‘Songbirds,’ I said, quietly.
‘Songbirds?’
She went straight to one of the fridges, opened it and looked inside. Luckily, they were all empty on that day. Then she shut it and opened the second fridge, and the third. Leaving this last door open, she turned to face me.
‘Where are they?’ she asked.
‘I don’t have any right now. I just made a delivery.’
She nodded, and there was a look of disappointment on her face. But this feeling belonged only to her; she wasn’t willing to share it with me in words.
‘I don’t want to do it,’ I said, trying to make her understand. ‘Once you get into it, it’s hard to stop. It’s a bit like drug dealing – there’s a huge underground organisation, and they won’t let you go, it’s too risky for them.’ I didn’t tell her that the previous week a man I knew had handed in his notice, and that night his boat shed had mysteriously burnt to the ground.
‘Who are they?’ Nisha asked.
‘The men at the top.’
‘So, once you make a decent amount of money, you want out and you’re stuck?’
‘Yes.’
She closed the fridge door and brought her hand to her stomach, her eyes to the ground.
‘What I’m saying to you is that I’m going to find a way out of this. I will. But I have more than enough money to be able to support us until I find a different job. The recession has passed now. I have experience in finance. I know the way I made my money isn’t ideal, but we can be a family.’
‘Not ideal.’ She repeated faintly. She turned and walked out of the spare room, then headed for the back door. Her hand on the door knob, she turned back to me and said, ‘I’ll think about it,’ then disappeared down the stairs.
After that, she didn’t come to see me for several days. But about a week later, she turned up at my door – I remember it was a Friday morning and I was surprised to see her in the light of day. She looked so beautiful, in a vibrant orange dress that brought out the gold in her eyes. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail. Her lips glimmered with gloss. On her feet she still wore her practical, scuffed, high-impact walking sandals.
I wanted to reach out and hold her. ‘Come in,’ I said.
‘No. I’ve just come to tell you that I’m going to Limassol for the weekend, to stay with my cousin Chaturi. Do you remember when she came to visit me?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘Well, she’s leaving to go back to Sri Lanka next week and I’m going to give her a few things to take to Galle.’
I nodded.
‘I need some time away from here so that I can think.’
I nodded again.
‘Don’t call me or try to contact me. It’s just for a few days.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I understand.’
Her lips broke into a small smile, but her eyes carried a lingering sadness. Then she walked down the stairs and I watched her as she went into her bedroom through the patio doors.
After the weekend passed, Nisha returned. Late on Monday night, I heard a knock at the door. She was standing there in a bright white nightdress, a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her hair was loose, her face flushed like she’d been running.
‘I couldn’t wait to see you,’ she said.
She put her arms around me immediately and tucked her face into the crook of my neck; I felt the damp warmth of her body against mine, her breath against my skin. I was flooded with relief, joyful at her return, grateful to have her in my arms again.
‘I wanted to come last night, but Aliki was running a fever. I couldn’t leave her,’ she said.
We lay down on the bed. There was a soft summer breeze. She lay on her back, I on my side; I kissed her shoulder and stroked her hair, just as she liked. I almost couldn’t believe that she was there.
‘How is Chaturi?’ I asked.
‘Do you like my nightdress? She gave it to me as a gift. She made it herself. It’s beeralu lace.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. And it was so beautiful. I ran my hand over the fine patterns of flowers. It was like a pure white garden.
‘She drew it on graph paper first, then attached it to the kotta boley with pins. She then took each thread around the pin. Can you imagine what a task it is?’
‘I can.’
‘Her employers were away this weekend, so we had the house to ourselves. I helped her with the chores, then we sat the rest of the time in the garden. We talked while she weaved. She was desperate to finish it before I left. She said she had a feeling she would not see me for a very long time.’
Over the years, Nisha had seen Chaturi every couple of months, usually when Chaturi came with her employers to Nicosia for a Sunday visit. They had family there and they would drop her off at Petra’s for the day, then collect her in the evening before heading back to Limassol. It was always a special occasion for Nisha. The two women would spend time making aluwa, a nutty sweetmeat with cashews, or my favourite, aasmi, made with coconut milk and the juice of cinnamon leaves. Chaturi would leave with a couple of Tupperware boxes filled with sweets. Nisha would always set aside a few slices in foil and bring them up for me later in the evening, telling me all about their conversations, Chaturi’s jokes, the news from home.
‘I hope she is wrong about that,’ she said. ‘That it will be a long time before she sees me again.’ She ran her fingers over the flowers of her nightgown.
‘I’m sure it won’t be too long’ I said, reassuring her.
She paused a moment, and then said: ‘I made an appointment at the clinic in Limassol to end the pregnancy, but I couldn’t do it.’ Her eyes were wide now, fearful. ‘This baby is going to start growing and I’m going to be left without a job and without a home. Do you know what happens to women like me who break the rules?’
Her words were tumbling from her mouth now, and I could barely keep up.
‘My friend, Mary, from the Philippines, well, her employer saw her jumping over the fence at night to see her boyfriend and fired her on the spot. It was almost impossible for her to find work after that, because this employer was very well known in the community, and respected. She had to move into a hostel with fifteen other women on the other side of the island. The conditions were so bad that she ended up selling her body to stay in an old man’s villa by the sea with three other women.’
I reached for her, but she pushed me away. She distanced herself from me, so she could look me in the eyes.
‘And little Diwata down the road, well, her ex-employer beat her. She had bruises on her arms and legs and was only allowed to eat such a small amount of food each day that she ended up shrinking down to nearly nothing. She looked like she was twelve! Well, she was lucky because she found another employer. He has bought her a car, he never bruises her body, and he buys her new clothes and gives her his credit card to buy whatever she likes. Why do you think that is?’
She stared at me without blinking. I said nothing.
‘Petra will fire me. She will. Who knows where I will end up? And if I want to find another job, I will have to give up the baby. But what if I can’t do it? Just like I couldn’t terminate the pregnancy.’ Tears fell from her eyes now and she briskly wiped them with the back of her hand. ‘I stepped through the door. I actually went to the clinic.’
There was nothing I could say. I wanted to tell her it would be OK, that for her the outcome would be different, I would help her. But what did I know of her world? Of what she owed. I couldn’t bring myself to make promises I couldn’t understand.
After a silence, she finally spoke. ‘Whatever happens,’ she said, ‘you have to promise me that you will stop what you are doing to the songbirds. It’s not a good thing.’
‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I can promise that.’
*
Suddenly the cat’s ears flattened and it hissed. From behind I heard footsteps approaching. I turned and saw Spyros with his poodle. Spyros, the postman. A well-built guy, cover
ed in tattoos from the neck down. His poodle, tiny, well-groomed, in a khaki military bomber jacket designed especially for dogs. In the summer it had a sun umbrella attached to its leash. The discrepancy between them always made Nisha laugh when she saw the pair from my balcony on Sundays. She would lean forward carefully, so that prying neighbours would not see her, and whistle the theme tune of Indiana Jones, and he would whistle it back. It meant: I know you’re there and your secret is safe with me. Spyros the postman knew most things, everyone in the neighbourhood knew that Spyros the postman knew most things, but his lips were always sealed. Nisha loved this game they played – it made her feel more accepted, more human, she said. She had told me that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom had been filmed in Kandy in the eighties, and as a child she had loved to imagine all the adventures taking place just 200 km or so from her home.
The cat now hissed, circling Spyros’s dog, who growled in return, making a show of pulling at his lead. The dog bared its tiny teeth and the cat hissed again. It was an amusing stand-off, and if I hadn’t been so upset, I would have laughed.
‘Sit, Agamemnon!’ Spyros said. The dog obeyed – sort of – continuing to growl from deep in its chest.
‘What are you doing here, mate?’ he asked, looking down at me.
‘Thinking.’
‘On the ground? In the middle of the street?’
‘Yes.’
He sat down beside me. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Nisha is missing. I don’t know where she’s gone.’
‘How long?’
‘Nearly a week now. Last Sunday night or Monday morning.’
Spyros furrowed his brow, seemed caught up in thought. ‘I saw her on Sunday,’ he said, ‘around ten thirty in the evening. I took Agamemnon out later than usual because my mum had come to visit. I took my usual route, I was heading down this street and she walked past me pretty fast. She was in a rush. I asked her where she was off to and she said she was going down the road to Maria’s bar to meet Seraphim.’
‘Seraphim?’ A jolt like a rush of ice went down my spine. ‘Why?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know. But I saw her and I’m certain it was Sunday night.’
*
The cat followed me home like a tiny shadow, then disappeared into the darkness of the back garden. I was surprised to find the little bird sitting on the rug in the hallway near the door when I arrived. It was hopping about now. I put out some fresh water and bread and went out to sit on the balcony. I opened a cold beer and drank it quickly. Why was Nisha meeting Seraphim? And why had he not told me he had seen her? And what in God’s name would she be doing in a place like that? I knew the bar. It was the place I had met Seraphim back when he first recruited me.
I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it all, and was awake when, once again, at 5 a.m., my iPad started to ring. I got up and saw Kumari’s name flashing on the screen. It stopped and started again. Once again I could do nothing: I was frozen to the spot. But the name begged me to answer, it pounded at the darkness with desperation.
I answered.
Kumari blinked at me, shocked to see my face. ‘Where is Amma?’ she said in English, stretching her neck in an attempt to see behind me. The girl was wearing her school uniform and had a rucksack with purple straps on her shoulders.
‘I’m Yiannis,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me?’
She nodded. ‘Of course I remember you, Mr Yiannis. We have spoken so many times! You are Amma’s friend.’
‘That’s right. Is your grandmother there? Can I speak to her?’
‘She just go to shop.’
‘Your mum is at work. She left the tablet here with me. She told me to tell you that she loves you, to be good at school and that she’ll speak to you very soon.’
Kumari nodded. ‘Okay, Mr Yiannis,’ she said. ‘Thank you. You be good at work too.’ Then she smiled. There was a cheekiness to her, like her mother. It made my heart ache.
Then she was gone, and the screen was blank once more.
13
Petra
O
N SATURDAY MORNING, I DECIDED to visit the gated mansion at the end of the street. I told Aliki that Mrs Hadjikyriacou would be keeping an eye on her, but she was free to play in the garden. She nodded, without seeming too bothered, picking up a favourite book and heading out the door to the boat. She got in and started reading. I brought her out a plate of orange slices and kissed her head, then thanked Mrs Hadjikyriacou and told her I wouldn’t be gone long. She knew my errand and was happy to help.
My first stop was Yiakoumi’s shop. I had brought Nisha’s journal with me and now clutched it to my chest as I stepped into the shop. There were no customers yet this early on a Saturday, but, as I had expected, Nilmini was there cleaning, bending over wiping dust from the glass cases under the counter. Yiakoumi was nowhere to be seen.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
‘Good morning, madam,’ she said. She paused in her dusting, standing up and eyeing the journal in my hands.
‘Nilmini, will you do me a favour? Or, in fact, a favour for Nisha?’
‘Of course, madam,’ she said.
‘This is a journal that Nisha kept,’ I said, placing it on the counter. ‘Would you be able to read it and tell me if there is anything in it that might help me to find her?’
She took the journal from my hands and opened it, flicking through, glancing at the pages. ‘I will do it, madam,’ she said. ‘I will read this for you.’
I was in a hurry so I thanked her and left, and she watched me from the large window and waved as I continued down the street.
I walked past the church and caught wafts of lavender from its garden. The sun was still low in the sky in this early part of the day, and it promised to be a sunny and crisp autumn afternoon. A maid swept the path in front of the church, clearing it of leaves and cockroaches. She looked up and nodded as I passed.
There was a sculptor’s workshop further down the street: a terraced property with no front wall or door or window, just a large mouth of an entrance that was always open – there was not even a shutter which came down at night to secure the premises. The cavernous space was strewn with broken planks, rusty nails, boxes of tools and twisted tree branches scattered about like severed limbs. From time to time the owner, a middle-aged man called Muyia, appeared in there, working, but more often than not it looked like a ramshackle, abandoned garage. However, Muyia was there this morning and I could see that he was focused on a piece of wood, chipping away, shaping something that seemed to mean very much to him: his concentration was so intense, his brow was furrowed and his lips were pressed together tightly.
Hearing my footsteps, he looked up and then raised his hand in greeting. ‘Petra! How was your trip to the mountains?’ he called.
‘Mountains?’ I said, coming up to the entrance.
‘Yes, Nisha said she was going with you to the mountains. Come in, come in! Let me show you something.’
I stepped over bits of twisted wire and scrap wood. The space was deep and should have been dark but he had two bright lamps over his work station. This was the first time I’d been inside, and I realised that it wasn’t as much of a mess as I’d thought. In fact, there was a gigantic shelf that held beautiful, carved wooden sculptures. They were mostly faces of people, but also animals: a snake, an elephant, three dragonflies hovering on invisible strings. There were finely carved flowers and various birds and fish, even a globe of the Earth – all crafted intricately with minute, precious details. They were unpainted, so they retained their soft honey colour and you could see the wood’s grain. I felt as though I’d stepped into some kind of magical forest.
‘Do you like them?’ he said.
‘They are extraordinary.’
He smiled at the compliment, and said, ‘Have a look at this.’
I turned to see the piece he had just been working on. It was a Madonna and child, enormous, almost life-sized. There was a qui
et beauty to the woman, to the curve of her cheek bones and the soft sweep of her eyes and nose, her heart-shaped face. A strand of hair fell down over one eye, and a small owl perched on her shoulder. But what truly struck me was how life-like she was – not just in her fine appearance, but in her essence, her energy; her strength and practicality. It was in the soft but certain gaze of her eyes as she looked down at the child in her arms, the firm and tender touch of her fingers on the child’s thigh.
‘She is holding her child,’ he said, deeply emphasising the word her.
He looked at it now, staring at his creation, as though he had forgotten that I was there. Squinting his eyes, he ran his thumb over the wing of the owl. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘I need to fix that bit. Do you see how the angle there is too sharp, in the wing? It gives the character of the bird the wrong quality, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I wouldn’t know what quality the owl is supposed to have.’
At that point he looked at me for a moment, then creased his brow and nodded slightly, as if he had understood or remembered something. Then he said, ‘You know, we’ve never really spoken before. Imagine, all these years as neighbours and this is the first time we’ve said more than a few words to each other.’
I looked again at the statue and saw something I hadn’t noticed before: there was a deep sadness in the woman. It emanated not just from her eyes, but from everywhere, her posture, her enduring silent touch, even her stillness; it was even in the grain of the wood. And there was something else about her – she looked remarkably like Nisha.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ he said. ‘I can bring another stool for you to sit down.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid I’m out on an errand and I don’t have much time.’
Suddenly, I felt a desperate urge to leave. My mind was rattling with questions, but I wasn’t ready to ask them. Did she pose for this statue, was she his muse? How many other men in the neighbourhood did she know? I had started to become worried about what else I might discover about this stranger who had lived in my house, brought up my daughter, orchestrated our lives, made our house a home after Stephanos died. Who was this woman who I had previously seen only as a shadow of myself ? A dark and beautiful shadow, who rattled around in old sandals and with fire in her eyes.
Songbirds Page 10
