The Island of Missing Trees(40)
Ada said, ‘Did you also oppose my parents’ marriage?’
Meryem dried her hands on her apron, looked at her palms as if for a clue. ‘I didn’t want your mother to marry a Greek, God knows I tried to stop it. But she didn’t listen. And she did the right thing. Kostas was the love of her life. Your mother adored your father. They both paid a heavy price, though. You grew up without seeing your relatives. I’m very sorry about that.’
In the ensuing silence Ada could hear her father typing away at his computer in his room, a sound like a thousand little hammers beating. She listened for a while, then tilted her head, a determined set to her chin. ‘Did you know my mum was an alcoholic?’
Meryem winced. ‘Don’t say such things. That’s a terrible word.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘Having a glass now and then is okay. I mean, I don’t drink myself, but I don’t mind if others do … once in a while.’
‘It wasn’t once in a while. My mum drank heavily.’
Meryem’s face darkened, her mouth slightly open, an emptied bowl. She touched the edge of the tablecloth and picked at an invisible mote of dust, focusing entirely on the movement of her fingers.
As she watched her aunt, suddenly ill at ease and bereft of words, Ada saw for the first time the fragility of the universe the woman had built for herself with her recipes, proverbs, prayers and superstitions. It dawned on her that she might not be the only one who knew so little about the past.
Fig Tree
They call it the Green Line, the partition that cuts through Cyprus, aiming to separate Greeks from Turks, Christians from Muslims. It acquired its name not because it was marked with mile after mile of primeval forest, but simply because a British major general, setting out to draw the border on a map spread out before him, happened to use a green chinagraph pencil.
The colour was not a random choice. Blue would have been too Greek and red too Turkish. Yellow represented idealism and hope, but it could also be interpreted as cowardice or deceit. Pink, associated with youth and playfulness as well as femininity, would simply not work. Nor would purple, symbolizing ambition, luxury and power, have produced the desired result. Neither white nor black would do, they were too decisive. Whereas green, used in mapping to mark pathways, seemed less contentious, a more unifying and neutral alternative.
Green, the colour of trees.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if on that particular day, because of too much caffeine or a side effect of some medication he might have taken earlier or simply nerves, Major General Peter Young’s hand had shaken just a trifle … Would the border have shifted a fraction of an inch up or down, inserting here, deleting there, and if so, might this involuntary change have affected my fate or that of my relatives? Would one more fig tree have remained on the Greek side, for instance, or an extra fig tree have been included into Turkish territory?
I try to imagine that inflection point in time. As transient as a scent on the breeze, the briefest pause, the slightest hesitation, the squeak of a chinagraph pencil on the shiny surface of the map, a trail of green leaving its irrevocable mark with everlasting consequences for the lives of generations past, present and yet to come.
History intruding on the future.
Our future …
Part Three
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TRUNK
Heatwave
Cyprus, May 1974
It was the day a heatwave descended on Nicosia. Above the rooftops, the sun was a glowing ball of anger; burning the old Venetian alleyways, the Genoese courtyards, the Greek gymnasiums and the Ottoman hamams. The shops were closed, the streets empty – save for the occasional stray cat curled up in a patch of shade, or a lethargic lizard, so still it might just as well have been an ornament on the wall.
The heat had started in the small hours of the morning, swiftly building up. Around ten o’clock, it had fully erupted into being, just after Turks and Greeks on each side of the Green Line had finished their morning coffees. Now it was past noon and the air was stiff, difficult to breathe. The roads were cracked in places, the tar melting in rivulets, the colour of charred wood. A car somewhere revved its engine, its rubber tyres struggling on the sticky asphalt. Then, silence.
By three o’clock, the heat had morphed into a feral creature, a snake bent on prey. It hissed and slithered across the pavements, poked its flaming tongue through keyholes. People inched closer to their fans, sucked harder on ice cubes and opened the windows, only to close them instantly. They might have stayed indoors the whole time had it not been for a peculiar smell that permeated the air, pungent and unbidden.
At first, the Turks suspected the smell must be coming from the Greek quarter and the Greeks assumed it must be coming from the Turkish quarter. But no one could exactly pinpoint its source. It was almost as if it had sprung from the earth.
Standing by the window, a book of poetry in his hands – an old edition of Romiosini that belonged to his elder brother – Kostas stared into the garden, certain he had heard a sound in the drowsy silence of the afternoon. His gaze wandered up towards the higher branches of the nearest carob tree, finding nothing unusual there. Just as he was about to turn away, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. Something had dropped to the ground, so fast he couldn’t tell what it was. He dashed out of the house, blinded by the dappled sunshine through the leaves. He hurried towards the shadows in the distance, though he could not make them out at first against the glaring light. Only when he was close enough could he tell what he had been looking at all this time.