The Island of Missing Trees(47)

Later, just as the police arrived and long before the ambulance came, Yiorgos and Yusuf told them they should get out and this they did, leaving The Happy Fig across the patio at the back. There was a full moon outside and it was the only peaceful thing they had seen all day. It shone with an impassive beauty, like a cold gem against dark velvet, not at all interested in the human pain down below.



That night, with neither of them wanting to go home just yet, they stayed together later than usual. They wandered for a while up the hill behind the tavern and sat by an old well, hidden amidst overgrown brambles and clumps of heather. Peering over the stone edge, feeling its silky moss under their fingers, they looked deep into the shaft, the water below too dark to see. They had no coins to toss, no wishes to make.

‘Let me walk you home,’ said Kostas. ‘At least part of the way.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said, rubbing the back of her neck where a shard had nicked her earlier without her noticing. ‘My mother and Meryem are staying with my father at the hospital tonight.’

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears and the soot off her cheeks. She held his hand, resting her head against his palm, not letting go. He felt the warmth of her mouth, the swoop of her eyelashes on his skin. A hush in the air, the world suddenly far off.

She asked him to make love to her, and when he didn’t respond immediately she leaned back and studied him, her gaze firm, with no hint of shyness.

‘Are you sure?’ he said, his face slightly flushed in the moonlight. It would be the first time for both of them.

She nodded tenderly.

He kissed her and said, ‘I need to warn you there are stinging nettles around here.’

‘I noticed.’

He took off his shirt and wrapped his right hand in it. He sifted amongst the grass, pulling as many nettles as he could, tossing them aside in clusters as he had seen his mother do so many times for her soup. When he lifted his head, he found her staring at him with a sad smile.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because I love you,’ she said. ‘You are a gentle soul, Kostas.’

You don’t fall in love in the midst of a civil war, when you are hemmed in by carnage and by hatred on all sides. You run away, as fast as your legs can carry your fears, seeking basic survival and nothing else. With borrowed wings you take to the sky and soar away into the distance. And if you cannot leave, then you search for shelter, find a safe place where you can withdraw into yourself because now that everything else has failed, all diplomatic negotiations and political consultations, you know it can only be an eye for an eye, hurt for hurt, and it is not safe anywhere outside your own tribe.

Love is the bold affirmation of hope. You don’t embrace hope when death and destruction are in command. You don’t put on your best dress and tuck a flower in your hair when you are surrounded by ruins and shards. You don’t lose your heart at a time when hearts are supposed to remain sealed, especially for those who are not of your religion, not of your language, not of your blood.

You don’t fall in love in Cyprus in the summer of 1974. Not here, not now. And yet there they were, the two of them.





Fig Tree





When the bomb exploded, one of my branches caught fire from the sparks. Within a few seconds I was in flames. No one noticed. Not for a while. They were all in shock, frantically trying to help the injured, removing the fallen debris, unable to look at the dead bodies. There was dust and smoke everywhere, ashes swirling in the air like a flight of moths around a candle. I heard a woman crying. Not loud, barely audible, almost a muffled sound, as if too afraid to make any noise. I listened and I continued to burn.

In fire-prone regions trees develop myriad ways to protect themselves from the devastation. They surround themselves with thick, flaky bark or keep their dormant buds underground. You can find pine trees with hard, resistant cones ready to release their seeds at the first prickle of intense heat. Some other trees drop their lower branches altogether, so that flames can’t easily climb up. We do all that and more to survive. But I was a fig tree living inside a cheerful tavern. I had no reason to take such precautions. My bark was thin, my branches plentiful and delicate, and I had nothing to shield me.

It was Yusuf who saw me first. He ran towards me, that kind, tongue-tied man, now flapping his arms around, sobbing.

‘Ah canim, ne oldu sana?’ – My heart, what happened to you? – he said over and over in Turkish, his eyes tinged with sorrow. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t stuttering. He never did when he spoke to me.

I watched Yusuf grab a tablecloth, then several more. He patted my branches, jumping and hopping like a crazy man. He brought in buckets of water from the kitchen. Now Yiorgos joined him and together they managed to put out the fire.

A part of my trunk was singed and several of my limbs were charred completely, but I was alive. I would be all right. I could recover from this horror unscathed – unlike the people who were there that night.





A Letter


Cyprus, June 1974


A few weeks after a bomb exploded in The Happy Fig, Panagiota penned a letter to her brother in London.

My dear Hristos,

Thank you for the lovely gifts you sent us last month, all of which arrived safely. Knowing that you are well and thriving in England is the biggest gift to my soul. May the grace of the Lord always guide you and your family, and surround you like a shield of steel.