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A story of a daughter's true devotion to Daddy.

Only the music of the stringed instruments continued. Even the tenor had broken off in mid lyric of his song. But I didn't feel like an intruder-I felt like I was coming home. I found an empty table and sat at it and ordered an Efes beer, and the activity in the square resumed to the level that it no doubt had maintained for centuries of the village men meeting to gossip and speculate and to smoke their pipes and cigarettes and drink their evening sluggish coffee or beer.

There were only men in the square, and many of them were young, some younger than me. The younger men looked fit and strong and handsome. They were dark, with black, curly hair, and musculature that bespoke of honest labor. The older men were mere shells of the younger. Somewhere in one of my father's books he had remarked that Turkish men were formed as gods and started deteriorating into old men by the time they hit their thirties. He went on to say that the Turkish men, therefore, should be plucked and used before they departed their twenties. But perhaps the less said about that the better.

I remained the center of attention and of whisperings at the tables surrounding me, and I had the sensation that the younger men were moving closer-that they somehow were in a dance of speculation on which of them would first come to me. And I found that sensation arousing, and I found myself taking furtive glances around and setting wishes on who it might be. I could well understand how my father had melted to this siren call.

I was on familiar ground here-not because I had engaged in this courtship process when we had lived here before, but because it was a central theme in the books my father wrote while he lived in separation from his former world here. And not just his books either. I had found the same motif in the books of the earlier novelist who followed in Lawrence Durrell's footsteps in writing here, the Englishman Mark Amalfi. What went on here with the residents of the villa in the upper town had always been, in fact, a type of courtship, a mating dance-a primeval sexual choosing. A certain type of man lived in the villa and a certain type of young Turkish Cypriot man could be found in abundance at the Tree of Idleness caf__. I didn't find this threatening in the least. I was that certain kind of man myself. I found all of this familiar, and comfortable, and, yes, arousing.

I was lifted out of my reverie on these thoughts by a sudden hush across the caf__, one that matched the greeting of my entrance nearly an hour earlier. I looked up and saw, just at the edge of the light where the road descended from the square down to Kyrenia the figure of a man. It took me a second to place him, but I slowly realized that he was the man who had come-but not quite come-to my father's interment earlier that day. He had been moving into the circle of light and had captured the attention of all the men present, and I sensed that his presence had set them on edge somehow. He was Turkish and seemed as one with the rest of the men here but not really. His elegant dress and sophisticated demeanor set him apart, and somehow the reaction of the men at the caf__ gave me the sense that he had once been with them but was now apart-not fully wanted in the square.

His movement was arrested when his eyes fell on me. He hesitated and then I thought perhaps he was going to come to me. I found him appealing-and arousing-and something inside me wanted him to come to me-and to take me away and possess me. But just at the moment, the question had been resolved of which of the young men in the square was going to come and sit at my table, and, seeing the young man approach me, the mysterious man turned and faded outside the circle of light.

"May I sit?" The young man was saying. "My name is Sami. You are perhaps from the villa? You have come because of Malcolm perhaps?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm Richard Stephenson, Malcom's son. Come to settle his business."

"You are staying at the villa, no?" Sami asked.

"Yes, until the end of the month," I said.

"You look like M

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