British had left. Neither side had been entirely happy with the constitution of the republic signed in 1960, but when Makarios had put forward a proposal to amend it, violence had erupted. The blood of a Turk meant the spilling of the blood of a Greek, and so it had gone on. It was an animosity that ran deep in some, and at times it had threatened to destroy everything. It had deprived Aphroditi of her only brother, devastated her mother, torn apart her father’s life, and if things had carried on as in the previous decade, the livelihoods of everyone on the island would have been ruined, whether they were Greek or Turk. She could see no sense in a conflict where there was no winning side.
She stood for a moment looking out towards the sea. It had been her suggestion when the hotel was being designed that the terrace should reach right out on to the beach so that guests could hear the lapping of the water and step barefoot on to the sand. On a night like this, when the sea was still and the stars were bright, they might also see the most magical thing of all: the reflection of a meteor shower.
In the five minutes she allowed herself to stand beneath the canopy of stars, her anger subsided. Frustration with her mother often got the better of her. Artemis Markides was like an empty shell from which any capacity for emotion had crawled away. It had made Aphroditi even more appreciative of her father’s unfailing affection. Since they had moved to England, she had missed him deeply.
When Aphroditi turned round, her parents had gone. Even their glasses had been cleared. She knew that her father would be taking his wife back to their apartment. She hated late nights. The next morning they would be flying back to London.
Markos was standing in the shadows. On this peaceful, star-filled night, in spite of the calm exterior he had on display for the guests, he had been a little anxious. He knew that Christos was in Nicosia meeting up with his fellow revolutionaries.
Suddenly something caught his eye. Against the backdrop of the inky sky, he noticed a pale, translucent statue. It was Aphroditi, motionless and alone. Markos could not decide which weighed more heavily on him that night: concern over Christos, or the vision of Aphroditi like an exquisite marble artefact resurrected from the sands. Both of them gave him a strange sense of unease.
Chapter Five
T HE LAST OF the revellers left the party at midnight. Less than twelve hours remained before the first guests would arrive with their suitcases.
When Savvas arrived at The Sunrise early the following morning, dozens of people were already clearing, sweeping, dusting and polishing to make everything as perfect as before. Furniture needed to be rearranged. Drinks had been spilled, and debris was littered on the marble floor. The amount of cleaning up reflected the success of the party.
‘Good morning, Kyrie Papacosta.’
‘Good morning, Kyrie Papacosta …’
Savvas heard the words a dozen or more times between the car park and the reception desk.
Members of staff were in no doubt about the standard that was expected in this new hotel. If a surface was shiny, it must be polished so that you could see a reflection of your face. If the napkins were white, they had to be dazzlingly so. Windows must be so clean that they would cease to be seen. The head of housekeeping was tyrannical. Chambermaids had been instructed that unless beds were correctly turned down, they could lose their jobs.
‘Who are our first arrivals, Costas?’ Savvas asked the hotel manager.
‘We have two couples from Geneva, Kyrie Papacosta, and they are coming together. Twenty-six Americans. A group from Germany. Thirty from Sweden. Half a dozen British couples. Some French. A few Italians, and the rest, I believe, are from Athens.’
‘That’s a healthy start. And exactly the right number for now.’
‘Oh – and Frau Bruchmeyer, of course,’ Costas Frangos added. ‘We’re sending a car to
She stood for a moment looking out towards the sea. It had been her suggestion when the hotel was being designed that the terrace should reach right out on to the beach so that guests could hear the lapping of the water and step barefoot on to the sand. On a night like this, when the sea was still and the stars were bright, they might also see the most magical thing of all: the reflection of a meteor shower.
In the five minutes she allowed herself to stand beneath the canopy of stars, her anger subsided. Frustration with her mother often got the better of her. Artemis Markides was like an empty shell from which any capacity for emotion had crawled away. It had made Aphroditi even more appreciative of her father’s unfailing affection. Since they had moved to England, she had missed him deeply.
When Aphroditi turned round, her parents had gone. Even their glasses had been cleared. She knew that her father would be taking his wife back to their apartment. She hated late nights. The next morning they would be flying back to London.
Markos was standing in the shadows. On this peaceful, star-filled night, in spite of the calm exterior he had on display for the guests, he had been a little anxious. He knew that Christos was in Nicosia meeting up with his fellow revolutionaries.
Suddenly something caught his eye. Against the backdrop of the inky sky, he noticed a pale, translucent statue. It was Aphroditi, motionless and alone. Markos could not decide which weighed more heavily on him that night: concern over Christos, or the vision of Aphroditi like an exquisite marble artefact resurrected from the sands. Both of them gave him a strange sense of unease.
Chapter Five
T HE LAST OF the revellers left the party at midnight. Less than twelve hours remained before the first guests would arrive with their suitcases.
When Savvas arrived at The Sunrise early the following morning, dozens of people were already clearing, sweeping, dusting and polishing to make everything as perfect as before. Furniture needed to be rearranged. Drinks had been spilled, and debris was littered on the marble floor. The amount of cleaning up reflected the success of the party.
‘Good morning, Kyrie Papacosta.’
‘Good morning, Kyrie Papacosta …’
Savvas heard the words a dozen or more times between the car park and the reception desk.
Members of staff were in no doubt about the standard that was expected in this new hotel. If a surface was shiny, it must be polished so that you could see a reflection of your face. If the napkins were white, they had to be dazzlingly so. Windows must be so clean that they would cease to be seen. The head of housekeeping was tyrannical. Chambermaids had been instructed that unless beds were correctly turned down, they could lose their jobs.
‘Who are our first arrivals, Costas?’ Savvas asked the hotel manager.
‘We have two couples from Geneva, Kyrie Papacosta, and they are coming together. Twenty-six Americans. A group from Germany. Thirty from Sweden. Half a dozen British couples. Some French. A few Italians, and the rest, I believe, are from Athens.’
‘That’s a healthy start. And exactly the right number for now.’
‘Oh – and Frau Bruchmeyer, of course,’ Costas Frangos added. ‘We’re sending a car to
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