Читать книгу The Final Cut - Michael Dobbs - Страница 12

Great men are usually bad men. I intend to be a very great man.

Civilian Area, Dhekelia Army Base, British Sovereign Territory, Cyprus

‘Greetings, my Greek friend. Welcome to a humble carpenter’s workshop. What part of Allah’s bounty may His servant share with you?’

‘Sheep. Seven of them. A week on Friday. And not all fat and sinews like your wife.’

‘Seven?’ the Turk mused. ‘One for every night of your week, Glafko. For you, I shall endeavour to find the most beautiful sheep in the whole of Turkish Cyprus.’

‘It’s Easter, you son of Saladin,’ Glafkos the Plumber spat. ‘And my daughter’s getting married. A big feast.’

‘A thousand blessings on the daughter of Glafkos.’

The Greek, an undersized man with a hunched shoulder and the expression of a cooked vine leaf, remained unimpressed. ‘Chew on your thousand blessings, Uluç. Why was I five shirts short on last week’s delivery?’

The Turk, a carpenter, put aside the plane with which he was repairing a broken door and brushed his hands on the apron spread across his prominent stomach. The sports shirts, complete with skilfully counterfeited Lacoste and Adidas logos, were manufactured within the Turkish sector by his mother’s second cousin, who was obviously ‘taking the chisel’ to them both. But the Greek made a huge mark-up on the smuggled fakes which were sold through one of the many sportswear outlets in the village of Pyla, in a shop owned by his nephew. He could afford a minor slicing. Anyway, he didn’t want a damned Greek to know he was being cheated by one of his own family.

‘Shrinkage,’ he exclaimed finally, after considerable deliberation.

‘You mean you’ve been pulling the sheet over to your side again.’

‘But my dear Greek friend, according to our leaders we are soon to be brothers. One family.’ His huge hand closed around the plane and nonchalantly he began scraping at the door again. ‘Why, perhaps your daughter might yet lie with a Turk.’

‘I’ll fix the leaking sewers of hell first. With my bare hands.’

The Turk laughed, displaying black teeth and gruff humour. Their battle was incessant, conducted on the British base where they both worked and at various illicit crossing points along the militarized buffer zone which separated Greek and Turkish communities. They could smuggle together, survive and even prosper together, but that didn’t mean they had to like each other, no matter what those fools of politicians decreed.

‘Here, Greek. A present for your wife.’ He reached into a drawer and removed a small bottle marked Chanel. ‘May it fill your nights with happiness.’

Glafkos removed the top and sniffed the contents, pouring a little into the open palm of his hand. ‘Smells like camel’s piss.’

‘From a very genuine Chanel camel. And very, very cheap,’ Uluç responded, rolling his eyes.

The Greek tried to scrape off the odour on his shirt then examined the bottle carefully. ‘I’ll take six dozen. On trial. And no shrinkage.’

The Turk nodded.

‘Or evaporation.’

Uluç entered upon another hearty chuckle, yet as quickly as it had arrived his pleasure was gone and in place a grey cloud hovered about his brow. He began stroking his moustache methodically with the tip of a heavily callused finger, three times on each side, as though attempting to smooth away an untidiness that had entered his life.

‘Wind from your wife’s cooking?’ Glafkos the Plumber ventured.

Uluç the Carpenter ignored the insult. ‘No, my friend, but a thought troubles me. If we are all told to love one another, Turk and Greek, embracing each other’s heart instead of the windpipe – what in the name of Allah are you and I going to do?’