Songbirds(48)

Mrs Hadjikyriacou laughed out loud.

‘Last time we learnt that we’re the same shoe size,’ the old lady said to me. Then to Aliki: ‘Well, I must say, they are a perfect odd choice!’ Then she called Ruba to come and help her change into her new shoes.

Ruba came out holding a tea-towel. She greeted us warmly before kneeling down by Mrs Hadjikyriacou’s feet, pulling off her old-lady shoes and putting on the Converse sneakers.

The shoes were quite remarkable beneath her calf-length black skirt and against her dead-white skin. She leaned over herself with great effort and looked down at her feet, clicking her heels. Aliki laughed. The cats ran off on some urgent business. At this, I quietly took my leave, hearing Aliki’s laughter rippling behind me.

It was a bright and beautiful day. I rolled down the windows of my Range Rover as I drove southwest to Limassol. It was a bit chilly, but I welcomed the fresh breeze that came down from the mountains, which was soon replaced with a breeze from the sea, drifting in with the sound of the birds. Everything seemed to melt as I neared the water. The salty air, the way it enveloped me, wrapped me up in a time long gone. All the water on Earth once arrived on asteroids and comets. Yes, that is what my father told me. He was a fisherman. He had a library of books in the cellar – where he also kept potatoes – and this was where he got all his information. During the war, the library was taken from him, but until the day he died, he could recall the title and author of every book. In the car, with the windows down and the sea opening up and glistening before me, I could almost hear my father’s voice: Since it came to Earth, the water has been cycling through air, rocks, animals and plants. Each molecule has been on an incredible journey. When you feel alone, try to remember that at some point the water inside you would have been inside dinosaurs, or the ocean, or a polar ice-cap, or maybe a storm cloud over a faraway sea at a time when that sea was still nameless. Water crosses millennia and boundaries and borders.

For years, I’d forgotten my father’s words, and they came back to me now. Remember we all have something in common, and that is the water that runs through us.

*

The Blue Tiger was not too far from the beach, just off one of the side streets that leads down to the sea. It was a dilapidated, double-fronted building, with colourful murals on its walls, mostly of sports scenarios: football players in a packed stadium, basketball players crouched on a court. Above these, on the concrete wall and continuing onto the concrete canopy, were painted vines, large and winding, with thick stems and giant leaves that climbed up to a bright blue sky. On the far left – just above a barred window and two air-conditioning units – looking out through the leaves, was a blue tiger with striking yellow eyes.

I looked at the time on my phone: 14.46.

Below the tiger was a sign that read:





DWA


DOMESTIC WORKERS ASSOCIATION OF CYPRUS LIMASSOL





REGISTERED OFFICES


Beside the double doors of the entrance was a blackboard pavement sign, with a menu: BURGERS, HOT DOGS, SUPER DOGS, CHILLI CON CARNE.

Two men stood beside it, leaning on a motorbike, smoking. ‘You are lost?’ one of them asked, in a heavy, unfamiliar accent.

‘I’m looking for Mr Tony,’ I said, my voice croaky as if I had just woken up. ‘I have an appointment.’

‘You are not lost,’ he said, smiling, ‘He is inside the office. On the right.’

I could hear music coming from the depths of the place, and smell spices. I thanked the man and stepped through the open doors. I still didn’t know what I was doing there or how this Mr Tony could help me, but by that point I was grateful to speak to anyone who might be able to offer a glimmer of hope.

In an open kitchen on the left, women were cooking in large pans and woks; other women were scattered about, sitting at tables drinking hot tea or eating steaming dump-lings that they dipped into a bright orange sauce. Most of the people were domestic workers from Nepal or the Philippines, Sri Lanka or Vietnam. A local man sat on his own, noticeable due to his bald head, white stubble and gleaming eyes – leering at the girls as they passed with trays of tea. He looked like he was about to drool. He glanced at me, smiling, and I turned away, disgusted. At the back of the kitchen was a set of doors that opened up to a large hall and stage. This was where the music was coming from. People were dancing there, men and women, beneath a canopy of multi-coloured flags.

I spotted what must have been Mr Tony’s office: a rectangular glass booth on the far right of the dining area. A large man with broad shoulders and white hair sat behind a desk, a fan spinning above him blowing his hair while he spoke on the phone, a conversation that was clearly making him agitated. He hung up. I waited a minute, then approached the booth and knocked on the door.

‘Enter!’ he called.

He was sitting on a swivel chair in front of a computer. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. I went to close the door behind me.

‘Leave the door open. We need some air in here.’

‘Mr Tony?’

‘Tony is fine.’

‘I’m Petra.’ I held out my hand.

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He wiped his hand on his trousers and shook mine; his grip was warm and sweaty. ‘Take a seat.’ He pointed at a plastic chair in the corner of the booth.

The entire place was awash in laughter and music and spices, and it all swirled around the little booth as it seeped in through the open door.