The Island of Missing Trees(64)
Kostas swallowed down the lump in his throat. ‘Someone from the past got in touch with me recently, a doctor …’
He studied her face, but her expression was hard to read.
‘Dr Norman found my contact details after he saw my name in a newspaper. I had a new book out, there was an interview, and that’s how he became aware of me. We met, we talked. He mentioned something in passing that made me realize there are things that happened in the summer of 1974 that I know nothing of. I had to come to Cyprus – to see you.’
‘Dr Norman?’ she said, raising an eyebrow slightly. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Not much, really. But I put two and two together. He told me you handed him a note and asked him to give it to me if anything went wrong. He kept that note in his pocket, but sadly lost it. He didn’t know what it said because he had never read it, since it was private. Don’t know whether I believe him. Now I’m trying to understand why a young woman would have to meet a gynaecologist in the summer of 1974 – at a time when the island was in flames and there were soldiers everywhere … unless there was something unexpected … urgent … an unwanted pregnancy. An abortion.’ He looked at her with sorrow. ‘I want you to know that ever since I figured this out I feel awful. I feel guilty. I’m so sorry. I should have been with you. All these years I had no idea.’
Just then, someone in the team called her name. A new session was about to begin.
Taking a final drag, Defne dropped her cigarette and crushed it with the heel of her shoe. ‘All right, let’s get back to work. As I said yesterday, we were young. You make mistakes at that age. Horrible mistakes.’
A shiver went right through him. He stood up, took a step towards her but struggled to speak.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. You must understand, whenever something terrible happens to a country – or an island – a chasm opens between those who go away and those who stay. I’m not saying it’s easy for the people who left, I’m sure they have their own hardships, but they have no idea what it was like for the ones who stayed.’
‘The ones who stayed dealt with the wounds and then the scars, and that must be extremely painful,’ said Kostas. ‘But for us … runaways, you might call us … we never have a chance to heal, the wounds always remain open.’
She tilted her head, considering, and then hastily said, ‘Sorry, I need to work now.’
Kostas watched her walk away to join the others. He feared that was the end of it – the end of them. Clearly, she did not wish to discuss the past. She must want to keep their relationship distant, if cordial. He thought he would have to return to his research, and then to England, back to his old life, the repetitions and rhythms that suffocated him little by little, but never fast enough. And it could have been that way, if at the end of that afternoon, after hours of digging and cleaning, locks of dark hair escaping her bandana, the smooth olive skin of her forehead touched with dirt, she had not walked back towards him, and said, with perfect calm, ‘So why don’t I take you out this evening? Just the two of us. Unless you have other plans.’
She knew, of course, he had none.
Picnic
Cyprus, early 2000s
The sun was descending when they met again that evening. She had changed into a long white dress with tiny blue flowers stitched across the chest. The waning light caressed her face, leaving subtle tones on her cheeks like brushstrokes, sprinkling glints of copper over her chestnut hair. In her hand she carried a basket.
‘We are going to walk a bit, do you mind?’ asked Defne.
‘I like walking.’
They passed by souvenir stores and houses with climbing roses across their facades. The whitewashed walls, once plastered with slogans, now glowed clean and lustrous on either side. Everything felt tranquil, peaceful. Islands had a way of deceiving people into believing that their serenity was eternal.
Leaving the busy pavements behind, they were soon wending their way through the outskirts of the city, eyes fixed on the pine-needled path ahead, as if marching into a stiff and parched wind. But there was only the mildest breeze this evening and the air was full of promise. Though his mind was racing, his tongue struggling to find the words he wanted to say, a kind of contentment swept over Kostas. He saw clusters of daffodil garlic, wild mustard, golden thistle, caper bush, their shoots pushing through the dry earth. He focused on the trees as he always did when he felt unmoored: olive, sour orange, myrtle, pomegranate … and that one over there, a carob. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears: ‘Who needs chocolate when you have carob trees, agori mou?’
He noticed that Defne not only walked fast but seemed to enjoy doing so. The women he had dated in the past had been usually averse to long treks. They were city dwellers, busy people, always in a hurry. Even those who claimed to like the idea of hiking quickly got bored. Time and again, on these outings, Kostas had found himself annoyed at his partners for not dressing appropriately – their clothes were too thin, their shoes not fit for purpose.
Now, as he tried to keep pace with Defne, he was surprised to see her charge onwards in her flat sandals. She picked her way over rutted fields and dirt roads, clumps of purple flowering heather and yellow gorse brushing and clutching at the hem of her skirt. He followed, tuned into every little sign from her – the ring of her laughter, the depth of her silence – wondering whether in some part of her heart she still loved him.