Songbirds(32)

‘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 quiet 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?’