“Sorry, who is your house boy?”
“A Pakistani, from the village, small.”
“Ahh, the raid. They’ve gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Little Albania.”
“Where?” Juliet takes out a notebook and pen. The policeman looks over the top of the notebook to see what she is writing.
“Little Albania, it is a detention centre that way.” He points in the general direction north.
Everyone she asks on the way knows the way to Little Albania, but each tells her that she does not want to go there. The smooth roads give way to potholes. The orange trees to forestry land, scrub-covered or barren.
She arrives at the place, but thinks she must have taken a wrong turn. The place looks abandoned. Large lumps of cement are cracking away from many of the walls, areas of rising damp discolouring corners. The only indication of maintenance is the relatively new corkscrew of barbed wire atop the inner of the two layers of wire mesh fence. The gatehouse stands sentry to other large block buildings, creating an inner circle. There are thin gaps between the blocks hinting at signs of inhabitation, glimpses of movement, the impression of many people in a yard beyond.
Juliet stops the car and pulls on the hand brake. Feels the car move on the slight hill, pulls it on one more notch and puts it in gear for extra safety. She puts anything on the dash of any value to her in the glove compartment. Her focus stays on the building. There is a forgotten aura about the place. As she steps out, she can hear the distant hum of many people. She locks the old car. The surrounding land is arid. The sun is hot. The air is dry. Juliet’s mouth is dry. As she marches towards the gates, a man in black uniform with a rifle steps from a side door in the gatehouse. Rifle across his bulletproof chest, gadgets of restraint around his hips, he saunters towards the gate as if on a catwalk, big boots on thin ankles.
“You have my house boy.” Juliet speaks in English.
The man clearly has not understood her. He looks a little flustered. This was Juliet’s intention.
“I want my houseboy.” She continues to use English.
The guard turns to a man who is looking out of the window at them from the gatehouse. The man in the window raises his hand and twists it from the wrist, fingers loosely apart, palm up, his eyebrows raised. The Greek gesticulation of “what?”
“Ti?” he shouts.
The guard with the gun shrugs.
“English,” he shouts, pronounces it very badly and then laughs.
The man in the reception window beckons Juliet with all four fingers. The outer gate is unlocked, and Juliet marches through, ignores the thin man with the gun and heads straight for the man in the window. The dust kicks up around her feet. The buzz of a large number of men from behind the blocks grows. The disintegration of the building becomes more apparent.
“Hello. May I help you?” His English is fair, and he enjoys his opportunity to show off to the guard.
“Yes, I understand you have my house boy and I would like him back!”
“We have many house boys. Which one you want?” He shows no sign of being serious, apparently delighted by this break in his tedious day. He looks at his colleague before recalling he cannot share his joke in the foreign tongue. Juliet remains stern.
“I have been given to understand that he was brought here yesterday.”
“We had thirteen men brought in yesterday. None of them had papers on them, so we presume all of them are illegal. Here is where illegal people are put, so he is in the right place.” He finishes his speech with a grin.
“I will make him legal.”
The man thinks this is highly amusing, but tries to keep a straight face and turns to repeat Juliet’s sentence to the guard in his native tongue. He too is amused.
“It does not work like that.” He turns back to Juliet and barely manages not to laugh out loud.
“It can if you want it to. Just hand him over, I will take all responsibility.” Juliet’s ground is turning to quicksand. She forces her facial muscles not to quiver. She puts her car keys in her pocket to stop herself fiddling with them.
“I cannot do this.”
Juliet considers bribing him, but is not sure how to do it. If she is obvious and he takes offence, she could be arrested. It is out of her sphere of experience.
“Can I talk to him?”
The man sighs and strokes his moustache, long and curling at the ends. It is not so amusing now he has to do something. He searches on a shelf under his desk, which is at right angles to the window, and pulls up a large, dark blue ledger. He drops it onto the top of the desk, causing a breeze of papers to escape from under it at either end. One paper floats off across the room. The man watches it and sighs again. The man with the gun makes no effort to retrieve it even though it lands near his feet. Moustache returns to the book, which he opens at yesterday’s page. A long ribbon attached to the spine marks the place. The ribbon is pink and Juliet finds this incongruent.
“What is his name?”
“Aaman.”
“Aman what?”
“I don’t know, but Aaman is spelt A-A-M-A-N, if that helps.”
The man sighs again. The effort is exhausting him. He runs his finger down a list in the ledger.
“Yes, Aaman, no surname, no, you may not talk to him.” He seems relieved.
“Why not?”
“He has gone.” He is smiling now. Sitting back in his chair, relaxed. The guard behind him picks up the paper by his feet and returns it to the desk.
“Gone where?” She tries to hide her tone of desperation.
“He was taken to Athens or maybe Fylakio this morning.” He runs his finger along the line puzzling over the destination. “He will be sent back to his country. Did he steal from you?”
“God no! So was he taken to Athens or Fylakio?”
“Who knows? If he didn’t steal from you then consider yourself lucky and find another house boy. There are many.” He shakes his head, blowing through his nose at the size of his endless task. He wishes her good day and closes the window. The armed guard strolls out from the side door and walks with her to the outer gate, his eyes assessing her figure. Juliet wants to run. He unlocks the outer gate and holds it open just enough for her to squeeze through. Juliet forcefully pushes it open wider and the edge of the gate nearly hits the man in the face. He jerks his head back in response and the lecherous smile drops from his face.
Juliet remains rigid. She marches back to her car, drives a mile, stops and deflates.
There are hundreds of Pakistanis clustered outside their embassy in Athens. The building stands back from the road. Solid bars divide the pavement from its courtyard; a thick, barred gate set in pillars of stone offers the only entrance. Some men hold the bars high above their heads resting their weight. Some stand unaided, some sit, one relieves himself against a much-stained wall. Some are in their traditional dress, some in Western shirts. Most hold papers. They fill the pavement, lean against parked cars, talk in groups in the middle of the road, moving slowly in response to horns and shouts. Juliet weaves up to the gate. Some of the Pakistani boys sense that something may happen and they gather round, hoping it will benefit them.
Juliet presses the bell push at the top of the pillar by the gate. Nothing happens. She presses again and waits. One of the Pakistani boys tells her it has been disconnected. His English is good. Juliet asks how she can get in. The boys shrug. She draws out her mobile and calls the directories enquiry, who puts her through to her requested number. The Pakistani Embassy has an automated service to select between Pakistani, Greek, and English. She selects English and waits for an operator. And waits. One boy asks what she is doing. She explains, and they all start talking at once. She will never speak to anyone that way, they have all tried it, no-one ever answers. One says the only way in is by helicopter. Another says by parachute. They grow excited by the possible ways to gain entrance. Arms start flying with ideas, the chatter becomes loud. Juliet puts her hands to her ears. They are so excited they talk over her, forgetting she is there. She is buffeted. Within a minute, a guard comes to the gate. All the men who were sitting stand when they see him and thrust their papers through the railings at him. He ignores them, opens the gate and lets Juliet in. She is escorted into a room with three reception windows, each with a chair for the enquirer. No-one is in the room, no-one queueing at the windows, no-one serving. The guard opens the door at the far end, and lino gives way to carpet. She is shown into a room with a desk.