whom he audaciously worshipped from his window, I offered a sympathetic smile. ‘Selma’s ignoring you?’
‘No. She returns my gaze. Smiles even.’
‘Well then?’
‘Salonica ...’
The Johnson children had risen from their chairs and were coming towards us.
I stared at Bilâl. ‘What?’
Can, always the soft voice that calmed us down, whispered, ‘His cousins. Difficult times for them.’
Naim, the oldest among us and hence our leader, spoke gravely. ‘We must do something.’
I stared at them. Children talking like adults. ‘What can we do?’
Bilâl muttered, ‘We can save them. If you help us ...’
‘Me? What can I do?’
Can, mindful of the Johnson brood who were almost upon us, whispered, ‘Passports – we need passports.’
‘What for?’
‘For the family. To get them out.’
‘Yes, get them out! Let’s have a look!’ This from Dorothy, the Johnsons’ oldest. A miniature Mae West since she started growing a couple of tangerines on her chest. But a tease: she wouldn’t let any boy touch her.
‘We’re having man-talk, Dorothy! Go away!’
She hissed. ‘Men, Robbie? Where?’ Then she smiled. She could be blade and balm in the same breath. ‘Dad says: come and join us. Someone’s sent a hamper of goodies:
lokum
, figs, halva ...’
I noted my friends’ reluctance, but we couldn’t refuse; it wouldn’t have been, in my father’s parlance, diplomatic. Why do junior staff always feel obliged to pamper youngsters? Still, Dorothy had said figs and Turkish figs were worth an empire. ‘Don’t mind if we do, thank you.’
We followed her.
I nudged Naim. ‘We’ll talk later.’
Naim didn’t respond. He was studying Dorothy’s widening hips. Wide hips are childbearing hips, he had once told us, quoting old Kokona, our neighbourhood know-all, as an authority. Well, that formidable Greek matriarch would have known; she had given birth to fourteen children and, by all accounts, it would have taken her husband a good few minutes to run a caressing hand from one buttock to the other.
In time, both Naim and Can developed a healthy preference for wide hips. I never did. Like most northerners, I ended up thinking that ample flesh and carnal living were joys that led to immoderation. These days I ask: what’s wrong with immoderation?
Figs and the other treats were followed by a chess game between Mr Johnson and Can, spectacularly won by the latter who, had he not set his mind on medicine, would have become a grand master. Then a bout of jousting in the sea during which Naim had the bliss of carrying Dorothy on his shoulders – his mouth barely centimetres away from her freckled thighs – while she repeatedly unseated her four brothers despite the valiant efforts of Bilâl and Mrs Johnson, who served as their mounts. Then a couple of hours of serious swimming, an activity at which I excelled. Finally a succulent lunch, courtesy of Emine, the cook, who, except for special requests, never repeated her menus.
Thus privacy eluded us until the obligatory siesta. Because of my father’s privileged status, I had managed to secure, as my retreat, the big room in the attic, which served as a dump for the villa’s oddments. That’s where we secreted ourselves, much to the displeasure of the Gorgon, who could not keep an eye on us in there.
Bilâl brought out the letter his mother had received from the family lawyer and translated it. His Greek was perfect. Since Ester claimed to have taught the language to Bilâl’s father, Pepo, in the early years of their marriage (not true, actually; Pepo had known Greek before he met Ester, had even acted as an interpreter during the War of Independence) we used to tease Bilâl that he had learned it by listening to his parents’ pre- and post-coital cooing. (A crass banter that we instantly abandoned after Bilâl confided in us that all was not well between his mum and dad.)
Much of the letter was devoted to an incident that had taken place on
‘No. She returns my gaze. Smiles even.’
‘Well then?’
‘Salonica ...’
The Johnson children had risen from their chairs and were coming towards us.
I stared at Bilâl. ‘What?’
Can, always the soft voice that calmed us down, whispered, ‘His cousins. Difficult times for them.’
Naim, the oldest among us and hence our leader, spoke gravely. ‘We must do something.’
I stared at them. Children talking like adults. ‘What can we do?’
Bilâl muttered, ‘We can save them. If you help us ...’
‘Me? What can I do?’
Can, mindful of the Johnson brood who were almost upon us, whispered, ‘Passports – we need passports.’
‘What for?’
‘For the family. To get them out.’
‘Yes, get them out! Let’s have a look!’ This from Dorothy, the Johnsons’ oldest. A miniature Mae West since she started growing a couple of tangerines on her chest. But a tease: she wouldn’t let any boy touch her.
‘We’re having man-talk, Dorothy! Go away!’
She hissed. ‘Men, Robbie? Where?’ Then she smiled. She could be blade and balm in the same breath. ‘Dad says: come and join us. Someone’s sent a hamper of goodies:
lokum
, figs, halva ...’
I noted my friends’ reluctance, but we couldn’t refuse; it wouldn’t have been, in my father’s parlance, diplomatic. Why do junior staff always feel obliged to pamper youngsters? Still, Dorothy had said figs and Turkish figs were worth an empire. ‘Don’t mind if we do, thank you.’
We followed her.
I nudged Naim. ‘We’ll talk later.’
Naim didn’t respond. He was studying Dorothy’s widening hips. Wide hips are childbearing hips, he had once told us, quoting old Kokona, our neighbourhood know-all, as an authority. Well, that formidable Greek matriarch would have known; she had given birth to fourteen children and, by all accounts, it would have taken her husband a good few minutes to run a caressing hand from one buttock to the other.
In time, both Naim and Can developed a healthy preference for wide hips. I never did. Like most northerners, I ended up thinking that ample flesh and carnal living were joys that led to immoderation. These days I ask: what’s wrong with immoderation?
Figs and the other treats were followed by a chess game between Mr Johnson and Can, spectacularly won by the latter who, had he not set his mind on medicine, would have become a grand master. Then a bout of jousting in the sea during which Naim had the bliss of carrying Dorothy on his shoulders – his mouth barely centimetres away from her freckled thighs – while she repeatedly unseated her four brothers despite the valiant efforts of Bilâl and Mrs Johnson, who served as their mounts. Then a couple of hours of serious swimming, an activity at which I excelled. Finally a succulent lunch, courtesy of Emine, the cook, who, except for special requests, never repeated her menus.
Thus privacy eluded us until the obligatory siesta. Because of my father’s privileged status, I had managed to secure, as my retreat, the big room in the attic, which served as a dump for the villa’s oddments. That’s where we secreted ourselves, much to the displeasure of the Gorgon, who could not keep an eye on us in there.
Bilâl brought out the letter his mother had received from the family lawyer and translated it. His Greek was perfect. Since Ester claimed to have taught the language to Bilâl’s father, Pepo, in the early years of their marriage (not true, actually; Pepo had known Greek before he met Ester, had even acted as an interpreter during the War of Independence) we used to tease Bilâl that he had learned it by listening to his parents’ pre- and post-coital cooing. (A crass banter that we instantly abandoned after Bilâl confided in us that all was not well between his mum and dad.)
Much of the letter was devoted to an incident that had taken place on
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