The Island of Missing Trees(70)

‘Severe delays on the tube,’ said Meryem, omitting to mention the shops she had insisted on visiting along the way.

There were shoes of various sizes tidily lined up at the entrance, all pointing towards the front door. From upstairs came the sound of children quarrelling, the rhythmic thump of a ball. A baby cried somewhere down the corridor. A subtle smell hung in the air – of cooking, old and new.

Meryem’s steps halted briefly. Her face fell.

Ada looked up at her aunt curiously. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. I just remembered taking your mum to this famous psychic in Cyprus, long ago. Your dad also came with us.’

‘No way! Really – my father agreed to that?’

But there was no time to chat. They were ushered into a room at the back. Inside, rows of plastic chairs faced forward; framed prayers in Arabic hung on the walls. A family of four huddled in a corner, speaking among themselves in hushed tones. Sitting by the door was an elderly woman knitting what looked like a sweater – so tiny it had to be for a doll. Ada and Meryem took the seats beside her.

‘First time, right?’ the woman said with a knowing smile. ‘Is it for the youngster?’

Meryem gave a slight shake of her head. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, we’ve been coming here for years. We tried everything – doctors, pills, therapies. Nothing helped. Then someone recommended us this place. May Allah reward them.’

‘So you are saying it works?’ Meryem asked.

‘It does, but you need to be patient. You are in good hands. This is where all the majnun are cured.’

The sound of a scream from the next room cut through the air.

‘Don’t worry. That’s my son,’ the woman said, pulling at a strand of yarn. ‘He also screams at night in his sleep.’

‘Then maybe it’s not working,’ Ada suggested.

Meryem frowned slightly.

But the woman did not seem offended. ‘The problem is there was more than one djinn molesting him. The sheikh removed ten of them, bless his heart, but there is still one more. Then my son will be free.’

‘Wow,’ said Ada. ‘Ten djinn, one more to go. He could have his own football team.’

Meryem’s frown deepened.

But once again the woman didn’t seem to mind. That’s when it occurred to Ada that in the eyes of this stranger, she, too, was one of the majnun, and as such she could say crazy things and do even crazier things, and would still be forgiven. What latitude! Perhaps in a world bound with rules and regulations that made little sense, and usually privileged a few over the many, madness was the only true freedom.

In a little while, they were summoned in to see the exorcist.



The room was sparsely furnished – a red settee stretched along one wall, on top of a rug in shades of jade and blue. Strewn here and there were embroidered cushions. A low round coffee table squatted in the centre and, next to it, a basket crammed full of glass bottles and jars.

On the opposite wall was a fireplace that seemed to be a later addition, its tiles chipped, its mantel a slab of cracked marble. A decorative kilim hung above, a woven depiction of a bazaar: stalls piled with spices; a peacock strutting about, displaying the magnificence of his feather fan; men clad in oriental costumes perched on wooden stools, some sipping coffee, others puffing on hookah pipes. The picture looked less like an actual place than someone’s imagined likeness of the Middle East.

In the centre of this scene sat, cross-legged, the man who they presumed must be the exorcist. His sunken eyes and angular face were framed by a short, round beard. He did not stand up to greet them. Nor did he shake their hands. Nodding, he gestured to them to take their places on the rug, across from him.

‘So who’s the patient?’

Meryem cleared her throat. ‘My niece, Ada, has been having some problems. The other day at school, she screamed in front of the entire class. She couldn’t stop.’

Ada shrugged. ‘It was history. Everybody feels like screaming in Mrs Walcott’s class.’

If the exorcist got the joke, he did not offer a smile. ‘It sounds like the work of the djinn,’ he said solemnly. ‘They are cunning. First, they seize the body. The weakest link. People do unexpected things – some speak gibberish at a serious meeting, others dance in the middle of a busy road or, like you, they scream … If left untreated, it gets worse. The djinn conquer the mind. That’s when depression kicks in. Anxiety, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts. Then the djinn go after the soul. That’s the last fortress.’

Ada flicked a glance at her aunt and found her listening intently.

‘But God is merciful, where there is illness, there is cure,’ said the exorcist.

As if on cue, the door opened and the same young woman strode in, carrying a tray loaded with items: a silver bowl of water, a pot of black ink, a piece of paper yellowed around the edges, a pinch of salt, a sprig of rosemary and a quill. She set the tray before the man and retreated to a corner, avoiding eye contact. Was she the exorcist’s apprentice, Ada wondered, and what kind of a job was that – like a magician’s assistant, minus the glitter and the applause?

‘You need to focus,’ said the man, surveying Ada. ‘I want you to look into the water in this bowl – when you hear me pray, don’t move, don’t blink, stay still. If we are lucky, you are going to see the face of the djinni that’s been pestering you. Try to learn its name. That’s important. Once we know the culprit, we can get to the bottom of this problem.’