No vegetation grows around the lake, the soil is arid. But, further out, the soil is rich in copper and pyrite and gold, and there are barley and wheat fields and sunflowers leading to the village. There are fruit trees in the fields beyond the village, and from there come the distant sounds of life – of leaves rustling, wings flapping, animals moving amongst the cherry and pecan trees as they begin to shed their golden leaves.
The hare’s carcass reeks now, and the smell is carried by a soft breeze over the red water of the lake, through the hollow gallows frame into the fields, where it meets rosemary and thyme, eucalyptus and pine.
9
Petra
I
CALLED UP NISHA’S AGENCY. I asked them if they’d heard from her.
‘No,’ the woman said, after checking the system. ‘We log everything and there’s nothing here.’
I told her that Nisha had gone missing three days ago, that I couldn’t get through to her on her mobile, either.
‘Well,’ the woman said, ‘keep us posted because she still has an outstanding debt.’ She had a voice like a foghorn. It was awful and too loud, and it said nothing helpful.
‘How much?’ I said, but the woman wouldn’t tell me, it was confidential information. However, I knew that the agencies charged the workers a considerable amount of money to sign up and secure a placement abroad.
Then I rang Nicosia hospital to see if Nisha had been admitted, but they had no record of her.
When I got off the phone, I looked around and saw that the dinner plates from the night before were still in the sink unwashed, and the ones from breakfast were piled up on top of them. Dust had gathered on the furniture and the marble flagstones.
It was only 9 a.m., but I felt like I’d already had a full day. I’d woken up early, left a message for Keti to tell her I’d be taking the whole day off, made breakfast for Aliki – finding a jar of her favourite fig jam in the cupboard felt like a small victory – and rushed Aliki off to school.
Now, I went to Nisha’s room and gathered what I needed: her passport, her contract, the locket and the lock of hair. I was going to the police station.
I drove to Lykavitos station at Spyrou Kyprianou, an old white building with blue shutters. I’d passed the building many times but had never been inside. I told the officer at reception that I wanted to report a missing person. The woman took down my name and asked me to take a seat, saying someone would be with me in a minute.
A minute turned to five, ten, twenty, half an hour. Phones rang in rooms along unseen corridors; occasionally an officer would pass by and wish me good morning. Footsteps on flagstones reminded me for a moment of all those hours I had spent in hospital waiting-rooms, praying for Stephanos: the intermittent whispers, the soft footfalls; disinfectant and coffee; smiles from distracted doctors. I would nod politely, but I found that I couldn’t smile, my hand resting on my stomach as the baby grew day by day, week by week, month by month.
‘Mrs Loizides?’
Looking down at me, as if from a great height, was a man in his sixties, taller than the average Cypriot, stomach spilling over his trousers, sleeves rolled up.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s me.’
He held out his hand, either to shake mine, or to help me to stand – for a moment I wasn’t sure, and hesitated.
‘Vasilis Kyprianou,’ he said.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, and shook his hand, and with a smile he led me down one of the corridors and into a small room with a cluttered desk, a filing cabinet and a fan that was blowing some paperwork to the floor. He rushed to scoop up the papers with large, clumsy hands, straightening them into a pile and plonking it back on the desk – whereupon, once again, when the fan arced back around, the paperwork flew back down to the floor. This time he left it and picked up a small cup of coffee and took a sip. He grimaced.
‘Cold,’ he said, noticing that I was looking at him. ‘Always.’ With the shades drawn, the office was dim, streaks of sun reaching through the dusty slats. He sat down, the light cutting across his face and highlighting his white stubble. He signalled for me to take one of the vacant chairs opposite him.
‘Loizides,’ he said. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ah, it was an old colleague of mine. Yes. Nicos Loizides. We trained together. Do you know him?’
‘No. I don’t believe I do.’
He smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. His face reminded me of a red helium balloon that had begun to sag, those balloons that slowly deflate after a birthday until they are wrinkled and bobbing on the ground.