The Island of Missing Trees(42)

We fig trees hold bats in high regard. We know how essential they are for the entire ecosystem, and we appreciate them, with their large eyes the colour of burnt cinnamon. They help us pollinate, faithfully carrying our seeds far and wide. I consider them my friends. It broke me seeing them dropping to their deaths like fallen leaves.



That same afternoon, the islanders busy disposing of dead bats, Kostas walked from his house to The Happy Fig. I was surprised when he showed up. The tavern was closed and we were not expecting anyone, not while the heat was still beating down.

Slowly, Kostas trudged up the winding path, making his way across the gentle incline of the slope. With the tips of my branches that spread through the opening in the roof, I could observe his every move.

Upon arriving, he found the front door barred. He banged the metal knocker several times in quick succession. That is when I started to feel uneasy, seized by a foreboding.

‘Yiorgos! Yusuf! You here?’

He tried again. The door was locked from inside.

Kostas walked around, his gaze anxiously darting over the bats lying on the ground. He poked a few of them gingerly with a stick, trying to see if any were alive. He tossed the stick aside and was about to leave when he stopped, detecting a whisper in the air. A male voice speaking in a low, dreamy tone.

Kostas swung about, listening. He strode towards the patio at the back, where he now realized the sound was coming from. Hopping over cases of empty bottles and olive oil tins, he approached one of the wrought-iron windows, strained up on his toes and peeked inside.

Panic now rose inside me, for I knew exactly what he was about to see.

Yusuf and Yiorgos were there on the patio, sitting side by side on a stone bench. Kostas was about to call out to them, but then stopped, his eyes spotting something that his mind couldn’t immediately grasp.

The two men were smiling at each other, their hands clasped together, their fingers interlaced. Yiorgos leaned in and murmured a few words in Yusuf’s ear, which made him chuckle. Although Kostas couldn’t hear what he said, he knew it was in Turkish. They did that often, speaking Greek and Turkish when they were by themselves, alternating back and forth within the same conversation.

Yusuf wound his arm around Yiorgos’s neck, touching the indent under his Adam’s apple, pulling him closer. They kissed. Their foreheads resting together, they sat still, the sun looming huge and molten above them. There was an effortless tenderness to their movements, a blending of shades and contours, solid forms melting into pure liquid, a gentle flow that Kostas knew could exist only between long-term lovers.

Kostas took a step back. Suddenly dizzy, he swallowed hard. In his mouth was the taste of dust and sun-baked stone. As quietly as he could, he walked away, blood pounding in his ears. His thoughts fractured into more thoughts and those into newer ones, so that there was no way he could tell how he felt right now. He had spent so much time with these two men, day in, day out, and yet it had never occurred to him they could be more than business partners.

The day the heatwave descended on Nicosia and the fruit bats died in their thousands, the day Kostas Kazantzakis discovered our secret at the tavern, I watched his face grow serious, his forehead pucker in worry. He now realized that Yusuf and Yiorgos could be in greater danger than he and Defne had ever been. God knew there were enough people on this island who would hate to see a Turk and a Greek involved romantically, but the number of those people probably quadrupled if the couple in question were gay.





Hear Me


London, late 2010s


On the third day, the epicentre of the storm shifted westwards, hurtling towards London. That evening, the windows of the house rattled as the wind picked up and rain lashed against the panes. The neighbourhood suffered a blackout for the first time in years. It was hours before power was restored. Without electricity, they sat huddled together in the living room by candlelight, Kostas working on an article, Ada checking her phone every few seconds and Meryem knitting what appeared to be a scarf.

Eventually, Ada took a candle and stood up. ‘I’m going to bed, feel a bit tired.’

‘Everything all right?’ asked Kostas.

‘Yeah.’ Ada nodded firmly. ‘I’ll just read a bit. Goodnight.’

As soon as she was in her room, she looked at her phone again. New videos had been posted on various social media. In one, a stocky girl with hair cut in a soft fringe across her eyebrows stood in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, holding a red balloon, which she let go just as she began screaming at the top of her lungs. By the time the balloon had floated out of the frame, she had still not run out of breath. In a video shot in Barcelona, a teenager screamed as he skated through a tree-lined promenade while pedestrians watched with half-curious, half-disbelieving eyes. Another clip, posted in Poland, showed a group of youngsters dressed head-to-toe in black staring at the camera, their mouths wide open, though silent. Underneath, the caption read: ‘Screaming Inside’. Some people were screaming alone, others in groups. All the posts used the same hashtag: #doyouhearmenow. With each one she watched, Ada felt her sense of panic and confusion deepen. She couldn’t believe she had started this global craze, and she had no idea how anyone could possibly stop it.

Drawing her legs in, she wrapped her arms around them as she used to do when, as a little girl, she would ask her parents to tell her a story. Back then, her father, no matter how busy he might be, would always find the time to read to her. They would sit side by side on the bed, facing the window. He would choose the most unusual children’s books; about fruit bats, African grey parrots, painted lady butterflies … books with insects and animals and, always, trees.