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    My Cyprus: A Memoir
    My Cyprus: A Memoir
    My Cyprus: A Memoir
    Ebook178 pages1 hour

    My Cyprus: A Memoir

    By Joachim Sartorius and Stephen Brown

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    A sensory and poetic guide to the island of Cyprus.

    The island of Cyprus has been a site of global history and conquest, and its strategic position means it has been coveted by one foreign power after another. The Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Genoese, Ottomans, and British have all left their mark. Along with the Roman and Byzantine ruins of Salamis, the island holds impressive monuments dating from the Frankish and Venetian times: the Abbey of Bellapais, the fortified harbor of Kyrenia, and the magnificent cathedrals of Nicosia and Famagusta, the setting for Shakespeare’s Othello.
     
    Having lived in Cyprus for three years, Joachim Sartorius returns to the island’s cultures and legends and brings to life the colors and lights of the Levant area of the Middle East. He sifts through the sediments of the island’s history, including its division after the Turkish invasion of 1974 and the difficulties that followed. Rather than focusing solely on historical or political factors, this book is the work of a poet, who, with the help of both Greek and Turkish Cypriot friends, tries to understand this unique place.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHaus Publishing
    Release dateOct 15, 2021
    ISBN9781913368272
    My Cyprus: A Memoir

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      Book preview

      My Cyprus - Joachim Sartorius

      The summer house of the last architect of the Crown

      My father had a saying: ‘Every man has his house’. He didn’t mean anything unusual, certainly nothing metaphysical, just that every man has a house he especially loves. The house I love is on Cyprus, in Lapithos, on the north coast. I lived there for two summers and failed to buy it. In those days I rejected ownership, because it binds, it chains you to one place and then you want to move on. Later, as I discovered, a tycoon from Istanbul bought it, and I don’t dare imagine what it looks like today, especially inside. I made a huge mistake, not accepting Mark Harrison’s offer.

      I met Mark in the middle of the 1980s at the Blue Moon Bar. The Blue Moon stood on slightly higher ground on the edge of the pretty port of Kyrenia. It was small and gloomy, but when winter was over you could sit outside on the rickety wicker stools, watching the swaying boats in the harbour through the distinctive foliage of the fig trees, ordering one rakı or gin after another. Mark was a regular there, but it was only on my fourth or fifth visit that we began to talk. He slurred a little. I guessed he was around 40, a tall, fair man leaning against the bar, but he looked tired, unhealthy, as if pickled in alcohol. He wanted to know where I’d come from.

      ‘From Nicosia,’ I said.

      ‘How did you get over the border so easily,’ he asked, ‘if you’re coming from over there?’ By ‘over there’ he meant the Greek part of the island.

      ‘I have a special passport,’ I said, ‘so I can travel back and forth.’ I thought it would be pretentious to say that it was a diplomatic passport. Orhan, the bar owner, was busying himself with the glasses while listening intently.

      Mark got straight to the point: ‘I own a beautiful house in Lapithos. Perhaps you know the village. A couple of miles from here. I need money. I’d like to rent the house. A hundred pounds a month.’

      As it was already dark, we made an appointment for the following day. Nicosia boiled in summer; the yellow heat of the Mesaoria plain gathered itself there and made life unbearable. Even after the sun had gone down, the walls radiated a tremendous heat. To swap that large oven of shadow and glare for a house by the sea for the summer seemed tempting to me. I was curious.

      We met in front of the house in the middle of the afternoon. The house stood a little apart from the centre of the village, on a square bordered by three large, majestic houses. A couple of donkeys, laden and overladen with bundles of fresh mulberry branches, each load three times the size of the animal, came down the slope and trotted across the square, black with moisture.

      Mark was standing in front of one of the houses. It was covered in a snow-white wash, dismissive of the outside world, with no windows in the walls on the street. He pushed the door open and we came almost immediately, after a small hallway, into a vast room, a vaulted space, a veritable refectory with a fireplace at the gable end and – save for some seating upholstered in white – rigorously bare. Three doors led out onto a terrace, which was shaded by an overhang of the building and which culminated in three gently pointed round arches on columns of yellow sandstone. The terrace and the arcade formed one side of an inner courtyard, in the style of a cloister, open on two sides and overgrown with grass and reeds. There was a goldfish pond in the centre of the square, next to a mighty pepper tree, which was just in bloom, and two mimosas. I thought spontaneously of the Garden of Eden. A further building adjoined this open quadrangle, which we reached by crossing the terrace and another, smaller yard, with a fountain in it. This building contained the bedrooms and bathrooms, with a loggia on the first storey. Mark insisted on showing me every room. He shoved the shutters open and the branches of a jacaranda tree, covered in blue flowers, reached into the room. He gestured towards the sea, which lay perhaps two miles away.

      ‘The property extends as far as the road by the sea. It’s not so well kept. A gigantic lemon grove all the way to the coast.’

      We sat ourselves down at a crude wooden table under the arches on the first terrace.

      ‘You may be wondering why the house is so empty, so bare, only white walls and the basics, tables and chairs. It wasn’t always like this. My father collected a great many things: Roman busts, old books, vases, icons. The house was a little museum. But after the invasion, the Turkish soldiers took everything with them. That was 1974. Ten years ago. Heaven knows where all that stuff is now.’

      Gradually I learnt that Mark was the son of the last architect for the Crown, that is to say, the last chief architect of the British colonial administration on Cyprus: Sir Austen Harrison. This was his summer house. He had come across a Greek wine cellar, built over by the Romans, on his forays through Lapithos. Harrison erected the house on these foundations in the early 1950s.

      We quickly agreed a deal. Even if Mark had reconsidered and trebled the rent, I would have acceded to every demand. I was hopelessly in love with the property, from the moment I stepped out of the central hall, under the columns and into the first of the gardens, pushing the drooping branches of jasmine to one side with my hand, and sensed the house’s human proportions. It was not until much later, perhaps my last summer before I left Cyprus, that I re-read Lawrence Durrell’s book Bitter Lemons and found the following passage, which I had forgotten:

      But all this was swallowed up in despair and envy when we entered Austen Harrison’s house and found its romantic owner seated gravely by his own lily-pond, apparently engaged in psychoanalysing a goldfish. He was a noble personage, with his finely minted Byzantine emperor’s head and the spare athletic repose of his tall figure … He represented that forgotten world where style was not only a literary imperative but an inherent method of approaching the world of books, roses, statues and landscapes. His house was a perfect illustration of the man. He had taken over an old Cypriot wine-magazine, or perhaps stable, and converted it with a tenderness and discretion which made the whole composition sing – the long arched room lined with books, from whose recesses glowed icons; the shaded terrace with its pointed arches, the summer house, the lily-pond. All this was an illustration of philosophic principles – an illustration of how the good life might, and how it should, be lived.

      I moved into the house in the summer of 1984 and spent three months there. I did the same again in the summer of 1985. Then Mark wanted to sell the house, the house that Lawrence Durrell in another part of his book called ‘the most beautiful house in all of the Eastern Mediterranean’. He needed money and I didn’t grab my chance. But those two summers belong among the happiest of my life.

      ‘Splendidly fertile and famous everywhere for its lemons’

      On the evening of the day we moved in, I sat on the terrace under the arches. The children, Anna and Andrea, were already asleep. We had brought only the essentials with us from Nicosia – bed linen, towels, flip-flops, a few books, swimming goggles. That afternoon, after our arrival, we had been shopping in Lapithos. The bakkal had everything: fragrant bread, salad, vegetables, coffee, cardamom, the Turks’ beloved pastirma, a strongly spiced cured beef, as well as candles, honey-soaked baklava, and a carton of ‘Lal’, a rosé wine from the Turkish mainland, whose fresh, cool edge I prized, especially on hot summer days.

      We had taken possession of the house cautiously. We allocated the bedrooms. I placed a watercolour by Niki Marangou, a good friend from Nicosia, on the mantelpiece. We stowed our shopping in the kitchen. Measured against the generous proportions of the other rooms, the kitchen was astonishingly small and fitted out with only the barest necessities. Under the plates of pale green pressed glass, I found a larger, painted ceramic dish, which – it soon became apparent – was the only item in the house with a direct connection to its architect. I own this plate to this day. It measures 35 centimetres in diameter. Its broad black border is interrupted above and below by lettering. Above, in black capital letters, stand the words: ‘austen harrison’; and below: ‘lapithos’. A tall, slender figure, undoubtedly Sir Austen himself, occupies the vertical axis of the white centre of the plate. The figure wears long, baggy white trousers and a white tunic, and its yellow-brown fox-like face is crowned with a shock of wildly dishevelled hair. It is carrying a broad folding ruler, the emblem of the architect. The whole is carelessly sketched, very playful. The architect prances, a bright, light, captivating figure. Along with some photographs, this plate is my strongest bond to that house. I would love to know whether Austen himself drew the sketch or – more likely – it was the work of a gifted friend. I have to do some research in the archives of the British colonial ministry, dig out some drawings by Sir Austen and make a comparison.

      On our first evening I straightaway piled grapes and figs on that plate and set it down on the wooden table under the arcade. I fetched a wobbly standard lamp out of the hall and sat down at the table where a couple of days earlier I had signed my tenancy agreement with Mark. The sky had lost almost all colour. Only the little pond retained a remnant of blue. Bats darted back and forth between the pointed arches. Two geckos promenaded up the stone wall, light grey, almost translucent, with black button eyes, on the hunt for insects. In the cone of light thrown on the ground by the lamp, I saw a dried-out, whitish trail of slime next to my toes, a dented circle made by a slug, which was by now next to the stone pillar, being cut to pieces by large red ants. I felt that I was a part of this world of small animals, the geckos, ants, spiders, nightjars and bats, or rather, that I had been subsumed into the mass of nature which surrounded the house. No wind stirred, but the pepper tree swayed from side to side. A dark green fragrance carried over from the lemon grove and mingled with the cloying scent of jasmine. When I stood in front of the round arches, I saw the pitch-black, jagged face of the Kyrenia Mountains behind the pallid house. In that moment, the Lal tasted of cold shadow, of a deliciously cool shadow. The light of the moon emerged from behind the trees. It was so bright that the decorative grooves on the capital of the column cast a sharp shadow in front of me. It made me think of the curled ear of a Greek goddess. One of the two geckos disappeared into it.

      I had brought a few books about Cyprus with me from the small library at the embassy, as well as reprints of old travel books. Now that I was a resident of Lapithos, I wanted to find out everything about this village, my summer residence near to the capital Nicosia, my second

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