He stands still for several moments.
The man from Uzbekistan comes out of the same exit. “So what now?”
“I have no idea,” Aaman replies. “We are no more or less illegal than when they picked us up. We are just further from what we know.”
“I suppose that they have cleared the area where we were to only increase the number of illegals where we are now. There is no money or time to ship us back. We just get passed on, someone else’s problem. Well, God be with you.” He pats Aaman on the shoulders and walks off down the streets.
“Hello.” It is the Indian who was worried about his wife. Aaman doesn’t reply. “I have heard it told but I never believed it.”
Aaman concedes to the man’s insistence. “What?”
“That the police let the Indians go easily because they don’t make paperwork. They don’t pretend to be legal so there is nothing to check on, no false trails. We are easy so they deal with us first.” He smiles as he speaks. “I could be home in a month, God willing. It will take that long to earn the money to buy the ticket home. So long.”
Aaman starts walking. The names of the streets are meaningless, the buildings tall and impersonal. He has no sense of direction and nowhere to be. The cars travel four deep on the roads, motorbikes nipping between them like impatient small dogs. Horns sound, people shout. Men driving, one elbow on the windowsill, cigarette dangling, sunglasses on. Another motorbike, no helmet, white shirt being pulled from his back by the wind he creates. Women clacking along in high heels, lots of makeup. Men in suit trousers, bellies pushing shirts over trousers on hips, ties loosened. People sitting outside their shops on stools, smoking, chatting to the next person sitting outside his shop on a stool, smoking, chatting. Taxis, yellow, stopping, starting. People in. People out. Aaman feels dizzy. He leans against a shop.
An Indian man passes carrying a tray of bread rings.
“Excuse me?” Aaman uses his native tongue. It feels strange.
“Yes, hello. You look like you are having a hard time, my fellow.”
“Where is the best place to go to find work? I need to earn enough to get back to the lady I work for.”
“Nowhere and everywhere. Good work is hard to find. If you want any work, go to Omonia Square and ask around. Best place to start as any.” He hands Aaman a bread ring and continues his trail.
“Thank you. Which way?” The man points. Aaman walks.
Chapter 15
Juliet pretends she is still asleep, not really lying there listening for the metallic tapping sound on her gate at a ridiculously early time in the morning.
Cockerels are crowing, light creeps in between the shutters and warmth seeps under the door, indicating the night is over.
Juliet gives up diving for dreams and sits up. She is still pleased by the sight of her beamed ceiling, the white walls, her own little nest. She reaches for the clock and knocks over the wine glass, one of the several she drank the night before. The glass pieces shatter as far as they can in every direction, the red wine stains at the point of impact, a bullet wound on the white floor. She recalls why she drunk so much.
She curses and tiptoes across to her flip-flops, which for some forgotten reason she hung, one on the window handle and one from an old nail in the wall, the previous wine-filled night.
She pulls on her jeans and t-shirt, leaves the crime scene and heads for coffee in the kitchen. The back door has been open all night, and the cat has returned and is asleep on the table. She lifts it off and dumps it on the sofa, where it yawns and stretches before orientating itself enough to recognise Juliet is in the kitchen area and runs over meowing its excited anticipation. Later in the day, the second cat reappears, looking slightly fatter than she remembers.
After a week of steady watering, the bean plant, twisting around a tripod of canes, regains some strength. Some leaves drop, some recover. The beans themselves do not plump out. They remain skinny and dry, hidden amongst the leaves. Juliet’s thin fingers caring and tending.
The grass needs cutting every few days, the garden vibrant with growth and energy before the onset of the real heat of the summer. Juliet struggles with the electric lawnmower, fearful of cutting through its umbilical cord. Weeds grow overnight. Tucked behind the gate post, a large, spiky succulent manages to reach a foot tall before Juliet notices.
It creeps on Juliet like bindweed; he is not coming back. As the days pass, the bindweed coats her limbs and she feels heavy. She cannot find a reason to care for the garden, her translation falls behind.
She wanders aimlessly around the house and garden.
The tools lie neatly organised and ready for use at the back of the house. Crafted from boards, stiff wooden vegetable boxes, old wooden broom handles, and uprights of wood Aaman must have found in the original mess of the garden are shelves that house the tools. The shelves bring tears to Juliet eyes.
“Bye, Tzuliet. Ah, Mrs Sophia. Yes! She is still seeing the boy. She has been seeing him most weekends. Yes, you are right. They are well suited. I thought when they met it would have been instant, but they are taking their time, which I am pleased about. I am not one to interfere, but I think I will invite his family over again, just to be sure.”
Juliet waves as she leaves, armed with postcards and stamps. Filling her days with volumes of translation, Juliet is blinkered from her solitude. It is safe, it is painless. But after some time, thoughts of the boys push themselves behind her stockade. Time seems to have stretched out and Juliet is not sure how long it has been since she talked to them. She’ll surprise them with cards.
The grass is dry and soft. Juliet lies on her stomach, sunglasses on, hair in a high ponytail, bikini bottoms, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She takes out a postcard and looks at the picture of an old man bent under the weight of the bundle of sticks he carries. It is in sepia tones to make it look old. To Juliet, it is a daily view of her village life. The second card is of a sepia-toned man with a herd of goats, shepherd’s crook in hand, and a handlebar moustache. Juliet looks closely. He is wearing Nike trainers. She laughs.
Dear Thomas, Old-fashioned snail mail!
She puts the pen end in her mouth. She has no idea what to write.
The garden is looking lovely. Unfortunately the man who was helping me has been called away, so I guess it will be up to me. I have more and more translation work all the time. The British council have me on their books, and I seem to be getting a regular supply of work from them, almost too much, both by email and by post.
I hope you and Cheri can find the time to come and visit. I know that both time and finances are short so no pressure
The cat comes to investigate what Juliet is doing lying on the lawn. He climbs onto Juliet’s legs and walks up to settle in a ball on the small of her back. Juliet tries to bend her arm around to stroke him. The cat digs its claws in to stop from sliding off as Juliet’s contortion unsettles his bed. Juliet rolls over on the grass as the claw tips make contact with nerve endings and the cat leaps to safety. Juliet calls him back but he heads for the edge of the lawn, disappearing under a dense plant with purple flowers. The sun lulls Juliet into a brief snooze. She wakes gently and resumes her postcard writing.
Dear Terrance,
I hope your studies are going well and your landlord is happy! I love Greece although a friend of mine left recently and I miss him. He has been gone two weeks already! I am sure I will make more friends although some people are just special. Talking of which, have you seen any more of the girl who was helping you with your thesis? It would be lovely to see you over here but I do understand. No more room. Love M xxx