The Cypriot by Andeas Koumi

Author:Andeas Koumi [Koumi, Andeas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781903660164
Publisher: Dexter Haven Publishing
Published: 2015-04-27T22:00:00+00:00

When Erden and Andonis had reached the back of the bus, the tailor tapped the goatherd on the shoulder.

‘Take my place,’ he offered. Erden sat next to Funda and settled the goat on his lap.

18

The waiter – Do garsonin

It was a moonlit night. I was on an almost empty bus, as it made its way down towards Archway tube station. Beyond that was Holloway, where Stella had told me Lugas worked. Zorba’s restaurant.

I thought of Stella. I realised how fond I still was of her. If things had been different she and I might never have ended up in England. She and I might have stayed in the village, raising a family together. She and I might even have been happy. Stella deserved to be happy.

The only other passengers on board were a pair of young men on the seat directly in front of me who talked loudly at each other. I could discern the smell of beer on their breath, and assumed they were on their way home after a few drinks at the pub. One of them pointed out of the window as we approached the high bridge that stretched majestically across Archway Road. I overheard him refer to it as ‘suicide bridge’. It was a landmark I’d never noticed before, but its name now filled me with dread. I couldn’t help myself staring morbidly.

***

As I approached Zorba’s, a pungent smell of meat scorching on hot charcoal evoked in me visions of the outdoors on a dozen Easter Sundays. My father would always barbecue a small lamb, and I remembered what a special treat it was to eat so well.

Once inside the restaurant I could see that there were only three other customers. They were at a table together, and having already finished their meal were enjoying a cigarette as they settled their bill.

I sat down at a table away from them, nearer to the window, and lit a rolled cigarette of my own. While I waited to be served, I looked up and appreciated the painted plates hanging on the wall, depicting old men wearing baggy breeches, old women dressed in black, village wells, whitewashed houses and laden donkeys.

Before long, a stout waiter appeared through the door at the back of the restaurant. He looked vaguely familiar. He wore a black waistcoat not quite big enough to contain a stomach bulging through a plain white shirt. I could see the bothered look on his face as he shuffled towards me. He ran his hand through his grey hair before speaking to me in the Cypriot vernacular.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but it’s a little late. We’ll be shutting now, once these people leave.’ He gestured to the three smokers.

‘Come on, my friend,’ I pleaded, ‘I’m so hungry. Are there no pieces of meat already cooked back there you can offer me?’

The waiter sighed. ‘Forgive me, sir. I really don’t think my chef can help us. It’s been a long day.’

‘But you can make an exception

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