The Island of Missing Trees(33)
‘And the saint didn’t like that?’
‘No, he was no fan of chocolate. Saint Hilarion was determined to rid Cyprus of all demons. He stomped up and down the valleys, slaying goblins, knocking off hell-bound beasts, until one day, he came to Kyrenia and climbed up the rocks to take a good look at the island. He thought his job was pretty much done and he could sail away to another port. Pleased with himself, he observed his surroundings, the villages in the distance sleeping peacefully, thanks to his hard work. But then he heard a voice: “Oh, Hilarion, son of Gaza, lost wanderer … Are you sure you’ve stamped out all the infernal fiends?”
‘“Of course I have,” the saint replied, feeling a bit smug. “If there are any left, show me, God, and I’ll vanquish them instantly.”
‘The voice said, “What about those within? Did you kill them too?” And that’s when the saint realized, he had destroyed demons as far as the eye could see, but not those inside. And you know what he did?’
‘What?’
‘So as not to hear the immoral, unholy voices inside his head, Saint Hilarion poured melted wax into his ears. Horrible, isn’t it? Never do such a thing! He destroyed his hearing and refused to come down the mountain. A year went by, then another, and the saint started to think that, content though he was in his silence, there were some sounds he missed: the rustling of leaves, the babbling of a brook, the pitter-patter of rain and especially the chirping of birds. The animals, seeing his sadness, kept bringing him all kinds of shiny objects to cheer him up. Rings, necklaces, earrings, diamonds … But the saint didn’t care about riches. He dug a pit and buried all of them. That’s why people who walk up to the castle today secretly search for treasure.’
‘Did you and Daddy go there?’
‘Yes, canim. We even stayed overnight. We promised ourselves, despite what our families and relatives might say, we’d get married, and if we ever had a child we’d name the baby after our island. If a boy, a Greek name – Nisos. If a girl, a Turkish name – Ada. We didn’t know back then this also meant we would never return.’
‘Did you find any treasure?’ Ada asked, just because she hoped she could change the conversation to a more cheerful topic.
‘No, but we found something better, something priceless. You!’
Only later would Ada understand what she meant by that. Her father and mother had spent the night near the castle and that was where she was conceived, in the place where, centuries ago, a lonely saint waged a losing battle against his own demons.
Fig Tree
In the year 1974, Kostas Kazantzakis visited The Happy Fig often – both to secretly meet with Defne and to bring us the delicacies his mother prepared at home.
I remember a balmy afternoon, the two owners of the tavern standing on either side of me, chatting with Kostas.
‘Tell your mum her carob liquor was divine! Bring us more,’ Yiorgos said.
‘He’s not asking f-f-for the c-customers,’ interjected Yusuf, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘It’s all f-for himself.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ protested Yiorgos. ‘Liquor is the nectar of the gods.’
‘That’s honey, n-not liquor.’ Yusuf shook his head. He was a teetotaller, the only one in this tavern.
‘Honey, milk, wine … if this diet was good enough for mighty Zeus, it must be good enough for me.’ Yiorgos winked at Kostas. ‘And pastelli, please. We urgently need more.’
Recently, Kostas had started selling his mother’s sesame bars. Panagiota followed the ancient recipe, with a slight modern twist. The secret was in the quality of the honey, and the touch of lavender she added for its distinctive fragrance and earthy taste.
As he headed to the door, Kostas smiled. ‘I’ll tell my mother – she’ll be delighted. We’ve five carob trees. Still can’t keep up with the demand.’
When I heard him say this, I have to confess I felt a bit jealous. Why such praise for those chewy carobs with their leathery shells and yellowish pulp? They are not that special.
True, carob trees are worldly-wise, they have been around for more than four thousand years. They are called keration, ‘horn’, in Greek; keciboynuzu, ‘horn of the goat’, in Turkish (at least that’s one thing Greeks and Turks can agree on). With sturdy branches, thick, rough bark and extremely hard seeds, shielded by an impermeable hull, they can survive the driest climates. If you wish to know just how tough they are, go watch them at harvest time. Humans have the strangest way of collecting carobs, smacking at the pods with sticks, fibre nets spread wide underneath. It’s a violent scene.
So yes, carobs are strong. I give them credit for that. But, unlike us figs, they are devoid of emotion. They are cold, pragmatic and lacking in soul. There is a perfectionism to them that gets on my nerves. Their seeds are almost always identical in weight and size, so uniform that in the olden times merchants used them to weigh gold – that’s where the word ‘carat’ comes from. It used to be the most important crop of this island, its main agricultural export. So you see where I’m coming from: there is a bit of a competition between carobs and figs.
Figs are sensual, soft, mysterious, emotional, lyrical, spiritual, self-contained and introverted. Carobs like things to be unsentimental, material, practical, measurable. Ask them about matters of the heart and you will get no response. Not even a flutter. If a carob tree were to tell this story, I can assure you it would have been very different to mine.