The Island of Missing Trees(55)

‘Placebo effect?’

‘That’s it! If you think a healer might help, he will. We just need to take action. A cheese vessel will not sail merely by words.’

‘Are these real proverbs or are you making them up?’

‘They are all real,’ said Meryem, crossing her arms. ‘So what do you say? Can we visit the djinn master?’

‘Djinn master!’ Ada tugged at her earlobe, considering. ‘I might agree to this nonsense on one condition only. You said my mum and dad were childhood sweethearts. You said they broke up, it was over, but they met again, years later.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Tell me how it happened. How did they start dating again?’

‘Oh, he came back.’ Meryem sighed. ‘One morning we woke up and heard that Kostas Kazantzakis was in Nicosia. I thought Defne was over that phase of her life. Had she not suffered enough? She didn’t even talk about him any more. She was a grown woman. But you know what they say, the bear knows seven songs and they are all about honey.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, she had never forgotten him. So I had a hunch and I tried to keep her away from him – fire and gunpowder should not come together – but I failed. It turns out I was right to feel uneasy because when they saw each other again, it was as if all those years had not passed. It was as if they were kids again. I said to Defne, why are you giving him a second chance? Don’t you know a gardener in love with roses is pricked by a thousand thorns? But, once again, she didn’t listen.’





A Thousand Thorns


Cyprus, early 2000s


Kostas Kazantzakis arrived in Northern Cyprus by ferry, for he did not want to fly. Although the eight-hour journey had not been particularly difficult, he felt disorientated, queasy. Seasickness, he presumed. But maybe it had nothing to do with that. Maybe his body was reacting in ways his mind was yet to comprehend. He was returning to the place of his birth for the first time in more than twenty-five years.

Clad in brown corduroy trousers, a linen shirt and a navy sports jacket, his dark, wavy hair tousled by the wind, his eyes scanned the port intently. Falling in step with the flow of passengers, he crossed the dock and walked down the ferry ramp. His fingers gripped the handrail so tightly that his knuckles turned white. With each second that passed, his unease grew. Under the harsh afternoon sun, he squinted at the signs around him, unable to make sense of the Turkish letters, so unlike the Greek alphabet. He tried to find a respite from the crowd, to no avail. Everywhere he turned there were families with children, pushing strollers or carrying babies bundled up despite the heat. He followed them, propelled by the current as though it were not solid ground under his feet but air alone.

Passport control came and went seamlessly, moving faster than he had expected. The young Turkish police officer greeted him with a curt nod, studying him intently but not unkindly. He did not ask any personal questions, which surprised Kostas. In his mind he had been running possible scenarios as to how he would be received, and a part of him had, until the last minute, feared they might not allow him into the Turkish side of the island, even with a British passport.

There was no one to pick him up and he hadn’t dared to hope there would be. Dragging his suitcase, filled with more equipment than clothes, he insinuated himself into the town’s bustling streets. Not liking the look of the first driver in the taxi rank, he lingered, feigning interest in the goods on a vendor’s tray. Komboloi in Greek; tespih in Turkish. Red coral, green emerald, black onyx. He couldn’t help buying some agate worry beads, just to have something to occupy himself with.

The driver of the next taxi seemed nice, and Kostas negotiated with him, wary of being cheated. He didn’t tell the man that he could speak a bit of Turkish. The words he had picked up in his boyhood were like chipped, moth-eaten toys; he wanted to dust them off and check to make sure they worked before he attempted to put them into use.

After half an hour’s drive in silence, they approached Nicosia, passing newly built houses on both sides of the road. Construction everywhere. Kostas surveyed the bright, sunlit landscape. Pine, cypress, olive and carob trees were interspersed with patches of arid earth, sun-baked and monochrome. Citrus orchards had been chopped down to make way for smart villas and apartments. He was saddened to see that this part of the island was not the verdant paradise he remembered. Cyprus was known in antiquity as ‘the green island’, famous for its dense, mysterious forests. The absence of trees was a powerful rebuke to the dreadful mistakes of the past.

Without asking if he minded, the driver turned on the radio. Turkish pop music poured out of the speakers. Kostas let out a breath. The upbeat melody was as familiar to him as the scars on his body, though the lyrics were a puzzle. Even so, it wasn’t hard to imagine the subject – in this part of the world, all songs were about love or heartbreak.

‘First time here?’ the driver asked in English, glancing up at the rear-view mirror.

Kostas hesitated, but only for a second. ‘Yes and no.’

‘Yes? No?’

‘I used to …’ A surge of warmth rose in his chest. None of his Greek neighbours still lived around here, the houses he had known now belonged to strangers. He said, ‘I was born and raised on this side of the island.’

‘You Greek?’

‘Yes, I am.’