The villages around us were quiet, only one light was on in a house on a hillside. Soon I could hear the waves.
You see, I thought you were a different person.
It was Seraphim who had got me into poaching. Seraphim was in love with money – but I’d be lying if I didn’t say the same about myself. Once upon a time, I had been an executive at Laiki Bank. I lived in a luxury apartment on the other side of the city – the sparkly, fashionable district. My grandfather was a farmer in his former years, and a park ranger thereafter. My ancestors lived the rural life, farmers and shepherds who worked the land. Father was determined that I would make it in the world. He encouraged me to study hard so that I would climb from the soil to the stars!
And, of course, I did. The banker’s life was appealing, stable. I would be financially secure, rich even, and wouldn’t have to rely on the weather and the seasons, like my fore-fathers had. At least this was what my father told me. I hadn’t realised then that the financial world had its own storms and droughts.
Before the financial crisis of 2008, Laiki Bank was booming – it was set to become the European investment vehicle of Dubai’s sovereign wealth fund, and it played a pivotal role in the island’s financial services industry, welcoming fresh-faced Russian entrepreneurs who arrived with cash-filled suitcases then set up companies on the island, run by local lawyers and accountants. At one point, bank transfers between Russia and Cyprus were astronomical. Laiki had even handled the affairs of Slobodan Milosevic. His administration moved billions of dollars in cash through Laiki in the 1990s in spite of UN sanctions.
I loved to tell these stories at swanky dinner parties – people were always impressed. Teresa, my wife at the time, loved that sort of life. She would never have married me if I’d followed the life of my grandfather. Our story was a simple one: she worked at Laiki’s rival bank, we met, we fell in love.
But Laiki got into fatal trouble because of aggressive expansion into Greece. The balance sheet was overstretched and then the global financial crisis hit and everything went wrong. Laiki was placed under administration and I lost my job, my savings, my wife – in that order. But while the humiliating turn in the bank’s fortunes reflected Cyprus’s deeper troubles, the turn of events in my life shone a light on the black hole that existed at its centre.
*
The van rattled along a dirt path. Seraphim began, as usual, to hum an old children’s song. He always hummed this rhyme as we approached the water, something that harked back to the days before the war. But the memory was too buried for me to retrieve it and I never asked him.
‘You need to loosen up,’ he said now. ‘I’ve told you so many times, come down to Maria’s with me – I’ll get you sorted. Last night I was with the Filipino girl again. She’s very sweet, you know. If it wasn’t for my wife I think I might fall in love.’
I remained silent, staring out of the window, watching the approaching opaque darkness of the sea and sky.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Seraphim asked, flicking his eyes towards me. He was about two years older than me and, in spite of all his money, dressed like an odd-job man no matter the occasion. He was a small, dark man with large hands, his hair was mostly uncombed and was receding at the front. Usually unshaven, he reminded me of the rats that live in the sewers along the banks of the Pedieos River. He was married to a Russian woman called Oksana, whom he spoke about often and fondly; but most nights he visited the bars in old Nicosia, searching for the women who had to find another way to make ends meet – as he put it. Nice Romanian, Moldavian, Ukrainian girls – not too expensive – Sri Lankan, Vietnamese, Nepalese maids. Women who came here to make money, one way or another – as he put it. As if he was doing them a favour.
I turned a blind eye to the crap Seraphim spewed. He was dodgy to the core, but there was something charming about him, a certain warmth. And he was good at keeping secrets. He held steadily to the steering wheel as the van bounced over the rough terrain. Seraphim was the only person in the world who knew about my relationship with Nisha.
‘Nisha’s gone,’ I said.
I could hear the sea now, below us to the right, breathing heavily. The clouds parted and the sky around the moon turned silver. I realised he’d been silent for too long.
‘Nisha is gone,’ I said again.
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
He was quiet again and he made a right turn now, onto the road that would lead down to the jetty of a small private cove. There was a tiny church made of limestone on this corner, with a huge white cross that was illuminated at night.