Songbirds(66)

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That’s a lot to take in. So, she was on her way to meet this man, Seraphim, about poaching birds and she disappears into thin air?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I don’t like it.’

Her words made me sink into a nearby chair.

‘And Yiannis – can you trust him?’

‘I think so.’

‘You look exhausted,’ she said.

‘I couldn’t sleep last night.’

She examined the bracelet so closely, as if she was determined to find an answer within it. Then she sighed, seemingly at a loss. She placed the bracelet in my palm and squeezed my hand. ‘Go home,’ she said, ‘get some rest. If you burn out it won’t be helpful for anyone.’

*

My head was pounding with a dull ache, my eyes bleary. I needed to sleep. Aliki was still at school for a few hours, Mrs Hadjikyriacou had dropped her off in the morning. I could get in a good nap before I had to go and collect her.

But after I parked the car, my feet wouldn’t carry me to my front door. Instead, I found myself walking in the direction of Muyia’s workshop.

‘Hello?’ I called, but no one answered. As I’d hoped, Muyia wasn’t there. People in Cyprus used to leave all their doors open in the past, and it was as if Muyia was stuck in those bygone days. But that was good, as it wasn’t him I was here to see: it was Nisha. I quickly headed over to the sculptures next to the worktop. I pulled the white sheet off and there she was, the mother and child. I put my hand on her hand and leaned my head on the worktop. Nisha had sacrificed so much to come here and I had never allowed myself to know that. Now she was gone.

I imagined the wood being hollow, and her trapped inside. I thought that if I found the seam in the wood that I could lift it and open it up like a Russian doll, and find her there.

‘Petra,’ a voice said, sharply.

I opened my eyes to cold light, a breeze and a person standing above me.

‘Petra. What are you doing here?’

I straightened up. Muyia was staring at me, perplexed.

‘How long have you been here?’

I stood up and backed away from him. His eyes were fixed on me.

‘Not long,’ I said. I glanced at the statue and he followed my gaze. ‘Is that Nisha?’ I managed to say.

‘Yes. And the little child is her daughter, Kumari.’

‘Why?’

His brow creased and I saw something moving at his side: he was scratching his arm.

‘Nisha visits me a couple of times a week. You know, on her way to the grocery store – that sort of thing. She brings me fruit from your garden, whatever’s in season. Until recently she brought me oranges. Still a bit bitter, but they were fine.’

I stared at him.

‘She says I’m a lonely man who needs a woman in his life.’ He laughed. ‘And besides, she likes to tell me stories.’

‘Stories?’

‘You know, about Kumari and her life back in Sri Lanka. Also about her sister and the owl.’

The owl. I had no idea what he meant about her sister and the owl.

‘I make sculptures of people and animals that leave an impression on me. Nisha has told me so many stories about her life, she has brought me so many oranges and grapes and prickly pears, tomatoes . . . and, let me see . . . oh, eggs and sometimes wild greens. She says I’m too skinny, that I look like a lizard, that I need to keep up my strength if I’m going to capture the beauty and sadness of the world. So, I wanted to do something for her.’ He paused. ‘But what are you doing here?’

‘When was the last time you saw Nisha?’ I said.

‘Oh, I thought you were keeping her busy. Tell her I miss her stories and her oranges, will you? And don’t work her too hard – she’ll do everything to please you, it’s the kind of person she is.’ He smiled and the cold morning light lit up the deep creases of his face.

‘I haven’t seen her for almost three weeks,’ I said.

‘How come? Gone away?’

‘I don’t know.’

His smile vanished.

‘She went out three Sundays ago and never came back.’

‘And you haven’t heard from her?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, that’s unusual.’

He sat down on the stool and remained quiet, pulling at his beard. He seemed anxious, agitated even.

‘I thought she was busy,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise. So there’s a chance I might never see her again?’

He looked up at me, waiting for an answer that I couldn’t give. There was something childlike about him, as if this question had been living inside him forever, and it had finally emerged from his soul.

‘She’s such a good person,’ he said. ‘Bad things always happen to good people.’

‘We don’t know that anything bad has happened.’

‘Sorry, don’t mind me.’ He stood up, as if waking from a sort of stupor. ‘I tend to think the worst – always have. I am sure she is just fine. At the end of the day there will be a reasonable explanation.’

His words followed me like a shadow as I walked home. I kept my eyes on the road so that I wouldn’t have to look at Nisha’s flyers.