The Island of Missing Trees(23)

Holding hands, careful to stay in the shadows, they strolled, in no rush to be anywhere. The night had turned slightly chilly. She shivered in her thin blouse. He offered her his jacket, but she refused. When he asked again, she got upset, not wanting to be treated as if she were weaker than him. She was stubborn like that.

He was seventeen, she eighteen.





Fig Tree





Here under the ground, I lie still listening to every little sound. Cut off from all sources of light – sun or moon – my circadian clock is disrupted and regular sleep eludes me. I suppose it is a bit like being jet-lagged. Day and night patterns are thrown into disarray, leaving me in a perpetual haze. I will adjust eventually, but it will take me a while.

Life below the surface is neither simple nor monotonous. The subterranean, contrary to what most people think, is bustling with activity. As you tunnel deep down, you might be surprised to see the soil take on unexpected shades. Rusty red, soft peach, warm mustard, lime green, rich turquoise … Humans teach their children to paint the earth in one colour alone. They imagine the sky in blue, the grass in green, the sun in yellow and the earth entirely in brown. If they only knew they have rainbows under their feet.

Take a handful of soil, press it between your palms, feel its warmth, texture, mystery. There are more microorganisms in this small clod than there are people in the world. Packed with bacteria, fungi, archaea, algae and those wriggly earthworms, not to mention broken bits of ancient crockery, all working towards converting organic material into nutrients on which we plants gratefully feed and thrive, the earth is complicated, resilient, generous. Every inch of soil is the product of hard work. It takes a multitude of worms and microorganisms hundreds of years of ceaseless labour to produce even that much. Healthy, loamy dirt is more precious than diamonds and rubies, though I have never heard humans praise it that way.

A tree has a thousand ears in all directions. I can detect the munching of caterpillars as they eat holes in my leaves, the buzzing of passing bees, the chirring of a beetle’s wing. I can recognize the soft gurgling of water columns breaking inside my twigs. Plants can pick up vibrations, and many flowers are shaped like bowls so as to better trap sound waves, some of which are too high for the human ear. Trees are full of songs and we are not shy to sing them.

Prostrate here in the midst of winter, I seek refuge in arboreal dreams. I don’t ever get bored but there is so much I miss already – the slivers of light from the stars, the beauty of the moon against the night sky, perfect and delicately mottled like a robin’s egg, the aroma of coffee spilling from the house every morning … and most of all, Ada and Kostas.

I miss Cyprus too. Maybe because of the frigid climate, I can’t help harking back to my days in the sun. I might have become a British tree, but some days it still takes me a moment to fathom where I am, on which island exactly. Memories come rushing back upon me, and if I listen intently I can still hear the songs of meadowlarks and sparrows, the whistling of warblers and wigeons, the birds of Cyprus, calling my name.





Shelter


Cyprus, 1974


The next time they met, Defne seemed uneasy, a flame of apprehension burning in her dark eyes.

‘The other night, on the way back, I ran into my uncle,’ she said. ‘He asked me what I was doing out so late. I had to scramble to find an excuse.’

‘What did you say?’ Kostas asked.

‘I said my sister was feeling poorly, I had to go to the pharmacist. But guess what, he bumped into Meryem the next morning! He asked her if she was feeling better, and Meryem, bless her, played along. Then she came home and questioned me. I had to tell her, Kostas. My sister knows about us now.’

‘Can you trust her?’

‘I can,’ Defne replied without skipping a beat. ‘But if my uncle had spoken to my parents, it’d have been a different story. We can’t keep meeting like this.’

Kostas ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’ve been looking for a safe place.’

‘There is none!’

‘Well, there is one, actually.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s a tavern.’ He watched her eyes widen, then narrow. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but listen. This place is nearly empty during the day. The customers start dropping in no earlier than sunset. Before that, it’s only the staff. And even in the evenings, if we manage to meet in a back room, and leave through the kitchen door, it’s safer than being out on the streets. In a tavern everyone’s in their own world anyway.’

Defne bit her bottom lip, turning the idea in her head. ‘Which one?’

‘The Happy Fig.’

‘Oh!’ Her face brightened. ‘Never been there, but I’ve heard lots of things about it.’

‘My mum sells them stuff every week. I take them carob jam, melitzanaki glyko.’

She smiled, knowing how close he was to his mother and how dearly he loved her. ‘Do you know the owner?’

‘It’s two guys that own the place. They are very nice people – complete opposites, though. One is incurably chatty, always telling some story or joke. The other is quiet. It takes a while to get to know him.’

Defne nodded, although she wasn’t fully listening. In that second, all the dread she had been carrying within had lifted and she felt light again, bold. She touched his lips, which were slightly chapped, sun-roughened. He must have been biting them, just like she did.