Songbirds(28)

A man arrives, by foot. He lights up the path with the light of his phone. He has walked for miles along the bank of the river. The artificial light has a metallic quality. He has nothing else on him, no bag, no wallet, just the phone that he holds like a torch in his hand. The light drifts over the hare – he winces – then he directs the light over the lake and it catches the flight of the bat. He walks a few yards until he reaches the gallows frame, his heavy army boots leaving prints in the forgiving soil.





12

Yiannis

I

COULDN’T GO UPSTAIRS. I WAS restless.

‘Darrling,’ a voice said in English to my left. I turned and saw Mrs Hadjikyriacou on her deckchair, a thick throw over her shoulders. Then she reverted back to her native tongue, a concerned look on her face: ‘My love, you look heartbroken.’

I said nothing at all.

‘How about some baklava?’ On a small table beside her, she had an assortment of miniature cakes, as if she was expecting visitors.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Hadjikyriacou. I think I’m going to go for a walk. It’s a nice evening, if a bit chilly.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m numb to the cold. I have felt nothing, not heat, nor cold, since the war. It’s Ruba – she insists on putting this stupid blanket on me. She says I’ll catch my death. I tell her I’ve already caught him, many times before. And I’m stronger than him.’

I nodded. I was sure she was right.

‘And I’ve said to you before, call me Julia. Mrs Hadjikyriacou makes me sound old.’ This almost made me laugh, because she looked as though she’d fought her way out of the grave.

She reached over and selected two small portions of baklava, then gingerly folded them in a tissue and pressed them into my hand. She insisted that I looked malnourished and hungry – but then again, every person without a huge gut looked hungry to Mrs Hadjikyriacou.

Thanking her, I took her carefully wrapped parcel and walked past Theo’s, where outdoor heaters had been lit and smoke rose from the ovens. Some of the men waved at me and I raised my hand and tried to smile. I continued on down the road, nearing the Green Line, where cats darted from one end of the street to the other, jumping over the dividing fence into the buffer zone. Everything seemed so surreal, like the world was ticking away without me. The only thing that seemed true was the moon.

A cat was trying to get my attention, chirping, weaving through my legs as I walked. The black cat that often hung around with Aliki and Nisha.

I thought about Nisha’s passport – the fact that she hadn’t taken it with her clearly meant that she had not gone back to Sri Lanka, as I had suspected. This made me feel relief and anxiety at the same time. If she hadn’t gone home, then where was she? Why had she not informed anybody? I thought about the locket her late husband had given her and the lock of Kumari’s hair. She would absolutely never leave without those two items. Even when she had gone away for those two days, she had taken them with her, neatly tucked into her wallet.

The cat yowled at me now and, when I paused, sprawled itself expectantly on the ground in front of me, paws up, stomach exposed.

I leaned down and stroked it, felt the vibration of its deep, contented purrs. I sat down on the ground, cross-legged, and continued to pet the cat. It seemed to have decided that this was what we both needed to do right then. The street was dark, deserted, with no lights on in any of the houses: most of them probably abandoned this far down the street, near the buffer zone. A new moon hung in the sky, still tinged with red.

I thought about Nisha’s orange linen dress and the weekend she had left to stay with her cousin Chaturi in Limassol. The story wasn’t as simple as Petra thought.

It began one Sunday in August. Petra had left Nicosia to spend the day with Aliki at Makronisos beach in the east. They’d left early in the morning, as it was a two-hour drive, packing deckchairs, towels and sun hats into the boot of the car. Petra had informed Nisha that they would be gone all afternoon, and would likely have supper in Ayia Napa with a friend. So Nisha and I had the whole day and evening to laze about together. It had been too hot to go anywhere except the sea, and Nisha hated the sea, so we had decided to stay in the cool darkness of the bedroom, with the balcony doors wide open. I will never forget that day. There was hardly a breeze: not even a leaf stirred on the trees. The sound of the cicadas and the smell of jasmine filled the room. Whenever the wind blew, it was hot and brought no relief.

Before noon, Nisha spent some time talking to Kumari on my tablet. She sat at the desk while I lay on the bed, listening to them speaking in Sinhalese, their voices sometimes joyful, sometimes serious, a few words in English. Though I couldn’t understand their conversation, I knew Nisha well enough to pick up on the fact that she was distracted. I went to the kitchen and made us both some frappe, with lots of ice cubes and extra milk and sugar for Nisha, just as she liked. I handed it to her as she finished the call; she took one small sip and left it on the side of the desk, then she sat staring out of the open doors, hardly saying a word. We made lunch together, eating hoppers – Sri Lankan pancakes. She stirred the mixture and said a few things like, ‘Pass the rice flour’ or ‘Splash some coconut milk into it now.’ I added a ladle of batter to the wok and swirled it around, then she cracked an egg into the bowl-shaped pancake and began to make the garnish of onions, chillies and lemon juice while I fried the rest. ‘Don’t you think that one’s ready?’ she said, when I’d left the pancake in the wok too long, because I too had become distracted, wondering what was wrong with her. I knew she didn’t like to be asked, so I waited.