‘Is anyone there?’ I called again, but there was no reply. I walked up and down the river, I trudged through the rain-soaked land, I walked far and wide, covered as much distance as I could, until I was convinced that I was alone.
I hadn’t collected any snails, and the memories of Nisha and my childhood had drained me. I decided to head back home. But I couldn’t spend another night wondering about Nisha, thinking I had seen her shadow, questioning whether she had gone or not.
So, before heading up the stairs to my flat, I knocked on Petra’s front door.
11
Petra
A
LIKI LOOKED OUT OF THE car window at the rain pelting down on the pavement as we waited at the traffic light, on the way to school. She seemed thoughtful and faraway. She’d done her own hair – two plaits hung over each shoulder – and she was wearing a bright blue raincoat over a grey tracksuit and her P.E. trainers. I knew she didn’t want to get any of her Converse wet and dirty. She had about six pairs of various colours and designs, some with flower patterns, others with stars or planets or polka dots. Sometimes she purposely wore odd pairs; how she matched them was of some importance. She kept them in a neat row against the wall just outside her bedroom door, and I’d watch her from time to time as she tried out different combinations, sometimes shaking her head and trying another until she felt that her look was just right. She was very particular about her footwear; she wouldn’t even let the cats sleep on them: pointing a finger, and in her most adult voice, she instructed the cats to sit beside the shoes, not on them. If they didn’t cooperate, which they often didn’t, she showed them the door. As a rule, I didn’t allow cats in the house – they are vermin in these areas – but still they would stroll in when doors were left open in the summer months.
I stood at the gate, as Nisha would have done, and watched as Aliki walked to the entrance of the school. She was slow in her movements, avoiding the puddles as if they were landmines. Normally she would jump in them in order to make Nisha scold and laugh. Nisha would tell me about it later: ‘That daughter of yours! She drenched her shoes and trousers. She jumps in those puddles like she is Indiana Jones!’
As Onasagorou is pedestrian only, I parked in one of the back streets and made my way on foot through the rain. By the time I arrived at Sun City, Keti was turning over the open sign on the shop door. She stepped aside to let me in and ran to get me a towel and a coffee. Always eager to please and to learn, she was an aspiring eye surgeon, training at the university of Nicosia, who worked part-time as my assistant. She was brilliant at her job, attentive, meticulous. Sun City attracted an elite clientele; indeed, the city’s most important politicians, actors, hotel owners – and even an Indian prince – came to us so that they could see the world more clearly and with style, so I only hired the best staff. Keti had 20/20 vision, but shrewdly wore a pair of Chanel tortoiseshells without prescription: she knew how to represent our interests. We sold the latest designs from Tom Ford, Cartier, Versace, Dior, Bvlgari and Chopard. I even had embroidered eyewear by Gazusa, and in an alarmed cabinet behind the counter, I kept the most expensive pair – gold framed with pink lenses and encrusted with 2.85 carats of pink diamonds. I loved the craftsmanship of the individual glasses, each a work of art.
‘Where is Nisha?’ Keti said, handing me a warm mug of coffee.
‘Nisha?’
‘It’s Thursday,’ she said. ‘And you are late – we were meant to go through the stock and you have a client in’ – she looked at her watch – ‘twenty-three minutes.’
‘Thursday?’ was all I could say at this point. Thursday was the day I brought Nisha in to clean the shop. She would be relieved of her household duties for the day and join me at Sun City to mop and clean the floor, wipe down the shelves and polish the glasses. She would then clean my clinic, followed by the kitchen at the back. She put her heart into it: she knew how important it was to make the shop sparkle.
‘Are you OK?’ Keti had lifted her glasses, as if this would make her see better, and she was examining my face closely.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘So where is Nisha?’ she asked again.
‘Nisha,’ I repeated.
Once again, she waited, glasses hovering above her eyes.
‘I have no idea.’
She creased her brow.
‘I have no idea. I don’t know where she is. She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ She now lowered the glasses onto her nose and bombarded me with questions: Where did she go? Did she say she was leaving? Do you think she went back to Sri Lanka? Any chance she had enough of you? （‘Joking – don’t look at me like that!’）