Chapter 34

Things were looking up for George too. He had visited the Aliens and Immigration office on three consecutive mornings and had twice seen one or more girls that looked like Slavs or southern Europeans amongst the queuing domestic servants and construction tradesmen but he had not been able to find an opportunity to talk to them. He had already realised that ogling pretty, young, blonde women might be a pleasant enough way of spending a couple of hours each morning but was not going to be any help in gathering information unless he could firstly get them away from the men that were obviously their employers or minders and secondly gain enough of their confidence to get them to talk to him openly about their backgrounds, how they came to be in Cyprus and whether they expected to travel to London or other European cities. On the third morning, George summoned up his courage and went to the side office to collect a number. An hour later he took his turn and found himself facing the neatly dressed, middle-aged woman he had seen on the first day.

“I’m… er… writing a book about migrant workers and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about how many immigrants come to Cyprus, where they come from, how long they stay and that sort of thing.” The woman looked at him blankly without saying anything and George wondered if she had understood him. “Oh, sorry. Don’t you speak English?”

“Of course I speak English but we do not give information here. This is an office for accepting and processing applications from aliens to reside in Cyprus. Do you want to stay in Cyprus? Please show me your passport.”

“No, no. I’m just visiting. For a couple of weeks. Like a holiday, you see. My passport is in the hotel safe.” George realised he was lying to a police officer; again, and broke out in a sweat despite the air-conditioning. Mustering his courage he went on. “Look, I’m sorry. I realise how busy you are but isn’t there somewhere… another office… maybe in Nicosia, where I could ask for some statistics about migrant workers?”

After a pause and still looking at him impassively, the woman replied, “You must ask the sergeant. Wait please,” and she rose briskly and disappeared through a door behind her. George sat and continued to sweat under the silent gaze of the two women applicants sitting at the other occupied desk. He had not yet got used to the curiosity about strangers and foreigners and he felt like an alien – like an alien recently arrived from a distant planet. He nervously rubbed his face to see if he had missed part of it while shaving and resisted the temptation to touch the top of his head to see if he had grown feelers or horns without noticing. The woman reappeared and stood in the doorway.

“This way.” George squeezed past her into a small office. He noticed it opened on to a corridor but had no window. Seated at the desk was the man who had handed him his number an hour earlier. George sat down.

“You are asking questions about immigration?” The absence of the customary ‘good mornings’ and ritualistic enquiries about each other’s health unsettled George even more.

“Yes. I’m writing a book about migration of workers in Europe and I have noticed that Cyprus has quite a lot… well, certainly some, foreign workers. I wondered if you or someone in the immigration service – I can see you are very busy – could perhaps answer some questions for me. Possibly.”

The sergeant continued to look straight into George’s eyes. Even in plain clothes he was unmistakably a policeman. His desk was completely empty except for a telephone. He did not look at all busy and George felt that he become today’s investigative workload. “We do not give information here except to people making applications (‘and not much information, then either’, thought George). What things do you want to know?”

“Oh!” said George, taken unawares at suddenly being able to ask. “You know... How many permits are issued each year, to what categories of workers, where they come from, how long they stay, where they go when they leave, that sort of thing.”

“And for who do you write this book? Is it for your government or some agency?”

“No, no. It’s just a private project. “ George suddenly realised which button to press. “You see, I have a PhD in sociology and the migration of labour in and around Europe is an important matter. I am hoping if I can collect some information and produce a well-researched book, I may well get some consultancy assignments from the EU or be able to obtain a post at one of the universities specialising in European studies.” The sergeant’s eyes lost some of their hard suspicion. George was glad he was a respectable and well-qualified British academic and not a semi-literate, Bangladeshi construction worker.

“Our job is to apply the immigration law of Cyprus. We do not have the authority to release the information you want but I can give you the name of the head of the statistics department – he is my brother in law. Or I think the university may have done some research. You could ask there, Doctor…. Doctor….”

“Hawthorne. George Hawthorne.”

“Well, Doctor George. I am sorry I cannot help you further but here is the name you need. Tell him you have spoken to me.” The policeman scribbled a name and telephone number on a piece of paper and George took it with what he hoped was a grateful smile. “Good bye. Enjoy your stay in Cyprus.”