The Island of Missing Trees(25)
It was a place with history and small miracles of its own. In here, stories of triumphs and travails were shared, long-standing accounts squared, laughter and tears combined, admissions and promises made, sins and secrets confessed. Between its walls, strangers turned into friends, friends into lovers; old flames rekindled, broken hearts mended or shattered once again. Many a baby on the island had been conceived after a merry evening in the tavern. The Happy Fig had touched people’s lives in so many unknown ways.
When Defne, following Kostas, walked in for the first time, she knew none of this. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she eyed her surroundings curiously. The place seemed to have been decorated by someone who clearly worshipped the colour blue. The entrance was bright azure, with dangling evil eye beads and horseshoes nailed up. The chequered tablecloths were navy and white, the curtains a vivid sapphire, the tiles on the walls adorned with patterns in aquamarine, and even the wide, languid ceiling fans were of a similar hue. Two columns were crammed with framed photos of the celebrities who had visited the restaurant over the years: singers, actresses, TV stars, footballers, fashion designers, journalists, boxing champions …
Defne was surprised to see a parrot perched high up on a cabinet, absorbed in eating a biscuit, a short-tailed exotic bird with a yellow head and bright green plumage. But it was what she found at the centre of the tavern that immediately caught her attention. Nestling in the middle of the dining area, growing through a cavity in the roof, was a tree.
‘A fig!’ An expression of delighted surprise crossed her features. ‘Is that real?’
‘Oh, you bet it is,’ came a voice from behind them.
Turning round, Defne saw two men of medium height and build, standing side by side. One of them, with close-cut hair and a silver crucifix around his neck, doffed an imaginary cap in her direction. ‘You should see this tree at night-time, with all the lights on. It looks electrified, magical! This is no ordinary tree – more than ninety years old, but she still bears the sweetest figs in the whole town.’
The other man, probably of similar age, had a well-groomed moustache and a clean-shaven chin marked by a pronounced cleft; his hair fell in long tresses to his shoulders. He gestured towards Kostas and said, ‘So this is the f-f-friend you were telling us about.’
Kostas smiled. ‘Yes, this is Defne.’
‘Oh, she’s T-T-Turkish?’ said the man, his face changing. ‘You didn’t say.’
‘Why?’ Defne asked instantly and, when she didn’t get a response right away, her gaze hardened. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
The first man chimed in, ‘Hey, don’t get upset! Yusuf himself is Turkish. He didn’t mean anything, he just speaks slowly. If you rush him, you’re going to make him stutter.’
Pursing his lips in an attempt not to smile, Yusuf nodded in agreement. He leaned towards his friend and murmured something inaudible in his ear, which made him chuckle.
‘Yusuf is asking, does she always get angry this easily?’
‘Oh, she does,’ said Kostas with a grin.
‘God help us, then!’ said the first man. He took Defne’s hand and squeezed it gently as he said, ‘My name is Yiorgos, by the way. The tree doesn’t have a name. The parrot is called Chico. Now I must warn you about him. Don’t be surprised if he lands on your shoulder and tries to snatch your food. Terribly spoiled, that bird! We think he must have lived in a palace or somewhere before he found us. Anyway, welcome to our humble place.’
‘Thank you,’ said Defne, slightly embarrassed by her outburst.
‘Now you two follow me.’
He ushered them to a room at the back where they kept boxes of potatoes, baskets of apples and onions, harvests from local orchards and casks of beer. There was a small table in a corner with two chairs, prepared well ahead of their arrival, and a green velvet curtain at the entrance that could be pulled for privacy.
‘Not very luxurious, I’m afraid,’ said Yiorgos. ‘But at least no one will disturb you youngsters here. You can talk as much as you want.’
‘This is great, thank you,’ said Kostas.
‘So what shall we bring you to eat?’
‘Oh, we don’t want anything.’ Kostas fingered the few coins in his pocket. ‘Just water.’
‘Yes,’ said Defne firmly. ‘We are fine with water.’
She had barely finished speaking when a waiter appeared, carrying a tray laden with stuffed vine leaves, shrimp saganaki, chicken souvlaki with tzatziki sauce, moussaka, pitta bread and a jug of water.
‘Yusuf sent you these, on the house,’ said the waiter. ‘He asked me to tell you to eat!’
A minute later, finally alone in the room, for the first time in months not having to worry about who might see them and inform their families, Kostas and Defne looked at each other and began to laugh. An incredulous laughter, the kind of effervescent lightness that only comes after constant distress and fear.
They ate slowly, savouring every morsel. They talked incessantly, making the most of what language could offer, as if they didn’t trust words would still be available come tomorrow. Meanwhile, the smells and sounds inside the premises intensified. Shadows from the candlelight on the table played across the whitewashed walls. Every time the door to the tavern opened, and a new draught of wind fluttered the curtains, the same shadows danced a little dance just for them.