Songbirds(26)

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room: it was the first time he’d been inside, and he glanced left and right at the furniture, the photographs on the console table, the dining table. He looked over to the kitchen, where Nisha had spent so much of her time, scrubbing and cooking. It was strange, though – he looked around like he knew the place.

Now, in the light, I could see clearly the desperation that I had sensed in the darkness; it was mainly in the deep crease of his brow and the restlessness of his eyes. We stood there for a moment, neither of us speaking. He was a good-looking man: very dark eyes with thick lashes, and a soft beard that was neatly trimmed, partly black, partly grey. It was strange to have him standing in my living room. We hardly ever spoke, apart from short pleasantries in the garden about the chicken pen or the weather or how the tomatoes and prickly pears were doing.

I wanted to understand his connection to Nisha. I had seen them talking many times in the garden; I had seen the looks they gave each other, of course I had – a touch of the hand, low whispers in the evening . . . but, if there had been something going on between them, I may have needed to dismiss Nisha, even though I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Nobody allowed their maids to have sexual or romantic relationships – it was almost unheard of, apart from those maids who ended up marrying their employers.

I couldn’t help glancing down at the mud on his shoes, wondering where he’d been. I suddenly realised I should have told him to take them off at the door – It’s not as though Nisha’s here to keep the floors clean. And that thought alone made me suddenly feel so alone, the house so empty without her.

I offered him a drink and he thanked me and asked for alcohol. ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘Something strong.’

I went to the kitchen and poured us both some zivania.

When I came back, Yiannis had taken off his shoes and was standing by the console table in his socks, looking at the photographs. He must’ve seen me looking at his feet.

‘I’m sorry that I came in with such muddy shoes,’ he said. ‘I was out collecting snails. I’ve had so much on my mind that I’m finding it hard to think.’ Before I could respond, he said. ‘Is that your husband?’ signalling with his eyes Stephanos in his military gear.

‘It is.’

He nodded. ‘Your daughter looks like him.’

I noticed now that his shoes were lined up neatly by the door.

I put the drinks down on the coffee table and lit the fire. He joined me, perching, uncomfortably, on the edge of the L-shaped sofa. He took a long gulp of zivania and for a second it made his jaw clench and his eyes shine. This wasn’t a man who was used to drinking spirits.

I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to speak, but I didn’t know what to say anyway. I could have started talking about Nisha, telling him what had been going on this week, but apart from being my tenant, this man was more or less a stranger.

He took another big gulp from his glass and this time scrunched up his eyes. Then he ran his finger over the rim of the glass, again lost in thought.

Eventually I said, ‘So, you’re worried about Nisha? Do you know her well?’ This made him put the glass on the table and rub his eyes with his hands, as if I had just woken him up. He nodded and picked up the glass again.

He was nervous, I could see that, and he opened his mouth a few times to say something, but at first no voice came out. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ he eventually asked.

‘Last Sunday evening,’ I said, cautiously. ‘I woke up in the morning on Monday, and she was gone.’

This seemed to worry him even more and he stood up and paced up and down in front of the fire, his feet padding softly on the rug, so that his faint moving shadow drifted over the furniture. I thought how absurd it was that this man was in my living room all of a sudden, in his socks.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ I said.

‘Do you think she went home?’

‘No.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

I thought for a few moments, while he stared at me with wide eyes, waiting for an answer. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to share my confusion and concern, that I went into Nisha’s bedroom and came back with her belongings, those I had taken to the police station. I didn’t bring the gold ring. I placed them all on the coffee table without saying a word.

He sat down again and looked at the items. He opened the passport and stared at her picture for a long time. Then he picked up the locket, as if he’d seen it before, and wrapped his hand around it. As for the lock of hair in the plastic bag – he pressed it between his palms, so tight, that I could see blue veins bulging in the backs of his hands.

‘So she hasn’t gone home.’ He said this more to himself than to me. His voice had changed: it rang out clear, filling the quiet room, hovering over us for a while, much like the sound of a gong that reverberates before vanishing into silence.

‘Have you been to the police?’

‘Yes, I went on Wednesday.’

‘What did they say?’

I paused, considering whether to tell him the whole unpleasant story. ‘They were no help. They have no interest in searching for her. They said she’s probably run away to the north to find other work.’

‘Nisha would never do that,’ he said. And suddenly I understood clearly – it was the way her name rolled off his tongue, as if he’d said it a thousand times before – that he knew her. He loved her.