CHAPTER TWENTY

In this chapter we learn more about the unfortunate Isia and the way she was treated. Jamilya, her unfortunate friend, is living a wretched existence as a prostitute in Belapais. Enda and Jessica are shocked at some of the revelations and realise how much danger Jamilya is in. Enda's conscience is pricked and his resolve to dig into Hrisascopolis evil past and future political plans to corrupt the EU system becomes even stronger. He must also tread carefully now that someone is trying to kill him and Jessica. I liked writing this chapter although there was a significant amount of editing - one major problem being my careless way Enda finishes his interview and leaves without showing any concern, a simple mistake any author could make (I don't think). Anyway, I think I solved this. I'm sure though we will go over the end of this chapter again to polish up.  

 

 

 

 

“I’m worried, Enda.”

       She was worried. I felt uncomfortable too.

       We’d followed the lad into the Turkish downtown area: a place for locals, away from the tourists and commercialized false rural charm.

       The narrow cobbled passage we entered was in shadow from the overhanging balconies. Washing on rope lines hung across the void like dozens of multi colored garlands, only they weren’t garlands but tattered T shirts, jeans, sheets, socks and God knows what else. Little side passages branched off every so often and each offered its own view of crumbling walls in this decaying place where time had stood still. The pungent odor of Turkish cuisine mixed with a foul odor of raw sewage hung in the air. Add to that the incessant jangle of Turkish music bouncing off the walls and you understand why guided tours are not on offer.

       But it wasn’t any of this that bothered us. It was the silent observers from behind small windows half hidden by darkness: the balconies where women stood with crossed arms and from doorways where small clusters of men huddled, with eyes fixed upon us. It was an uncomfortable feeling and I was worried for Jessica.

       I kept a hand on her wrist. “I think I’ll pass on the visit to the market.”

       “Don’t joke, Enda,” she said. She stumbled on the cobble stones and stooped to adjust her sandal strap. “Let’s get on. This place is awful.”

       The lad suddenly stopped and pointed into a dingy side passage. “You there,” he said, sullenly. With that he held out a dirty hand, his eyes holding mine with a steady gaze.

       “Where?” I asked. The passage, unlike all the others we walked down, was deserted.

       “You there,” he repeated. He looked at Jessica. “Dogru gidin. Solda in yaninda firin.”

       “Straight ahead. On the left next to the bakery,” interpreted Jessica. “Thank you.” She half smiled and gave Ester a ten dollar bill.

       “I’ve already paid,” I protested.

       “He won’t see anything from his mother. Anyway, I liked him.”

       I might have guessed.  “Okay, let’s get away from here and find Jamilya.”

      

 

 

 We walked along the street and found the bakery. Either side of it was doorways leading into small living quarters. I knocked at the first door several times but got no response. From the second door came a very positive response the moment I knocked.

       “Gheet!”

       In any language I know when someone tells me politely to go away. I ignored the request and knocked again.

       Jessica called her name. “Jamilya?”

       After a moment of silence a bolt slid back. Jessica, nervously looking about her, jumped. The door opened a crack and the outline of a woman’s face, cloaked in a headscarf, appeared from the gloom. “You are English?”

       The voice was old but softly spoken.

       “Yes,” I replied. “You speak good English.”

       Slender fingers pulled nervously at the edges of the scarf, tightening the cotton border around the face. “What do you want?”

       Jessica spoke slowly. “We came to speak with you, Jamilya, about your friend Isia.”

       There was a low but audible gasp. “Please go away. There is nothing to discuss.” She turned away.

       “Jamilya,” I said, “we need information about Isia.” I decided to play my ace card, relying on her being aware of Isia’s romance. “We want to expose Paul Hrisacopolis before he causes more trouble for this island.”

       The door opened. Two eyes, set in a face that immediately flashed with anger, opened wide. She hesitated for a moment, looking past us into the passage, and then beckoned us to enter.

       The room was small but colorful. Large white and gold cushions covered with woolen drapes of all shapes and sizes lay scattered around the floor. The walls were covered with an array of Turkish tapestry, mainly geometrical in design and full of vibrant colors; red, black, white and several shades of blue. In one corner of the room was a single mattress. Apart from that there was no other furniture. A beaded curtain covered an archway that presumably accessed the kitchen and bathroom.

       “Please be seated.”

       I hadn’t noticed until then that Jamilya walked with a noticeable limp. She wore a simple knee length black dress and black woolen stockings. The black headscarf knotted under her chin looked frayed and on her feet she wore a pair of sandals that had seen many better days. Of medium height and weight, her deeply tanned face looked weathered, marking her look older than she really was. The most noticeable feature was a disfigured nose, probably broken. It had set wrong in an awkward position, bending slightly to the right. I felt sorry for her.

       “I cannot tell you much,” she said. She sat cross legged on the mattress with hands in lap.

       Her head bowed, she gave me the impression she was a woman too scared to talk. I wouldn’t have put it past Hrisacopolis to have threatened her. Yet her initial reaction on hearing the Hrisacopolis name and the invitation to join her meant her dislike of the man might overcome the reluctance to talk. I was hoping.

       “We need to know what happened to Isia,” said Jessica. “Tell me about her and the way things were back when you lived in the South.”

       Jamilya nodded slowly, still looking at the floor. “Are you going to put this in a newspaper?” she asked. “No one must know. They would kill me.” She looked up, hesitant.

       Jessica and I exchanged glances. I was right. The bastard had worked his evil influence. He could even reach inside his enemy’s castle.

       “No one will ever know you said a word, I promise you.” Jessica reached out and laid a hand over Jamilya’s. “We know you were treated badly. Help us to punish him.”

       Jamilya breathed deeply. Slowly, almost in a whisper, she recounted how things were never good between her people and the Greeks but they both lived their lives and worked the land. Her mother and father had some goats and a small piece of land. They were content.

       “You shared secrets too?”

       Jamilya looked confused.

       “You talked about boys?”

       Jamilya smiled. “Oh yes.”

       “When did you know about George?”

       “The day that Isia met him. That was the day we broke our friendship.”

       “What happened?”

       Jamilya had been ill and stayed at home that day. Isia saw her that evening. She was very excited and couldn’t wait to tell Jamilya she had met a man. He’d spent the night in her father’s small donkey stable near the coast. They talked and she’d fallen in love with him.

       “I was excited for her,” explained Jamilya. “All girls want a husband.”

       “Why did he spend the night in the stable?” asked Jessica.

       “He told Isia he was hiding from the British, she said.” She paused and looked first at Jessica, then me.

       I listened with interest. Jamilya was upset when Isia told her the man was a Greek and tried to explain that it was a love her friend couldn’t have. This man was fighting Turks as well as the British. Isia became angry with her and accused her of being jealous. Jamilya tried to tell her that if her parents found out they would be disgraced and punish her by beating her, but Isia would not listen.

       “I told her I did not want to see her again because I was afraid my parents would find out and beat me too.” Jamilya looked at both of us again. Her hands fidgeted constantly in her lap.

       “How old were you, Jamilya?”

       “Seventeen, Isia was sixteen.”

       “So when did you see Isia again?”

       They met most days but didn’t speak much until the day Isia visited her, crying. George was dead. It was then Jamilya heard who he was. Isia told her that George had written to his father a month before, asking for money so he could take her away and marry her. Isia’s heart was broken and Jamilya was sad for her friend.

       I was beginning to see how Paul Hrisacopolis would react to the news his son had fallen in love with a Turkish girl. I didn’t think he’d have sent money. I smelled something sinister brewing as Jamilya continued, gently coaxed by Jessica.

       “So you began to talk to each other again.”

       “Yes, of course our parents did not know about George and Isia had to cry alone.”

       Jessica leaned closer and spoke in a whisper.  “That was hard for her…..and for you.”

       “Yes. We would meet in the fields or walk together after work.”

       “Did she ever hear from Hrisacopolis? Did he send her money?”

       Jamilya’s face darkened. “No.”

       “What happened?”

       “Isia was visited by one of George’s men. He gave her money, a little, and told her to keep quiet. When she heard nothing from George’s father, she wrote to him.”

       My ears pricked up. “Did he reply?”

       Jamilya wiped tears from her eyes with a corner of the cloth shawl draped across her shoulders.  She shook her head and explained that Isia did receive Hrisacopolis letter to George a month after George’s death. By then Isia had sent her letter to Hrisacopolis but he never replied to her.

       I could imagine how furious Hrisacopolis was with George. He would have spent some time coming to terms with the situation, hence the delay in replying, although he obviously sent it before he knew of George’s death.

       Jessica turned to Jamilya. “Do you know what was in the letter?”

       “No, she told me of it when she was escaping.”

       Jessica paused and looked at me, her eyes wide.

       “Escaping? When was that?” I asked.

       “Isia came to me one evening and told me someone had tried to kill her,” replied Jamilya. A shot had rung out while she was in the field working. The bullet grazed her arm. Then there were some more as she ran. She hid for the rest of the day and visited Jamilya after dark. She avoided her father and begged Jamilya to help her escape to Kyrenia.

       Jessica looked puzzled. “Why there?”

       “Because by then the Turks had invaded the north…. right?” I asked.

       Jamilya shook her head. “No, not then. Soon after though. Isia wanted to go to Turkey by boat. She would be safe there.”

        Hrisacopolis wanted her silenced, that was for sure but he could have killed her in Turkey too so why, I asked, did she think she would be safe there. “Was there another reason?” Jessica’s elbow stabbed my ribcage.

       “So you helped her get to Kyrenia, then what?” Jessica threw me a warning glance.

       They took her father’s truck, Jamilya explained. She left Isia near the port and returned home. Later, when Jamilya’s father found she had taken the truck, Jamilya told him what she had done but never told him about George. Her father then told Isia’s father and Jamilya was beaten. Isia’s father went to Kyrenia but could not find Isia. Two weeks later the Turkish army invaded.

       Jessica leaned forward and looked into Jamilya’s eyes. “That was the last you saw of Isia but you did see someone else, didn’t you? Someone came to see you about Isia.”

       Jamilya nodded.  A Turk came from the city and asked her about Isia. She told him she didn’t know anything. “Then he did this.” She rubbed her right leg. It had been broken in two places with an iron pole. Her head lowered and her voice became barely audible. She looked at the floor, her head in her hands.

       I felt pity for the poor woman and my anger grew as she continued.

       The Turk brought Greek youths with him a day later and she suffered rape. He informed her parents in front of the village that she’d been with Greek boys. Her family suffered disgrace and the village shunned them.

       Jessica looked away briefly and took a deep breath. I was feeling the same way. I could see she was getting more and more upset but it was better she question Jamilya.

       After Jamilya’s leg healed the women of the village grabbed her and beat her until she told them Isia was in Turkey. The Turk paid them well. He told Jamilya if she ever spoke about Isia he would return and kill her. Shortly after, her father disowned her and since then she had sold herself to eat. Jessica’s arm went around Jamilya’s shoulders as the woman shook with emotion. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

       I wanted to get up and get out. Go slap a few heads together. I was angry. This poor woman spent her whole life paying the price for being a friend of George’s lover. For this alone I wanted the man to pay but I knew more was to come. Hrisacopolis wasn’t the kind of thug who forgave or forgot. “Why did you move here?” I asked gently. “Would you have not been better off with the people you knew, even if you were shunned?”

       “The man from the city told me I had to move here. He pays for this place.”

       “So he knows where you are.” I knew Jessica was thinking the same as me by the expression on her face. “You must leave here, Jamilya. Look, I’ll give you some money and you can go to Nicosia or Famagusta.”

       She shook her head. “No, I will stay here. I have no husband and moving alone will attract too many questions.”

       I knew we’d done the wrong thing by this unfortunate woman, placing her in danger if Hrisacopolis found out she talked to us. With hindsight we should have been more discreet. A lot of locals saw us. We had to get Jamilya out of Bellapais. B was the obvious answer. I was hoping he had contacts and could get word to the Turkish authorities to help protect Jamilya. I sat waiting for her to compose herself again. There was still one burning question I needed an answer too before we were finished. What happened to Isia and was she still alive?

       Jamilya opened a small leather bound case at her side and withdrew a newspaper. She said Isia’s young brother threw it at her feet sixteen years after she last saw Isia. Such was the shame the family still felt, he had travelled to Bellapais just to deliver the paper. The story said she was caught with another man by her husband. It told how she killed her husband and then herself. Jamilya knew Isia didn’t kill him. It was a lie. Isia was not the kind of girl to go with men.

       “Did she ever contact you at all?” asked Jessica.

       “Once, when she got to Turkey she sent a card to my father to say she was alright. She had married a soldier. She knew he would tell me.”

       “Do you know from the newspaper story if she had any children?”

       Jamilya shrugged. “All Turkish girls marry and have children.”

       I pulled the photo of Isia from my pocket and showed it. The affect was instant. Jamilya burst into tears and wept.

       Jessica waited, then said, “She was pregnant when she left this island…..she was, wasn’t she? That’s why she wanted to go to Turkey. It was where the baby would be safe if she had a husband.”

       Jamilya nodded. “She had a son.”

       I nodded slowly. That’s what Hrisacopolis was afraid of. I think both of us thought that but having it confirmed made things a lot clearer.

       I took another photo from my pocket. It showed a group photo of George’s men with George in the middle. “Know anyone here?”

       She pointed to a tall strong man in the back row. “This is the man who gave her the money. I know this because she said he was big with lots of hair and no moustache.”

       She was right. The man had long curly hair. “Did she tell you his name?”

       “She called him Alex.”

       I was finished. She had told us all. I took the newspaper from her and thanked her for the time and information. As we stood, both Jessica and I emptied our pockets of British and Turkish money. I was worried about Jamilya despite her wish to stay put. I looked at her and decided to act even if she protested.

       “I’m going to have a friend contact your Director General’s office in Nicosia. I’m sure they will be able to move you to Nicosia or Famagusta. You’ll be safe there.” I wasn’t too sure about that but at least she would have a chance. For all his amiable laid back personality, B was a tough diplomat with a lot of influence over many foreign embassy staff officers. If anyone could help Jamilya, it was him.

Letting ourselves out, we left her sitting in the corner of her hovel, counting the money. I felt sad, angry and frustrated.  

      

 

 

 We were now looking for a son. The newspaper confirmed his father’s name as Hussein Ishmael’s and the mothers name as Isia. A photo of Ishmael’s in military uniform topped the article. All I knew was that the son lived in Istanbul at the time of his parents’ death.