Songbirds

by Christy Lefteri

  It struck me now that it was I who had been her shadow.

  I quickly took leave of Muyia, stuttering my apologies and promising to come back for a coffee another time. I did want to speak to him more, but I had to sort out my questions. And anyway, I’d already been delayed and didn’t want to leave Aliki with Mrs Hadjikyriacou all morning.

  I hustled along the street, to the gated mansion, a colossal neoclassical building with balconies flowering at every window. I pressed the buzzer and looked into the intercom. After a moment there was a crackly voice: ‘Madam, come in!’ followed by a loud click. The gate creaked open.

  I’d visited Mr and Mrs Kostas’ mansion once before when they’d thrown a New Year’s party. All the neighbours – well, the ones they deemed worthy – had been invited, and I had made the cut. I supposed it was because I mixed with the rich and famous in my work; perhaps they thought I would have some good stories. This oversized house was their retirement home: they’d repatriated from the UK, where Mr Kostas had owned a chain of insurance firms in London.

  I walked along a path, through the meticulously kept orchard: on one side were shoe-fig trees, cacti and apple and pear trees; on the other, lemon, cherry and apricot trees, grape-vines and tomato plants. Winter was approaching so the trees were losing their leaves, but I knew in just a few months tiny buds would appear on the branches and in a few weeks after that this whole place would smell like a perfumerie.

  Halfway down the path I hesitated, expecting someone to come out to greet me.

  ‘Madam, come in!’ a voice called, and I followed the path around the house to the back garden, where there was an open lawn and a large metallic cage that held two sand-coloured hunting dogs. They were lean and muscular, and should have looked fierce, but their eyes were docile and calm. Inside the cage, one of the maids was bent over, cleaning the dog’s backside.

  ‘Madam,’ she said, standing up, holding her gloved hands behind her back, ‘Binsa . . . she opened for you. She is inside. Please go inside.’ She pointed at the door beneath the terrace. ‘I have to clean the dog, he has a bad stomach today.’ While she spoke, the dog remained with its hind end up in the air, its front paws stretched in front, obediently waiting for her to continue.

  I thanked her and walked up a couple of steps to the patio, where a glass door was open and smells of cooking wafted out.

  ‘Madam, this way!’

  Binsa was in the kitchen, deep-frying. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I couldn’t come to the door. I am making keftedes for sir and madam. You know, you can’t leave these things in the oil. It is no good for them. And how is Nisha, madam? She hasn’t come to the gate to talk for a long time. We miss her. I called her phone but nothing. You know that madam doesn’t let us go out, so I couldn’t come to see her. I hope she is OK, madam?’ She flicked her eyes towards me now, but swiftly returned her attention to the oil and the fire.

  ‘Where are sir and madam?’ I said.

  ‘They’re out shopping today, madam. If you come back in one hour, they will be here.’

  ‘Actually, Binsa, it was you I wanted to speak to.’

  She looked up from her work again for a moment, furrowed her brow, then quickly said, ‘OK, madam. I will take out this lot, three minutes, and talk to you before I do others. Can you wait a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course, Binsa,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’

  On the counter by her side there was a large platter full of raw meatballs dusted with flour, ready for the oil. Nisha had spoken to me many times about Binsa and Soneeya from Nepal. Both in their twenties, about ten years younger than Nisha, their journey to Cyprus was the first time either of them had been away from their families. Before making the decision to migrate, Binsa had been a young radio host at her local radio station, and Soneeya had been a nursery nurse, I think. Their English wasn’t as good as Nisha’s, because Nisha had learnt it back in Sri Lanka when she was a little girl. But Binsa and Soneeya had been here for two years and were already speaking quite well. Apparently, Mrs Kostas gave them classes in the evenings. Nisha had told me how they were not allowed out of the grounds because the Kostases were worried that they would be led astray.

  Soon Soneeya came in, taking off her blue rubber gloves, chucking them in the bin and washing her hands thoroughly with plenty of soap. Before long, I was sitting in the living room with a cup of tea in my hand, the two women looking at me intently.

  ‘I’m worried about Nisha,’ I said.

  At this, Soneeya nudged Binsa hard in the thigh with her fist and scrunched up her lips, saying something in Nepali. Then Soneeya got up and left the room, returning with something shiny in her hand. She offered it to me. It was a bracelet, a silver bangle with a single evil-eye charm. I held my breath and picked it up, turning it around in my hand. And there it was. The inscription of Aliki’s name, engraved on the inner side of the bracelet. We had given this bracelet to Nisha for her birthday a few years earlier. She wore it every day. The clasp was broken now.

  I looked up at Soneeya and Binsa. ‘How do you have this?’ I asked, my breath quickening, panic blooming in my chest.

  ‘I told Binsa many times this week to ask madam to give us your phone number so we could call you, madam. We tried Nisha’s mobile and there was no answer. I didn’t ask madam because Binsa is her best maid. I am number two here. Binsa needed to ask her.’

  ‘Soneeya found it, madam,’ Binsa quickly broke in. ‘She was walking the dogs, to the end of the street by Maria’s. There is an old house there. No one lives there. Soneeya sometimes lets the dogs go do their business in that yard,’ she said, shooting Soneeya a reproving look. ‘And she saw something shiny by the front door. It was Nisha’s bracelet. We became worried.’

  ‘Very worried,’ agreed Soneeya.

  ‘And then Nisha didn’t answer her phone,’ Binsa said, ‘and we thought that maybe Nisha went to see her cousin, maybe she went away again. It is none of our business. This is what I said to Soneeya.’

  I put the tea-cup on the coffee table. ‘The thing is,’ I said, cautiously, ‘I have no idea where Nisha is. She has simply disappeared. She left her passport and other important items. I can’t get through to her on her phone, either. Her friend Yiannis has not seen her, but several neighbours say they saw her going out on Sunday evening.’

  I waited as the women looked at each other and chatted, quickly, passionately, in Nepali. Soneeya’s voice rose now and then with alarm, whereas Binsa sounded calmer.

  ‘Madam,’ Binsa said suddenly, ‘have you been to the police station?’

  I explained to them that I had, but the police would not help; leaving out, of course, what Officer Kyprianou had said about foreign workers.

  ‘I came to you,’ I said, ‘because I was hoping you might know something about where she went.’

  They both shook their head.

  ‘Did she ever mention leaving me? Maybe going over to the north to find other work?’

  ‘Never!’ said Soneeya, quickly. ‘Madam, Nisha would never even think of doing this. That is not Nisha.’

  I nodded. I knew of course that she was right.

  ‘Do you know anything about Yiannis?’

  The girls started speaking in Nepali again, whispering, as if there was a chance I might understand them. They were clearly in disagreement, but after some time, Soneeya turned to me.

  ‘Madam, Binsa is unsure about speaking to you but I think you care about Nisha. I would like to say this to you because Yiannis maybe knows something that you don’t know.’

  I sat up straighter at this point and I think Binsa noticed, as she looked concerned. She mumbled a few words under her breath and Soneeya shushed her.

  ‘This man, Yiannis, he loves Nisha so much. He loves her, madam. I don’t know how to say this to you. He loves her from here to the moon.’ She made a huge gesture with her hands at this point, opening them wide.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Does she love him, too?’ It seemed like a reasonable question to ask.
/>
  ‘Yes, madam,’ said Soneeya. ‘If anybody knows a thing about where Nisha is, he will know. She tells him all her secrets, everything.’

  I nodded, a knot forming in my stomach, like a stone. It was clear from how anxious Yiannis had been last night that he did not know a thing.

  ‘Madam,’ said Binsa now, interrupting my thoughts, ‘do not tell Nisha we told you this information. She will be unhappy with us. She loves her job too, madam, she never wants to lose this job with you. She worries that you will not like her being with Yiannis.’

  ‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I won’t say a thing.’

  At that point the sound of a buzzer rang through the room.

  ‘Ah!’ Binsa exclaimed, jumping up and heading to the large front window. From her apron pocket she retrieved a gate remote and clicked it a few times.

  ‘Sir and madam are here!’ Soneeya said, beginning to gather up our tea-cups.

  I heard the creak of metal gates and the soft sound of an engine, followed by the thump of car doors. Quickly, I riffled through my purse, found an old receipt and wrote my phone number on it. ‘Soneeya’ – I pressed the paper into her hand – ‘please call me if you think of anything else. Anything at all.’

  Soneeya nodded and tucked the receipt into her pocket, spiriting the tea tray off into the kitchen.

  Binsa opened the front door and Mr and Mrs Kostas came in. They were both wearing soft cashmere jumpers, with jeans and tennis shoes. Mrs Kostas lifted her gold-framed Armani glasses (I recognised them; I’d sold them to her), pushing them up into her hair.

  ‘Petra!’ she said, ‘how nice to see you. What brings you here?’ Before I could reply she turned to Soneeya. ‘Soneeya, the shopping’s in the car. Go.’

  Soneeya nodded and said, ‘Yes, madam, I’ll go now.’ She rushed out to help Binsa, who was already bringing in bags from the car and placing them in the hallway.

  Mr Kostas, with a mop of thick brown hair, greeted me and excused himself to make a phone call. Binsa now returned to the kitchen, working quickly to finish the meatballs she had left during our chat, clearly trying to make up for lost time. Mrs Kostas placed her keys in a large bowl in the middle of a round marble table and hung her bag on a coat stand by the door, then turned to speak to me.

  ‘Petra, have you been well? I haven’t seen you for so long. Did my girls take care of you? I do hope so. They are improving. I’ve been teaching them, but I tell you, I’m thinking of separating them, sending one to work elsewhere. They distract each other too much when they’re together and, realistically, do I really need two maids?’ She paused in front of me now and lowered her glasses onto her nose again. It was clear that she’d had some work done on her forehead and her lips.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I guess it depends how much needs to be done.’

  ‘I’m inundated with work from the charity events I organise. And this is such a big house.’ She laughed and sighed and shook her head, as if there was always way too much work to even mention, and then she offered me a seat in the living room with a wrinkled hand that was tipped with long, red, coffin-shaped nails.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, ‘but I really must be going.’

  But I’ve only just come through the door!’

  ‘Actually, I came to speak to Binsa and Soneeya.’

  ‘Oh?’ She eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘The thing is that Nisha, my maid, my . . . girl, has . . . well, how shall I put this? She has been gone for several days and I wanted to see if Soneeya and Binsa have heard from her or if they know anything.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, glancing over to the kitchen, where her maids were working. ‘I doubt they know anything, as they really don’t have many friends and acquaintances. I make sure of that.’

  Soneeya came out of the kitchen holding a tray with a tea-pot and two cups with saucers.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink? I could get Soneeya to bring an extra cup, there’s always plenty in the pot. Soneeya! What did I tell you? We drink our tea with milk in this house! Go and bring some. Pour a little into the small jug. Goodness, I’ve told her so many times. These girls have the attention spans of fleas.’ She sighed, then continued. ‘Petra, dear, don’t look so worried! Don’t overly concern yourself. If Nisha has gone, she’s gone. They do that sometimes, you know? These women can drift around the world without a second thought. Oh, how I wish I had that luxury!’ Her face creased into a grimace, but her forehead remained smooth as stone.

  ‘Well . . .’ I began.

  ‘Well,’ she said, in a pronounced whisper, ‘no more distractions for Soneeya and Binsa, hmm?’ With that, she stepped towards the front door, signalling that our chat was over, and waved at me as I weaved back through the orchard to the gate, which was now creaking open. ‘Come again for a coffee!’ she called. ‘Call me soon!’

  In the late afternoon light, the sunset and the lake are one. Beautiful streaks of pink and red wash through the sky, which is luminous and silky. The hare is no longer distinct. Its skin has ruptured further and is almost completely decayed. Fly eggs have hatched into maggots in its eye and in the expanding wound around its neck, while the larvae in the mouth have grown, feeding on flesh. The same kind of larvae have also filled the rotten hole in the abdomen; feeding and feeding, converting the tissue of the hare into their own. The hare is slowly disappearing. But its hind legs still look strong and its ears still look as though they are blowing in the breeze; its fur is still the warm colour of the earth.

  The rusty metal of the gallows frame looks ochre, bathed in the pink light. On clear and quiet afternoons such as this, the locals believe they can hear the ghosts of the men underground working, endlessly working until they die. Their effort is lost now but it was also lost then – not to their families, no doubt, but to the rest of the world. On they worked, like ants, while copper blazed in the light of the upper world.

  If you listen carefully, apparently, you can still hear them calling to one another beneath the soil.

  14

  Yiannis

  W

  HY WOULD NISHA HAVE GONE to the bar to meet Seraphim? I had been stuck on this since Friday night. All day Saturday, packing up the birds and preparing for deliveries, ticking off the orders against the containers, making sure all the inventory was properly distributed, I thought about it. I wanted to call him and confront him, but he had gone away for a couple of nights so I decided to wait. I’d be meeting him for a hunt in a few days and I would rather speak to him face to face, see his expression as well as hear his voice.

  On Sunday, I set out on deliveries. They would take me all day, and most were usual customers, so I could drive the route practically without thinking. While part of my mind steered my truck down the narrow streets, navigating intersections and traffic, another part of my mind travelled the past.

  I thought about the night Nisha came to my apartment, after her visit to Chaturi. It had been the middle of August and extremely hot. When she told me she could not terminate the pregnancy, I had gone out the next day to buy her a ring. I visited the jewellers on Ledra Street and bought a simple gold ring with a blossom-cut diamond. I was not simply going to propose, but suggest that we leave Cyprus together, and move to Sri Lanka. In my mind, this would solve two problems: the first, that Nisha would finally be with Kumari; the second, that I could stop the poaching without having to face the consequences. I reasoned that it wouldn’t be too difficult for me to find a job in Sri Lanka, particularly with my background in finance and my experience working with foreign markets. I am fluent in both English and Greek.

  While this may sound well thought out, it was impulsive. It is my nature, and it’s what made me good at banking. But the truth is, I was following my heart and not my head and therefore failed to recognise the challenges to my plan. Like how Nisha would feel being completely reliant on me financially. Like whether we would have enough money to settle Nisha’s debts to her hiring agency in Cyprus, or did I think we could j
ust run out of town and leave them unsettled? Like whether Nisha would want to leave Petra and Aliki – as much as she wanted to return to her own daughter, would it be so easy for her to leave behind the Cypriot girl she had raised? All of these thoughts, these contingencies, I tucked away somewhere, refusing to derail my dream of a free life with the woman I loved.

  The weekend after her return from Chaturi, I went to the supermarket to buy the ingredients for Nisha’s favourite vegetable rice and curry. I had some kakulu rice at home, plus basics such as coconut and turmeric, and some chillies that Nisha had grown and dried in the garden. I bought pineapple, sweet potatoes, aubergines. It was a simple meal, but one that I knew reminded Nisha of home.

  That Sunday, she sat on a kitchen chair while I made lunch. Aliki and Petra had gone to the beach again and wouldn’t be back until very late, so Nisha had the whole day and night off. I didn’t want her to lift a finger: she was constantly working, hardly ever taking a break for herself. She had her bare feet up on the chair, arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees. She was wearing a pale blue summer dress, a pass-me-down from Petra. One of the straps had fallen off her shoulder, which was smooth and golden-brown. The chalky blue contrasted with her skin so much that it almost glowed. She was beautiful. Nisha was always beautiful, in every single way.

  I was dicing the pineapple when she said, ‘I’d recognise you if you were a lion.’

  ‘What?’ She often came out with bizarre things, but this was odd even for her.

  ‘If in another life you were a lion, I think I would recognise you and still love you.’

  ‘What if I were a snake?’

  ‘Still, I’d know it was you.’

  ‘A jellyfish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cockroach?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Is this assuming we are both lions or both cockroaches?’