The convenience store was on the other side of Ledra Street, a straight and immaculate lane with shops on all sides. Ledra Street, a street lit golden from the hues of its apartment complexes and edifices. Ledra Street, where the KFCs and the McDonalds sold without restriction. Ledra Street, where chitter-chatter could be heard in all of the European languages.
Father saw Ledra Street all the time, from a little corner right next to the checkpoint heading into the Republic of Cyprus.
But he had never once been able to step foot onto Ledra Street.
Today, Father was to the north of Ledra Street, at the junction where it became Kurtbaba Sokak, near the market and the hamam. Father was inside of a convenience store, the one his friend Mr Demetriou owned. He was looking out of the window towards Ledra Street, and feeling for the first time like asking Mr Demetriou about what it was like to be on the other side of that border.
Yes, this Mr Demetriou, ever so moustachioed, with skin as pasty as it was oily, who had curly blond hairs that faded all over his arm and an accent stronger than steel . . . this Mr Demetriou had been born and raised in the walled city of Nicosia. He was more of a local than Father would ever be, given that Father had been born and brought up in the north.
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