The Island of Missing Trees(63)

When the four of them finally left the tavern, in need of fresh air, they meandered along the serpentine streets, inhaling the aromas of jasmine and cedar. The moon was a few days from full, cloaked in a feathery tulle of cloud. As they passed by stone houses with latticed windows, they resembled cut-outs from a shadow display against the anaemic light from the street lamps.

That night, back in his hotel room, Kostas had a disturbing dream himself. He was in an anonymous town that could have been anywhere – Spain, Chile or Cyprus. Beyond the dunes rose a fig tree and, behind that, an empty street littered with what looked like detritus. He inched closer to check what it was, and only then did he discover, to his horror, that it was dying fish. Frantically, he found a bucket of water. He sprinted back and forth, trying to collect as many fish as he could, but they kept escaping from his fingers, flipping their tails, gasping for air.

In the distance he saw a group of people, staring at him. They were all wearing butterfly masks. Defne was nowhere to be seen. But when Kostas woke up in the middle of the night, his heart racing, he had no doubt she was somewhere in his dream, behind one of those masks, watching him.





Restless Mind


Cyprus, early 2000s


Early next morning, Kostas found the team at the site, already immersed in work. The committee had received another tip-off overnight, and once they were done here, they would start digging by a dried-out riverbed about forty-five miles away from Nicosia. From their exchanges, Kostas sensed that they preferred to search in backwoods and rural areas. In cities and towns, passers-by always came to watch, asking questions, making comments, some of which could be intrusive, even incendiary. If there was a find, emotions rose. Once, somebody had fainted and they’d had to attend to her. The members of the CMP would rather work alone, surrounded by nature, with trees as their only witnesses.

When they took a coffee break, Kostas and Defne sat together by a wild oleander bush, listening to the cicadas whirr in the rising heat. Defne produced a tobacco pouch and began rolling herself a cigarette. Kostas noticed she was carrying David’s silver cigarette box. A knot gripped his chest as it occurred to him they might have spent the night together. During dinner he had observed, more than a few times, how David looked at her. He tried to quieten his restless mind. What right did he have to think about her love life when they had become strangers not only to each other but also to their former selves?

She inclined her head towards him, so close he could see the blue specks in her dark eyes, a bright cobalt. ‘David quit smoking today.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, and to prove his point he gave me his case. I’m sure he’ll ask for it back by the end of the afternoon. Every few days he quits.’

Kostas couldn’t help smiling then. He took a sip from his coffee and asked, ‘So how long are you planning to do this?’

‘For as long as necessary.’

‘What does that mean? Until you find the last victim?’

‘Wouldn’t that be something? No, I’m not that naive. I know many on both sides will never be found.’ Her gaze grew distant. ‘But maybe it’s not unimaginable. Think about it – when we were younger, if someone had told us the island would be partitioned along ethnic lines, and some day we would have to look for unmarked graves, we wouldn’t have believed them. Now we don’t believe it can ever be united again. What we think is impossible changes with every generation.’

He listened, crumbling a small clod of earth between his fingers. ‘I noticed there are more women than men doing this job.’

‘There are many of us – Greek and Turkish. Some excavate, others work in the lab. Then there are psychologists who go and talk to the families. Most of our volunteers are women.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? What we do here has nothing to do with politics or power. Our work is about grief – and memory. And women are better than men at both.’

‘Men remember too,’ said Kostas. ‘And men grieve too.’

‘Do they?’ She scanned his face, noting the catch in his voice. ‘Maybe you’re right. But, on average, men who lose a spouse remarry way faster than women in the same position. Women mourn, men replace.’

She tucked behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose. He felt such a strong urge to touch her then that he had to cross his arms, as if worried they might act of their own volition. He thought of how they would meet in secret, surrounded by the vast night, the olive trees looming grey in the glimmer of the rising moon. He recalled how, one evening in the tavern, she asked him for water, and he left her alone for a minute, the night The Happy Fig was bombed. The night, he now suspected, their lives had changed forever.

He glanced at the cigarette in her hand. ‘But why are you smoking, ashkim? Don’t you know it’s just a few puffs that disappear as soon as you exhale?’

Defne narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

‘You don’t remember, do you? That’s what you said to me when you saw me smoking that one time.’

He could see now in her expression that she did remember. Caught by surprise, she tried to brush it off with a laugh.

‘Why did you not answer any of my letters?’ asked Kostas.

A pause. ‘There was nothing to write.’