‘Nisha has gone missing,’ I said.
‘When?’ asked the woman who hadn’t spoken yet, startled.
‘Two weeks ago. Do you know anything? The police said she might have gone to the north of the island.’
The first woman laughed now, but with a darkness that seemed to extinguish even the dim light. ‘They always think these things. They think we are thieves, too. My madam thought I stole her wedding ring. That’s how I go fired. That’s how I ended up here.’ The woman shook her head and suddenly glanced down at Nisha’s poster. She stared at it for a long time. ‘I hope you find her, madam,’ she said.
As I walked away, I realised that I had not asked the women their names. They had called me ‘Madam’。 From that point on, I held out my hand and introduced myself.
‘Good evening. My name is Petra.’
I met so many women that night. Diwata Caasi, a sixty-one-year-old woman from the Philippines, who had been forced to drink water from a jam jar because she was only a maid, and the food was rationed so that she was eating less than the cat. She eventually left her employer and had nowhere to turn.
Mutya Santos, from the bay-side city of Manila, who used to be a midwife. She loved her elderly employer and had dinner with her every night, but when the old lady passed away Mutya was placed with a man who kept touching her, who walked in on her while she showered, who came to her room while she slept. She had complained to the agency who did nothing to help. When her employer found out, he fired her. Again, she was left with nowhere to go and huge debts.
Ayomi Pathirana, from Sri Lanka. Her parents were both farmers. As a child she would wake up early every morning to help her parents on the farm before going to school. Later, she left college as they were financially hard-up and found a job in a bookstore for two years; but the money was not good, she could not progress and her parents were getting old. Her cousin encouraged her to apply for work as a nanny abroad. She went to Kuwait, where she was faced with difficulties. Eventually, she made plans to come to Cyprus, where she found similar problems. She was so young when she came here. Then she met a Cypriot man who promised to get her work, and though it was the wrong kind of work, she could not return to Sri Lanka because of the debts she had.
Etisha, from Nepal, who had to leave her one-year-old daughter, Feba, the source of her light, because she and her husband could not find work back home. Initially she came here as a student; she was promised work, but when she arrived there was nothing.
Every single one of them had a story. I could have sat there all night listening. But the bars on the windows, the flailing light, made me feel trapped. I just wanted to get out of there. But the women’s stories . . . they moved me, they opened something inside me.
One of the girls I spoke to began to cry. She wasn’t intending to. I showed her the flyer of Nisha. She didn’t recognise her. Then I asked her where she was from, and instead of words, tears flowed out, down her cheeks, smudging her makeup. For a moment I slipped my hand in hers. She looked at me with black eyes that reflected the candlelight. ‘I want to go home, madam,’ was all she said. She did not tell me where home was.
‘Can’t you go? Just pack your bags and go.’
Through her tears, she laughed. ‘It’s not as easy as that. If only you knew.’
*
As I was leaving, I recognised a man at the bar. I was sure it was the guy who often visited Yiannis – Seraphim was his name. I assumed they worked together, as he sometimes dropped him off after they’d gone foraging in the forest for snails and mushrooms. He’d greet me politely whenever he saw me. Scruffy guy, uncombed hair. He sat at the bar on his own, drinking whisky. I was about to leave but I had a couple more flyers in my purse and decided to approach him.
‘Good evening, Seraphim,’ I said, standing beside him.
He glanced up. ‘Petra!’ he said, startled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for my maid,’ I said. ‘Nisha. Do you remember her?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I know Nisha.’
‘Have you seen Yiannis lately? Did he mention to you that she’s missing?’
‘I can’t say that I can recall that conversation,’ he said. ‘But I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Well, since you’re here . . .’ I handed him one of the flyers and he spent a long time looking at the picture of Nisha. The music seemed to go up a few notches, and the belly dancer was still twinkling and jingling in the candlelight.