A Sudden Death in Cyprus Read online

  In Austin, Texas, life had opened its hands and offered me a choice. I could go on as I had been, digging the hole ever deeper. Or I could go with the girl in the window.

  Austin was a low point. Not my first or my last, but very low. Low as in sleeping under bridges, low. Low as in checking laundromats for loose change, low. I was in my early twenties, and in the first depressing weeks of my life as a fugitive from justice. To make it all worse I was perversely reading Crime and Punishment. A bit on-the-nose as a book choice, but I’d found a paperback copy in the Trailways station, which is where I kept my stuff in a locker and showered in a sink. Good times.

  I got a job in a restaurant and started earning money legitimately, performing actual work and being paid in tips. So, no more bridges, and I was able to get a foul, roach-infested apartment, just off the University of Texas campus.

  One night as I was coming home I glanced up and saw a girl in a window. In those days, I had not yet become the suave ladies’ man I became in order to suavely ingratiate myself with marks. And I certainly did not make a practice of randomly deciding to knock on the doors of women I saw in windows.

  But for whatever reason, and I never did come up with a satisfactory motive, I immediately went over, knocked on her screen door and after some hemming and hawing, we went for a beer.

  And afterward we kissed.

  It was not my first kiss. It was just the best.

  The next night we slept together. And that, too, was the best, not because we engaged in theatrical displays of acrobatic love-making, but because I was already halfway in love.

  I told her everything. Told her I was a thief. That I had jumped bail. I was compelled to be honest, like she was Wonder Woman and I was wrapped in the Lasso of Truth. There was something different happening, something I had not experienced before. I knew, and she knew, in ways that are hard to describe, that we worked.

  I have no superstitions. I don’t do faith. I don’t back sports teams, let alone religions. I am a stand-alone, a guy who takes a position off to the side the better to observe and exploit. But that first night it was as if my head had been turned for me, and my eyes focused for me. Like the great Hand of the God I did not believe in had reached down and said, ‘There, you stupid, self-destructive fuck, go meet that girl.’

  We had a three-week affair. We were inseparable. But she was graduating college and had a job offer in Maryland. I had no ties to Austin. There was no reason I couldn’t go with her to Maryland. No reason at all.

  Faced with a future of love and friendship and all that good stuff people think is so important … Well, the God-I-Don’t-Believe-In had it right: I was a stupid, self-destructive fuck, and out of habit I had cased the restaurant where I was working. It was a hangout for Texas politicians and lobbyists, and I had seen thick envelopes surreptitiously exchanged. I knew a money-making opportunity when I saw it.

  The GPS of Divine Direction was telling me to turn right. I heard it clearly. I knew it spoke the truth. I knew, that’s the thing. I knew.

  So naturally, I turned left.

  As I stood now on my terrace gazing out at the dark Mediterranean and the night lights of Paphos, I heard a voice singing and saw that Chante had walked outside onto her smaller patio, which was below and to the right of mine. She was smoking a joint and singing a melancholy French song with lyrics of loneliness and loss.

  ‘Not helpful,’ I muttered under my breath. I stepped back so she wouldn’t see me.

  I had a feeling not unlike the turning point in Austin, of being on a knife’s edge. I had a terribly embarrassing thought: what if I actually did something … good?

  This was followed immediately by the darker voice within me wondering if I was being spoon-fed by Agents K. and D. Had they sensed some inner core of decency they could exploit by deliberately hinting this was all about kids?

  The two voices – Gollum and Sméagol – debated in my head. The Clash had framed my dilemma perfectly: should I stay or should I go? I could call Dabber and we could sail away on the good ship Aussie Cliché.

  It would mean the end of David Mitre. The end of my made-up city of New Midlands with all its colorful characters. No more Joe Barton, cynical private dick with a heart of gold and the obligatory drinking problem. I would have to rebuild from the ground up, new name, the enormous time-suck of creating a new identity …

  Even before I started writing I knew that my life was a book, the Martin DeKuyper story, written by Martin DeKuyper. For a long time now the probable ending had been, ‘… so he was sentenced to ten years and served three before taking a shiv to the kidneys.’

  A different ending tantalized me now: ‘… so the FBI let him go in recognition of his service, and he lived happily ever after, writing books and marrying the girl in the window.’

  Gollum sneered at that.

  TEN

  I woke early, too early for the day’s planned adventure – lunch with Father Fotos. The sun was up but had not yet fully committed to appearing. The air was fresh and cool and salty.

  I was frowzy from lack of sleep but decided to work. I had half a manuscript which I had barely touched in days, and if I didn’t get some pages down it would fade from memory and I’d have to reread the damn thing from the start – a waste of a day – just to figure out what I was supposed to be writing next. And I had the stupid GQ piece, a thing I could interrupt as necessary without losing my place.

  I began to assemble my mise en place, as Pierre Gagnaire might say, my writing set-up: coffee, two cigars, cigar torch, coffee, two bottles of water, screen cleaner, power cord, sunglasses and coffee.

  And without warning I sensed a person behind me, jumped like a cat, spun and settled upon recognizing Chante.

  ‘Jesus, you scared me. You know there’s a doorbell, right?’

  ‘I missed the bus. You must drive me to the set.’

  ‘Must I? Some people might think to add a “please.”’

  Her response was to look at her watch. Pointedly. Like I was the one running late.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I said, filled with righteous indignation and already knowing I’d do it because, as any professional writer will tell you, the excellent excuses for not writing encompass pretty much anything.

  I put the top down on the car, obscurely hoping the wind would annoy Chante.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked as we pulled away.

  ‘I will put it in your GPS.’

  She did. And I said, ‘That’s an hour and ten minutes!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You take a bus there?’

  ‘It is not a public bus, it is a coach provided by the producers.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I had not yet driven inland, up into the mountains, and once we turned off the A6, I found myself on a scenic road passing through moderately scenic villages. There were actual trees up here, forests even, very different from the Cyprus I had seen in the lowlands. Up here it was suddenly Tuscany, red-tile roofs, villages perched in unlikely spots, even the occasional small vineyard.

  We caught up to the bus.

  ‘If you pull in front of it, I will wave to make it stop,’ Chante said.

  ‘Nah. Now that I’m up here I want to see the set.’

  ‘I will not introduce you to movie stars.’

  That irritated me. I shot her a glance full of that irritation. ‘Do you seriously think I give a fuck about movie stars? Let alone some French flavor-of-the-week?’

  Chante didn’t answer, but she was amused in a straight-faced, French sort of way. She silently mouthed, ‘Flavor-of-the-week.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘I live downstairs.’

  I sighed, and after a while she relented. ‘I am from Bayonne. You will not have heard of it.’

  ‘Southwest coast near the Spanish border. Hence the piperade,’ I said. ‘Basque country.’

  She looked at me like I’d sprouted an extra head.

  ‘I know!’ I said, mocking her.
‘An American who knows geography! I even know a bit of history, believe it or not. France and Algeria, for example. Mokrani isn’t a French name, so, let me venture a guess: ’61? ’62?’

  ‘1962,’ Chante admitted. ‘My father emigrated as a child. My mother is French.’

  We arrived at the tiny village of Lofou. Lofou is the real deal, a village of sandstone walls and red-tile roofs and narrow cobbled streets. It had only a hundred or so actual residents but at the moment looked like it was under siege by tractor trailers, panel trucks, a flatbed and two buses, like tanks lining up to attack. Dozens of men and women of the competent, lanyard-wearing variety were hustling equipment out of the trailers onto golf carts and pickup trucks for the brief shuttle into the town center. I threaded my way through them, suddenly acutely aware that I was in an expensive convertible with the top down and yet was a nobody. You could see it in the speculative glances followed by the frowns followed by the dismissal. Nope: I was not worthy of attention.

  A perimeter of sorts had been set up: a guy with a neon yellow safety vest and an especially-impressive lanyard sitting in a canvas folding chair. As we rolled slowly forward he bestirred himself and raised an officious hand.

  Then he smiled and said, ‘Ah, Chante! With your own chauffeur!’

  He waved us on and with hand gestures indicated what had been an open space in the middle of a traffic circle but was now a sort of chaotic camper and RV show.

  ‘Let me off here,’ Chante said.

  ‘I need a pee,’ I said, and squeezed the car onto churned mud behind the open-sided craft services tent.

  The instant I came to a complete stop Chante was out of the car with nary a word of farewell, let alone thanks.

  Busy girl, presumably.

  I wandered around the camp, found a porta-potty, did the necessary and moseyed back to the craft services layout in search of coffee. The food table was surprisingly attractive, with great mounds of croissants and ice trays coddling yogurt and an omelet station manned by a young chef complete with toque. Half a dozen picnic tables had a middle school cafeteria vibe in that each had the feel of a clique: dudes with tool belts and gaffer tape at one table, extras with swivel heads looking for movie stars at another, people wearing protective robes over costumes at another. I snagged a brioche and a coffee and spotted a smaller table, unoccupied, and plopped myself there.

  I was happily tearing off chunks of brioche when a presence loomed and I looked up to see a strikingly beautiful woman who, at first glance, probably qualified under the half-my-age-plus-seven-years rule. Younger but not creepily younger. She had a cup of tea, which was a strike against her, but on the other hand was the utter gorgeousness thing. I was completely prepared to forgive her the tea and propose marriage.

  I smiled and motioned for her to have a seat.

  ‘Nothing to eat?’ I asked her. Americans are notorious for starting conversations with complete strangers. Europeans sneer, but at the same time they’re a bit jealous.

  ‘I am … do not … le petit déjeuner,’ she said. ‘Je suis toujours au régime.’

  French. I can manage French just well enough that French people don’t instantly want to gag me with a sock. Régime. She was on a diet.

  ‘Régime?’ I repeated with a fair approximation of a Gallic shrug. ‘Mais pour vous c’est ridicule.’ A diet? For you? Ridiculous.

  Which I think was a compliment. Probably. Anyway, she didn’t tell me to fuck off, so that was a good thing.

  She asked me who I was, which I took to mean what right did I have to be drinking free coffee.

  ‘I’m not with the movie,’ I confessed. ‘I just drove my neighbor up here. She missed her bus.’

  Chante suddenly appeared behind the starlet and it was then that the penny dropped.

  ‘Madame!’ Chante said to Minette through gritted teeth while glaring at me.

  ‘Ah, Chante,’ Minette said. ‘I am speaking with your charming driver.’

  ‘Actually, we are neighbors.’ I deployed my number six grin, the one that conveys cheeky impertinence. ‘And good, good friends.’

  Take that … neighbor.

  ‘Hair and make-up in ten minutes, madame,’ Chante said.

  Minette sighed. She was small, Minette, smaller even than Chante, who was no Amazon. She had wheat-blonde hair which might even be natural, mesmerizing lips that turned down at the corners, a broad forehead and amused eyes. I liked her. I think I’d have liked her even if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’d seen in a very long time. I’d have liked her less, but I’d have liked her.

  ‘Will you not introduce us?’ Minette asked Chante.

  ‘Minette, David Mitre. He is a writer.’

  ‘Of novels, not scripts,’ I added hastily.

  ‘Well, we must be certain that Mr Mitre is invited to the fundraiser,’ Minette said, toujours en francais, as Chante’s eyes measured me for a coffin. ‘It is for a very good cause.’

  The star stood, and so did I. She shook my hand and excused herself to go off and be slathered in entirely superfluous cosmetics.

  ‘I will be with you in one moment,’ Chante said to Minette. Which left us alone.

  ‘You must not sleep with her,’ Chante said.

  ‘Sleep with her! Jesus, Chante, you’re getting ahead of—’

  ‘Read some of that Hollywood gossip you despise,’ Chante ordered. And she was gone.

  ‘Who owns the fucking Mercedes?’ a harried woman with a clipboard yelled.

  I raised my hand, went to the car and drove back down out of the forested mountains with thoughts of Minette on my mind. Chante’s warning translated to me as an endorsement of my chances. A brief, torrid affair with a stunning French actress? At very least it would make a great story for me to tell in the common room of whatever prison I was heading to.

  ELEVEN

  I intercepted Fotos on his way to our lunch date and fell in beside him. Fotos led us to a little round table beneath the overhang of an unambitious café. He lit a Camel. I lit a Cohiba Esplendido – I usually like a fatter stick, but this had a gorgeous flavor, which started out cedar and evolved into a sort of Mexican chocolate spiciness.

  ‘So,’ I said, once I had achieved a centimeter of ash, ‘you want to be a writer.’

  There followed half an hour of off-point questions like ‘what’s your inspiration?’ and ‘where do you get your ideas?’ Even my old favorite, ‘what software do you use?’ This is standard. There’s an old saw about amateur warriors talking tactics while professionals talk logistics. In my (current) line of work the equivalent would be ‘wannabes talk inspiration, professionals talk rights deals and options.’ I’ve been on book tour, I’ve spent time in green rooms and dark bars with writers and not once have we ever talked about inspiration. You might get a conversation going about Oxford commas, but mostly we literary artistes talk money.

  But I plowed through it all with a nuanced blend of encouragement and superior condescension. It’s what they expect. Then, as the sun grew hotter and the shadows shorter, it was my turn.

  ‘I have a question for you, Father. I heard something disturbing the other day about refugee kids.’

  His emotions, as best I could judge, went: surprise, puzzlement, worry and finally, caution. ‘Our charity work has not been primarily involved with refugee issues.’

  I don’t give a fuck about your charity, dude. I’m not checking up on how you spent my contribution; you could spend it on cocaine and bestiality porn for all I care, is not what I said.

  ‘I guess it’s the pictures, you know? You see them on Twitter or wherever, these little kids … I mean, I’m not sentimental, but it kind of breaks your heart, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, it is heartbreaking, the very word. Heartbreaking,’ he agreed, just bleeding human decency and concern and empathy all over the table.

  ‘What happens to kids who wash up on Cyprus from Syria or Egypt?’

  ‘From more places than that, I’m afraid. Libya, Iraq, Somalia,
Sudan, Saudi Arabia, even.’

  ‘And what do the Cypriot authorities do with them?’

  He shrugged. ‘They are taken to processing centers and from there to a facility in Kofinou.’

  ‘Kofinou. That must be a hell of a place. I mean, it’s got to be hundreds, maybe thousands of kids.’

  He shook his head. ‘Perhaps not that many. You see, Cyprus’ laws do not allow for family reunification. You can apply for legal status, but that does not mean you can bring your children. In fact, refugees avoid Cyprus, if they can, because the Greek Islands have more favorable terms.’

  ‘Interesting. And all the refugees know this?’

  ‘The refugees know nothing; but the smugglers know. If you are a Syrian or Lebanese or Egyptian trafficker, you know.’

  ‘So, say I’m a refugee father with two kids.’

  ‘You would perhaps try to reach another destination.’

  ‘I found this picture online.’ I pulled out my phone and handed it to him.

  ‘Yes, yes, that is the boat that was driven ashore two weeks ago by high winds.’

  ‘Zoom in. I count seventy-eight people on that dinky boat. Eight or nine look like kids, at least to me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘So, in that case where they came here sort of involuntarily, those kids …’

  He favored me with a benign, pastoral smile. ‘I see. You want to help them?’

  Yes, because I am Mother Teresa reborn. I am to the milk of human kindness what Kentucky is to Bourbon. Basically, I am a bit of a saint. Don’t you see the gold dinner plate on my head? I also did not say.

  ‘I don’t know that there’s much I can do …’ Modest shrug. ‘But I’m interested enough to want to know more.’

  But then, a troubled shadow crossed his unlined brow. ‘I … well, there are some men who go looking for …’

  If you wish to signal outrage without going overboard, you press your lips together, pull back a few inches, and narrow your eyes, just once. ‘Father Fotos, I am not a pedophile.’