The Way It Breaks Read online

  ‘Good. You know my room.’

  Ignoring the porter, she grabbed her cello case and turned on her heel, heading for the lifts.

  ✽✽✽

  On the way to the cellist’s room, he held the parcel as if it might jump from his arms and run away. He tried to look casual as he made his way to the lifts. Everyone was busy with the Russian’s party. He turned a corner and stopped dead in front of Mr Ioannidou. The giant man simply nodded and carried on. It made Orestis squirm to remember Eva’s face, her messages that went unanswered.

  For now, there was the cellist. He told himself that the woman was only being fussy. It meant nothing that she specifically requested him in her room, only that she wished for her issue to be handled by a single member of staff. It was a way to avoid complications, that was all.

  The lit-up floor numbers ascended. He recalled the jab of Svetlana’s elbow once the cellist had walked away, the wink and giggle. The reflected Orestis’ pecs were clear through his shirt. His shoulders were full, his biceps stretched the fabric. Side-on, a pair of basketball glutes. He was near-enough ready and felt a surge of pride. The cellist’s age didn’t matter; the last time he’d had sex was shortly after the Army, two or three years ago, before he’d gone back to his uncle’s taverna. His pride deflated.

  The room numbers advanced along the corridor. Orestis slowed his pace, feeling uncertainty and foresight on an equal level. He already knew what the room would look like. It seemed unreal there’d be a living person inside it, maybe waiting for him to join her in the double bed, maybe undressed already. He had the strange sensation that this had already happened, or was predestined. He was only playing his part. It was an out-of-body experience, his mind floating somewhere above himself, viewing him as his body moved. It watched him knock on the cellist’s door. It detected the sound of music. It heard the woman invite him into the room. And it saw her, sitting on a stool at the window with her back to the door, the sunlight blacking her out as she played her instrument. He stood by the door, holding the parcel that had brought them to this junction, and waited. Even with his limited knowledge, he knew she played exquisitely. She handled the cello with the precision he’d noted in her movements beforehand. With her hands she coaxed it to speak, to express itself.

  At last, she put down her bow and turned.

  ‘Close the door,’ she said as if it was nothing.

  As he did so, he heard the sound of the curtains drawn shut and saw the light diminish on the walls. His throat was dry.

  ‘Put it down.’

  He placed the parcel on the bedside table, next to her Cartier wristwatch.

  ‘Take off your shirt.’

  He heard his breath come out.

  He could excuse himself politely, explain that he’d misunderstood. Leave. A hundred thoughts rushed through his head: he was shy, he was imperfect, it would be rude to reject her, it would embarrass her, she could have him fired. But his mind gave way. Had anyone ever looked at him with hunger?

  So he unbuttoned his shirt. And she exhaled as if she too had been holding her breath. Once his shirt was off, her eyes went straight to his middle. His face burned. He thought to say something, make light of it, Too many cheese pies, but he was wary of sounding like an idiot. This woman wanted a man, not a schoolboy. In any case, he was fine. He was fine, he was fine. He held up his chin, and without being asked, removed his belt.

  She didn’t say a word, only watched as he unzipped his flies and let his trousers fall to the floor. His blood pulsed. He was getting hard, so he focused his mind on trivial things. Lint on the carpet, the pattern of the bed covers. Dull symmetry. He had that sense of being outside of himself again, his mind above them both. But at the same time, he was present in this body, registering the alarm clock on the bedside table, the sound of people at the pool, outside, below. He wondered when she would leave for the party. He saw how those fingers curled around the cello’s neck. He stood in his lucky underwear, facing her. Out of instinct, his hands had gone behind his back as if he was in the Army again, awaiting the sergeant’s command. There was a pause, to which she raised an eyebrow.

  He heard himself laughing, a short, nervous laugh. But under her glare, he slid his shorts down to his feet and stepped out of them. All of a sudden, she looked afraid of him. He ought to have gone. Instead, he walked towards her.

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘On the bed.’

  He caught his reflection in the mirror, his own look of dejection. Orestis looking at Orestis, with Orestis watching from above. ‘You don’t want—?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Go on the bed. By yourself.’

  In a blend of reluctance and confusion, he obeyed, never having done it for anyone else’s enjoyment before. It was unlike the furtive jacks at his father’s place, while his grandma made dinner on the floor below, warbling along to the ancient songs on her radio. Here in this room, with a stranger watching him like a god as if he was performing a ritual, he touched himself. He touched his developed chest, the tightening stomach, the dark hairs thickening as his hand travelled downwards, daring even to tease this woman who could end his career with a snap of her fingers. And, watching himself – from the ceiling, from the mirror, from the cellist’s own wide eyes — he enjoyed himself to the end.

  Ten

  Before his shift, he donned a vest and a pair of shorts to run along the promenade. Only a couple of months before, he’d been too embarrassed to run in public. He’d kept his cardio to a far corner of the gym, from which he watched the backs of more confident men running endlessly towards the windows. He would shower in the hotel’s locker-rooms, though he’d never use the gym there; he’d feel awkward to work out with guests.

  The light fell soft on the path and powdered sand. He abandoned the headphones, which kept dropping from his ears, to hear only the shush of waves against the shore and his heartbeat and breath within them.

  The last time he saw his cousin, Pavlos squeezed his bicep and said, ‘You stud!’

  The encounter with the cellist danced around in his head. The woman had even put a few notes in his hand, those hands of hers, as he opened her door to leave. As if it was owed to him. This surprised Orestis; the entire time she’d sat rigid on the stool, one leg over the other, both hands on one knee. Her sole reaction was a look of shock at the end as if she hadn’t expected a climax. After he’d wiped himself clean with the hand towel she’d tossed to him, she’d opened the parcel. Inside was a quaint-looking snow globe, a European mountain village. Flakes fell over miniature houses and cobbles. Her eyes were wet. He’d snuck out of her room, down the stairs, slipped through the doors to the pool and taken the path around to the car park. The following morning, he’d been ready to answer Svetlana’s questions. The lies, based on prior experience, came easily. How demanding the cellist had been when he delivered the parcel, how she insisted on opening and inspecting it before she’d let him go. Svetlana had laughed with pained recognition. Over dinner, he was tense with his father as if the man was wise to what had happened, or he might splutter a confession himself. But the thought of his grandma, and what she might say about the whole thing, kept his mouth shut.

  The cellist had checked out the next morning, coolly handing her key back to him as if he might be anyone, and left. No other situation presented itself, though Orestis stayed alert. He worried at times he might be overstepping, might be flirting with women, married or not, who’d no desire to see him naked. He recalled details of the cellist, her deportment, physiognomy, anything he might use to identify similar types. There would be more of them out there, people who wanted him.

  ✽✽✽

  Antsy from a mood he couldn’t explain, something about the directionless halfway point of twilight, he went to a bar with Paris. He wore a shirt Eva had convinced him to buy, in the hope it would earn its tag.

  Paris strolled over with two whiskeys and Coke, as Orestis locked eyes with a fake blonde on a bar stool. Black dress stuck to her skin as if she’d b
een tarred, contacts as blue as diamonds. She sipped her drink and batted smiles between him and her girlfriends.

  ‘Re, she’s giving you a pass,’ said Paris. ‘Go.’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘I’m not the one she’s looking at.’

  ‘E… She’ll want me to buy her a drink.’

  ‘And?’

  What could he say? That it ought to be the other way around? ‘She’s having cocktails. I don’t have the money for that shit.’

  Paris shook his head, laughing. ‘Well, that one’s just drinking Keo.’

  Standing at the bar was a group of guys. The one Paris was talking about, with white-mousse hair and stud earrings, glanced over. Short but built like a Spartan.

  ‘Fuck you.’ He whacked Paris’ arm.

  ‘Easy!’

  ‘You think I’m gay?’

  ‘No, re. I was saying men don’t cost as much.’

  Orestis resisted looking back at the guy who was now eyeing him.

  ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with him?’ said Paris. ‘He looks good. Like Action Man.’

  Orestis scoffed and folded his arms, which bulged out his biceps.

  They left empty-handed. After Paris drove off, Orestis sat in his own car and watched the street-lamp in the black sky. Instead of driving home, he saw his hands turn the wheel for Amathountos Avenue. He carried on until he reached the good hotels, parked at one, went inside. He saw himself head for the lobby, and take a seat in a leather tub chair. The ceiling was so high the chandelier stopped ten-fifteen metres above him. He tried to draw on something, an allure he could project like a torch. A few minutes went by. None of the well-dressed ladies had done more than glance his way as they passed. Maybe there was a code, some sort of visual signal. A dialect of the underworld. When a member of staff came to clear away a coffee cup, Orestis felt his face go red and stumbled away with a goodnight. He drove back home. In the rearview mirror, his eyes looked frightened.

  ‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘Useless piece of shit.’

  ✽✽✽

  It had been weeks. The swimmer was gone.

  At least Orestis was making strides at work. It was clear he was being prepped for a bigger role. Just a few more months of saving and money would lose its grip on his sleep. He looked better, and it showed in others’ faces. As Easter approached he fasted for the first time since he was a kid. His grandma had always been strict about her fast, and gradually conceded defeat when it came to the men in her life. She would dutifully buy and prepare meat for every meal, but it never touched her lips. She served her men yoghurt and eggs and poured milk in their Nescafés. But while she fasted for the love of God, Orestis did so for himself. The diet of pulses and vegetables was potent fuel. The stranglehold of sugar had weakened, no longer did he feel fatigued and heavy. T-shirts now stretched where they flattered.

  Without his grandma to make her casseroles, he tackled them himself. Those first few days after her death, he’d been lost. She’d left no recipes, no cookery books to explain the basics. She’d carried all those foods in her head, the way her own mother and grandma would have done back in the village. The old girl went by vague amounts, tossing cups of oil or sugar into a mixing bowl with that intuitive way of an expert. She’d sprinkle cinnamon onto minced meat till it smelled right. His father could roast a lamb, and like his son had picked up basic cooking from his Army days: scrambled eggs, thick chips, fried tomatoes. But Kostas was usually in the garage, often in the company of Andros and Andrikos. Orestis was too old to ask his dad to cook for him, and refused to microwave ready meals. Time to learn. And, he told himself, these were useful skills for when he finally got his own place. Soon.

  Aside from calling his aunts for guidance, he found recipes online and printed them off on the ‘office’ machine in the corridor. Once off-white, now grey, the thing groaned and choked out documents streaked with ink. With confidence came experimentation. The one time his father had sampled a foreign dish his son had made, he’d grimaced and pushed the plate away. ‘What is this wankery?’ he’d said, and sliced up a round village loaf to make himself a ham sandwich. From then on, Orestis made a meal for himself, and a simplified version of it for his old man. He’d serve it up and eat in silence as Kostas chewed and smacked his lips, knowing that their days together were numbered. With his next paycheque, Orestis bought recipe books, English ones from Kyriakou Bookshops, to make the sort of food they served at the hotel. His father stared at him, dumbstruck, when he expressed these thoughts aloud. ‘Good thing they pay you well. They turned you into a European. Soon you’ll be talking like a fag Kalamaras.’

  Orestis brushed the comment off. Let his father commit to his tiny world. Born in Cyprus, stay in Cyprus, speak like a Cypriot for the rest of your life – what was the point? Greek spoken by Greeks was refined. Cypriot dialect was rough, ill-mannered; the language of peasants. Sit back and accept your lot in life? Why? And let people lucky enough to be born in a better position horde all the goods? Fuck that. To refuse to cultivate himself would be like leaving a garden as a patch of grass. Or worse, it would be like paving it over, concrete, like most of Lemesos. His body was only the first of the things he would improve.

  ✽✽✽

  Paris had started flicking Orestis’ arms and calling him Superman with an ironic smile.

  ‘Things don’t always look as good beneath the surface,’ he said.

  This came as Orestis spoke of Thanos and his immaculate suits. He baulked at the comment, not just on behalf of his superior, who so far had only revealed more beauty beneath the surface. ‘Sometimes, my friend,’ Orestis replied, ‘things look good on the surface because they’re well made.’

  Paris looked impressed. He pulled out a pack of cards from his pocket and started dealing.

  ‘No, re, put them away. I can’t be arsed.’

  ‘Shut up. You’ve got to keep your mind alive.’

  Orestis smarted. He was about to form a response when Paris continued:

  ‘Studies have shown that it’s rejuvenating to keep our minds alive with daily mental workouts. You don’t want to end up like our grandparents, do you? Repeating the same old phrases from the Bible because you can’t remember anything else?’

  Orestis laughed.

  They were interrupted by an approaching monologue: Eva, talking to them both as if they’d been chatting for minutes already. She lowered herself to their table, snug in a low-cut dress.

  ‘What happened to your eyes?’ Paris said. ‘Were you blinded?’

  ‘Shut up, you brick,’ she said. ‘Contacts are “in” right now. What would you know about trends?’

  ‘That only the brainless follow them.’

  She slapped his thigh. ‘So what’s this about the Bible? Only Paris could bring up the Church in a trendy bar.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Orestis. ‘We’re talking about our grandmothers.’

  ‘Mine made the best rice pudding, swear to God!’

  ‘No, mine did.’

  ‘Shut up you villager, what would you know about taste?’

  Paris laughed. ‘Your eyes are freaking me out. You’re like a robot.’

  She flicked her hair. ‘But a gorgeous robot, yes?’

  ‘Why did you make us come to this place? The coffee’s undrinkable.’

  ‘Of course it’s undrinkable. This is the place to be right now, hello?’ She noticed the cards on the table. ‘Deal me in.’

  ‘Are you sure cards are “in” this season?’ Orestis said.

  Eva flicked her unnatural blue eyes at him. ‘You’re lucky you’re so handsome,’ she said.

  The comment sent a shiver down his spine.

  They played a few rounds of poker. Between her turns, Eva asked about the job. Orestis cast flashbacks of the cellist aside. He settled on vague pleasantries; how much he liked Thanos and Yiorgos (Eva loved them, sweethearts, both of them!), how he recently saw her dad.

  ‘And what do you want to achieve there?’

  Orestis was st
umped. ‘At the hotel?’

  Paris’ hand churned the air. ‘Pe! What is this, an interview?’

  ‘Shut it, re! I’m interested in his career.’

  ‘E… Of course, I want to be Manager…’

  ‘Front Desk or right at the top?’

  ‘So high up he’ll be next to God,’ said Paris.

  Eva crossed herself.

  Orestis tasted his words before he spoke them. ‘I want to progress as far as I can.’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘Trust me,’ she said, ‘you’ll go far.’

  There was a silence, which Paris filled with a breath of smoke. ‘Who needs God,’ he said, ‘when you have a Ioannidou looking out for you?’

  Orestis barely had time to take offence.

  ✽✽✽

  Three am. He and Eva walked through the square towards the half-plot of land where she’d parked her car. The old red-light district, where a teenage Orestis had snuck glances at the sun-drained photos of naked women on the windows of strip-joints. Once he’d found the nerve, he’d approached a lady standing outside the Rialto and she took him to a heat-peeled flat. In those days his virginity was valued in Cyprus Pounds. He noticed there were no boys on the street corners.

  Air tickling his collarbone, he became all too aware of himself. He and Eva were alone. There was a sense of something coming, something to be stopped. He should have driven, even if he’d planned to drink.

  ‘Why did you park all the way over here?’

  ‘This guy only charges two euro.’

  They got in her white convertible and headed for his dad’s.

  ‘Thanks for taking me home.’

  ‘You’re too polite,’ she said, in a voice he barely recognised.

  They drove the rest of the way in near silence, with only the music from the radio between them. A ballad by Christina Aguilera came on, and Eva turned it up. Something about blaming someone and being sorry about it, the voice and strings like spears. Eva sighed, ‘God almighty.’ Orestis thought the singer a slut, but scenes from her videos had got him through many a lonely night. He kept his thoughts to himself. Eva was enraptured, a different woman, smoking out of her window and wafting the nicotine away from him as her face emoted along with the song.