'They can rot! Like everything else of yours rots in this place! Papas? You can hear me! Any family you have, they can rot!'
The giggling had stopped. That was his father’s bed rocking harder, the woman moaning and Papas had given up trying to quieten her.
‘Papas? You can burn all your lying gifts that you said you were bringing me back keep them for her you've got in there!'
We don't shout after our lessons do we Pavlos? We no closer to real family if we shout...
He couldn't care what the silky Voice seemed to be telling him. He’d beat his fists down until they bled, if that's how long it took Papas to open the door, face the disgrace he'd made of himself, his wife, his son.
Another lesson, Pavlos... you need!
He felt the first jolt, a current shooting through every nerve in his head, and, each time he tried to hit the door, something seemed to push his fist back towards his own face until all he could do was try to shout.
‘You've lied to me! You've lied to Mum! What lies are you telling your easy woman in there? Papas?’
‘No, Pavlos, you have to believe me. My family, they still alive!’
‘Remember what Mum always tried to tell you Papas. Remember August 1974? Turkish soldiers, people burning, your family - ’
‘No! No, still alive, Pavlos. Still! My new friend, she's coming to meet my family too. After we we play a little, I speak to her again just as I - I speak to you, eh?’
Pavlos knew what that special, soft manner of speaking meant. The current lashed around in his head. It was still harder to shout out his anger even though the woman's moaning had stopped and all he could hear was the headboard of Papas' bed knocking harder and faster against the wall.
He kicked the door panel.
‘Get out of my father's bedroom! D'you hear?'
The headboard was still slapping against the wall. He was about to kick the door again but pulled himself back... the headboard, it had stopped... the room had returned to its hush, except for a kind of occasional scuffling and scraping and knocking of objects. If rats could dress themselves, there were rats on the other side of that door.
Maybe the woman didn't understand English, even thought 'bitch' was a compliment. In case she was a Cypriot, he'd fist the door. But it was still his father's bedroom, and his heart was thumping as fast as each thump he gave to the panel of oak.
'Send her away, Papas she doesn't belong here. Papas?'
'Pavlos, listen now. You don't understand. Athena, she wants to meet my family. Soon you have new mother, eh? And we all three drive up to the Troodos to find them, eh? You calm down now. You calm.'
Papas' voice was still muffled by the door but seemed to have no more of the anger expected in it... no feeling at all. It was soft, infuriatingly soft.
'... down now, Pavlos... calm... calm.'
Soon he'd have to be calm, however much he fought against that softness.
'Calm? Calm! With her in there? Funny "Troodos" you were going to, Papas!'
'Listen to me now, Pavlos. You can picture my face, eh?'
'It's no good, Papas. I'm not listening this time. I won't - ’
'Yes, yes, you can picture my face now Pavlos? You picture my lips? And you hear my voice, calm, yes, we calm now, eh?'
'I can't hear you I can't - ’
But then he realised the absurdity of what he'd denied. Wherever Papas was, it seemed he could always hear him, for The Voice was always there... like God. All he could do now was to put his shoulder to the door, give one final push, inwardly pray it opened on Papas' shame.
'You tiring yourself, Pavlos, you tiring, eh? Yes, you tired. You calm now. I want you to be calm. Like the breeze that blows. You remember our breeze? That's right, you remember.. And in the breeze we forget everything but the gentle sigh of crisp clean air on your face. So gentle, the Mediterranean breeze, eh? So gentle on your face. Yes, gentle, eh?'
Pavlos felt the current searching, finding every nerve he had, paralysing thought, leaving him dangling in those soft silky strands of Papas’ web.
'You picture my lips Pavlos? Yes, you ready to answer me now, eh?'
Pavlos punched his knuckles into the door panel, his hand throbbing.
'Yes, that’s all right, that’s all right! You have to how they say, "get it out your system", eh? Now it’s out, Pavlos, all out of your system, the breeze flowing through you gentle, calm, clean, eh? And now all your memories, they cleaned out of you and you remember nothing, nothing of what you think you heard in Papas' bedroom.'
Pavlos bit hard into his lip, gave one more punch into the door which he knew would be his last. His knuckles stung. The sharper pain was replaced by the dull throbbing, until he forgot his hand, his head falling forward on to the door panel. The oak was cool on his forehead until his legs buckled beneath him and he felt himself sliding down the door, fighting against the instinct to crawl like that late summer fly he'd once watched slide down the window pane where, for distracting Papas from his work, Papas had sprayed it with fly killer, the insect in its last seconds struggling stupidly against the thickness of the glass, only millimetres separating it from the free air it had once known outside… free air…
'Mum she was fit enough to be introduced to any family you could have Papas! Are you still hearing me?' he asked on his knees, his head propping him against the door, his voice tamed to a soft pleading.
That was the screech of the wardrobe hinges which Papas was always too busy to grease, and again that rat like scuffling against the hush in the room. Papas would be throwing on clothes to hide what he'd shared with the woman he’d called Athena.
Pavlos rolled his head on the door panel, wanting it to hurt. There was only one thing that woman in there could want to learn from Papas, and that was how soon it would be before he spoilt her with more little handouts from the Museums' catalogue - silver preferred to brass, and never mind the date on it.
That was the clop of shoes on the tiles near the vanity sink in there. The woman could have been angling her feet into Mum's shoes. And now there was that hush again. It seemed to paralyse the whole museum, everything inside its walls. He knelt where the Voice had left him, on the floor.
The door opened. He fell forward, confronting the toes pointing out of Papas' brown sandals. Another pair of feet had arrived, the manicured toenails varnished in soft pink. He looked up at the woman who was looking down at him as though she'd had her first sight of a worm. She looked like a Cypriot, but was definitely no virtuous villager maybe someone amongst the museum's occasional visitors from the seedy night life Papas said had befallen Ayia Napa. Her dusky brown body was what his mother would have called “starkers” where Athena couldn't hide it behind Papas. She was clutching a pillow to herself to cover her privates. She seemed to have had her fill of viewing the worm and was backing towards the dress Papas had once intended as a “peace offering” to Mum. So this was the “lady friend” more fit than Mum to be “introduced” to Papas' make believe family.
Pavlos still couldn't raise himself from the floor, only watch, let the anger mount. He wished that if there was the family of which Papas had always spoken, then now it might offer him a hand, pull him up where his head could be as high as the one tossing her long black hair over her naked shoulders and starting to fill out the dress Mum had never seen.
CHAPTER THREE
A soft hand smoothed over his shoulder, and The Voice followed the hand. Pavlos pulled away.
‘... stand now, eh Pavlos? Come now, give me your hand.'
The words reminded Pavlos where he was. He stayed kneeling, bit through the graze on his knuckles.
'Eh, eh, eh! You still not calm are you?’ he heard his father ask. ‘No, I see you still not calm as the breeze that flow, the breeze all the way through you, cleaning out all your memories... cleaning...'
He would count, daydream, think, do anything now not to slip and slither on The Voice. Pavlos shrugged again, rejecting the hand his father massaged into his shoulder.
'Mum you might not have been able to make her believe in your "family", but she was a good woman, Papas!'
Papas had stopped massaging, was raising his finger up in front of his lips, cautioning.
'Sh! Keep your voice down! Your mother! Your mother! All she ever did was remind me of the Turks. What they they did.'
Nothing was “calm” about Papas' voice as he made a poor attempt to whisper. 'Why you always go back to your mother? Eh? I, Aristotle Stavrovouni, have educated you not your mother!'
There was a draught just a shave from his nose as Papas' hand flopped disdainfully in front of him, 'I work like crazy to keep museum. Every night museum close, what do I do? I break off my work to give you scholar's time. Every morning you have your lessons without fail. Where your mother come from it’s different. Today in England, even the plumber, if he runs his own business, he calls himself this and calls himself that, puts his tool kit down, sinks his hand into fat wallet and sends his boy to public school. But, how many English boys have Greek father, expert in Classical Greek? Eh?'
'And an English mother I can't see because of all the times all the times, Papas, you've rowed over the things you've dug up and crammed into our home, all the times you've taken her to court over me, and her drinking?'
He clung to his father's trouser legs, yearning to get up off the floor for once without needing The Voice to help him.
'She wouldn't wouldn't have drunk if - ’
'Yes, say it! Go on, say! You want to say? She never have drunk, if I had been "ordinary"? If I never talk of family; if I pretend my own family never exist; if I never give you your lessons and send you instead to the gymnasium like any other father want to see his boy educated with other boys, eh?'
He had legs beneath him now. Papas had pulled him on to his feet. But the legs were trembling.
'No wrong. If you'd just not expected me and Mum to worship your your forefathers! We're your family, not '
'Shut up! Shut up! The lady, she doesn’t want to hear this. Athena, she is the only woman who will see my family.'
The slap stung, and the carefully subdued Voice had finally broken into a shout. He was as tall, taller than Papas now, and Pavlos could feel himself trembling between submission to the slap, and hitting back... calm… calm as the breeze over the Troodos... no, he couldn't begin to raise his hand to his father.
'Come. Down the stairs!'
That was Papas' hip nudging him ; the full weight of a panicked man barging him downstairs, tread by tread.
'Athena, she believes me. She understand we find my family up in the Troodos. She come with me.'
Pavlos thought he saw Papas' eyes watering, but that wasn't going to stop him clinging stubbornly to the banister railing, his wrists trembling to hold himself fast against his father’s weight. He barged, bracing himself for another slap, trying to stand his ground before the Cypriot woman filling out the frame of Papas' bedroom door.
'Down! Quickly! Down the stairs! You don't want to study your fore-fathers any more? You born partly of English, but you not "Paul", you "Pavlos", born of Greek, from Troodos Mountains!'
Papas was beside himself, struggling to speak between ever shorter breaths, the creamy smoothness of The Voice beginning to desert him now, his neck reddening as it always did when he was trapped in anger.
'In the Troodos mountains, I want you to remember Pavlos, the villagers had something special, many, many years…’
No. No, this time I won't listen. I won't repeat what The Voice tells me.
He'd turn away now from the eyes which always commanded.
This time, surely, he was breaking free. The Voice wasn't soft and creamy smooth, and Papas was no longer the “best person” for his education as that creep Spiropoulos always said. For once, Papas' eyes had shifted. There was panic in them. Papas had allowed himself to shout, despite his “lady”.
'You prefer your mother, eh? You go to her? Eh?'
'Speak up, Papas, you don't have to whisper let her hear!' he said, scowling at the woman who was still lolling in the doorway and fussing to improve the hang of Mum's dress on her. 'Go on! Why don't you let her hear it all!'
The shoulder shoving was making him slide against the banister railing as Papas kept trying to swallow what he wanted to yell.
'Listen! Listen to me!' Pavlos could feel Papas' pipe tobacco breath on his cheek as his father leaned forward and he could see the woman behind Papas, now turning from side to side to get a better view of herself in the wardrobe mirror.
'Come, down - now! Down the stairs, Pavlos! You prefer go to waitress who slop cloth across tables outside café in Limassol? For all you think you heard behind my door, at least Athena will come to meet our family?'
‘“Our" family? I like that! "Our" family? You call her "our" family?' Pavlos chided.
'Is that what I have spent years to educate you for?’ his father replied. ‘To be forever - how your mother would say "doubting Thomas"? Eh?' Papas continued, bulldozing through the question. ‘Eh?'
Pavlos felt his father's index finger stab at his shoulder again.
'Don't you want to be educated? Know our family? All the hours I -I speak to you! Eh!'
“Speak” the word dizzied, jolted, sprang between every nerve inside Pavlos’ head. He thought of the tangle that Papas' Greek lessons had sewn into his brain... the writhing snakes of Medusa's head. His head spun, his hands, his legs, they were trembling again, with anger.
'I work for you!’ he heard his father continue the sermon. ‘I leave my research in drawer to teach you your birthright! And what your mother ever do? She run. She run from your home with her bottles '
'This? You've got to be joking! This isn't a home! Didn't anybody ever tell you? Home is where it's no good Papas you wouldn't understand.’
'Yes! I understand! A home is where you have comfort, and if you lucky you have antiques, and if you very lucky you have ancient antiquities and somebody who can help you understand your culture!'
'Even our bedrooms!’ Pavlos retorted, ‘They’re right above those rotting remains which you have to label and keep under glass. History's okay Papas, but how long are you going to live in your fantasy world? How many other boys have to live above ancient humans!'
'Don't we all? Go back ten thousand years! A man, a woman, they right beneath your feet! Except their bodies they go. But something remain... something remain, eh? It’s history!'
'History? What's history, Papas? My last fart's history! Your history's just the gloss '
Mustn't be a nuisance, not a nuisance.
Speak! Speak out ... for once…
‘ - culture freaks like - like you, put on the passage of time because it makes you seem so much glossier next to ordinary people like Mum.'
The slap hadn't come. The Voice wasn't counting to three. There was no click of fingers.
'Yes...Yes, I see now,’ his father began, ‘I see you are the duplicate of your English mother. I tell you, she has as much respect for Cypriot history as for how you say fart! She treat priceless relics like they tins of macaroni from Moudis superstore, she treat my family like they never exist! What is she saying? I, Aristotle Stavrovouni, never exist? And still she try to fight me in the courts - a waitress, eh?’
It wasn't just The Voice coming from Papas, but Papas himself... speaking like a father. In that case he could carry on speaking to him like you should be able to speak to a father, Pavlos considered.
'She's not just a waitress! She's my Mum! D'you hear that? Not one of your "lady” friends you can make to believe in some crazy family!'
'Eh! Eh! Eh! You not care if she hears?' he said, nodding back to his bedroom door where Athena had kicked off one pair of shoes and was trying her foot in some shiny black stilettos. 'Perhaps you care about this, eh? And this!’
The second and third slaps turned Pavlos’ head from side to side, but they came as a relief. His face could sting, for all that mattered any more was that The Voice, the silky Voice was for the first time unsure, not in command.
'Mum was a good woman worth more than all your family put together see!'
'And this!'
Pavlos tried but failed to dodge the harder slap which stung and throbbed on his face.
'There's no expensive clothes, nothing you can put on that that tarted up thing in your bedroom there, which will make her fitter to see your "family" than Mum would have.'
'And this! And this! Eh?'
The slaps left his cheeks raw. Papas' eyes were shifting again. He'd never seemed like this before, out of control.
'Here!'
That was Papas' expensive after-shave Pavlos had smelt, and Papas' hand rubbing Cyprus pounds all over his face, over his nostrils, searching for his lips until he felt all the notes being stuffed into his mouth. Pavlos struggled against the fingers, moved his head from left to right to avoid them, then retched when he could no longer stop the notes reaching the back of his mouth. But it was still his father's fingers that pushed them in, and those he didn't dare to bite. The notes were choking. He had to spit them out if he was to breathe while Papas' greater weight nudged him tread by tread down the stairs.
'Here, take money! Go to your mother! Go, eh? But you no come back you no part of my family. You come back I '
Papas couldn't say what he'd do, except that he had slackened his grip and shoved out a bent palm before flicking it away into the air only centimetres from his nose; a Greek Cypriot's way of ramming home ‘you no longer exist'.
'Some ' Some scholar! he wanted to shout, but Pavlos could only stay bent forward, retch again and pull at the soggy notes still clogging his mouth. Papas had returned for a moment to close the slit where his bedroom door still hung slightly open. His “lady” was doing a last few wriggles to get used to the feel of the dress that had been going to be Mum's best for the summer; the one with the red roses and dusky purple chrysanthemum heads cascading between each other on a fresh white background; the dress Mum said was going to be so bright in all the August sunshine with Papas once she'd got herself “dried out”.
Pavlos had intended to shout at the woman, but the words wouldn't come out. There was something about her which he knew. He must have worn that face of hers himself every time The Voice had stung him until all he could do was stare ahead. Maybe she wouldn't have visited at all, nor have been in Papas' bed, if it hadn't been for Papas first taking her down to the basement to show her the museum's “introductory” slide show, “Journey with My Ancestors”, The Voice craftily slipping its instructions between the guide notes whenever Papas paused the tape and spoke... slowly, softly, slowly, softly...
She too had listened to The Voice, he was sure. Papas had tried - like he must have tried with other “lady friends” to take her into his confidence, “speak” to her, “introduce” her to what he still believed to be his family.
Pavlos’ face still stung from the slaps as he sat alone in the empty ticket kiosk downstairs in the Reception foyer. The museum was closed and there'd be nobody to come for tickets. He could wait, unseen, until he'd calmed down and his heart had stopped thumping so wildly in his chest. Soon the woman's voice would no longer be inside his home. Every time she called 'Aristo', as if she'd shared what Mum had shared with him, the falseness of it made him cringe, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stand up or move out of the kiosk, not until the entrance doors had been slammed closed, the bolts shot, the woman gone.
Papas was mumbling something to her now. That was the entrance doors slamming for the night, echoing through the foyer until he could hear Papas scraping the chair across the tiles and standing on it for his routine of stretching up to check the angle of the security camera.
'Pavlos? Come now. Pavlos?'
The Voice seemed to carry to every corner of the museum until nothing could hide from it in the tiniest recess. Even as Papas' sandals were slapping their way towards the ticket kiosk where he sat crouched, the museum seemed empty... except for The Voice. Papas was leaning over the little wooden counter of the booth. There was nowhere to hide.
'Hello down there! You going to sell tickets to "ghosts" eh? What you doing down there? Come. You don't want to spend the night hiding like snail in ticket office. You want to stay there for rest of the night?'
Pavlos waited for the next “come” and The Voice's first instruction. Maybe if he could fake a smile or look alert, Papas wouldn't notice his drowsiness this time. But Papas was squeezed into the ticket booth, right beside him now. There was nowhere to move, nothing else to do but hold his hand up to the hand Papas offered and stand. The lips... they were already moving.
For as long as he could think of Mum, he might fight against the drowsiness... Mum... she'd be alone in rooms above a restaurant in Limassol... after finishing her shift serving tourists at tables beneath parasols... after snuffing out the flickering candles that brightened an evening between smiling lovers... after hoping for a tip and then stacking the chairs as her boss wanted them...
He'd forgotten the numbness that Papas' slaps had left on his cheeks, the soggy Cyprus pounds he'd had to spit out.
Soon, Pavlos... REAL family...
Amazon.co.uk
NOOK KOBO ( W H Smith )
Smashwords Google