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Raymond Nickford - author of Literary & Psychological Suspense
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Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Haunted Books
ISBN-10: B00538HTQM
Type: Fiction
Pages: 254
Copyright: July 15, 2011
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
As the practices at his father's late-night museum ‘staff meetings’ unfold themselves to Pavlos, the boy is led deeper into a sinister confrontation with what Papa calls his ‘family', but which brings him, through the ancient face-masks and relics, to unquiet souls of Greeks believed to have been thousands of years dead.
A strong blend of eeriness, suspense, and an outsider's need to belong.
The narrative is set in Cyprus; the main characters being, Aristo, an archaeologist who has turned his Paphos home into a small private museum, and his teenage son, Pavlos, who now live alone together.
Aristo's obsessive need to trace and belong to his family - even though he is told they were all burnt and left unidentifiable in the Turkish invasion of the island - has estranged his English wife, and is gradually distancing his only child, while in turn, Pavlos has an increasing need to belong to a father who will make time for him.
As the practices and those assembled at Aristo's late-night museum 'staff meetings' unfold themselves to Pavlos, the boy is led deeper into a sinister confrontation with ancient and unquiet souls.
The author, part Greek Cypriot, was raised amongst Greeks in England and has travelled extensively through Cyprus. He has particular admiration for the village people whose company he has enjoyed so much in the Troodos Mountains.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
'The doorbell, Papas! Papas? Bell's ringing!' Pavlos began to wonder whether his voice would reach beyond the basement and all the way up to Papas' study. Soon his father would remember to come down and that his son was still where he'd locked him to keep him away from his “drunken fish of a mother”. Soon he'd unlock the door. Soon even if it was only to give him the “Greek lesson”.
Papas had only to bother to glance at camera No.1 which monitored anyone standing close to the iron entrance doors of his museum home.
'Papas! Bell!'
That sounded like a key scratching in the basement door. The dim of the narrow steps was suddenly replaced by a dazzle, and right at the top his father stood, a dark outline silhouetted against the light, dust particles cascading around him, a total eclipse.
'Quick! Mister Spiropoulos! He’s here! We’re for inspection! Have some textbooks ready! Say nothing of what we do in the Greek lesson.'
So the visitor was just Spiropoulos from the Education Authority in Nicosia, come to check Papas' home tuition was satisfactory. Spiropoulos, as readable as Genesis when he came, as welcome as Exodus when he went, but at least his ringing of the bell had brought Papas down from his study, the basement door was at last open, and Spiropoulos' visit might delay for a day that sick feeling, the overwhelming drowsiness which came with the instruction.
'Quickly! Some books! And remember our little secret, eh Pavlos? You say nothing about what we do in the lessons. Soon they will bring
you closer to your Papas. Closer to your family, eh?’
‘You don't have family, Papas Mum might have drunk too much but all she ever tried to tell you was that we’re your family! You know it was three Turkish soldiers who took them, leaving a village burning. People burning!’
‘Just say nothing - remember?’
Papas had reminded him to keep silent so many times it had been impossible to let the inspector know anything about Papas' actual teaching method ever since ten years ago when Spiropoulos had seemed so easily persuaded to stamp the green form...
SCHOOL PHOBIC: Home tuition.
Approved: C. Spiropoulos
'Pavlos! What you dreaming of now? Quick!'
Pavlos transferred the pile of texts which were always left for show on a wine cask should Spiropoulos visit from his office in Nicosia.
'Say nothing Pavlos!'
Nothing... two... three...
Pavlos heard the fingers click, felt the jolt in his head. It was like the day Papas had the workmen put in the goods lift, and afterwards he and Papas had stood inside to test it. The cage had dropped so suddenly he felt nothing beneath his feet, and his stomach was falling out. Now it was the same, except there was no lift, and he was still falling, drifting down with Papas' words.
Papas hadn't needed to click his fingers nor to instruct, for however unusual his home teaching technique, he'd be sure to get heaps of praise off the man from the Education Authority - at least, by the time he had offered mister Spiropoulos what the inspector was always waiting for; another glass of Papas’ best Metaxa in his precious English cut crystal.
'Are we ready, Pavlos?'
'Yes, Papas,' he answered wearily.
'You hidden the headphones?'
'Yes!'
'The mike? Where is the mike? Pavlos, where - ’
'In the empty wine cask, Papas! We're ready!'
Papas had snapped up one of the books and was eagerly scanning a page.
'Good! Yes, I tell him some “story” about this one, eh Pavlos?'
It was routine with Papas now to greet mister Spiropolous armed with an impressive-looking text and to make sure he quoted something - anything which would make it look as though his son had been enjoying to the full one of the twenty “contact” hours “per week” of tuition which the authorities said a school phobic should have until he could go to school with others of his age.
Pavlos waited for the sound of the main entrance doors and voices.
'I tell you, Stavrovouni, he’s better with all this around him.' The education inspector's voice was a bit closer, and “this” must have been the sixteenth century ceremonial dinner gong mister Spiropoulos had tapped for the third quarter this year.
'That's kind of you to say, Spiropoulos. As you see, I try to give my boy history only first hand.'
'From the soil, eh Aristo? This all from good Cypriot soil not like the syllabuses they preach from the offices up on the Mesaoria. This one, who is he?'
'Fragment of skull of one in Zeno of Citium's company three twenty before Christ. We still working on reconstruction of full head with help of computer graphics from conservation department near you!'
Pavlos heard another of Spiropoulos' usual raps on the skull, this time producing his quirky little drum roll for added gratification.
'Zeno? He good boy in his time, eh Stavrovouni? Like your Pavlos is going to be. We see him now just for the record, eh?'
The inspector's confident voice seemed a lot nearer to the basement. Next it would be buckets of praise for Papas' “teaching facilities” and his “resources”. At least, maybe Spiropoulos would take up so much of Papas' relic “dusting off ” time this morning that there would really be no Greek lesson to go through today.
'Ah! Pavlos! Pavlos, my boy!’ Spiropolous appeared beside Papas. ‘I see you much further with your history than those at the gymnasium!'
The inspector's smile had widened. He looked much like a contented imbecile; as though the world was made of honey and almond blossom.
'You see, Pavlos, I embrace your father and why? Because your family, it has proud reputation young man. Very proud your Papas, his little museum, it will certainly help you keep family tradition alive, eh?' Keep alive…lessons bring you closer… family…
'If Aristotle Stavrovouni's son is going to be the one for keeping the museum alive, then sure as the proud cedars on ancient Troodos the curator Aristotle Stavrovouni, he’s the best education for you! The best!' Spiropoulos repeated, jerking Papas' shoulders to him again as if he was in a wedding dance.
'Hey, Pavlos! You ever bigger, taller aubergine, and absolutely stuffed with knowledge!' The inspector pronounced, inflating like a balloon.
Pavlos forced a smile. He did remember something much nearer the truth about Papas' family than Spiropolous' easy manner was prepared to reveal... something Mum had once said. She'd drunk all morning before facing Papas about the crazy things he'd excavated and filled her home with ever since she'd come to live in Cyprus... yes, she'd sworn, sometimes slurred but there had been that quiet moment when words no longer belonged between them. Mum had spoken, just as if Papas was her boy and she was holding out sweets to a kid who'd lost his dream...
Come to terms with it, Aristo she’d begged him… August I974... Turkish soldiers... drunk... torched everyone in the houses you've revisited. Do you want Pavlos to grow up seeing what you bring home in those polythene bags? Even an archaeologist can't dig up bits of his family if there's no record.
‘…hear me Pavlos, my boy?'
'Sorry mister Spiropoulos. I I was just thinking.'
'I said, your Papas, his lessons help you. He is the best person to keep your family tradition alive, eh?'
Pavlos managed another smile, hoping it wouldn't show the anger that burnt inside as the inspector turned to Papas for freer conversation.
'A very useful little museum, eh Aristo? Yassou!' Spiropoulos was raising his glass high. 'Inspection complete! We forgive you if your teaching method seems '
a little eccentric...
‘- a little eccentric - ’
shall we say...
‘ - shall we say.'
That was the wink, and now Spiropoulos jerking Papas' shoulders into him so hard that some Metaxa had spilt on to the inspector's suit, and he was now so close to Papas he was in danger either of kissing or anaesthetising him with his breath.
'Kopiaste?' Papas turned from the man’s breath with a pained smile.
Spiropoulos was tearing a pink sheet from his pad, leaving himself the green sheet to waggle in the air.
'Another two of these and a trip to Kakopetria to go, Aristo, my good friend! You keep up the lessons and you save me the next glass for another time!'
The inspector was muttering something to Papas somewhere up in the foyer. There was a lull, a bit more muttering, and now the screech of the great studded entrance doors opening, the surge of traffic noise drowning out all Papas' soft soaping politeness, and the door hinges themselves beginning to screech closed, leaving only the bolts being shot... that was top, middle, bottom... one, two, three... and fingers click ... he was alone again with Papas.
‘It’s too late for lesson now, Pavlos Pavlos?'
Papas' sandalled feet were slapping their way towards him across the tiled floor, and now he’d propped himself against the door frame.
'Old Spiropoulos he take all my time! Pavlos, I can't settle to my work. I drive up to Troodos now and stay over the night with my family.'
'Over night? You said now Mum's gone you wouldn't leave me on my own any more not here.'
‘Pavlos, I know I said, and you know the seat is always very empty beside me in the Land Rover, but the family, they say '
Keep him happy, Pavlos, pretend he's got a family, keep pretending or else you'll get the lesson right now...
'What, Papas? What do they say?'
'Ah Pavlos! You make it difficult for me. I can only tell you the truth. They not ready to "accept” the son of Stavrovouni until they sure his drunken wife is no longer "influence" on you.'
'Is that good enough for you? You're going to listen to that? You're happy to leave me here because of that?'
'How you mean "here"?'
'Papas ' but he couldn't tell his father what seemed to happen around him when left alone at nights, how there always came the moment when he panicked because he couldn't tell the difference between himself and the wall mounted ancestor masks which seemed to look down at him from every angle of his home, no matter which turn or corner he took to get away from them.
'Papas, don't go not tonight.'
'Why - why not "tonight"? Listen, Pavlos, I take you up with me, I promise, but the family they not ready yet.'
Papas was sitting on the ground floor, the history text he had taken back from Spiropoulos still in his right hand, his legs stretching down the basement steps, his feet resting on the third tread... as if he was afraid to stand and take the first move towards his son, afraid to look him in the eyes, face to face and promise.
'Listen, in the morning I bring something from the family eh?'
You don't have a family!
'We keep the museum closed another day and we sit together, have a little drink? Maybe a nice big drink, eh? Menas has brought us some good Meze from his delicatessen. I tell you all about the family, and then we have time for nice long Greek lesson. After I give you something nice from my brothers, eh?'
'Papas! I don't want ' he felt the jolt, couldn't say what he needed; that he didn't want any more of the craziness which made Papas leave him for a night to drive up to a rendezvous... a rendezvous where still there was nobody to meet, nothing but the occasional grip of the cold night air, drifting clouds, swirling, rolling silently as they had for ages between the darkened ravines, spreading upwards to the barren razor thin scarps where only the moon came to touch the high Troodos.
No, he didn't want to be alone again. Nor did he want the promised “something nice” to come from Papas' so-called “brothers”. The “gift” would be only another relic in a polythene bag to accompany Papas straight up to his study when he got back in the morning. But most of all, he didn't want the morning to bring that drowsiness which bordered on nausea, and then all that would come with that pit of complete obedience into which he'd fall as surely as the next Greek lesson.
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