The Island of Missing Trees(48)

I thought long and hard before writing this letter. I feel it is time as I cannot keep the fear locked up inside my heart any longer. I am worried – terrified – about Kostas. Remember, brother, I was so young when God left me a widow with three children to raise on my own. Three boys who sorely needed a father’s guidance in their lives. I tried to be both parents to them. You know how tough that has been and yet I never complained. Look at me now, brother. I wonder if you will even recognize me when you see me next time. I have aged fast. My hair is no longer glossy, nor black, and when I comb it at night it falls out in clumps. My hands are as dry and rough as sandpaper, and I often talk to myself, like crazy old Eleftheria who used to chatter away to ghosts, do you remember?

In one year, I lost two sons, Hristos. Not knowing where Andreas is today, right now, whether he is captive or free, dead or alive, is no less excruciating than the day they carried the dead body of my beloved Michalis into this house. They are both gone, their beds cold and empty. I cannot bear to suffer the loss of a third child. I will lose my mind.

Every night, I ask myself, am I doing the right thing keeping Kostas by my side in Cyprus? And even if it has been the right thing so far, how long can I watch over him? He is almost a grown man. Sometimes he leaves the house and does not come back for hours on end. How can I know, with certainty, that he is well and safe?

The island is not the right place for young men any more. There is blood on the streets. Every day. No time to even wash off yesterday’s blood. And this boy of mine is too sentimental. He finds a chick from a bird’s nest that has met its death by a cat’s claw and does not speak for days. Do you know, if he could, he would have stopped eating meat altogether? When he was eleven years old he was crying over preserved songbirds. If you think time must have made him tougher, not at all. The day of the heatwave he saw a pile of dead bats in the garden and he was devastated. I mean it, Hristos. It broke his spirit.

I’m worried he is not at all equipped to deal with the hardships of life – certainly not the hardships of our island. I have never seen anyone who feels the pain of animals so acutely. He is more interested in trees and shrubs than in his fellow compatriots. It’s hardly a blessing, I’m sure you would agree. It can only be a curse.

But there is more, much more. I know he has been seeing some girl. He had been sneaking out at odd hours, coming back with a distracted look in his eyes, a flush to his cheeks. I didn’t mind it at the beginning, to be honest. I pretended I didn’t notice a thing, hoping it’d do him good. I thought, if he falls in love, he will stay off the streets and away from all the politics. I have had enough of pallikaria – those brave but rash youths. So I let it happen. By feigning ignorance, I let him see this girl. But that was until I found out through a neighbour, only this week, who she was. And now I am terrified.

Our Kostas is in love with a Turk! They have been meeting secretly. How far it has gone, I do not know and I cannot ask. A Christian cannot marry a Muslim, it offends the eyes of Our Lord. This girl’s relatives might learn the truth any day now and then what will they do to my son? Or someone from our side might find out and then what will happen? Have we not suffered enough? I cannot be naive. You and I both know there are people from either community ready to punish them for what they have been doing. The lightest penalty under the circumstances will be gossip and slander. We will carry the shame forever. But that is not what I fear the most. What if they suffer a worse punishment? I don’t even want to think about it. How can Kostas do this to me? To his older brother, God rest his soul.

I do not sleep properly any more. Nor does Kostas, it seems. I hear him pace up and down in his room every night. It cannot go on like this, the fear that something terrible is going to happen to him is crushing my spirit. I cannot breathe.

I have decided, after much consideration, to send Kostas away – to you, to London. I need not tell you, brother, what this does to my heart. I need not tell you that.

What I’m asking, begging, is for you to take him under your wing. Please do this for me. He is a fatherless boy, Hristos. He needs a paternal hand on his shoulder. He needs the help and advice of his uncle. I want him to stay away from Cyprus, stay away from this girl until he comes to his senses and realizes how foolishly, recklessly he has behaved.

If you agree, I can find a good excuse and tell him he will be travelling for only a week or so. But I want you to keep him there longer – till the end of the summer, at the very least. He is young. He will soon forget her. Maybe he can help you at the store and learn some trade? It is surely better for him than watching birds or daydreaming under carob trees all day.

Take young Kostas into your home and family, please. Will you do this for me, brother? Will you keep an eye on my one remaining son? Whichever way you answer my prayer, may the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you, now and always.

Your loving sister,

Panagiota





Bell Peppers


London, late 2010s


The next morning, Meryem sat at one end of the kitchen table, in front of her a bowl of cooked rice and tomato mixed with spices, and a pile of green bell peppers, washed and cored, their stems neatly cut off. When she saw Ada, she broke into a smile – one that slid away as soon as she registered Ada’s expression.

‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Ada, without looking up.