‘Ha! Where do you think you are? Even the locals can’t find work.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Afra said, standing up to leave. I grabbed her arm. Seeing my desperation, the man smiled.
‘You can do some work for me,’ he said.
‘What kind of work?’
‘Just deliveries.’
‘Just?’
‘The others are kids, can’t drive yet. I need someone who can drive. Can you drive?’
I nodded.
‘You can work for me for three weeks. If you behave yourself, then we’ll say five thousand euros for the two of you.’
‘OK,’ I said, and held out my hand to shake his, but instead he gave me a huge grin and chuckled.
Afra was quiet again, but I could feel her anger.
‘You’ll have to come and stay with me,’ the man said.
‘Why?’
‘To ensure that you don’t run off with the car and the packages.’
The rest of the ice in the plastic cup had melted now and he leant forward, taking the straw in his mouth and slurping as he’d done before.
‘And that way I’ll know you won’t run off because I’ll have Afra – that was your name, wasn’t it?’ Before she could reply, he raised his hand and asked the waiter for a piece of paper and a pen to write down an address.
‘Meet me here tomorrow at 10 p.m. If you don’t turn up, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind.’
It was early afternoon when we got back to the park. Children were playing with a ball in the open area between the tents and blankets. Others were squabbling over marbles. Two children had made a village on the ground with stones and leaves. The thought of leaving this place filled me with energy, gave me hope, but later I found myself scanning the crowds of children, hoping to see Mohammed among them. Those black eyes, the way they filled with fear and questions, I could almost see him in front of me. It was Sami who had disappeared in my mind, and no matter how much I tried to bring him to life, to conjure an image of him, I couldn’t.
Angeliki was already sitting beneath the tree, waiting for us. Her face was covered in talcum powder again and her hands were resting in her lap. There was a stillness to her when she was like this, an aloneness that I couldn’t stand to see. Somewhere in the distance a baby was crying and I saw that her breasts were leaking again; the strong smell of sour milk hung around her.
Afra asked me to fetch the picture from under the blanket and she handed it to Angeliki.
‘You draw this?’
Afra nodded. ‘It’s for you.’
Angeliki stared at the picture and back at Afra, a long look, and I could see the questions in her eyes but she didn’t say anything more for a while; she sat with the picture in her hands, glancing down at it from time to time and then looking up again, either at the children playing or at something in her own mind.
‘In here,’ she said, ‘they hide everything they don’t want world to see. But this picture, it will remind me of another world, better world.’ And maybe she knew we were leaving, for she started to cry, then she stayed all night right beside Afra, lying down next to her, resting a hand on her arm, and they slept there together all night, like sisters or old friends.
12
IT IS THE MORNING AFTER the interview. Diomande and the Moroccan man are in the living room drinking their new favourite beverage: tea with milk. They must have heard me get up, because there is a steaming mug on the dining table waiting for me. I join them, as Afra is still asleep.
With the tea warm in my hands I step up to the glass doors to look outside. Today the courtyard is glowing with sunlight. The cherry tree in the middle with the twisted roots is full of birds, there must be about thirty in there, all chirping and chattering. The landlady’s garden behind is spilling over the wooden fence, red and purple flowers, fallen petals on the flagstones. I find the key behind the curtains and open the doors to let in the air and the distant smell of the sea.
Diomande is telling the Moroccan man about the interview.
‘I think it go very well,’ he says, his smile so wide it fills his whole face.
The Moroccan man high-fives him.
‘I told them what you said. Mother, sister, difficult life. But they ask me some very strange questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘What the national anthem is. They ask me to sing it.’
‘And did you?’
Diomande stands up and with his hand on his chest he begins to sing, still with that same broad smile on his face:
‘We salute you, O land of hope,