Immoral Tales: London - Alexandria: a coming of age erotic odyssey

By Andreas Karayan

NATIONAL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE - Cyprus
In the age of David Hockney, Derek Jarman, Kenneth Anger and Andy Warhol, when bisexuality was at first radical and then trendy, a young man is faced with the ambiguity of sexual roles and oscillates between In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower and Special Friendships.

A frank and moving coming of age autobiographical novel about self discovery, love, art, sexual and artistic identity. A journey leading from the swinging London of the late '60s to contemporary Alexandria.

Weaving personal experience with modern social and historical events, internationally acclaimed Cypriot artist Andreas Karayan brings forth IMMORAL TALES, a book inhabited by colorful characters that captures the essence of life.

IMMORAL TALES is one part of a semi-autobiographical trilogy, but it is autonomous; it follows a young man’s search for his artistic and sexual identity during his formative years.

Art and passion converge in Andreas Karayan’s cosmopolitan gaze. His trilogy explores key historical, political and social events which have shaped contemporary Europe, as the backdrop for both the life of his protagonist and his own. More specifically, “Immoral Tales: London – Alexandria,” Karayan explores the world-changing events of late 60’s and early 70’s in London, and how they influenced his decision to abandon medicine for the arts. The second part of the book explores the pre-revolutionary contemporary Alexandria.

The first of the genre in this part of the world, the book fosters a better understanding of art and sexuality, while emphasizing LGBT and other human rights issues. It is considered a landmark in Cyprus, since it is the first to explore themes which were previously considered taboo.

Grounds for the Literary Award
The book is a candid look at the life of the author, in the form of an autobiographical novel. Through a patchwork of images, Andreas Karayan succeeds with real verve and sensibility in describing the conflicting attractions of his body and soul. The book is a profound self-examination, which blends organically place and time, conveying their atmosphere elegantly with a disarming sincerity. It is in essence a bold attempt to seek identity without the author resorting to self-censorship. On the contrary, he unveils himself and his conflicts finding in the process of writing wholeness, in the interaction of art and life. The writer swathes the facts of his life in a poetic myth and successfully sketches characters who, with their individuality, are in the end transformed into dramatis personae. The whole is presented in an airy manner, with a sense of humor and self-mockery, but also with rich cultural references which bear witness to a good education.

About the author
Andreas Karayan was born in Nicosia, Cyprus, in 1943. He is a well-known Cypriot artist and a pioneer of LGBT rights in Cyprus through his paintings, writings and actions. He studied medicine at the University of Athens and graduated in 1967. He moved to London where he was seduced by the atmosphere of the late '60s and abandoned medicine in favor of art, studying at the Central and Camberwell Schools of Art. He then took an engraving course in Germany and lived in Berlin for a considerable time. He represented Cyprus at the Venice Biennale in 2001, and at the Cairo Biennale in 2006. He also illustrated poems of K. P. Cavafy, which were published in Berlin. From 1978 to 2004, he involved himself with journalism, theatre and cinema criticism. After an invitation from the Library of Alexandria in 2007, he lived in the city and produced a series of works on Alexandrian themes, which were exhibited at the Library. He is the author of three novels in Greek (“A true tale”, “Immoral Tales”, and “Dark Tales”). Nowadays, he lives and works in Nicosia, Alexand

• Language: English
• Publisher: Armida Publications
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9789963706761

Book preview

NATIONAL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE 2011 • CYPRUS

IMMORAL TALES

London - Alexandria:

a coming of age erotic odyssey

an autobiographical account by

ANDREAS KARAYAN

Edited by PETER ARCHER

armida

CREDIT PAGE

Copyright © 2018 by Andreas Karayan

All rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to

Armida Publications Ltd, P.O. Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus

or email: [e-mail]

Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK), and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA)

www.armidabooks.com

English translation by: Antoine Bohdjalian

Edited by PETER ARCHER

Assistant editors: Miriam Pirolo and Ine De Baerdemaeker

Cover design by: Ero Pagla

Cover original artwork and drawings: Andreas Karayan

www.andreaskarayan.zoomshare.com

[e-mail]

First edition: February 2014

ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9963-706-74-7

ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9963-706-76-1

What I most need to do is to record experiences,

not in the order in which they took place – for that

is history – but in the order in which

they first became significant for me.

– Lawrence Durrell, Justine

The characters and their stories are fairy tales, woven by time and the author.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I would like to thank Peter Archer for his fine editing of this book, Mohamed El Saadani for his support, and Anna Moses Bennett for her contribution. In the memory of Niki Marangou, who inspired me considerably.

Contents

CREDIT PAGE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

BOOK ONE - THE BLOSSOMING OF LOVE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

PART TEN

ENTR’ACTE

BOOK TWO - TWENTY YEARS AFTER

A STORY FROM GERMANY

DIMITRIS’ STORY

BOOK THREE - ALEXANDRIA

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I feel I am being suffocated by everyone around me.

Pale, milky faces hover above bodies dressed in formal

clothes. I sit ill at ease

and watch these effigies mutate into skeletal masks.

I raise my revolver and aim at

each one in succession.

I pull the trigger.

BOOK ONE - THE BLOSSOMING OF LOVE

ELEONORA’S STORY

INTRODUCTION

The theatre is colossal, an edifice of red velvet plush embroidered with gold. Angels with wings of many hues, wearing beautiful cloaks which reveal their naked bodies, emerge from gold-edged clouds on the ceiling. The huge chandelier with its sparkling crystals dominates the scene. Ladies with exotic hairstyles in long dresses, gents in dark suits and bow ties seem to be an apparition from bygone days. A genteel murmuring pervades this scented atmosphere; the ladies fan themselves as members of the orchestra make their appearance, carrying their instruments. Amidst an explosion of applause, the maestro bows and raises his hands. A melodic introduction by the orchestra follows. The velvet curtain with the golden hem and tassels rises majestically.

PART ONE

THE ROOM IN ZOGRAFOU

Athens 1966

A caressing winter afternoon sun had just reached our bed. I would hold her hands in mine and cover her feet with my feet so they would stay warm. While she was so calmly asleep, I watched her radiant face, her soft lips.

I would lose myself in the aura of her white shining skin and I simply could not satiate myself. Her devoted affection only served to stoke up and intensify my desire. My body would relax and all my nightmarish emotions gradually disappeared, just as the demons were exorcised from the repentant Magdalene when she came face to face with Christ.¹ Eleonora would nestle snugly in my embrace, as she was a petite creature. Our doctor, whom we visited every single time she had a real or imaginary problem, used to call her ‘mignon’. Madame Kalomoiri, the head of the conservatoire, also used to call her mignon, but with such a strength in her hands.

I still suffered from guilt², which showed itself in various ways – like running to a distant shop to buy contraceptives, in case the local pharmacist would suspect my sexual adventures and cause me embarrassment. Gradually, though, all these difficult feelings fell away. Instead, the room seemed to be filled with the innocent tenderness of our love. Being with Eleonora, neither past nor future seemed to have any meaning: only our time together mattered.

We were living in a small apartment – one bedroom, her piano and my old record player, and a kitchen with a view of the Acropolis. The floor was strewn with books. Books everywhere... but not even a single shoehorn to be found, my father said when he came from Cyprus to visit us. I had a sketch pad and painted her with the strongest colours. On Sundays we often picnicked at Penteli and then stretched out under the trees reading a newspaper, or we would go on long walks, even in the rain, to Kaisariani Monastery on the north side of Mount Hymettus, where all the surrounding sounds were muffled to a sweet quietness, only to be broken by our laughter and our kisses. And then we got to know Alexandros!

***

Alexandros impressed us immensely with his appearance – quite tall, good-looking, and generous with money. A law student, living in Ambelokipoi, he was writing a novel with neither a beginning nor an end. We would spend our evenings on his terrace gazing at the stars and reading Lorca, Rilke, Rimbaud, and listening to Brahms. Sometimes Alexandros’ eyes would darken and then his usual poise slipped. He used to utter, us, the shattered ones. Then I knew that he was hiding something. I was very fond of his mother. Don’t take any notice of him, she would say to me every time we had a spat. One day, as we were sitting in the garden, she looked at me in a solemn way and asked, Andreas, you are my son’s best friend. I want you to tell me in all honesty, is Alexandros a homosexual? The perfection she had always tried to conjure up about her family crumbled. We both felt overtaken by a sudden depression. For her it was the knowledge of the truth, for me it was the revelation of Alexandros’ secret. This revelation was like a stab to my heart. My mother, and in fact everyone, had instilled in me a horrifying picture of ‘queers’ as effeminate, sad people. This could never be said of Alexandros – far from it. But realizations about myself had come to the surface and opened a secret, painful wound which could not be staunched.

1 The impressive Medea de Novara, with her loose golden curls, took the part of Magdalena in the Spanish black and white film Maria Magdalene and Jesus, which I saw one Easter time during my teenage years, at the Magic Palace cinema.

2 In Lucas Cranach the Elder’s painting Cupid Complaining to Venus, Eros, who gets stung by bees, symbolises the guilt experienced after coitus.

PART TWO

THE INVISIBLE ENEMY

The rain song and the joys of the bourgeoisie

It’s raining, it’s pouring,

the old man is snoring,

he fell out of bed

and bumped his head

and couldn’t get up in the morning.

Rain, rain, go away,

Come again some other day,

Little Johnny wants to play.

I was running down the street with an old broom, wearing my wellingtons. Splish-splash, I was trying to sweep the rain water away. What a good boy Andreas is, a lady neighbour used to say.

I loved listening to the water running down the water pipes; it made my heart sing with delight. We had heavy winters, so our mother used to dress us in woolly clothes and put a hot water bottle between our sheets, which the cats had already warmed up for us without her knowing.

Today, I stand at this grim place. A four-lane highway now runs through what used to be a large field. Rain falls quietly from a dull sky. On my walks with Doros, we often unearthed fragments of Byzantine pots which were smashed as offerings in the graves of the dead. The river, which is now dried up, would eventually wash them away.

It was sheer bliss to watch the scene change with the seasons and the yellow daisies gleam in the sun. Josephine’s house was just opposite: low-built and mysterious. No one knew what was going on inside, except that Armando, Josephine’s husband, was very often heard playing Chopin and Debussy. We used to call her ‘old witch’ because suddenly, out of the blue, she would cause a scene, even with everybody around. After Josephine’s death, by some lucky coincidence, I found myself in her home – an enchanting world. The walls were covered with paintings by Armando. Vitrines were filled with thousands of objects, fondly collected: shells, musical instruments, mandolins, lutes, miniature toy aeroplane engines and a large photograph of a young and beautiful Josephine. As the living room was shielded by the tall trees in the garden, it always seemed to be in subdued light. It contained a showcase of porcelain artefacts, remnants of a colonial splendour. The plates depicted Queen Elizabeth’s photograph flanked by two lions. Under an imposing crown was an EIIR inscription and, written in smaller letters, ‘Coronation June 2nd 1953’. Next to the plates were mugs, also decorated with her photograph, similar to the ones in which they handed us our milk in elementary school. I felt so elated and proud to receive mine, which I continued to use over the years. I found myself reminiscing about the coronation celebrations – the soldiers’ bands in the streets of Nicosia and the Union Jacks, which were eventually torn down by the Gymnasium students, flying all over the place. In the evening, on the Venetian wall, the sparkling fireworks illuminated the words ‘ELIZABETH