Whimsical whereabouts
I was taken there with three other girls, two from the Philippines and a Sudanese woman. The procedure didn’t take long. There was already another group of women inside, all entertainers, though I couldn’t help feeling like I was mixed up with a bunch of hookers, freshly rounded up and brought in to be booked. They were all dressed and made up like prostitutes, talking loudly and flirting with the cops. It nauseated me and I got a sudden premonition. Things did not improve as I saw the underground prisoner’s cages outside the building. Do they really stick human beings in there? I thought and started to walk fast, then run off the premises.
Our chauffeur for the night stuck his jovial, weather-beaten face around the smoked glass entrance door of the hotel. Farah, Fatimah and I sat in silence during the ride through Limassol town.
‘I pay tonight,’ Fatimah said as we got out, ‘your turn tomorrow.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘Okay,’ I said evenly not about to be intimidated by her.
The Golden Star was an elegant club and I felt relieved; the morning trip to Police Headquarters had put me on edge and worried about what to expect.
Watching Egyptian Fatimah dance I was utterly mesmerized, mouth agape, in total fascination of her sensuous moves. Mitzi, a slim petit blond Polish girl, did an act with swords that sent shivers up and down my spine and, standing backstage I could not for the life of me figure out how the thin, rakish-looking magician did his tricks. I was completely awestruck when white doves seemed to flutter about everywhere as the impressive finale to his act.
In my first show of the evening I sang Feelings, Never Never, Never and Traveling Together, one of my own compositions. I had a lot of success and, as always, the applause felt wonderful.
The last performer was Tutti, a black Sudanese woman who did a sensual dance whereby in the end her brassiere was tossed aside and the stage plunged into darkness.
After the show I went into the club and asked the bartender for a glass of white wine. He refused to serve me. ‘Sit with clients,’ he said. ‘What?’ I was dumbstruck. A gentleman in a dark-blue silk, tailored suit understood the situation and came to my rescue. He motioned the waiter who snapped to subservient attention and poured me a glass of wine out of the gentleman’s bottle.
‘You sang beautifully,’ the man with the pleasant though flabby face and the kind brown eyes said to me.
‘Thank you.’
‘Where you’re from?’
‘From Holland.’
‘Ah, Holland, the country of flowers!’
He was stocky and short of stature by the looks of it, middle-aged, with bushy eyebrows and a full head of brown, here and there greying hair.
‘You are a tulip, a lovely Dutch tulip…’ He exclaimed amiably.
I took a grape from one of the bowls that were placed at strategic distances on the immaculate green marble-top bar, and popped it in my mouth.
‘…you are different…’ he continued after a pause. I glanced sideways regarding him noncommittally for a moment. He looked me straight in the eye. On an impulse I decided to be sociable considering the man looked harmless enough.
‘I certainly hope so,’ I laughed, ‘tell me, mister…’
“Mikirakis,’ Surprising swift off his barstool, he held out a small but firm, square hand, ‘George Mikirakis.
I stifled a giggle. ‘Mister Mikirakis,’I said quickly, ‘tell me, what is going on in Cyprus?’
Right away George Mikirakis leapt into a panegyric about Holland, where he had been many times, he said, specifically Amsterdam held his praise. ‘A uniquely designed city and the nicest people in the world!’ he jubilated.
I kept my thoughts to myself and, after chatting innocuously for a few minutes, tried to steer him back to telling me what all the ruckus was about on the night I arrived. With subtle dexterity George Mikirakis eased into the situation at hand in Cyprus. He told me that elections were soon to be held and that Cyprus was in a bedlam at the moment. That explained the loud music and speeches in the square the other night. He also informed me that he was involved with the EDEK party. The Greek-Cypriot Mafia didn’t want the feudal system to change, he said, because that would be to their disadvantage.
‘Beware, black tulip, you must be very careful. Don’t go home with anyone!’ He admonished suddenly, keeping sad stern eyes upon me. I looked down on my black evening gown thinking that perhaps it hadn’t been such a wise move after all to fly to Cyprus without a moment’s thought.
‘A young girl was abducted not so long ago,’ he continued in a dry, tired voice, ‘some men took her with them in a car. Three days later she was found…dead…somewhere in the desert. The murderers were never caught.’
I stopped popping grapes in my mouth. Jesus, I thought quite alarmed, what kind of hornets’ nest did I fall into?
‘What? Really?’
‘Really,’ he said matter-of-fact, ‘I am not making this up, dear, please, be very careful!’
My mind was in a bit of an uproar as I said goodbye to my charming doomsday prophet, his warning words still buzzing around in my brain as I walked to the dressing room to get ready to do my second show of the night.
~