‘Do you like my nightdress? She gave it to me as a gift. She made it herself. It’s beeralu lace.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. And it was so beautiful. I ran my hand over the fine patterns of flowers. It was like a pure white garden.
‘She drew it on graph paper first, then attached it to the kotta boley with pins. She then took each thread around the pin. Can you imagine what a task it is?’
‘I can.’
‘Her employers were away this weekend, so we had the house to ourselves. I helped her with the chores, then we sat the rest of the time in the garden. We talked while she weaved. She was desperate to finish it before I left. She said she had a feeling she would not see me for a very long time.’
Over the years, Nisha had seen Chaturi every couple of months, usually when Chaturi came with her employers to Nicosia for a Sunday visit. They had family there and they would drop her off at Petra’s for the day, then collect her in the evening before heading back to Limassol. It was always a special occasion for Nisha. The two women would spend time making aluwa, a nutty sweetmeat with cashews, or my favourite, aasmi, made with coconut milk and the juice of cinnamon leaves. Chaturi would leave with a couple of Tupperware boxes filled with sweets. Nisha would always set aside a few slices in foil and bring them up for me later in the evening, telling me all about their conversations, Chaturi’s jokes, the news from home.
‘I hope she is wrong about that,’ she said. ‘That it will be a long time before she sees me again.’ She ran her fingers over the flowers of her nightgown.
‘I’m sure it won’t be too long’ I said, reassuring her.
She paused a moment, and then said: ‘I made an appointment at the clinic in Limassol to end the pregnancy, but I couldn’t do it.’ Her eyes were wide now, fearful. ‘This baby is going to start growing and I’m going to be left without a job and without a home. Do you know what happens to women like me who break the rules?’
Her words were tumbling from her mouth now, and I could barely keep up.
‘My friend, Mary, from the Philippines, well, her employer saw her jumping over the fence at night to see her boyfriend and fired her on the spot. It was almost impossible for her to find work after that, because this employer was very well known in the community, and respected. She had to move into a hostel with fifteen other women on the other side of the island. The conditions were so bad that she ended up selling her body to stay in an old man’s villa by the sea with three other women.’
I reached for her, but she pushed me away. She distanced herself from me, so she could look me in the eyes.
‘And little Diwata down the road, well, her ex-employer beat her. She had bruises on her arms and legs and was only allowed to eat such a small amount of food each day that she ended up shrinking down to nearly nothing. She looked like she was twelve! Well, she was lucky because she found another employer. He has bought her a car, he never bruises her body, and he buys her new clothes and gives her his credit card to buy whatever she likes. Why do you think that is?’
She stared at me without blinking. I said nothing.
‘Petra will fire me. She will. Who knows where I will end up? And if I want to find another job, I will have to give up the baby. But what if I can’t do it? Just like I couldn’t terminate the pregnancy.’ Tears fell from her eyes now and she briskly wiped them with the back of her hand. ‘I stepped through the door. I actually went to the clinic.’
There was nothing I could say. I wanted to tell her it would be OK, that for her the outcome would be different, I would help her. But what did I know of her world? Of what she owed. I couldn’t bring myself to make promises I couldn’t understand.
After a silence, she finally spoke. ‘Whatever happens,’ she said, ‘you have to promise me that you will stop what you are doing to the songbirds. It’s not a good thing.’
‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I can promise that.’
*
Suddenly the cat’s ears flattened and it hissed. From behind I heard footsteps approaching. I turned and saw Spyros with his poodle. Spyros, the postman. A well-built guy, covered in tattoos from the neck down. His poodle, tiny, well-groomed, in a khaki military bomber jacket designed especially for dogs. In the summer it had a sun umbrella attached to its leash. The discrepancy between them always made Nisha laugh when she saw the pair from my balcony on Sundays. She would lean forward carefully, so that prying neighbours would not see her, and whistle the theme tune of Indiana Jones, and he would whistle it back. It meant: I know you’re there and your secret is safe with me. Spyros the postman knew most things, everyone in the neighbourhood knew that Spyros the postman knew most things, but his lips were always sealed. Nisha loved this game they played – it made her feel more accepted, more human, she said. She had told me that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom had been filmed in Kandy in the eighties, and as a child she had loved to imagine all the adventures taking place just 200 km or so from her home.