Songbirds(33)

‘I wouldn’t know what quality the owl is supposed to have.’

At that point he looked at me for a moment, then creased his brow and nodded slightly, as if he had understood or remembered something. Then he said, ‘You know, we’ve never really spoken before. Imagine, all these years as neighbours and this is the first time we’ve said more than a few words to each other.’

I looked again at the statue and saw something I hadn’t noticed before: there was a deep sadness in the woman. It emanated not just from her eyes, but from everywhere, her posture, her enduring silent touch, even her stillness; it was even in the grain of the wood. And there was something else about her – she looked remarkably like Nisha.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he said. ‘I can bring another stool for you to sit down.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid I’m out on an errand and I don’t have much time.’

Suddenly, I felt a desperate urge to leave. My mind was rattling with questions, but I wasn’t ready to ask them. Did she pose for this statue, was she his muse? How many other men in the neighbourhood did she know? I had started to become worried about what else I might discover about this stranger who had lived in my house, brought up my daughter, orchestrated our lives, made our house a home after Stephanos died. Who was this woman who I had previously seen only as a shadow of myself ? A dark and beautiful shadow, who rattled around in old sandals and with fire in her eyes.

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.