The Island of Missing Trees(67)

‘Abla! You promised you’d be nice to him. I’m the one who invited him here.’

‘Well, I am nice, that’s my problem.’ Meryem wedged a sugar cube between her teeth and sucked on it intently before speaking again. ‘It was always me who covered for you two.’

Kostas nodded. ‘I’ll always be grateful to you for that. I’m sorry I make you nervous. I know you helped us a lot in the past.’

‘Yeah and look where that got us.’

‘Abla, for the last time!’

Meryem flapped her hand, whether to dismiss or acknowledge the remark, it was hard to tell. She straightened up. ‘Now, about today’s meeting, let’s all agree on the rules first. The psychic we’ll be visiting – Madame Margosha – is an important person. She’s made quite a name for herself among the clairvoyant community. Whatever you say, don’t offend her. This woman is really powerful. She has contacts everywhere, and by that I also mean contacts in the other world.’

Defne placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘How do you know that? You don’t know that.’

Meryem carried on heedlessly. ‘She’s Russian, born in Moscow. You know why she came to Cyprus? She had a dream one day. She saw an island full of unknown graves. She woke up in tears. She said to herself, “I must help these people find their loved ones.” That’s why she’s here. Families go to her to seek help.’

‘How magnanimous of her,’ muttered Defne. ‘And how much does she charge for each act of generosity?’

‘I know you don’t believe in these things – nor does Kostas – but don’t forget you’re doing this for your friends. You want to know what happened to Yusuf and Yiorgos, don’t you? And I’m doing this for you. So you two must promise me you are not going to be disrespectful.’

‘I promise,’ said Kostas tenderly.

Defne opened her hands with a smile. ‘I’ll do my best, sis, but I’m making no promises.’



The psychic lived in a two-storey house with wrought-iron window grilles not far from the Green Line on a road that was known as Shakespeare Avenue under British rule. Following the partition, the Turkish authorities had renamed it Mehmet Akif Avenue, after a nationalist poet. But today most people referred to it as Dereboyu Caddesi – the Avenue by the River.

The first thing that struck them when they entered the house was the smell – not altogether unpleasant, but sharp, pervasive. A mixture of sandalwood and myrrh incense, of pan-fried fish and baked potato from lunchtime, and of rose and jasmine sprayed liberally by someone who liked their perfume on the heavy side.

With a curt greeting, the psychic’s assistant – a gangly teenage boy – ushered them upstairs into a sparsely furnished room, its wooden floor dappled by the last rays of the sun shining through large, patterned-glass windows.

‘I’ll be back in a second, please sit down,’ the boy said in heavily accented English.

Moments later, the assistant reappeared, announcing that Madame Margosha was ready to see them.

‘Maybe I should go alone?’ said Meryem anxiously.

Defne raised her eyebrows. ‘Make up your mind. You dragged me all the way here and now you want to go in alone?’

‘It’s okay, you go. We’ll wait,’ said Kostas.

But no sooner had Meryem disappeared down the corridor than she rushed back, her cheeks flushed. ‘She wants to see you both! Guess what? She right away knew we were sisters – and the age difference. She knew Kostas was Greek.’

‘And you’re impressed?’ Defne said. ‘Her assistant must have told her. He heard me call you abla and he heard me call Kostas by his name – his Greek name!’

‘Whatever,’ said Meryem. ‘Can you hurry up? I don’t want to keep her waiting.’

The room at the opposite end of the hall was well lit and spacious, though heavily cluttered with objects that looked like they had been accumulated over the course of a long, itinerant life: standard lamps with silk shades and tassels, mismatched chairs, solemn portraits on the walls, tapestries and hangings, credenzas piled with leather-bound books and scrolls, statues of angels and saints, porcelain dolls with glazed eyes, crystal vases, silver candlesticks, incense burners, pewter goblets, china figurines …

In the centre of this bric-a-brac stood a willowy blonde woman with prominent cheekbones. Everything about her was neat and angular. Slowly blinking her grey-blue eyes, the colour of a frozen lake, she nodded towards them. Around her neck she wore a pink pearl pendant, the size of a quail’s egg. Each time she moved it reflected the light.

‘Welcome! Take a seat. Good to see you three together.’

Meryem perched on a chair, while Defne and Kostas chose stools close to the door. Madame Margosha herself sat in a capacious armchair behind a walnut desk.

‘So, what brings you here – love or loss? Usually it’s one or the other.’

Meryem cleared her throat. ‘My sister here, and Kostas there, they had two good friends years ago. Yiorgos and Yusuf. Both men went missing in the summer of 1974. Their bodies have never been found. We want to know what happened to them. And if they are dead, we want to find their graves so that their families can give them a proper burial. This is why we need your help.’

Madame Margosha steepled her fingers together, turning her gaze slowly from Meryem to Defne and from Defne to Kostas.