The Island of Missing Trees(27)

Ada waited. Her body went still, even as her heart thudded wildly against her chest. Nothing happened. No supernatural signs, no unearthly mysteries. She took a rugged breath, disorientated. The door she had been looking for, if there was one, remained closed.

She thought about the fig tree then, buried all alone in the garden, its remaining roots dangling by its side. Her eyes slid towards the void stretching beyond the window. In that instant she had the strangest feeling that the tree was awake too, tuned into her every movement, listening to every creak in the house, waiting, just like her, waiting without knowing for what.



Ada got out of bed and turned on the lights. Sitting in front of the vanity mirror, she studied her nose, which she always thought was too big, her chin, which she feared was too prominent, her wavy hair, which she fought hard to flatten … She remembered a day not that long ago when she had been watching her mother work on a painting in her studio.

‘When I finish this, I’m going to do a new portrait of you, Adacim.’

Ever since she was a baby, her mother had drawn pictures of her; the house was full of portraits, some in the brightest colours, others in monochrome.

But that afternoon, for the first time, Ada had refused. ‘I don’t want it.’

Putting her brush aside, her mother levelled her gaze at her. ‘Why not, love?’

‘I don’t like my pictures.’

Her mother was silent for a moment. A look akin to hurt flickered across her face, and then she asked, ‘What’s his name?’

‘Whose name?’

‘The boy … or the girl … what’s the name of the idiot who made you feel this way?’

Ada felt her cheeks burn and for a split second she almost told her mother about Zafaar. But she kept quiet.

‘Listen to me, Ada Kazantzakis! The women of Cyprus, whether of the north or the south, are beautiful. How can we not be? We are related to Aphrodite – and while she was a bitch, there’s no denying she was a stunner.’

‘Mum, be serious.’ Ada let out a long whistle.

‘Hey, I am serious. And I want you to understand a fundamental rule about love. You see, there are two kinds: the surface and the deep water. Now, Aphrodite emerged from foam, remember? Foam love is a nice feeling, but just as superficial. When it’s gone, it’s gone, nothing remains. Always aim for the kind of love that comes from the deep.’

‘I’m not in love!’

‘Fine, but when you are, just remember, foam love is interested in foam beauty. Sea love seeks sea beauty. And you, my heart, deserve sea love, the strong and profound and enchanting type.’

Grabbing her brush back, her mother had added, ‘As for that boy – or girl – whose name I don’t know, if he doesn’t see how special you are, he doesn’t deserve a speck of your attention.’

Now, as she sat in front of the mirror inspecting her face as if looking for faults in a freshly plastered surface, Ada realized she had never asked her mother if the love between her parents had been of the first or the second kind. But then, of course, she knew. She knew in her gut that she was the child of the type of love that rose from the bottom of the ocean, from a blue so dark it was almost black.



Ada took out her phone, having lost interest in the mirror and what she saw there. Despite her father’s warnings not to use technology at night, which he claimed delayed circadian rhythms, she liked to browse the web when she couldn’t get to sleep. As soon as she turned on her mobile a message pinged. An unknown number.

Check this out, surprise!!!



A claw of anxiety dug into her chest as she hesitated for a second over whether or not to click on the link attached to the message. Then she pressed ‘play’.

It was an awful, awful video. Somebody had filmed her in history class while she was screaming. It must have been one of her classmates, bringing in a phone illicitly. Her stomach dropped and yet she managed to watch it till the end. There she was, her profile a faint blaze against the light from the window but still identifiable, her voice rising to a deafening, disturbing pitch.

A stab of shame lanced through her, sliced into her self-esteem. It was terrifying enough that she had done something so shocking and unexpected, yet to find out that it had been recorded without her knowledge was beyond mortifying. Her mind started to spin as panic took hold of her, the taste of acid in her mouth. It was horrible to witness your own insanity being displayed for all to see.

Her hand trembling, she visited a video-sharing network. Whoever had recorded this had already posted it publicly – just as she feared. Underneath, people had been making comments.

Wow, what a freak!

She’s clearly faking it.

Some people will do anything for attention.

What’s her problem? someone had asked, and someone else had replied, Maybe she saw herself in the mirror!

And so it went on, words of contempt, ridicule; reams of sexual jokes and dirty remarks. There were pictures and emojis too. A copy of Munch’s painting, the screaming figure in the foreground replaced with some crazy-looking girl.

Ada gripped her phone tight, shaking. She paced the room like a caged animal, her nerves more tautly drawn with each step. This humiliating video would be on the internet forever, her whole life. Who could she ask for help? The headmaster? A teacher? Write a letter to the tech company – as if they would care? There was nothing she or anyone could do, not even her father. She was all alone.