One time, she said, ‘Yiannis, come here. Kumari wants to say hello.’
‘You’ve told her about me?’ I mimed.
‘Of course,’ she said, her eyes bright and encouraging.
It was roughly a year ago, so Kumari must have been about ten at the time. She was wearing her uniform, ready for school, with a massive rucksack on her shoulders.
‘Hello, Mr Yiannis,’ she had said, smiling. Although she had darker skin and eyes than her mother, her smile and expressions were exactly the same.
‘Hello, Kumari, it’s lovely to finally meet you!’
‘Finally? Have you heard stuff about me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good stuff ?’
‘Wonderful stuff.’
‘That’s OK then.’ She scrunched up her face. ‘So you are my amma’s friend?’
‘I am.’
‘She said you feed the chickens in the garden downstairs.’
‘I guess I do.’
‘What else do you do, Mr Yiannis. Or are you just a chicken feeder?’
I laughed. ‘I’m not just a chicken feeder. I go into forests and pick wild vegetables and snails.’
‘Hmmm. What do you do with them after you pick them?’
‘I sell them.’
‘Hmmm.’ She nodded. ‘I guess that sounds all right.’
After that particular call, Nisha lay down next to me, entwining her limbs with mine. ‘I have an extra hour or so before I should leave. Hold me really tight.’
And of course, I did. It was all I wanted to do. She would set her alarm for just before 6 a.m. I would drift in and out of sleep, and sometimes I would hear her crying.
‘What is it, Nisha?’ I would whisper in the dark.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, I just remembered something.’
‘What did you remember? Tell me.’
During this time of grief for the lost child, Nisha told me three stories of loss. The first was of her sister’s death. The second of her husband’s. The third of making the devastating decision to leave Kumari in order to come here. Her sister’s death had coincided with the Vesak Poya festival of lights, on the first full moon in the month of May, when she was twelve years old and her sister, Kiyoma, had been ten. She told me about the white lanterns at night, hanging over the door of every home in the street apart from theirs. Her sister had died that morning. The year before her death, they went together to the Koggala lagoon and took a gondola to the tiny island where a Buddhist temple was located. There were hundreds of lanterns, and a thousand lights floating on the water as they glided across the lake. Her sister had called them tiny moons in a starry sky. Tiny moons that filled up the world.
The temple was covered in flowers, lights and incense; there were dancers and singers and firewalkers. Her sister’s face was lit up by all the lights as she held onto Nisha’s hand. Kiyoma was only a couple of years younger, but because of her heart condition she was small for her age and if someone didn’t know they would think she was much younger. She had been named Kiyoma, which means good mother, because her own mother, Lakshitha, wished that Kiyoma would grow up to be a wife and a mother herself. It was the greatest wish that Lakshitha had for her daughter. But Nisha imagined her sister’s heart like a tiny bird fluttering in her chest: she knew one day, before long, that it would break free of its cage and fly away. She knew because she could hear the changed rhythm of her breathing. It was so subtle, anyone else would have missed it, but Nisha could hear it because they shared a bed.
Kiyoma always wore a panchauda – a gold pendant embellished with five weapons: a bow and arrow, a sword, a disc, a trident and a conch, to ward off the evil eye. Lakshitha made sure Kiyoma never took it off and Nisha saw it glimmering in the light of the lanterns and the fires while they were on the little island visiting the temple. But when they got off the gondola on their return, the necklace had disappeared. It was Nisha who noticed. ‘Where is your pendant?’ she’d said to her sister with fearful eyes. Kiyoma had shrugged.
Later, their mother was beside herself. ‘What could this mean? Nisha, did you see her drop it? Kiyoma, did you not feel it fall? Did either of you not hear it fall?’
Lakshitha had become obsessed with Kiyoma’s heart condition. Some days she would be calmer and accept that her beautiful daughter might have less breaths to take in this life and in this world, which is really an almost impossible thing for any mother to come to terms with; other times, and most of the time, she would consult astrologers, or watch out for good or bad omens, such as who Kiyoma might have met at certain times of day, what somebody had said to her, or what they might have been carrying while they spoke to her. She bombarded poor Kiyoma with questions. Other times still, she used lotions, potions and oils on the scar that ran vertically down her youngest daughter’s chest to her navel.
Kiyoma was a perceptive girl for her age. One day, while they were walking back home from the paddy fields where their parents worked, she confided to Nisha that she had thrown the pendant into the lagoon while they were on the gondola on the night of Vesak Poya.
‘Why, why, why would you do such a thing?’ Nisha scolded.
‘Because,’ her little sister had said with candid eyes, ‘the pendant felt like a chain around my neck.’
Exactly a year later, on the morning of Vesak Poya, just before light filled the sky, Kiyoma drew her last breath and her heart flew away out of the window. Nisha was fast asleep, but she dreamt of a bird with golden feathers as soft as waves that hovered over her for a while, and then flew out of the open window.
She woke up immediately and turned in the half-darkness to face her sister. She noticed that her chest was not rising gently, that her eyes were not moving inside her dreams. She leaned over her, placing her ear close to her mouth and nose. And that’s when she heard and felt something that was, up to that point in time, completely unknown to her. The stillness and soundlessness of death.
Kiyoma’s body was kept at the house for a few days in an open casket. Monks came to chant prayers and eulogise about the impermanence of life. Her body was placed facing west, and their mother stayed in the room with her day and night, to prevent evil spirits from taking up residence in the house. Pictures had been turned around on the walls, or placed facing down on tabletops; family and friends came to the house with offerings of white and yellow flowers.
Lakshitha did everything she could to ensure that Kiyoma’s transition to the next life was assured. She offered the monks white cloth to be stitched into monastic robes. Then relatives and friends poured water from a vessel into an overflowing cup while reciting prayers.
Nisha listened to the prayers and watched the water over-flowing – how it momentarily caught the light like crystals and seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world. And she understood for the first time that everything – everything – must come to an end.
17
Petra
T
HAT SUNDAY I GOT READY to go to Limassol. I had arranged to meet Mr Tony at the Blue Tiger at 3 p.m. and I had about an hour’s drive ahead of me. After lunch, I took Aliki over to Mrs Hadjikyriacou, who was sitting outside with the cats. It was a rather last-minute plan, but when I had asked her the previous afternoon, she seemed excited at the prospect of spending more time with Aliki. ‘She’s a funny little girl. Watch her!’ she said, beaming from ear to ear, so that her paper-like skin had creased a thousand times.
Aliki took her time to decide which shoes she was going to wear. Eventually, she settled on one grey denim and one bright blue with a flower pattern. Finally, she picked up another odd pair: one with red cat paws and the other bright red.
‘You’re taking a spare pair of shoes?’ I asked.
‘No.’
When we got to Mrs Hadjikyriacou’s, Aliki placed the shoes on the floor beside her and the old woman looked down at them.
‘They’re for you,’ Aliki said.
‘For me?’
‘They’re a present. And, pl
us, I don’t like your old-lady shoes. They won’t do.’
Mrs Hadjikyriacou laughed out loud.
‘Last time we learnt that we’re the same shoe size,’ the old lady said to me. Then to Aliki: ‘Well, I must say, they are a perfect odd choice!’ Then she called Ruba to come and help her change into her new shoes.
Ruba came out holding a tea-towel. She greeted us warmly before kneeling down by Mrs Hadjikyriacou’s feet, pulling off her old-lady shoes and putting on the Converse sneakers.
The shoes were quite remarkable beneath her calf-length black skirt and against her dead-white skin. She leaned over herself with great effort and looked down at her feet, clicking her heels. Aliki laughed. The cats ran off on some urgent business. At this, I quietly took my leave, hearing Aliki’s laughter rippling behind me.
It was a bright and beautiful day. I rolled down the windows of my Range Rover as I drove southwest to Limassol. It was a bit chilly, but I welcomed the fresh breeze that came down from the mountains, which was soon replaced with a breeze from the sea, drifting in with the sound of the birds. Everything seemed to melt as I neared the water. The salty air, the way it enveloped me, wrapped me up in a time long gone. All the water on Earth once arrived on asteroids and comets. Yes, that is what my father told me. He was a fisherman. He had a library of books in the cellar – where he also kept potatoes – and this was where he got all his information. During the war, the library was taken from him, but until the day he died, he could recall the title and author of every book. In the car, with the windows down and the sea opening up and glistening before me, I could almost hear my father’s voice: Since it came to Earth, the water has been cycling through air, rocks, animals and plants. Each molecule has been on an incredible journey. When you feel alone, try to remember that at some point the water inside you would have been inside dinosaurs, or the ocean, or a polar ice-cap, or maybe a storm cloud over a faraway sea at a time when that sea was still nameless. Water crosses millennia and boundaries and borders.
For years, I’d forgotten my father’s words, and they came back to me now. Remember we all have something in common, and that is the water that runs through us.
*
The Blue Tiger was not too far from the beach, just off one of the side streets that leads down to the sea. It was a dilapidated, double-fronted building, with colourful murals on its walls, mostly of sports scenarios: football players in a packed stadium, basketball players crouched on a court. Above these, on the concrete wall and continuing onto the concrete canopy, were painted vines, large and winding, with thick stems and giant leaves that climbed up to a bright blue sky. On the far left – just above a barred window and two air-conditioning units – looking out through the leaves, was a blue tiger with striking yellow eyes.
I looked at the time on my phone: 14.46.
Below the tiger was a sign that read:
DWA
DOMESTIC WORKERS ASSOCIATION OF CYPRUS LIMASSOL
REGISTERED OFFICES
Beside the double doors of the entrance was a blackboard pavement sign, with a menu: BURGERS, HOT DOGS, SUPER DOGS, CHILLI CON CARNE.
Two men stood beside it, leaning on a motorbike, smoking. ‘You are lost?’ one of them asked, in a heavy, unfamiliar accent.
‘I’m looking for Mr Tony,’ I said, my voice croaky as if I had just woken up. ‘I have an appointment.’
‘You are not lost,’ he said, smiling, ‘He is inside the office. On the right.’
I could hear music coming from the depths of the place, and smell spices. I thanked the man and stepped through the open doors. I still didn’t know what I was doing there or how this Mr Tony could help me, but by that point I was grateful to speak to anyone who might be able to offer a glimmer of hope.
In an open kitchen on the left, women were cooking in large pans and woks; other women were scattered about, sitting at tables drinking hot tea or eating steaming dump-lings that they dipped into a bright orange sauce. Most of the people were domestic workers from Nepal or the Philippines, Sri Lanka or Vietnam. A local man sat on his own, noticeable due to his bald head, white stubble and gleaming eyes – leering at the girls as they passed with trays of tea. He looked like he was about to drool. He glanced at me, smiling, and I turned away, disgusted. At the back of the kitchen was a set of doors that opened up to a large hall and stage. This was where the music was coming from. People were dancing there, men and women, beneath a canopy of multi-coloured flags.
I spotted what must have been Mr Tony’s office: a rectangular glass booth on the far right of the dining area. A large man with broad shoulders and white hair sat behind a desk, a fan spinning above him blowing his hair while he spoke on the phone, a conversation that was clearly making him agitated. He hung up. I waited a minute, then approached the booth and knocked on the door.
‘Enter!’ he called.
He was sitting on a swivel chair in front of a computer. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. I went to close the door behind me.
‘Leave the door open. We need some air in here.’
‘Mr Tony?’
‘Tony is fine.’
‘I’m Petra.’ I held out my hand.
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He wiped his hand on his trousers and shook mine; his grip was warm and sweaty. ‘Take a seat.’ He pointed at a plastic chair in the corner of the booth.
The entire place was awash in laughter and music and spices, and it all swirled around the little booth as it seeped in through the open door.
‘What you have here is amazing,’ I said. ‘You run this organisation yourself ?’
He nodded, smiled and said, ‘Don’t get me wrong – these Asians are ungrateful people.’ But then his smile faded, and he glanced down at the ground.
‘Really? So why do you help them?’
‘I was married to one. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all.’
Taking a cigarette out of a box, he lit it with a large match, shaking out the flame and chucking it into a crystal ashtray that sat on a notebook.
‘And plus, I found a lot of injustice around.’
At that moment the phone rang; he looked down at the flashing screen on his desk and sighed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and picked it up. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Kaligori, can I call you back in about—’
‘No.’ The voice on the other end interrupted. ‘She’s no good for me, Tony. She doesn’t even speak any English.’ The woman said a lot more but I turned my attention to outside the booth, where a beautiful young woman in a green and gold sari was passing by holding a bowl of steaming noodles. Beyond her, I saw the women in the kitchen still sweating and chopping, emptying the contents of their woks into large blue dishes.
‘No problem, we’ll sort this out,’ Tony said loudly. ‘I have someone here. Let me call you back in around thirty minutes.’
The woman seemed to acquiesce, although her voice was much quieter now and it was hard to hear.
‘I don’t work like the agents,’ he said to me, when he had hung up. ‘The employers come to me directly. They can try out the women, and if they don’t like them they send them back. Like Mrs Kaligori. You’re not getting some person from Nepal that you are tied to blindfolded. These people’ – he waved his hand around him – ‘need someone to help them. To the agents they are merchandise, not people.’
‘So, the women aren’t indebted to you?’
‘No! That is the whole point. The agents are furious.’
I nodded and watched him as he sucked deeply on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes at a streak of light from the sliding doors at the front. I noticed on his desk, propped up on some paperwork, a tiny grainy photo of a woman in a bronze frame. He followed my gaze.
‘Your wife?’
‘Ex-wife. Vietnamese.’
It seemed to me that he was about to say more about this as he opened his mouth, but then he pursed his lips and took a long, hard drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke in a straight line towards the fan.
‘So, you’re looking for a girl?’ he said.
‘Not exactly,’ I said.
‘On the phone you said you wanted to see me about an urgent matter. In my experience most urgent matters come from women who are looking for a new maid because they are dissatisfied with the one they have.’
‘I see.’
‘So how may I be of assistance?’ he asked, grinning even more broadly now. He was like a gambling saint – there was a disparity, a weird dissonance about this man.
‘Well,’ I hesitated, and he nodded, urging me on patiently and impatiently. ‘I had a maid, and she has disappeared. She just vanished one day. I was told that you might be able to help.’ I could hear my voice crack. Saying it out loud to a stranger, and a strange stranger at that, made it so much worse.
‘Vanished?’
I nodded.
‘When?’
‘Two Sundays ago.’
‘And you’ve been to the police.’
There was no question mark to this question. I told him I had.
‘How did that go?’
‘It was a useless waste of my time. They told me she must have run away to the north. I know she hasn’t.’
He hastily grabbed the notebook that the ashtray was sitting on and leafed through it. Without looking at me he said, ‘What is her name?’
‘Nisha Jayakody.’
‘Where do you live?’
I told him and he continued to search his notebook, his finger running along the pages. He took another deep drag of the cigarette and I watched him as the fan swirled the smoke around him, as his eyes skimmed over the words, as he turned the pages, flicking forwards and back again, as he placed the cigarette in the ashtray and ran his hand through his hair. I’m not sure what he was searching for but then he grabbed a pen and jotted something down.
‘In the last month,’ he said finally, ‘two other maids have been reported missing to me.’ He stressed the last two words and looked up with a deep frown, his eyebrows raised at the edges.
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