The Island of Missing Trees(73)

Upon returning to the hotel, Kostas made the call he had been planning since the day before. No one picked up so he left a message on an answering machine.

‘Good morning, Dr Norman, it’s Kostas here … I’m in Cyprus. I decided to travel after we spoke. Thank you for coming to see me that day, it meant a lot to me. I only wish I had known long before what I know now. But there are things I still can’t wrap my head around. I met Defne and … Dr Norman, can we please talk? It’s important. Please call me back.’

Leaving his number, he hung up. He took a shower, the cold water like balm on his skin. After a cursory late breakfast, he walked to the nearest police headquarters.

‘I want to report an incident.’

At first, they thought he was referring to a crime or a theft and took his visit seriously. When they heard his name and realized he was Greek, they became suspicious and wary of his intentions. But upon learning that his complaint was about the killing of songbirds, amusement flooded the policemen’s faces. They promised that they would look into ‘the matter’ and get back to him, but Kostas knew not to expect a reply any time soon.

Later that afternoon, he visited the British Sovereign Base. The clerk there, a man with a compulsive blink, proved more approachable, though equally unhelpful.

‘It’s one heck of a mess, I’m afraid. It happens under our very noses. Supposed to be illegal, but that doesn’t stop the poachers. It’s a huge industry. Last month they nabbed a smuggler at the airport. They found 3,529 birds in his suitcases. That fellow was caught but most never will be.’

‘So you’re not going to do anything about it?’ asked Kostas.

‘There are sensitivities. Our presence here is delicate, you must understand. We can’t upset the locals. I’ll be honest with you. People don’t appreciate it when you start asking questions about songbirds.’

Kostas stood up; he had heard enough.

‘Look, you destroy one net, they’ll put up a new one somewhere else,’ said the clerk. ‘I need to warn you, some of these gangs are dangerous. This is big money we’re talking about.’



Back at the hotel, Kostas asked the woman at the front desk if there was a note for him, hoping for a message from Defne. Nothing. He stayed in his room all evening, mostly sitting on the balcony, trying to read but unable to concentrate, watching the island, knowing that she was out there somewhere, slipped away from him perhaps for a few days, perhaps forever. As the night set in, he thought of the nets that were being erected, invisible to the eye, light and gossamer as corn silk, lethal.

After midnight, he went out again, carrying a knife and a batch of paper. Hiding in the shadows, he destroyed every trap he could find, making sure to slash the fibres. He covered the sticky lime spread on the branches with paper and, when he ran out, he used leaves. He moved fast, sweat running in rivulets down his back. When he could find no more nets and could not walk any further, he returned to the hotel, collapsed on his bed and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

The following night he went out again, only this time he was caught. The poachers were hiding in the bushes, curious to see the person who was destroying the traps.

There were seven of them, one so young he was almost a schoolboy. They did not feel the need to hide their faces. Kostas saw the hardness in their eyes before they started hitting and kicking him.



The next day, lying in bed, gazing at a crack on the ceiling, he might not have answered the phone had he not been expecting to hear from Dr Norman. Moving with difficulty, he picked up the receiver. It was the receptionist.

‘Mr Kazantzakis, hi. You have a visitor. There’s someone here who wants to see you. She says her name is Defne.’

Kostas tried to sit up, a spear of pain stabbing his ribcage. A groan escaped his lips.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ Kostas rasped. ‘Can you please tell her to come upstairs?’

‘Sorry, we don’t allow unmarried couples in our rooms. You have to come downstairs.’

‘But …’ Kostas hesitated. ‘Fine. Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

Step by step, he eased himself downstairs, drawing in shallow breaths, every little move shooting a spasm of agony down his side.

When he entered the lobby, the receptionist gasped in shock. Kostas had arrived back so late the previous night he had managed to drag himself to his room without anyone seeing his pitiful state.

‘Mr Kazantzakis! What happened to you? Oh, my God. Who did this to you?’ She fluttered her hands frantically. ‘Shall we call a doctor? Did you put on ice? You have to put on ice!’

‘I’m okay, it’s not as bad as it seems,’ said Kostas, trying to make eye contact with Defne over the woman’s head.

Realizing she was obstructing him, the receptionist moved aside.

Kostas walked towards Defne, who was studying him with an expression of pure sadness. She did not seem surprised and he wondered if she had been expecting something like this to happen, for him to get into trouble. Taking a step forward, she touched his lip, split and swollen, tenderly caressing the raw bruise under his left eye, the shade of a plum left out in the sun.

‘This colour brings out your eyes,’ she said, the tiniest smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

He laughed, and that hurt, the cut on his lip burning.