The Island of Missing Trees(65)

A partridge rattled from the bushes. A honey buzzard glided and floated on the thermals above, scanning for small mammals on the ground. Thousands of eyes peered from the leaves, eyes made up of tiny light detectors, discerning different wavelengths, clashing realities, reminding Kostas that the world humans saw was only one of many available.

When they reached the hill’s summit, they stopped to take in the view. Old stone houses glinted in the distance, red terracotta roofs, an endless, generous sky. If ever there was a centre to this world, it had to be here. It occurred to Kostas that this must be what countless travellers, pilgrims and expats had seen and this was why they had stayed.

Defne opened the basket she had refused to let him carry. Inside was a bottle of wine, two glasses, a tub of figs and tiny sandwiches with various fillings that she had made at home.

‘Hope you don’t mind having a little picnic with me,’ she said as she spread a blanket on the ground.

He sat next to her, smiling. It touched him that she had gone out of her way to prepare all this. As they ate, slowly, savouring every mouthful, just like they had done when they first visited The Happy Fig together, Kostas told Defne about his life in England. A knot formed in his throat when he spoke about Panagiota’s death, his difficult and strained relationship with his younger brother, which had become more distant over the years, his inability to return to the island all this time as if scared of what he might encounter here or held back by a lingering spell. He did not mention that, though he had been content with the course of his work, he often felt lonely, but he had an inkling she knew this already.

‘You were right. There was a pregnancy,’ Defne said after listening to him in thoughtful silence. ‘But it’s been so long since I forbade myself to think about it that I’m not sure I want to do so now. I’d rather leave it all behind.’

He tried not to ask or say anything, only to understand, to be there for her.

Defne bit her lower lip, pulling at a thin layer of skin. ‘You also asked me how long I planned to work with the CMP. I’d like to think until I find Yusuf and Yiorgos. They risked their lives for me, those two men. I don’t think you were aware of that.’

‘No,’ Kostas said, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

‘It drives me insane not knowing what happened to them. Every few days I phone the lab to see if they’ve found anything. There is a scientist there, Eleni – she’s very kind but probably sick and tired of my calls.’

She laughed, a brittle sound. There was a sharpness and hardness to it that reminded Kostas of cracked, fractured slabs like broken tiles.

Defne said, ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, it’s really embarrassing, but my crazy sister thinks we should visit a psychic. Meryem made an appointment with some wacky clairvoyant. Apparently, this woman helps bereaved families to find their missing – can you believe it? In Cyprus this is a profession now.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘Not really,’ she said as she bent down, loosened the soil and eased out a dock weed. Its long tap root trailed from her fingers. The deep, narrow cavity left in the ground resembled a bullet hole. She pushed a finger into the cavity and swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat. ‘Only if you are with me too.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ Kostas leaned over and stroked her hair ever so softly.

Once, he believed they could rise above their circumstances, send their roots upwards into the sky, untethered and released from gravity, like trees in a dream. How he wished he could return them both to that hopeful time now.

‘I’ll come with you anywhere,’ he said. His voice sounded different then, fuller, as if it had risen from somewhere deep inside him.

And even though he suspected that her habitual cynicism might not allow her to believe him, neither did she seem willing to doubt him, and so she retreated into that liminal space between belief and doubt – just like she had on another night in what now felt like another life.

Defne inched closer, burying her head in his neck. She did not kiss him and did not give any indication that she wanted him to kiss her, but she held him tight and her embrace was strong and genuine, and it was all he needed. It filled him, the feeling of her by his side, the pulse of her heartbeat against his skin. She touched the scar on his forehead, a scar so old he had long forgotten about it, a mark left from the day of the heatwave when he had tripped over a wooden crate, desperate to save the bats.

‘I missed you,’ she said.

In that moment Kostas Kazantzakis knew the island had pulled him into its orbit with a force greater than he could resist and he would not return to England any time soon, not without her by his side.





Digital Incense


London, late 2010s


The day before Christmas, her back turned to the decorated branches – a bundle of twigs Kostas had collected from the garden, spray-painted and trimmed with baubles as a festive tree alternative – Meryem sat slumped on the sofa, unusually silent and withdrawn. She kept peering at her mobile screen with the wounded expression of someone who had suffered an injustice.

‘Are you still waiting to get an appointment with that exorcist?’ asked Ada as she walked past.

Meryem lifted her head, only slightly. ‘No, that’s all done. They are expecting us this Friday.’

‘Well, thanks for not telling me.’ Ada flicked a glance at her aunt but the woman was too distracted to notice.