by Sara Alexi
The Indians sit on the floor, not knowing which are their bunks. They hail Aaman over, but he is not there for his own comfort or to be social.
The room with the bunks and the mattresses stinks. He walks past one of the bunk beds anchored in the corners, which is four levels high, and then on past the two-level bunk beds pinned against the walls, picking his way down the narrow uncovered area of floor between them and the central floor which is laid with abutting mattresses. Aaman is distracted by the clothes and bedding that are everywhere, hanging off beds, scrunched into corners, strewn across mattresses. He wanders outside into a cauldron of people. He knows the advantage of being a little rat is that big rats are seldom interested in little rats. Big rats fight other big rats. Aaman feels glad he is not a big rat in this place.
He estimates that the yard is big enough for about two hundred men to move with ease. He guesses there is double that. Some of them are old enough to be retired and some of them so young they should be at school. There is every race east of Greece represented, all trying for a better life in the West. Most of them are clearly harmless people. Very few have the aura of criminality. The Albanians stand out in the crowd, for there is a hardness about them, even at a distance. Aaman sees it in the way they stand, walk and look at each other. There is an aura of threat from them, a sense of being ungoverned. Aaman finds a corner of ground by the inner wire fence and sits on the floor, his back against the fence support. Above the plethora of people, there are two guards in a raised tower. One reads a magazine, sitting in a chair rocked onto its back legs, his feet up on the safety rail. The other looks out over the sea of people as if he were a tourist in a new city, momentarily interested but not alert.
Aaman searches out beyond the double fence where dry scrub land hills meet deep blue sky. Aaman feels life has not been kind. He does not seem to be given a chance. When chances are offered, he takes them, but then the good things are taken away again. He tuts at his own negativity. That sort of thinking is ungrateful. Life owes him nothing. He is very indebted to be alive at all. He has his health and there is always hope. He will not start thinking like Mahmout.
Mahmout!
Like a dream remembered, he recalls the face of Mahmout behind the tree next to the barn. Grinning. He was grinning. Aaman does not wish to think badly of anyone. Maybe there was a reason why he had been there. He could have gone out to relieve himself and just got lucky. He could have been going for an early job, or a job very far away that required a long walk. He could have met friends and stayed out very late. But for Aaman none of this rings true. He was grinning. Why would he grin when all the men were in chains and the bearded man dead on the floor?
The day turns into evening and the men make their way inside to the bunks. Aaman presumes that the bunks around the wall will be favoured. The big rats will sleep there. The central mattresses differ in thickness; there will be a pecking order for them. He finds a really thick, unoccupied one and waits. It is suggested by a fairly big Albanian that he move on. Aaman tries to assess the size of the man to the depth of the mattress. He finds a second unoccupied mattress that is not as thick as the first but still would stop the warmth of his body being sucked out by the cold of the concrete floor. This time, a smaller Albanian tells him to move on. Aaman decides not to stand but instead exercises his newly learnt Albanian vocabulary. The Albanian goes away. Aaman is not pleased with his enjoyment of his power.
As the sun sets, Aaman wishes Juliet good things in life and wishes also that she will not think too badly of him. There are no lights in the blocks. As the men quieten, there is the occasional shout from one block to the next. A piece of banter, a string of comradely expletives, proof that their souls cannot be tamed. All becomes silent as the sun disappears, just coughs and whispers, prayers and sniffled tears. The guards far up in their tower are laughing. The sound of a television gives a clue to their mirth. They get paid to watch television because their mothers are Greek and he, Aaman, gets deported because his mother is Punjabi. Through the birth of their mothers, their destinies are carved. The mothers feed and love their sons. They both want the best for them, but even in the wider sphere of life, there are big rats and little rats and everyone is somewhere.
As Juliet hurries out of the house, there is no Aaman at the gate, and she wonders if he has come and gone. She has let him down. She curses herself. He is sure to return in a while, when he thinks she is up and about.
As usual the morning coffee tastes good, and the toast and marmalade make a perfect breakfast. She makes a mental note to buy some more of the marmalade online. Maybe she should order a box. Expensive, but so worth it. It does seem that Aaman is leaving it very late. Juliet looks down the lane, hopeful.
Returning indoors, she decides to complete her first translation assignment at the desk in the bedroom. She does not wish to distract herself by continually looking down the lane. She opens the window so she will hear him if he taps on the metal gate. It is natural to presume that Aaman has taken the fact that she was not up to open the gates as a sign that she does not want him to work that day. It is logical, reasonable. The rest of what she is feeling is out of perspective. It is a surprise to her how much she misses his company. She chastises herself once more and hopes Aaman will not have taken offence at her laziness. Through her bedroom window, the garden seems incomplete without Aaman squatting, tending to plants or appearing into view from round a corner busy with something.
After a late lunch, alone, in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard doors that still need a second coat of paint, the cats begging for morsels, Juliet becomes fidgety. Aaman will arrive soon having finished his day’s work elsewhere. What should she say? Should she say anything? Should she be cross? After all, it was she who didn’t have a gardener all day. Should she apologise for not getting up on time? But then again, if he has had work elsewhere, then he has lost nothing if they have paid him and fed him. She is abashed when she realises her discontent is that she is just missing him. He, on the other hand, is just fine.
Four o’clock and Aaman is not there. Juliet feels sure he will arrive in time for his studies. Neatening her papers on her bedroom desk, she takes the laptop into the kitchen to await Aaman. The cat rubs her leg, and she picks him up to find his friend also rubbing her legs. Juliet picks up the second one and holds them together, pushing her face between two warm, fluffy bundles. There is no Aaman.
The cats jump down and they all go onto the patio at the front. Juliet looks down the lane but there is no-one. It doesn’t feel right. He would not miss his studies. She grabs her keys and heads for the village, leaving the gate unlocked, just in case.
Chapter 13
“I am so glad that she is seeing this boy. Yes, the one whose father has the mandarins by the old river. They are so right for each other. Last night they went to the bouzouki bars and she was not home until very late. Did you want eggs? I heard them from my bedroom window, they were saying goodnight and they took so long to say goodbye. You have two packets of rice here. Did you want two? But he was being shy and she was being shy. No, we have only bread for toast, the village bread is finished. I wanted to shout out ‘for goodness sake, kiss her,’ but I am not one to interfere. But they did agree to meet late in the week. Is that everything? Yes, OK, goodbye. Ah, Tzuliet.”
“Hi, Marina.”
“Why so worried?”
“The man who does my garden didn’t come today. Have you seen him? He is small about my height, he has—”
“Oh no, they would not come in here. They go to the kiosk. He will be asleep somewhere, or someone will have offered him more money. Don’t you worry, Tzuliet, you take another help, there are many men for your garden.”
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 h
ere 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.
“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.
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br /> 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.