The Black Earth

Philip Kazan

Cover

THE BLACK EARTH

Philip Kazan

Dedication

For Helen

Title Page
Dedication
BOOK I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
BOOK II
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
BOOK III
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
BOOK IV
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
About the Author
By Philip Kazan
Copyright

BOOK I

CHAPTER ONE

Smyrna, Asia Minor, 18th September 1922

All night long she lies in the bow of the Thetis and listens to the water beneath her. Curled into the sharp angle between the low gunwales and the varnished pole of the bowsprit, chin propped on the shiny wood, the jib sail creaking just above her head, she stares out into the darkness of the great bay. There is hardly any wind and the yacht is gliding smoothly across low, even waves. She is wearing her favourite white sailor suit, freshly laundered and smelling comfortingly of sunshine and soap. Perhaps she’ll see a flying fish. She hopes she will – or are they sleeping? Is she passing over shoals of dreaming fish, suspended on outspread silver wings? She strains her eyes into the night but there is nothing. The fish won’t fly tonight, she realises. The air is too thick. Why would they throw themselves up out of their cool world into this dense, stinking air?

She stares into the west, where the sun went down huge and deep magenta red, the colour of wild gladiolus flowers. West towards … she doesn’t know. There is nothing to the east. Nothing to the north and south. Thetis can’t fly up. So they are sliding out beyond the bay, out to the edge of the world. Ever since she can remember, which seems like an eternity, although she is only six, she has stared out of her bedroom window towards that line, which swallows up the sun every night, where ships appear and disappear. But she has never been further than Uzunada, the long island, sailing out for parties with their friends, while the flying fish skip like mercury across the blue water. Beyond that, the open sea.

If she could just ask her father … She can hear him behind her, whispering to Mama as he holds the wheel steady. But she doesn’t dare turn round. Mama and Papa have forbidden it: as they had settled her down in the prow of the Thetis – Papa’s yacht, his pride and joy – they had told her that, whatever happened, she mustn’t look back. She had asked why, and they had just shaken their heads – so calm and sensible in spite of all the commotion on the dock, those two heads. There’s nothing behind us, kopella mou. Everything is ahead. Just keep looking ahead, little darling, little bird. And when the sun comes up, it will all be fine.

Why couldn’t she bring Rosie, her pony? Why isn’t Cook with them, or Miss Butland? Why had they had to bundle all their things into Papa’s motor car and drive to Cordelio through crowds of people, Mama sitting beside her in the back, murmuring, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ like a prayer while Papa’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that she could see the shape of his finger bones? Papa, who never drove, but always sat behind Murat the chauffeur. When they had gone aboard the Thetis, Papa had kissed her and said, ‘It’s just like the holidays, isn’t it, my little angel?’ But it hadn’t been. No one had said why they’d had to leave home so quickly. Papa is always right, but this doesn’t seem like a holiday. She curls up more tightly on the bed she has claimed for herself, the big rug from the drawing room, folded into the angle of the prow, and closes her eyes. Home is there, pretty as an iced cake: her own house, safe inside its railings. Pink plaster, fretwork gables, chimneys. Lots of chimneys – she loves them. She counts them now inside her head, and it makes her feel better. What else does she love? The front gate. The tree with blossoms like stars. Their wide, clean street. From the front gate you can see the church; if you wait, you’ll hear the shrill, jolly whistle of the train. Mountains behind; in front, quite far off, the blue sea.

Something in the air is making her feel sick. She presses her face into the scratchy, salty rug and tries to go home again. The street swims back into her head, the iron railings, the trees, whitewashed stones lining the swept gravel of the roadway, the whistle of the train … A voice, calling through the carved marble frame of a doorway. Clipped, high-pitched.

‘Zoë!’

‘Yes, Miss Butland!’

A short figure in pleats and lace, a shadow over by the old fig tree, the buzz of wasps in the figs, the green, resinous scent of fig … The shadow ripples, shifts to reveal a face, not young but not old either: tight skin; sharp, upturned nose; round chin; mouth that looks as if it doesn’t know how to smile, but when it does … She’ll do anything to tease out that smile.

‘Érchomai, Miss Butland!’

‘In English, Zoë!’

‘I’m coming, Miss Butland …’

Tea and cakes inside, English tea, English chocolate biscuits from Xenopoulo on Rue des Franques. Running up the path, taking care not to land on the gaps between the paving stones, because she doesn’t want to invite the evil eye. Skipping up the front steps, brushing past Miss Butland, breathing in the smell of sunlight on freshly ironed linen, clean heat and rosewater. Looking up to catch the smile as they both pass into the cool house. Inside, the ticking of many clocks, the soft voice of Mama and her friends coming from an inner room. A ribbon of sweet tobacco smoke. The train whistle again, telling her that Papa is on his way back from the city, from Smyrna, bringing her a little present as he always does: a box of loukoumi from Orisdiback, tied up with a pretty ribbon; a wooden dancing bear from the Turkish man on the corner of Trassa Street.

Until this summer, the biscuits were always from Xenopoulo and the cakes from Portier, but now those things are gone, and when she thinks of them they are slipping past her, slipping past like a carriage of the little train that always whistles as it pulls into Bournabat Station. It has been days since the train last whistled. She went every day to listen for it, and then one day … She hugs herself tightly, but the memory still comes.

‘Zoë! Come here at once!’

Outside the painted black iron of the garden gate, a man lying on his face, half on, half off the line of whitewashed stones. There is a smear of dark red on the whitewash, and flies are buzzing. A Greek man. She can tell by his clothes. There is a hole in his back.

Miss Butland ran down the path and swept her up in her arms, carried her back to Cook, and there was a submarine to make her feel better: ice-cold water in a misted glass, and submerged in it, a spoon of thick grape jam to lick. It was going to be all right, everyone was saying. They told her that, and then Mama told Cook. But the train never whistled again, and then Cook went off into Smyrna and never came back. The next day she found out, from Aleko the groom, that the Greek soldiers had eaten Rosie. And then Papa took Miss Butland to the British Consulate when the Greek soldiers had left and the Turkish soldiers arrived. ‘She will be quite safe. They’ve put her on a battleship,’ he told them when he returned, looking ruffled, more out of sorts than she had ever seen him. But Cook won’t be safe, and nor will the other servants. No safer than Rosie. But she can’t think about Rosie. She has decided she will never think of her, ever again.

She can hear something else behind her, above her parents’ soft voices. A low growl, like thunder rolling behind Nymph Dagh, but so low and powerful that she can feel it in her insides. And now it is louder. The wind has shifted slightly: she feels the boat jump forward. The sail above her snaps and ropes creak against wood. Her eyes begin to sting. There is a terrifying smell: burning, but not the friendly smell of a bonfire or a kitchen fire.

The girl sits up. She wants Mama to send the smoke and the noise away, so she turns around and, though she knows she shouldn’t, she looks behind her. She sees her father, arms spread across the spokes of the wheel, the faint glimmer of his smart white captain’s cap. And there is Mama, beside him, wearing her shooting clothes, a scarf tied around her head. But behind her parents, something else. Where the lights of the city should be is dense blackness slashed open to reveal a pulsing wound, dirty orange-red, almost too bright to look at. It throbs. It roars. She opens her mouth to scream. Perhaps she does scream. As the light pulses she sees other boats all around them, each one filled with shadows, and from them comes a sound, a thin wail that rises and falls, made up of whispers and sobbing.

She calls out again, and this time Mama hears her. For a moment the girl is frightened, because she has been disobedient. She has looked back. But Mama leans and whispers something to Papa, and then she makes her way along the rail to where the girl is sitting, hugging her knees, on the damp rug. ‘My poor little bird,’ she says, gathering up her skirts and sitting down. She takes her daughter in her arms and pulls her close. The girl smells salty tweed and perfume, Coty powder. One of Mama’s fair ringlets has come loose and the girl winds it around her fingers and holds it against her face. ‘Are you frightened?’

‘Mmm hmm.’ The girl nods, letting the rough cloth scratch her forehead. It feels so ordinary; it feels like home. A little spark of bravery ignites inside her. ‘A little bit.’

‘Everything is going to be absolutely fine, my dearest one.’ Mama is speaking English, which is their special language; Papa talks to her in Greek, though his English is as perfect as Mama’s. So many languages at home: English, French and Turkish; Greek, of course. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ The girl shakes her head. ‘To Athens. Isn’t that exciting? Papa is moving his shop there.’

‘Can you move a shop?’ The girl rubs her eyes, thinking. ‘What about the windows?’

Mama laughs and ruffles the girl’s hair. ‘He’s left the windows. But all the precious things, all the lovely things are on board with us. He’ll find another shop in Athens, and we’ll find another house.’

‘But what’s wrong with our house?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. But sometimes one has to do something … something new. And exciting! An adventure!’

‘An adventure?’ The girl sniffs. She takes her mother’s hand and, out of long habit, takes the big gold ring Mama always wears, the ring with the old ruby from India, and puts it gently between her teeth. This does feel like an adventure, all of a sudden, she thinks, catching the faint, lemony taste of the gold. She lifts her head and looks over the rail. They are sailing past big ships, all lit up in the night like ghostly ballrooms. There are lights high up in the distance, the little villages on the mountains that surround the bay. Suddenly there is a whirring of wings and a flock of cormorants shoots past the end of the bowsprit, black necks outstretched, wings beating frenziedly. Their eyes reflect the fire behind them, glowing like the gems in a garnet necklace she had watched Papa lay out for a customer the last time he had taken her to the shop, his business: G. Haggitiris et Cie, Goldsmiths. The most beautiful shop on Frank Street, where all the shops are beautiful. But now there will be a new shop, in Athens. ‘Do they have Xenopoulo in Athens?’ she asks Mama. Whenever Papa takes her to work with him, they always go to the department store, the most wonderful place she has ever been, and ride up and down on the escalators. Then they go to the Cafe Trieste, where she eats ice cream and listens to the singers. The singers, with their kohl-ringed eyes and languid movements and their sad, lovely songs. ‘Why are the songs so unhappy?’ she once asked Papa, and he laughed. ‘Well, my little empress, they are so very, very sad that they’ve gone all the way around again and become happy. Can’t you feel it, here?’ And he put his finger, very gently, over her heart.

‘I’m sure they have somewhere like Xenopoulo. It’s a very lovely city,’ Mama is saying. She takes a deep breath and the girl senses that she is not quite sure. ‘We shall buy a house in … I don’t know, perhaps Kolonaki. And then I am going to take you to Paris, and London. My goodness! What fun we’re going to have!’ Mama’s voice sounds as if she is making a face, though she is still smiling in the dirty red light, staring back towards Papa at the wheel. The girl wonders if the garnet necklace – the woman hadn’t bought it – is somewhere on Thetis, in one of the big, heavy boxes the men on the dock at Cordelio had carried on board. They had been angry, and Papa had given them a lot of money before they had done what he asked. There are so many boxes – from the shop and from the house – that the cabin is full. But it makes her feel safer to know that all those precious things are here with her. She looks back at Papa and waves. He grins and sweeps off his neat white cap and waves it at her. She laughs, delighted, but then the line of glowing red in the distance pulses and she snuggles closer to Mama.

‘It looks like a monster,’ she says. ‘Maybe a giant … a giant’s mouth.’

‘Then don’t look, dearest. Go to sleep. And when you wake up, there won’t be any giant.’

‘Papa? When will we get there?’ the girl calls out, her voice muffled by the thick air. But he grins and pats the varnished wheel.

‘We’ll be in Piraeus in time for tea, little Zoë. I promise.’

The yacht slides on. Long before dawn, she is still awake, shivering under a blanket, when she hears a voice: a woman, crying. Then the soft plash of oars, far away through the drifting smoke. The voice comes a little closer and the girl hears that it isn’t sobbing but singing. She stares out towards the sound but there is nothing to be seen. Just the voice, and its song.

A person must give some thought to the hour of his death;

when he will go down into the black earth

and his name will be erased.

The girl opens her eyes to a faintly glowing whiteness: milky, suffused with pink and orange, like the opal brooch Papa had once let her wear to the Cafe Trieste. When she breathes in, the air is clean, damp and salty. The thick, dirty stench from last night has all gone. Above her, the sails are hanging almost empty. Mama is sitting next to her on the rug, winding a bright silk scarf, yellow roses on a field of black and red, around the crown of her broad-brimmed hat. ‘What do you think?’ she asks as she puts on the hat, pins it into place and ties the ends of the scarf under her chin with a flouncy bow.

‘I like that one,’ says the girl, nodding. ‘Mama, where has the sea gone?’

‘It’s just mist, darling. It will blow away soon. And the sun is rising. Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘Where are we?’

‘I don’t quite know,’ Mama says. She stands up and brushes down her tweed skirt. ‘Somewhere near Andros, I think. I shall go and ask Papa.’

‘And ask him about Athens,’ the girl says. She reaches out for Mama but her fingers only catch a tiny fold of cloth and it twitches out of her grasp. ‘Do they have singers there? Do they have ice cream?’

‘Of course they have ice cream, koukla!’ Mama makes her way around the cabin to where Papa stands behind the wheel. He hasn’t moved at all while I’ve been asleep, she thinks. Morning seems to have sent away the horrors of last night. The soft mist that surrounds them muffles their voices and makes Thetis seem like a funny sort of long, whitewashed room. Dew shines on polished brass and varnished wood. The girl yawns loudly and stretches. She sees Mama lean against Papa and put her arm around his waist. Beyond the rail, there is a narrow strip of water, as slick and shimmery as blue glass, across which Thetis is moving so slowly that she is barely leaving a wake, and then white mist, a soft, undulating wall. She hears the clink of china, the sound deadened by the mist. Mama is coming back towards her, edging along the narrow walkway between the cabin and the rail. She is carrying a pink plate. On the plate is a white napkin, folded crisply into a square, and on the cloth rests a piece of sweet milk pudding. The girl sees it all with perfect clarity: the knife-sharp corners of the napkin, the pale yellow custard held between two layers of brown, crisp pastry.

‘Breakfast!’ Mama calls.

‘Mary?’ There is something sharp in Papa’s voice. He is looking over his left shoulder, staring intently into the mist. ‘Can you hear something?’

‘What, darling?’

‘There.’ Papa pushes his cap back on his head and frowns. ‘There! Engines!’

‘I don’t … Yes, yes, there is something!’

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