The Island of Missing Trees(62)

The waiter arrived then with their main courses, breaking the ensuing silence: grilled lamb skewers with feta and mint, fish casserole in white wine, roasted garlic butter shrimps, seven-spice chicken and Lebanese jute leaf stew …

‘Every time I come to Cyprus, I gain ten pounds,’ said David, patting his belly. ‘That’s one thing Greeks and Turks can agree on.’

Kostas smiled, even though just then he was thinking they were all drinking too fast. Especially Defne.

As if she had read his thoughts, she pointed her glass towards him and said, ‘Okay, then. Let’s change the subject – too gloomy. So tell us, Kostas, what brought you back? Was it your beloved trees or mosses and lichens?’

It occurred to him then that, just as he had been collecting information about her all these years, she, too, had been digging into what he did for a living. She knew about his books.

Cautiously, he replied, ‘Partly work. I’m looking into whether, and how, fig trees can help the loss of biodiversity across the Mediterranean.’

‘Fig trees?’ Maria-Fernanda raised her eyebrows.

‘Yes, they support the ecosystem more than almost any other plant, I’d say. Figs feed not only humans, but also animals and insects for miles around. In Cyprus, deforestation is a serious problem. On top of that, in the fight against malaria, when they dried out the marshes in the early twentieth century, they planted lots of eucalyptus and other Australian plants. These are non-native invasive species that do enormous damage to the natural cycles here. I wish the authorities had paid more attention to local fig trees … Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with the details of my research.’ As always, Kostas worried that people would find his work dull.

‘We’re not bored at all,’ said David. ‘Carry on, tell us more. A fact about a fig tree beats a mass exhumation any day.’

‘Butterflies feed on figs, don’t they?’ Defne chimed in. As she said this she unwrapped the leather band around her wrist, revealing a little tattoo on the inside of her arm.

‘Oh, how pretty!’ enthused Maria-Fernanda.

‘That’s a painted lady,’ said Kostas, trying not to show his surprise. When he last knew her she didn’t have the tiniest tattoo, anywhere. ‘Every year they come from Israel and rest in Cyprus. Then some go to Turkey, others to Greece. Yet others travel from North Africa straight into Central Europe. But this year something unusual is going on. The ones that left North Africa changed their route. Nobody can say why. All I know is they’re heading towards the island, and they’ll join the others who normally come this way. If our assumptions are correct, we’re going to see a massive migration of butterflies in the next few days. I expect them to be everywhere along the coast – the Greek side and the Turkish side. Millions of them.’

‘That sounds fascinating,’ said Maria-Fernanda. ‘I hope they’ll arrive before I leave.’



The desserts were finished, coffee had been served, but Defne had ordered a new bottle and did not seem to want to slow down.

‘When I last saw you, you were neither a drinker nor a smoker,’ said Kostas, a low, pulsing sensation in his temples.

The tiniest smile forming at the corners of her lips, she glanced at him, her gaze unfocused. ‘A lot has changed since you left.’

‘Hey, I’ll join you, Defne,’ said David as he signalled to the waiter for another glass of raki.

‘But you don’t seem to drink much,’ said Maria-Fernanda to Kostas. ‘You don’t smoke, I have a feeling you don’t lie … You never do anything wrong?’

Defne uttered a small sound that might have been disbelief or acknowledgement. A blush tinged her cheeks when she noticed the others looking at her.

‘Well, he did once,’ she said with a half-shrug. ‘He left me.’

An expression of panic crossed Maria-Fernanda’s face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two were together.’

‘I didn’t know either.’ David raised his hands.

‘I didn’t leave you!’ Kostas said, realizing, too late, that he had raised his voice. ‘You never even answered my letters. You told me not to contact you any more.’

The blush on her cheeks deepening, Defne waved her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry, I was kidding. It’s water under the bridge.’

No one said a word for a few seconds.

‘Well, here’s to youth, then!’ said David, raising his glass.

They all followed suit.

Defne set her drink down. ‘Tell us, Kostas, do they have bones?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Butterflies. Do they?’

Kostas swallowed; his throat was raw. He stared at the candle, burned down to a stub.

‘A butterfly’s skeleton is not inside its body. They don’t have a hard framework protected beneath soft tissues the way we do; in fact, their entire skin is an invisible skeleton, one might say.’

‘How does that feel, I wonder,’ mused Defne. ‘Carrying your bones on the outside, I mean. Imagine Cyprus as a huge butterfly! Then we wouldn’t have to dig the ground for our missing. We would know we are covered with them.’

No matter how many years would pass, Kostas would never forget that image. A butterfly island. Beautiful, eye-catching, adorned with a splendour of colours, trying to take off into the air and flutter freely across the Mediterranean, but weighed down, each time, by its wings encased in broken bones.