Songbirds(39)

‘Ah, Petra,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’ And then she seemed to remember that she was holding the photograph, and she looked down at it and ran her white fingers over the glass.

‘He was so handsome, wasn’t he?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘And such a kind heart. He would always bring me BBQ when he made it. And do you remember that time he came to pick me up from the airport? It was a Sunday and his only day off, but he came.’

‘I do remember.’

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you don’t want these things darkening your heart right now. I always feel lonelier at night, don’t you?’

I nodded again.

‘You’re lucky you have Aliki. She’s a little genius, that girl. She tells some good stories too. She told me a story from The Mahadenamutta and his Pupils. Fascinating and hilarious!’ She handed me the photograph and slowly got up.

I thanked her for helping me out, for watching Aliki and for staying so late.

‘It’s my pleasure, my love,’ she said, and went home, where I suspect Ruba was waiting up for her.

I found Aliki sleeping on Nisha’s bed with Monkey. In her arms she held the little Buddha that Nisha kept on her bedside cabinet. I didn’t wake her; I put a throw over her and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t stir. The cat gave me a dirty look for disturbing it and went straight back to sleep.

I considered Nisha’s room. It was so austere, with only the barest of essentials. She had hung a few pictures on the wall, but after living here for nearly ten years, it still felt temporary. My eyes fell on Nisha’s dressing table, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t searched the drawers there; I had just searched the desk, the most obvious place.

Aliki was sleeping comfortably and, quietly, so as not to wake her, I pulled out the dresser drawers one by one. In one, I found Nisha’s underwear – cotton, white and cream-coloured knickers – all neatly folded. How strange it was to find her undergarments, to be rummaging through another woman’s most intimate things.

In the third drawer, underneath a pile of neatly folded T-shirts, I found a photo album. Its cover was soft blue leather, the colour of the sea. The first photographs were from Nisha’s wedding day. She was so much younger, her face fresh; she looked like a different Nisha to the one I knew. She was a young woman with dreams for the future. Her husband had been young too, clean-shaven, quite small in build, and he seemed to sparkle. I imagined that he would have been the kind of man to tell jokes at parties. She was wearing a white dress, embroidered with red flowers. She held a small bunch of red roses. There were dates beneath each photo that I could barely make out in the half-darkness.

The album was a window into Nisha’s life back in Sri Lanka. A visual story. Her husband standing on his own on the side of a street carpeted with red flowers, on the road a red bus with a lit-up sign on its front reading 22 Kandy, above it the canopy of trees adorned with red blossoms. Another of a waterfall, rushing down a cliff, falling somewhere behind a bustling market; amongst this crowd Nisha and another woman both waved at the camera. I could almost hear the sounds that these people could hear.

Towards the end of the album, her husband was suddenly missing, and I knew these photos must have been taken after his death.

The final pages of the album were pictures of Kumari, from when she was a baby until she was about two years old, the age she was when Nisha left and came to us. My eyes rested on the last photograph in the album, where Nisha was holding Kumari in her arms. It reminded me of Nisha holding Aliki in her arms at that same age, but my daughter had been a plump toddler, though both girls had thick, shiny, dark hair. Nisha held them the same way.

I thought of the wooden statue that Muyia had made. The mother and child. It was Nisha. Yes, I was sure. The woman holding the child was Nisha and the child was Kumari. I lay down beside Aliki and the now-purring cat and fell asleep.

*

The next morning, while Aliki was eating her breakfast, I went to see Nilmini.

‘I know you said you’d read Nisha’s journal,’ I said to her as she swept the floor, ‘but I also found this photo album last night and I wanted to give it you as well, in case it helps you to identify anyone from the journals.’

Leaning the broom against the wall, Nilmini took the album from my hands and held it to her chest, just as she had done with the journal.

‘I suppose I just thought you might like to see it.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ she said. ‘I have begun reading the journal. What I can tell you is that in this journal are twelve letters written for her daughter Kumari, during her first year here in Nicosia.’

‘So there is nothing more recent?’

‘No, madam. They are dated.’

‘I see.’

I must have looked disappointed and at a loss, for she said: ‘Madam, even if we do not find anything obvious, there may be other information which might give us a better understanding.’

‘That’s true,’ I said, smiling. And, just for a moment, she grabbed my fingers and squeezed them with hands that were softer and warmer than I had expected. I looked up and saw she had tears in her eyes.

‘It is beautiful, the journal. Nisha should be a writer. In the letters, she tells all about her life back home and about her life here. I can hear my friend’s voice as I read. I miss her very much.’