The Island of Missing Trees(16)


Ada plunked her spoon into the bowl, a trickle of milk spilling from the sides. Slowly, she stirred the cereal around, remaining outwardly composed.

‘So you don’t have a girlfriend?’

Kostas’s face shifted. ‘Is that what you were thinking?’

Ada shrugged.

Reaching over the table, Kostas took his daughter’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend and I’m not looking for one. I’m sorry, I should have told you about Meryem before. She gave me a call last week. She said she was planning to visit but wasn’t sure she could make it. So many flights were cancelled, frankly, I thought she’d have to delay her plans. I was going to talk to you this weekend.’

‘If she was so eager to visit us, why didn’t she come to Mum’s funeral?’

Kostas sat back, the lines in his face chiselled by the overhead light. ‘Look, I know you’re upset – and you’ve every right to be. But why don’t you listen to what your aunt’s got to say? Maybe she can answer that question herself.’

‘I don’t understand why you are being nice to this woman. Why do you have to invite her to our house? If you’re so keen to see her, you can have coffee with her somewhere.’

‘Sweetheart, I have known Meryem since I was a boy. She’s your mum’s only sister. She’s family.’

‘Family?’ Ada scoffed. ‘She’s a total stranger to me.’

‘Okay, I understand. My suggestion is let her come; if you like her, you’ll be glad you’ve met her. And if you don’t like her, you’ll be glad you haven’t met her before. Either way, you have nothing to lose.’

Ada shook her head. ‘That’s a strange approach, Dad.’

Kostas stood up and walked to the sink, a weariness in his eyes that he could not disguise. Pouring away the remaining coffee, he washed the mug. Outside, by the spot where the fig tree was buried, a bullfinch was pecking at the feeder, seeming in no hurry, as if it sensed there would always be food in this garden.

‘Okay, love,’ Kostas conceded as he returned to the table. ‘I don’t want you to feel pressured. If you’re not comfortable, that’s totally fine. I’ll meet Meryem separately. After staying with us, she was planning to visit an old friend. I guess she can go there straight away. She’ll understand, don’t worry.’

Ada blew her cheeks out, then released the air slowly. All the words that she had prepared to say now felt useless. A new kind of anger came over her then. She did not want her father to give up so easily. She was tired of seeing him lose all his battles against her, whether trivial or consequential, retreating to his corner each time like a wounded animal.

Her anger softened into sorrow, and sorrow into resignation, and resignation into a sense of numbness, swelling thickly, filling the emptiness inside. In the end, what difference did it make whether her aunt came to visit them for a few days? It would all be as fleeting and pointless as the postcards she had sent them in the past. Granted, it would be annoying to have a stranger wandering around the house, but perhaps her presence would, in some little way, conceal this pitiful gulf widening between her father and herself.

‘You know what, I really don’t care,’ Ada said. ‘Do as you like. Let her come. Just don’t expect me to play along, all right? She’s your guest, not mine.’





Fig Tree





Meryem! Here in London. How bizarre. It has been so long since I last heard her husky voice in Cyprus.

I guess now is the time I need to tell you something important about myself: I am not what you think I am – a young, delicate fig tree planted in a garden somewhere in north London. I am that, and much more. Or perhaps I should say, in one life I have lived several, which is another way of saying, I am old.

I was born and raised in Nicosia, once upon a time. Those who knew me back then couldn’t help breaking into a smile, a tender glint in their eyes. I was treasured and loved to such a degree that they had named a whole tavern after me. And what a tavern that was, the best for many miles! The brass sign over the entrance read:

THE HAPPY FIG



It was inside this celebrated eating house and watering hole – crowded, rowdy, joyous and hospitable – that I spread my roots and grew up through a cavity in the roof that was specifically opened for me.

Every visitor to Cyprus wanted to dine here – and taste its famous stuffed courgette flowers followed by chicken souvlaki, cooked over open-air charcoal – if they were so lucky as to find a table. In this very spot was offered the best food, the best music, the best wine and the best dessert, speciality of the house – oven-roasted figs with honey and aniseed ice cream. But there was something else to the place, too, so said its regular customers: it made one forget, even if for just a few hours, the world outside and its immoderate sorrows.

I was tall, robust, self-confident and, surprisingly for my age, still laden with rich, sweet figs, each giving off a perfumed scent. During the day I enjoyed listening to the clatter of plates, the chatter of customers, the singing of musicians – songs in Greek and Turkish, songs about love, betrayal and heartbreak. At night I slept the untroubled sleep of those who have never had a reason to doubt that tomorrow would be better than yesterday. Until it all abruptly came to an end.

Long after the island was partitioned and the tavern fell into disrepair, Kostas Kazantzakis took a cutting from one of my branches and put it in his suitcase. I guess I will always be grateful to him for doing that, otherwise nothing of me might have remained. Because I was dying, you see, the tree that I was in Cyprus. But the cutting that was also me survived. A teeny thing – ten inches long, no wider than a pinky finger. That little cutting grew into a clone, genetically identical. And from this clone I sprouted forth in my new home in London. The pattern of my branches would not be exactly the same, but we were similar in every other detail, who I was in Cyprus and who I would become in England. The only difference was that I was no longer a happy tree.

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