Free Bitter Lemons of Cyprus: Life on a Mediterranean Island by Lawrence Durrell Page A

imaginary tears and repeating “Eight hundred pounds” as if it were the best joke in the world. He laughed at me and I laughed at him, a dreadful false laugh. He slapped his knee. I rolled about in my chair as if on the vergeof acute gastritis. We laughed until we were exhausted. Then we grew serious again. Sabri was still fresh as a daisy, I could see that. He had put himself into the patient contemplative state of mind of a chess player.
    “Take the key and go,” he snapped suddenly, and handing it to her, swirled round in his swivel chair to present her with his back; then as suddenly he completed the circuit and swiveled round again. “What!” he said with surprise. “You haven’t gone.” In truth there had hardly been time for the woman to go. But she was somewhat slow-witted, though obstinate as a mule: that was clear. “Right,” she now said in a ringing tone, and picking up the key put it into her bosom and turned about. She walked off stage in a somewhat lingering fashion. “Take no notice,” whispered Sabri and busied himself with his papers.
    The woman stopped irresolutely outside the shop, and was here joined by her husband who began to talk to her in a low cringing voice, pleading with her. He took her by the sleeve and led her unwillingly back into the shop where we sat pointedly reading letters. “Ah! It’s you,” said Sabri with well-simulated surprise. “She wishes to discuss some more,” explained the cobbler in a weak conciliatory voice. Sabri sighed.
    “What is there to speak of? She takes me for a fool.” Then he suddenly turned to her and bellowed, “Two hundred pounds and not a piastre more.”
    It was her turn to have a paroxysm of false laughter, but this was rather spoiled by her husband who startedplucking at her sleeve as if he were persuading her to be sensible. Sabri was not slow to notice this. “You tell her,” he said to the man. “You are a man and these things are clear to you. She is only a woman and does not see the truth. Tell her what it is worth.”
    The cobbler, who quite clearly lacked spirit, turned once more to his wife and was about to say something to her, but in a sudden swoop she produced the key and raised it above her head as if she intended to bring it down on his hairless dome. He backed away rapidly. “Fool,” she growled. “Can’t you see they are making a fool of you? Let me handle this.” She made another pass at him with the key and he tiptoed off to join the rest of her relations in the coffee-shop opposite, completely crushed. She now turned to me and extended a wheedling hand, saying in Greek, “Ah come along there, you an Englishman, striking a hard bargain with a woman.…” But I had given no indication of speaking Greek so that it was easy to pretend not to understand her. She turned back to Sabri, staring balefully, and banging the key down once more shouted “Six hundred,” while Sabri in the same breath bellowed “Two hundred.” The noise was deafening.
    They panted and glared at each other for a long moment of silence like boxers in a clinch waiting for the referee to part them. It was the perfect moment for Sabri to get in a quick one below the belt. “Anyway, your house is mortgaged,” he hissed, and she reeled under the punch. “Sixty pounds and three piastres,” headded, screwing the glove a little to try to draw blood. She held her groin as if in very truth he had landed her a blow in it. Sabri followed up swiftly: “I offer you two hundred pounds plus the mortgage.”
    She let out a yell. “No. Never,” and banged the key. “Yes, I say,” bellowed Sabri giving a counter-bang. She grabbed the key (by now it had become, as it were, the very symbol of our contention. The house was forgotten. We were trying to buy this old rusty key which looked like something fitter for Saint Peter’s keyring than my own). She grabbed the key, I say, and put it to her breast like a child as she said: “Never in this life.”