‘Very beautiful woman,’ I heard him say, through all the noise. ‘Don’t you think? It’s her eyes, isn’t it? They seem to know a lot.’
I didn’t reply. He handed the flyer back to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘She must have been an asset to your household. But I suspect she will be back, and if she isn’t, don’t be surprised. These women come and go like the rain, you know?’
He grinned at me but I did not smile back. I didn’t like this man. He was always so courteous when I saw him outside mine waiting for Yiannis to come down, but now I could see an intensity to him that I’d never noticed before. In fact, he seemed to be made of sharp edges – his nose, his cheek bones, even his elbows. There was a sharpness to his entire frame and bone structure; it was evident now in the candlelight. Or was it my mind playing tricks on me? I knew I was becoming more anxious, more unsettled with each passing day that Nisha was away.
‘Hey, join me for a drink, won’t you? You’re lucky to catch me here tonight – I’ve been away for a few days, came back a bit earlier than anticipated.’
‘I’m OK, thanks,’ I said, ‘so, when you’re not away, do you come here a lot?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m asking because I wonder if you ever saw Nisha here? You see, the old lady who lives next door to me told me that Nisha was heading this way the night that she vanished.’
‘What night was that?’ he said.
‘Two weekends ago, on the Sunday.’
Again, he was silent for a while, thinking. ‘I wish I could tell you that I’ve seen her, but I haven’t.’
*
I inhaled the cold air out on the street. The night was fresh and I walked away briskly from the bar. I could still hear the voices of the women inside. I was eager to get home, but as I passed Muyia’s workshop, I remembered the sculpture. Suddenly, I had to see it again. I felt compelled to go inside – the entrance, as usual, was gaping open. It was so dark in there I had to be careful not to trip over the debris on the floor. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could make out the vague shape of the worktop, feeling with my hands to find the light switch on one of the lamps.
The sculpture of the mother and child had been covered in a white cloth. I lifted off the sheet and sat down on the stool opposite, struck again by the resemblance to Nisha. I could almost feel the energy emanating from her; so many emotions, she had a history, she had a whole life. And she had an enduring and powerful love for the child in her arms. A love that could not be replaced. Why had Muyia made this? It was Nisha, to be sure, her heart-shaped face, her fiery eyes. Even the tiny dimple in her right cheek. I reached out and touched her hand. I wanted her to speak. I was desperate that she would break out of her wooden case and speak to me.
‘Nisha,’ I said, gently. ‘Tell me where you are.’
I waited as if I might hear her voice. I looked at her unmoving face, but I heard only the sound of the wind – nothing else, just the wind through leaves.
I covered up the statue and headed back home.
In the village there is a guest house: a small, rickety building with brown shutters and whitewashed walls in the back garden of a widow’s home. There have been no guests, though, for many years. Once in a blue moon, someone will call from a distant land and make a booking and the old woman will take down the details in a black notebook she keeps by the phone. Then she will go to great efforts to clean, and fluff up the towels and cushions. She will place fresh tea-bags and honey and sugar on a tray, and lay sugared almonds on the pillows and bake pistachio cakes, which she’ll wrap in cellophane decorated with paper daisies and display on the dressing table. She will sweep the leaves and dust from the patio and leave a tourist brochure by the bed.
It is dark when the phone rings. A young man, calling from a hotel in Beirut, with one of those transatlantic accents she has only ever heard on TV. He is travelling around Europe with his new wife, they will be arriving next week, all being well. The old lady jots down his name and number and date of arrival in the black notebook beneath a doodle of a clown riding a donkey that her granddaughter has drawn.
The nights are getting longer and colder and she goes out to collect the washing from the line. The children across the street have gone in and their maid is out picking apples from the tree in the dark. A breeze blows. Good evening, she says, but her voice is carried away.
Along the path a mist settles and darkness settles too, as there are no houses there to light up the way. Further along, there are only trees and clouds and sky, until the earth becomes jagged and dry and drops down to the red water of the lake, which is as black as the night and as the empty eye socket of the hare glaring up at the sky.