Across the road the kiosk’s lights are just flicking on. Vasiliki puts some beers and soft drinks in the fridge before returning inside the booth.
“Vasiliki, did you see the small Pakistani man today? Not the one that grins.”
“I saw the one that grins. He was here this morning, but he was the only man to be here looking for work today. Maybe they have done a raid.”
“A raid? How do you mean?”
Vasiliki comes out from inside the kiosk to straighten shelves. She slides her feet to keep her slippers on.
“Oh, every once in a while, the police try to clean up the area, if they find where they are sleeping, for example. They don’t tend to pick them up during the day because they all just run. I have seen that a few times. Like rats they are, scattering in every direction, so the police get no-one. But if they find where they are sleeping then they raid and catch them all.”
“Do you know where they were sleeping round here?” Juliet looks at the choice of chewing gum to try to look casual. She can hear the sound of her heartbeat in her ears and her mouth has gone dry.
“I think Old Costas had them on his land for a bit, up on the road past the hill. Did your man not show up for work today? Why don’t you just wait? It won’t be long before there are new illegals here.”
Vasiliki shuffles back into the kiosk and sits down. She tips coins from a bag and starts to count them.
“Can I just have this please?” Juliet buys a small bottle of water.
As she passes the lane end, she glances up to her house, but the gate stands as she had left it. She swallows a lump. The road splits, and Juliet takes the way to the right up past the hill. She does not know Costas’ land. Her head turns right and left, scouring the orange groves for a sign of a building. A car passes, forcing her onto the long grassed verge. Some of the orange groves are fenced, gates lying open; some are open to the road. After a mile or two, the way narrows and little stones are heaped down the centre, grass breaking through here and there. On the left is a building several rows of trees back from the road. Juliet feels an expansion of hope and wades through the grass, bowing her head and pushing branches to the side.
The breeze-block hut has a metal door, which is chained. The window has bars but no glass. Standing on tiptoe, Juliet can see the hut is full of pipes and machinery. There is a hissing sound from a forceful leak, and water sprays the inside wall. She sighs.
Returning to the road, Juliet hurries her steps. The road divides. Juliet’s stomach turns. Her situation feels cruel. She looks down one road then down the other, hoping to spot a clue, a sign. She looks along the road she had travelled. There is nothing, no markers, no way to make a choice between the two roads. How to decide? How long are the roads? Nothing comes to her. Her mind searches for answers, but none come. She waits for inspiration, but nothing arrives. She stuffs her hands in her front pockets and lets out a heavy exhalation of air, tears on the precipice of falling; she looks down at her feet and twists her toe in the gravel at the road edge. A dried cigarette butt emerges from its hiding place beneath the layer of chippings. Juliet turns to walk back home, head down, shoulders slack. She trails her feet along the verge where grass meets tarmac. Another cigarette butt and a match. Who would stand in such an out of the way place and light a cigarette?
Juliet’s head jerks up. With purposeful movement, she turns on the spot and returns to the road’s divide, her eyes searching the gravel boundary. She walks several yards down the first road. Scuffing the verge. Pace quickening. Frantic movement, heart beating. No cigarette butts. No matches. She runs back to the divide. Second road. Curb vigil. One yard. Two. A match. Three. A cigarette butt. Juliet lifts her head. She is sure. She looks left. She looks right. She stoops to see under the trees as she walks. One hundred meters. Two. The road runs out. A dry, dusty track continues. The trees thicken.
There! To the left. A track through the trees. Juliet runs three steps and then slows. She sees a building the colour of the soil. A dark red, buried deep in the trees. What if someone is there?
She stands still, listening. A bird sings. Something tiny runs in the grass. A tractor coughs far away. Each step considered. Ears alert. The track widens. Signs of life. Two large stones, big enough to sit on, small enough to move, talking distance apart, shiny on top, cigarette butts and burnt matches between. The barn close, no windows, no door visible. She rounds the end, under the trees, ready to hide, ready to run. The front of the barn. A clearing. Logs for seats. A pan with no handle. Empty water bottles. A rag. Quiet.
The opening has no door. The inside black. She ventures.
“Hello?” Juliet’s best defence.
No answer comes. There are drag marks at the entrance. Juliet steps on them into the dark. Blinks. It is too dark. She closes her eyes for a second. She opens them and sees. A dirt-floored, empty room. There is nothing.
There are no little beds, no comfy chairs at one end. There are dried mud brick walls and a mud floor and what look like deep shelves. This cannot be the place. She turns and steps on something. She looks down. A shoe. She pushes it with her toe. It turns over. It has no sole. Juliet turns to look in the barn again. There is a heaviness in her chest. She steps up to the shelves and puts a hand on the edge. It is smooth, smooth with wear. Her eyes fully adjusted. There are carvings in the wood. Dates. Names. Juliet’s silent tears fall. She looks at the shelf above. She can see the marks inscribed on the under surface of the top shelf. Hearts and names. Four lines with a strike through. Many times over. Many, many times over.
Juliet sits on the bottom shelf, hunches her shoulders and weeps. Tears splash in the dried dirt, creating tiny smooth craters. Her world expands. Beamed ceilings and cosy corners exchanged for soleless shoes and blanketless boards. She could not imagine. She had to experience. She turns to lie on the bunk. Her mind fights reality. The board has no give. Dust falls from the wall. It smells dank. The board above only a foot from her nose. Messages and words gouged in pointless effort. Tears run in her ears. She rubs her nose on her sleeve. Focus sharpens. There above her head the name Saabira and under that in capitals JULIET. She ruptures into a thunderous sob, unexpected sound, her body spasms against the board, finger-tracing her name. She lies until the tears subside.
Dark is falling by the time Juliet gets home. The gate still unmoved. The house dark. The cats meowing at the door unfed and unloved. Juliet scrapes an open tin from the fridge into their bowls and throws the fork in the sink. It misses. She leaves it. Shuffling to her bedroom, she wishes for all thought and emotions to shut down. Flopping on the bed, sleep engulfs her heaviness.
There is no bounce in her step as she climbs in the car the next morning. The grey, square, concrete building looks incongruous with its shiny, full-glass doors. There is a chubby man in uniform behind a high desk, eating something between sips of coffee.
“Good morning. I believe you have taken my house boy.” Juliet purposefully does not try to hide her English accent. She knows the positive reaction her accent ignites, memories of allegiance during the war, of British support in their war of independence and more recently a refusal to side with the Turks over the Cyprus conflict. Teaching and memories that create ripple effects in her life today. When it comes to bureaucracy, she has learnt to lay it on thick.
“Madam?” The chubby man puts down his coffee, brushes the front of his jacket with his hand and stands.
“You have my house boy and I want him back.” It seems best to underplay their relationship, easier for others to understand an English woman wanting a servant. Even in this day and age, it gives her authority.