Soneeya nodded and tucked the receipt into her pocket, spiriting the tea tray off into the kitchen.
Binsa opened the front door and Mr and Mrs Kostas came in. They were both wearing soft cashmere jumpers, with jeans and tennis shoes. Mrs Kostas lifted her gold-framed Armani glasses （I recognised them; I’d sold them to her）， pushing them up into her hair.
‘Petra!’ she said, ‘how nice to see you. What brings you here?’ Before I could reply she turned to Soneeya. ‘Soneeya, the shopping’s in the car. Go.’
Soneeya nodded and said, ‘Yes, madam, I’ll go now.’ She rushed out to help Binsa, who was already bringing in bags from the car and placing them in the hallway.
Mr Kostas, with a mop of thick brown hair, greeted me and excused himself to make a phone call. Binsa now returned to the kitchen, working quickly to finish the meatballs she had left during our chat, clearly trying to make up for lost time. Mrs Kostas placed her keys in a large bowl in the middle of a round marble table and hung her bag on a coat stand by the door, then turned to speak to me.
‘Petra, have you been well? I haven’t seen you for so long. Did my girls take care of you? I do hope so. They are improving. I’ve been teaching them, but I tell you, I’m thinking of separating them, sending one to work elsewhere. They distract each other too much when they’re together and, realistically, do I really need two maids?’ She paused in front of me now and lowered her glasses onto her nose again. It was clear that she’d had some work done on her forehead and her lips.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I guess it depends how much needs to be done.’
‘I’m inundated with work from the charity events I organise. And this is such a big house.’ She laughed and sighed and shook her head, as if there was always way too much work to even mention, and then she offered me a seat in the living room with a wrinkled hand that was tipped with long, red, coffin-shaped nails.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, ‘but I really must be going.’
But I’ve only just come through the door!’
‘Actually, I came to speak to Binsa and Soneeya.’
‘Oh?’ She eyed me suspiciously.
‘The thing is that Nisha, my maid, my . . . girl, has . . . well, how shall I put this? She has been gone for several days and I wanted to see if Soneeya and Binsa have heard from her or if they know anything.’
‘I see,’ she said, glancing over to the kitchen, where her maids were working. ‘I doubt they know anything, as they really don’t have many friends and acquaintances. I make sure of that.’
Soneeya came out of the kitchen holding a tray with a tea-pot and two cups with saucers.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink? I could get Soneeya to bring an extra cup, there’s always plenty in the pot. Soneeya! What did I tell you? We drink our tea with milk in this house! Go and bring some. Pour a little into the small jug. Goodness, I’ve told her so many times. These girls have the attention spans of fleas.’ She sighed, then continued. ‘Petra, dear, don’t look so worried! Don’t overly concern yourself. If Nisha has gone, she’s gone. They do that sometimes, you know? These women can drift around the world without a second thought. Oh, how I wish I had that luxury!’ Her face creased into a grimace, but her forehead remained smooth as stone.
‘Well . . .’ I began.
‘Well,’ she said, in a pronounced whisper, ‘no more distractions for Soneeya and Binsa, hmm?’ With that, she stepped towards the front door, signalling that our chat was over, and waved at me as I weaved back through the orchard to the gate, which was now creaking open. ‘Come again for a coffee!’ she called. ‘Call me soon!’
In the late afternoon light, the sunset and the lake are one. Beautiful streaks of pink and red wash through the sky, which is luminous and silky. The hare is no longer distinct. Its skin has ruptured further and is almost completely decayed. Fly eggs have hatched into maggots in its eye and in the expanding wound around its neck, while the larvae in the mouth have grown, feeding on flesh. The same kind of larvae have also filled the rotten hole in the abdomen; feeding and feeding, converting the tissue of the hare into their own. The hare is slowly disappearing. But its hind legs still look strong and its ears still look as though they are blowing in the breeze; its fur is still the warm colour of the earth.
The rusty metal of the gallows frame looks ochre, bathed in the pink light. On clear and quiet afternoons such as this, the locals believe they can hear the ghosts of the men underground working, endlessly working until they die. Their effort is lost now but it was also lost then – not to their families, no doubt, but to the rest of the world. On they worked, like ants, while copper blazed in the light of the upper world.