Songbirds(43)

Etisha, from Nepal, who had to leave her one-year-old daughter, Feba, the source of her light, because she and her husband could not find work back home. Initially she came here as a student; she was promised work, but when she arrived there was nothing.

Every single one of them had a story. I could have sat there all night listening. But the bars on the windows, the flailing light, made me feel trapped. I just wanted to get out of there. But the women’s stories . . . they moved me, they opened something inside me.

One of the girls I spoke to began to cry. She wasn’t intending to. I showed her the flyer of Nisha. She didn’t recognise her. Then I asked her where she was from, and instead of words, tears flowed out, down her cheeks, smudging her makeup. For a moment I slipped my hand in hers. She looked at me with black eyes that reflected the candlelight. ‘I want to go home, madam,’ was all she said. She did not tell me where home was.

‘Can’t you go? Just pack your bags and go.’

Through her tears, she laughed. ‘It’s not as easy as that. If only you knew.’

*

As I was leaving, I recognised a man at the bar. I was sure it was the guy who often visited Yiannis – Seraphim was his name. I assumed they worked together, as he sometimes dropped him off after they’d gone foraging in the forest for snails and mushrooms. He’d greet me politely whenever he saw me. Scruffy guy, uncombed hair. He sat at the bar on his own, drinking whisky. I was about to leave but I had a couple more flyers in my purse and decided to approach him.

‘Good evening, Seraphim,’ I said, standing beside him.

He glanced up. ‘Petra!’ he said, startled. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m looking for my maid,’ I said. ‘Nisha. Do you remember her?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I know Nisha.’

‘Have you seen Yiannis lately? Did he mention to you that she’s missing?’

‘I can’t say that I can recall that conversation,’ he said. ‘But I am sorry to hear that.’

‘Well, since you’re here . . .’ I handed him one of the flyers and he spent a long time looking at the picture of Nisha. The music seemed to go up a few notches, and the belly dancer was still twinkling and jingling in the candlelight.

‘Very beautiful woman,’ I heard him say, through all the noise. ‘Don’t you think? It’s her eyes, isn’t it? They seem to know a lot.’

I didn’t reply. He handed the flyer back to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘She must have been an asset to your household. But I suspect she will be back, and if she isn’t, don’t be surprised. These women come and go like the rain, you know?’

He grinned at me but I did not smile back. I didn’t like this man. He was always so courteous when I saw him outside mine waiting for Yiannis to come down, but now I could see an intensity to him that I’d never noticed before. In fact, he seemed to be made of sharp edges – his nose, his cheek bones, even his elbows. There was a sharpness to his entire frame and bone structure; it was evident now in the candlelight. Or was it my mind playing tricks on me? I knew I was becoming more anxious, more unsettled with each passing day that Nisha was away.

‘Hey, join me for a drink, won’t you? You’re lucky to catch me here tonight – I’ve been away for a few days, came back a bit earlier than anticipated.’

‘I’m OK, thanks,’ I said, ‘so, when you’re not away, do you come here a lot?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m asking because I wonder if you ever saw Nisha here? You see, the old lady who lives next door to me told me that Nisha was heading this way the night that she vanished.’

‘What night was that?’ he said.

‘Two weekends ago, on the Sunday.’

Again, he was silent for a while, thinking. ‘I wish I could tell you that I’ve seen her, but I haven’t.’

*

I inhaled the cold air out on the street. The night was fresh and I walked away briskly from the bar. I could still hear the voices of the women inside. I was eager to get home, but as I passed Muyia’s workshop, I remembered the sculpture. Suddenly, I had to see it again. I felt compelled to go inside – the entrance, as usual, was gaping open. It was so dark in there I had to be careful not to trip over the debris on the floor. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could make out the vague shape of the worktop, feeling with my hands to find the light switch on one of the lamps.

The sculpture of the mother and child had been covered in a white cloth. I lifted off the sheet and sat down on the stool opposite, struck again by the resemblance to Nisha. I could almost feel the energy emanating from her; so many emotions, she had a history, she had a whole life. And she had an enduring and powerful love for the child in her arms. A love that could not be replaced. Why had Muyia made this? It was Nisha, to be sure, her heart-shaped face, her fiery eyes. Even the tiny dimple in her right cheek. I reached out and touched her hand. I wanted her to speak. I was desperate that she would break out of her wooden case and speak to me.

‘Nisha,’ I said, gently. ‘Tell me where you are.’

I waited as if I might hear her voice. I looked at her unmoving face, but I heard only the sound of the wind – nothing else, just the wind through leaves.

I covered up the statue and headed back home.